Cadillac Records

What IS it with men and cars?  I know a couple of women who love to buy shoes, but they don’t judge their self-worth by what’s on their feet.  Yesterday I went to see a matinee of Cadillac Records; I’d been wanting to see the film ever since a friend saw it and assured me that Beyonce was only in it at the end.  I don’t really like musicals, and fast fowarded through most of Dreamgirls, so I definitely didn’t want a repeat of that.  But Cadillac Records had some interesting moments, and since I’m considering writing a book on representations of black masculinity in cinema, I figured I ought to check it out.  Interestingly, the opening trailers were for two other films about masculinity: Gran Torino, and NOTORIOUS.  I’ve no desire to see the latter, but again–for the sake of this book–I may have to.  I ended my last post talking about the tired old formula that boys have been fed on how to become a man–and let’s face it, a lot of girls/women have bought into it, too.  Well, that formula is in FULL effect in Cadillac Records.  As much as I love Jeffrey Wright (and he’s brilliant, as usual), I couldn’t quite cheer for his character, Muddy Waters.  Waters starts out picking cotton, “hollerin'” in the fields, and playing his guitar after work.  When Alan Lomax shows up from Fisk University and records Muddy playing, the young man listens, awestruck, and says, “I feel like I’m meeting myself for the first time.”  We see this a lot in films about artists–there’s a split between who the artist is on stage, “in the act,” and who they are when the spotlight dims.  And often, someone (white) has to show the black artist just how talented and valuable s/he really is.  Muddy definitely felt empowered by his ability to make music that moved people–but the REAL power he chased after wasn’t found in the recording studio or on stage–it was the status and prestige he felt in the black community, especially when he drove his big, shiny Cadillac through the ‘hood (which he accepted in lieu of royalties).  His success as a recording star gave him instant access to throngs of black women, who are presented in the film as your usual groupies–lots of cleavage, lots of squealing, lots of swooning.  I’m not saying those women don’t exist, and I’m sure Muddy got plenty of free lube jobs in dimly lit restaurants (thanks to the director for only showing us one).  What’s left out, as usual, is the impact of his behavior on Geneva, played really well by Gabrielle Union.  At first, like all the other black women in the film, she’s ready to drop her drawers as soon as she hears Muddy play that guitar.  But then, once they become an actual couple, we mostly see her in a domestic role, complete with apron, sweat, and head rag (while Muddy gets more and more dapper).  When another musician attempts to seduce her, and insists Muddy can spare “at least one of his women,” Geneva rejects his advances and explains that she’s “only half a woman” b/c she can’t give birth to any more children.  Her logic is that b/c she can’t give Muddy any babies of his own, she accepts that he’s out there tomming after every show.  She just doesn’t want to hear about it.  When I saw Gabrielle Union interviewed about the film, she said that she wanted to do some research to better understand Geneva; then, upon reflection, Union realized that ALL the women she knew (herself included) had been cheated on at some point in time, and had stayed in the relationship.  So she didn’t need to do any research, really, b/c it was already a part of her experience as a black woman.  I found that really disheartening.  There were so many cliches in the film–not cliches, perhaps, b/c they actually did happen, but things we’ve seen over and over in bio pics: artists come from nothing, can’t manage their own money, get swindled by white record producers, reach a low point, then come back at the end for a triumphant return to the stage.  And through it all, some poor black woman stands by her man, and gets about one minute of screen time to tell HER story.  One of the most interesting characters, Little Walter (played by Columbus Short), loses his mother in one scene, and can’t bring himself to grieve over her death.  He just wants to go back in the studio, and so to steady him, Muddy offers young Walter a drink.  Walter goes on to become an alcoholic, junkie, and gambler, and of course, he dies prematurely.  Muddy sees his friend zipped into a mortuary bag, then dashes upstairs to the bathroom, closes the door, and sobs helplessly.  Why couldn’t he cry in front of/with Geneva (who was already crying)?  Why couldn’t he have found a way to help Walter grieve by letting out the pain instead of tamping it down with booze?  Does great suffering really produce great art?  If we took all the time and energy and money black men have invested in cars, and put it into family, relationships, or careers…where would “the race” be today?  I don’t know if I can really write this book, b/c frankly, just watching the films is demoralizing.  And I keep reminding myself that it’s not ALL men who act that way.  Yet Gabrielle Union couldn’t come up with ONE black woman who hadn’t been cheated on.  We’ve created this culture of accommodation, where we just keep making space for more and more b.s.  I recommend the film, even though it wobbles at the end, and Howlin Wolf (played brilliantly by Eamonn Walker) steals every scene he’s in–and he does offer an alternative to Muddy’s reckless ways.  But it’s not his movie.  I left the theatre feeling about this film the way I did about American Gangster–it’s NOT a cautionary tale.  At all.  So I worry that young male viewers simply watch the film and say to themselves, “That’s where he went wrong.  He trusted his cousin when he should have handled it himself.”  They’re trying to perfect “the game,” instead of rejecting it outright.  And I’m guessing it’ll be the same with the bio pic on B.I.G.  Anyway, enough.  Those of us who care have to keep coming up with alternative images.  Some days I feel like Sisyphus…