Clarke Peters in Spike Lee's "Red Hook Summer": Spiritual Blackout in the Valley of the Shadow of Death

The magnificent Clarke Peters as "Bishop Enoch Rouse" in  Spike Lee's phenomenal "Red Hook Summer"/photo credit 40 Acres

By Barry Michael Cooper

"For such are false apostles, deceitful workers, transforming themselves into the apostles of CHRIST. And no marvel; for Satan himself is transformed into an angel of light.Therefore it is no great thing if his ministers also be transformed as the ministers of righteousness; whose end shall be according to their works." 

2 Corinthians 11:13-15

"When you look into an abyss,  the abyss also looks into you." 

Frederick Nietzsche 

I'm just going to cut to the chase.

Clarke Peters should not only be nominated for an Academy Award for Best Actor, for his bravura interpretation of a conflicted man-of-the-cloth in Spike Lee's gut-wrenching Red Hook Summer, but Clarke Peters should win. Hands down, his portrayal of the complex, multi-layered preacherman  Bishop Enoch Rouse, is by far, one of the most virtuosic, skilled, and almost preternatural performances I have ever seen on film.

Ever.

I say that having been previously awed by the following: Denzel Washington in both Malcolm X and Training Day, Daniel Day Lewis in There Will Be Blood, Al Pacino in Godfather II and Serpico, Michael Wright in Streamers, Sugar Hill and The Five Heartbeats, Wesley Snipes in New Jack City and Sugar Hill, Burt Lancaster in Elmer Gantry, Allen Payne in New Jack City, Gena Rowlands in A Woman Under the Influence, Chris Rock in New Jack City, Dirk Borgart in Servant, Diahann Carroll in Claudine, Simone Signoret in Room at the Top, George Sanders in All About Eve, Morgan Freeman in Street Smart, Julie Christie in Darling, Michael Douglas in Wall Street, Robert DeNiro in Raging Bull, Tom Cruise in Magnolia, Robert Downey Jr. in Black and White, Richard Gere in Internal Affairs, Keith Carradine and Robert DoQui in Nashville, Jane Fonda in Klute, and Sir Laurence Olivier in The Entertainer. 

These are a few of the actors and performances that looped in the screening room between my ears, long after the end credits disappeared.

"Django Unchained": Nino Brown was Not an Abolitionist

screen-shot from "Django Unchained"/TheWeinstein Company

by Barry Michael Cooper

"Fellow-citizens; above your national, tumultuous joy, I hear the mournful wail of millions! whose chains, heavy and grievous yesterday, are, to-day, rendered more intolerable by the jubilee shouts that reach them. If I do forget, if I do not faithfully remember those bleeding children of sorrow this day, "may my right hand forget her cunning, and may my tongue cleave to the roof of my mouth!" To forget them, to pass lightly over their wrongs, and to chime in with the popular theme, would be treason most scandalous and shocking, and would make me a reproach before God and the world. My subject, then fellow-citizens, is AMERICAN SLAVERY."

-Excerpt from the speech, "What to the Slave is the Fourth of July?"Frederick Douglass, 5 July 1852 

We as a nation, are no longer interested in history; we have become bewitched and enthralled by tweetstory; the 140 characters (or less) social documentation of a retrofitted deconstruction of the facts. We will make it up as we go along, just to get some attention,  some wiki/google pages, some dollars, and some relevance. Whether what we are transmitting is true...

...Or not.

The anthropological shorthand of Twitter has touched all aspects of our postmodern society; political, social, even personal. The spirit of Twitter's blue bird of paradox, has even flown into the gilded coop of Hollywood. How else can one explain the provocative, almost manic frenzy today--Christmas 2012-- across the country, over the release of director Quentin Tarantino's new film, Django Unchained?

Looking For Sanctuary Amongst the Towers of Ruin, Part 2 (The Wretchedness of All Things "Ratchet")

By Barry Michael Cooper

"The heart is deceitful above all things, and desperately wicked: who can know it?"

Jeremiah 17:9 

Going into eight more years of the Obamian trek known as the Starship Yes We Can, and we have crashed into the forbidden planet known as What The F&^% Happened To Us?

We are murdering our Mom at home, before walking into a classroom full of innocent babies, and massacring  them with high-powered guns, before turning the weapon on ourselves.

We are excoriating our employees without mercy, when they fall for an insensitive prankster's phone call pretending to be royalty, and then left struggling for answers when an employee commits suicide.

We are shooting people dead at point blank range, because the music is too loud.

We are carving pentagrams into the backs of our children, because we foolishly believe the numbers of a particular day will illuminate the dark shadows of our souls.

We are eating each other's faces off.

We are shooting babies and families and soldiers at midnight theater screenings.

We are building collegiate sports powerhouses on the backs of sexually abused children.

We are driven by unknown voices from demonic earpieces that whisper, "Pull the trigger; it's God's will," as we murder unarmed teens wearing hoodies.

We are pushing this country to the brink of economic apocalypse just to get a political nut.

Our Providential GPS is broken.

We have lost our sense of direction.

We are directed by dollars and cents.

There is no more True North; only True Blood. Our fascination with vampires reflects our undead desire of wanting more and still not having enough.

We laugh at our superheroes who are stuck inside the phone booth, while capturing that image on our iPhone/Androids and upload it as the trending topic #Duh?Losing.

We have lost our authenticity as individuals in a maze of reality shows, which are just waiting to murder someone on camera; fraudulent reality shows that reveal the wretchedness of all things ratchet in us.

We are dub-stepping to a Mephisto Waltz that is too loud, out of tune, and out of time.

We are looking for the "Like" icon on the mirror for the image staring back at us, but we can't find it.

We are losing our joy. And there is no app for that.

We are looking for sanctuary amongst the towers of ruin.

GOD Help us all.

Be sure to order Barry Michael Cooper's debut anthology of street journalism from the 1980s (from his award winning reporting in The Village Voice, Spin Magazine, in addition to his more current essays on the Huffington Post), titled "Hooked On The American Dream-Vol.1: New Jack City Eats Its Young," which is now available on Kindle/Amazon. Don't have a Kindle? No problem; Amazon has a free app available for download, to read "Hooked On The American Dream-Vol.1: New Jack City Eats Its Young," on your PC, Mac, iPad, iPhone, and Android devices. Only $1.99! Click here to go to the Amazon site. 

Looking For Sanctuary Amongst the Towers of Ruin

By Barry Michael Cooper

Four years into the Obamian trek of the Starship Yes We Can, and we have crashed into the forbidden planet known as What The F&^% Happened To Us? We are eating each other's faces off. We are shooting babies and families and soldiers at midnight theater screenings. We are building collegiate sports powerhouses on the backs of sexually abused children. We are driven by unknown voices from demonic earpieces that whisper, "Pull the trigger; it's God's will," as we murder unarmed teens wearing hoodies. We are pushing this country to the brink of economic apocalypse just to get a political nut. Our Providential GPS is broken. We have lost our sense of direction. We are directed by dollars and cents. There is no more True North; only True Blood. Our fascination with vampires reflects our undead desire of wanting more and still not having enough. We laugh at our superheroes who are stuck inside the phone booth, while capturing that image on our iPhone/Androids and upload it as the trending topic #Duh?Losing. We have lost our authenticity as individuals in a maze of reality shows, which are just waiting to murder someone on camera; the real money shot that will drive ratings through the roof. We are dub-stepping to a Mephisto Waltz that is too loud, out of tune, and out of time. We are looking for the "Like" icon on the mirror for the image staring back at us, but we can't find it. We are losing our joy. And there is no app for that.

We are looking for sanctuary amongst the towers of ruin.

GOD Help us all.

Be sure to order Barry Michael Cooper's debut anthology of street journalism from the 1980s (from his award winning reporting in The Village Voice, Spin Magazine, in addition to his more current essays on the Huffington Post), titled "Hooked On The American Dream-Vol.1: New Jack City Eats Its Young," which is now available on Kindle/Amazon. Don't have a Kindle? No problem; Amazon has a free app available for download, to read "Hooked On The American Dream-Vol.1: New Jack City Eats Its Young," on your PC, Mac, iPad, iPhone, and Android devices. Only $1.99! Click here to go to the Amazon site. 

"Justice In Sanford" (Hip Hop Please Don't Let U.S. Down)

By Barry Michael Cooper

"JUSTICE IN SANFORD (WATCH YOUR BACK); The New Hip Hop Benefit Concert Album Featuring Jay-Z, Kanye West, Rick "Rozay" Ro$$, 50 Cent, Young Jeezy, Lil' Wayne, T.I., Yasiin Bey and Talib Kweli (Black Star), Common, Outkast, Drake, Nicki Minaj, Nas, Lupe Fiasco, The Clipse, Eminem, Yellawolf, 2 Chainz, Pharrell, and Kendrick Lamar. Special Guest Appearance by Chuck D and KRS One. Intro by Black Thought, ?uestlove and The Roots. Produced by Sean "Diddy" Combs and Dr. Dre. Featuring the lead single, "A Hoodie Ain't A Hood (Watch Your Back)." Proceeds will benefit the Justice 4 Trayvon Fund.

Dear Hip Hop:

Yeah, I know this is wishful thinking. If politics in 2008 was the new Hip Hop, then Hip Hop is the new political movement. Peep it: this is Your CDF; Career Defining Moment. And...we're waiting.

Don't let U.S. down.

Sincerely,

An Ol' Head from The Days of DJ Hollywood.

Be sure to order Barry Michael Cooper's debut anthology of street journalism from the 1980s (from his award winning reporting in The Village Voice, Spin Magazine, in addition to his more current essays on the Huffington Post), titled "Hooked On The American Dream-Vol.1: New Jack City Eats Its Young," which is now available on Kindle/Amazon. Don't have a Kindle? No problem; Amazon has a free app available for download, to read "Hooked On The American Dream-Vol.1: New Jack City Eats Its Young," on your PC, Mac, iPad, iPhone, and Android devices. Only $1.99! Click here to go to the Amazon site. 

Sojourner Truth's Epic "Ain't I A Woman" Speech (1851)

by Barry Michael Cooper

Check it: if there was no Sojourner Truth (former slave turned-abolitionist and human rights activist from the 19th Century), there would be no Fannie Lou Hamer, no Shirley Chisholm, no Bella Abzug, no Betty Friedan, no Angela Davis, no Gloria Steinem, no bell hooks, no Hillary Rodham Clinton, no Sonia Sotomajor, no Oprah Winfrey, no Michelle Obama. Sojourner Truth was the blueprint for their skyscraper of empowerment, the rocket fuel in their socio-cultural jet-packs.

Ms. Truth was the truth; an eloquent Mistress of Historical Ceremony, whose "Ain't I A Woman" speech stands as a extemporaneously magnificent monument to her powerful emcee skills. "Ain't I A Woman" is a testament for all Americans--Black, White, Latino, Asian, Native American, men, women, young and old--who believe that freedom is a Providential right. Not a racially or gender-bound aristocratic privilege.

Marius Robinson--an abolitionist who worked with Ms. Truth and attended Women's Convention in Akron, Ohio, where Ms. Truth gave this stirring oration on 29 May 1851--recounted the historic event for the 21 June 1851 issue of the Anti-Slavery Bugle. Mr. Robinson wrote:

"One of the most unique and interesting speeches of the convention was made by Sojourner Truth, an emancipated slave. It is impossible to transfer it to paper, or convey any adequate idea of the effect it produced upon the audience. Those only can appreciate it who saw her powerful form, her whole-souled, earnest gesture, and listened to her strong and truthful tones. She came forward to the platform and addressing the President said with great simplicity: 'May I say a few words?' Receiving an affirmative answer, she proceeded:"

"I want to say a few words about this matter. I am a woman's rights. I have as much muscle as any man, and can do as much work as any man. I have plowed and reaped and husked and chopped and mowed, and can any man do more than that? I have heard much about the sexes being equal. I can carry as much as any man, and can eat as much too, if I can get it. I am as strong as any man that is now. 

Whitney Houston (1963-2012): I Know Why The American Nightingale Sings

By Barry Michael Cooper


"While I live will I praise the LORD: I will sing praises unto my GOD while I have any being." Psalm 146:2

"Nightingales are named so because they frequently sing at night as well as during the day. The name has been used for well over 1,000 years, being highly recognizable even in its Anglo-Saxon form – 'nightingale'. It means 'night songstress'...Its song is particularly noticeable at night because few other birds are singing..." 


-Wikipedia entry for Luscinia megarhynchos, better known as the "Nightingale."


Less than twenty-four hours before the Grammy's, Whitney Elizabeth Houston--the pride of Newark, N.J., and the greatest singer of her generation--was found dead in a luxury suite at the Beverly Hilton hotel. Houston was 48-years-young.

GOD Rest her soul.

The cause of death at the time of this writing, is unknown and when it is known, it will still hold mystery. Mystery that the gossip (or sloppit, as I call them) mongers will try to unravel by rumor, innuendo, assumption, and ignorance. And even then, they still won't know.

However, Whitney Houston's death will still be our loss.

Like Michael Jackson, Marvin Gaye, Billie Holiday, Richard Pryor, Don Cornelius, Kurt Kobain, the painter Francis Bacon--and countless others--Whitney Houston died from a broken heart. Not drugs, not suicide, not a gunshot, not an Aston Martin gunning through a Laurel Canyon barricade into the twilight expanse of a callous Hollywood night. That detail is set aside for coroner reports, which in turn feed legal issues, mortuary documents, and gossip. The heart is another story altogether. The heart is the fleshy, fragile, and percussive trophy case of passion. A myocardial trophy case not built to withstand the arbitrary crosswinds of instant adoration, wealth, and ultimately, rejection.

They Shoot Black Movies...Don't They?

Pioneer African American Filmmaker, Oscar Michaeux

They Shoot Black Movies...Don't They? 

(The Realization of a Hustlerz Ambition)

By Barry Michael Cooper

At the dawn of the Black Hollywood Renaissance of the '90s, the sodality of filmmakers like Spike Lee, F. Gary Gray, The Hudlin Brothers, Bill Duke, Stan Lathan, John Singleton, The Hughes Brothers, George Jackson, Doug McHenry, Mario Van Peebles, Robert Townsend, Keenan Ivory Wayans, Kevin Hooks, Fred "Fab Five Freddy" Braithwaite, Charles Stone, III, Nelson George and this writer, to name a few, felt like the Pre-Raphaelite Brotherhood. We--like Rossetti, Millais, and Hunt at the height of their artistic revolt in the U.K. during the late 1800s--were cinematic reformers, rejecting the cartoonish mythos of African American life, as depicted in the Black Exploitation flicks of the 1970s. In the 1990's we were Dr. Martin Luther King, we were Malcolm X, we were Gordon Parks, we were Melvin Van Peebles. We were insatiable American Dreamers, like Oscar Michaeux; albeit with limos, first-class, transcontinental transport, five-star luxury hotels and cuisine, Armani-Brioni-Versace-Zegna-Valentino-Ferragamo gear, expanding bank accounts, and cell phones. We had Been To The Mountaintop and had G.P.S.'d that noble glide-path while tracking the Realization of a Negro's Ambition, guided by the voice from an ancestral control tower which intoned, By Any Means Necessary. 

We just knew The Dream would last forever.

Twenty years later Spike Lee--one of the most talented and prolific directors this country has produced in the 20th Century--can't get a green light for the sequel to Inside Man, despite the fact that the original film grossed nearly $200 million dollars worldwide. Twenty years later, two supremely talented actresses--Viola Davis and Octavia Spencer--are given Oscar nods for their portrayals of wise but weathered Mississippi domestics in a highly praised film titled The Help. 

Twenty years many black filmmakers (including myself) haven't had a movie financed by a major studio in over twenty years.

Twenty years later and America has its first African American President of the United States, seeking re-election for a second term at 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue.

Twenty years later, African American filmmakers navigate a course that is slightly sticky, smelly, and saggy, the aftermath of an exploding Dream deferred by Hollywood's Grand Illusion of Inclusion.

Twenty years later, is this the way it's supposed to be?