‘You’re Going to Be Hollywood’s First Black Director’

In the late 1960s, Gordon Parks achieved yet another milestone when Warner Bros. gave him the opportunity to direct, write the screenplay and compose the music for the film of his first novel, “The Learning Tree.” Here is Part V of a five-part excerpt from his autobiography, “Voices in the Mirror.”

For years I, with everyone else, had justifiably believed that Hollywood would never accept a black director. So I was apprehensive as I sat opposite Kenneth Hyman, the man in charge at Warner Bros. Seven Arts Studio in Burbank. I was there at the urging of John Cassavetes, the actor who felt that my first novel, “The Learning Tree,” should be made into a motion picture and that I should direct it.

It still puzzles me that he suggested my seeing Hyman; the two of them, according to Cassavetes, had argued violently and were barely speaking at the time. Hyman’s very first question stunned me. “How long will it take you to get out here and start production?” Obviously my smile told him that I thought he was playing games. “I’m serious,” he said hastily. “I love your book and I’m convinced that it will make a good film, and that you should direct it.” He lit a cigar. “Who would you like to write the screenplay?”

It was happening fast--too fast. And I was still cautious. “I don’t know any screenwriters out here.”

“Why not write it yourself? You wrote the book.”

“But I’ve never written a screenplay.”

“You’ve never directed a picture either.”

Carry him on, I was thinking. “OK--I’ll give it a try.”

“Cassavetes tells me you’re a composer as well.”

“That’s right.”

The look I gave him now was loaded with all-out skepticism. “OK--why not. I’ll take that on as well.”

“Fine. Now, you’re going to be Hollywood’s very first black director. There may be problems and you’re going to need some clout. I suggest you act as executive producer.”

Incredible. Smiling, I shook my head. “Well, why not.”

Provided Hyman wasn’t playing games, Hollywood’s impregnable walls of bigotry were crumbling. When, a few days later, I signed the contract, the impossible no longer seemed impossible. But not until the news swept across the country did I relax. Single-handedly, Kenneth Hyman had, in less than 30 minutes, broken Hollywood’s unwritten law. He was in a good position to have done so--Elliot Hyman, his father, ran the studio. But Kenneth had made the decision on his own, and I, straddled with a pleasant burden, was determined not to let him down, nor those black people who would be counting on me to succeed. Making the film was a rewarding experience--and a traumatic one.

It turned out to be one of the most difficult things I have ever attempted to do. The pressure had been excessive from the very beginning. A lot of people of all colors were anxious about the breakthrough, and I was anxious to make the most of it. The wait had been far too long. Just remembering that no black had been given a chance to direct a motion picture (for a major studio) in Hollywood since it was established kept me going. No day was free of problems, but somewhere there were answers, and I lay awake late into the nights searching for them.

Upon viewing the finished product, Kenneth Hyman embraced me warmly and smiled. It was the kind of smile I wanted to see on the face of a man who had put his trust in me.

Later, on Broadway, my feelings mingled with nostalgia and quiet joy as I stood watching the throngs streaming into the theater for the premiere. Among them were my sisters Peggy and Lillian and my brother Clem, whom I had flown in for this night that I knew would be so special for them.

The day before I had experienced several thorny hours at La Guardia Airport after realizing they were on the same plane, flying for the first time in their lives. Nervously, I had paced up and down until their plane set down safely on the runway.

My two sisters were still rigid with fear when I met them at the gate. Not so my brother. With a big smile plastered over his face he said, “Thanks for the skyride, Pedro. That’s probably the closest I’ll ever get to heaven.” I remember so well that night how he stood on Broadway amid the bright lights, glancing up at the marquee emblazoned with “The Learning Tree.”

“If only Momma and Papa were here to see that,” he said. Then arm in arm we had walked into the theater.

“The Learning Tree” had placed Hollywood solidly into my future--deeper into a prosperous but sketchy world of dreams and illusions. To direct a motion picture was demanding, difficult and wearing, but it was a joy broken off from all the others. Life magazine had allowed me to know a good existence, yet I sensed that it was just a steppingstone, not a pinnacle. Feeling now that I had expended all I could to it, I left the staff to work under a contract that would give me more freedom. The tie was not permanently cut, but directing was foremost in my mind.

Jim Aubrey, the tough, inflexible boss at MGM Studio, handed me my second Hollywood film. Titled “Shaft,” it was the story of a virile, suave, black Harlem detective. Frankly, I didn’t hold great expectations for its success, but it offered me a chance to expand my knowledge of directing. What’s more, it was a film that could give black youth their first cinematic hero comparable to James Cagney or Humphrey Bogart. And not least of the persuasions was the salary I was to receive.

After an exhaustive search, I had chosen Richard Roundtree (then a well-known model, but a non-actor) for the role of Shaft, not because of his film experience, because he had none, not even a screen test. It was my son, David, who had prodded me into taking a look at him. When I agreed to give Roundtree a test, he looked dumbfounded.

Having glanced at a row of experienced film actors waiting on the sidelines, he shook his head in despair. “I just knew I didn’t have a chance,” he told me later, “so I really didn’t give it a real try.” But I had slapped a fake mustache on him and slung a holstered gun over his shoulder, and someone read him the lines. After seeing his rushes the following morning I called Jim Aubrey. “I think I’ve found him. I’m sending you several takes. Let me know what you think.”

Aubrey called back immediately after seeing them. “You’ve got him. Sign him up.”

Roundtree gave me a jolt just before he was to go before the camera. He was walking across the room with a towel and razor.

“Don’t foul up the mustache,” I said. “It’s just the right length.”

He looked startled. “But (producer Joel) Freeman told me to shave it off.”

“Shave it off and you’re out of a job.”

“Hell--I didn’t know. I was just taking orders.”

“Well, you’ve got the latest orders. Follow them.”

Freeman was entering the room. “Why did you tell him to get rid of the mustache, Joel?”

He looked puzzled. He really didn’t know. But I did. Richard Roundtree was about to become the first black leading man who would wear a mustache on the silver screen.

It was another one of those unwritten laws lurking within the minds of Hollywood’s film barons. A mustache on a black leading man was just too macho. Freeman had fallen prey to the absurdity without realizing it.

My telephone jarred me awake at 3 in the morning when the film opened in New York. It was my son David. “Dad, you’ve got to get up and get over to Broadway! Right away, Dad!”

“David, do you realize what time it is?”

“Please--get up, Dad. You’ve got to see this to believe it!”

I understood his urgency when I got there. The line was completely around the block, and growing. “Shaft” was a hit, throughout the world. Black youth had their first big romantic hero. Now Hollywood had the green light for black suspense films--and they exploited them to a mercilessly quick demise with a rash of bad screenplays. But Jim Aubrey had kept the faith, and I went on to make two more films for him--”The Super Cops” and “Shaft’s Big Score.”

I attribute “Shaft’s” success to several thing: a fine screenplay by John D.F. Black, Richard Roundtree’s outstanding performance, and Isaac Hayes’ great theme music, which later won an Academy Award for best song--the very first for a black composer.

But also extremely important to me was the number of blacks used in the crew. The number had doubled since the filming of “The Learning Tree.” Slowly it seemed that the doors to blacks working behind the camera were opening up. Perhaps Hollywood was taking notice. I watched as it took two steps forward, then three steps back, hoping that the next move would be an unrestrained leap--the kind that blacks could feed on forever.

But you won’t find many black actors, actresses or filmmakers in Beverly Hills. Their work is a hard sell across America. And progress for them is still shadowy and slow moving in Hollywood.

Certain actors and actresses prefer idleness to the kinds of roles available to them. After years of cultivating their diction, they are pushed into gutter language by casting people who twist their minds into psychological knots. One black actor, in to read for a part, and having greeted me with Oxfordian English, suddenly reverted to gutter talk when he began reading.

“Why,” I asked, “did you change your manner of speech? The script doesn’t suggest your doing so.”

He thought for a moment, laughed pensively and replied, “You are perfectly right, you know. But invariably I am asked to put ‘black juice’ into my voice. That’s what I was attempting to do a moment ago.”

Black producers and directors, if they are to survive, must begin channeling their efforts into pictures that are universally acceptable. America is not the only country on Earth. I’m not suggesting they go elsewhere, or that they give up on black films.

I am suggesting that they broaden their horizons and prepare themselves for any worthy project that means survival.

No one has the right to tell you how not to dream or to fix marks where one’s dreaming should stop. The truth is, Hollywood still harbors a racist industry, and it will keep shutting doors to blacks as long as possible. But doors, after sufficient pounding, have a way of opening. The trick is to be ready when one does. Another Kenneth Hyman may be sitting inside.