Listen to Their Rap

There is an interesting voice-over that opens the recently released “Original Gangstas.” Ron O’Neal, whom we last heard from as the existential hero Priest in one of the 1970s’ most significant cultural timepieces, “Superfly,” describes the rise and fall of urban America in the period from the ‘70s to the present.

O’Neal’s narration takes place over the dilapidated landscape of Gary, Ind., the setting for the film and a metaphor for the postindustrial experience in late 20th century America. Gary, once a beacon of the industrial revolution, has, according to the film, become a glaring example of the reverse, where deindustrialization has led to our cities being run by gangs who have given the phrase “corporate raiders” a new meaning.

The original gangstas of the film are led by Fred Williamson (complete with his own theme song) and Jim Brown--Black Caesar and Slaughter respectively. As the Sly & the Family Stone track “Power to the People” alerts us to Williamson’s glorious entrance and his lofty intentions, it is implied that these black superheroes are the only ones able to take back the streets and, by extension, save black film. Using these images from a previous era provides a useful gauge for the state of African American film from the 1970s to the present.

Blaxploitation’s images and icons still thrive in gangsta rap and contemporary film. For instance, Snoop Doggy Dogg’s 1994 music video “Doggy Dogg World” was a postmodern showcase of the period, while films such as “Juice,” “Boyz N the Hood” and that quintessential commentary on the postindustrial African American experience, “Menace II Society,” echoed the era--and created a subgenre of black cinema.

All of these recent events take their cue from the images made so popular by the likes of Williamson, Brown, O’Neal, Pam Grier and Richard Roundtree, the original gangstas of the new film’s title. And for those who may be unfamiliar with blaxploitation or gangsta rap, consider a hipper version of the casting in films like “The Towering Inferno” or “It’s a Mad Mad Mad Mad World.” “Original Gangstas” is like a film version of an all-star game--or maybe the old-timers’ game.

It’s as though the older figures, relegated to footnotes by the youth-oriented moment, have come back to claim what they consider to be rightfully theirs.

In the same way that John Travolta’s dance with Uma Thurman in “Pulp Fiction” referenced his previous life in “Saturday Night Fever,” the cast of “Original Gangstas” is interested in staking claim to a similar legacy--a tradition that they had hoped would never go away.

When these icons were originally popular, they carried a great deal of weight in defining African American popular culture. Consider for a moment the answer to the question, “Who’s the cat that won’t cop out when there’s danger all about?” Or better yet, “Who’s the black private dick that’s a sex machine to all the chicks?” The answer to both questions is Shaft, of course, but the qualities apply to all of the original gangstas. Their images were always politically conscious, physically invincible and sexually superior. Damn right!

The style, music and larger-than-life images of films such as “Shaft in Africa,” “Coffy” and “Hell Up in Harlem” were new symbols for a progressive era. They were not only assertive and defiant, but, unlike in the past, they always came out on top. Curtis Mayfield, in his song “We’re a Winner,” suggested a time would come when “there’ll be no more Uncle Toms,” an allusion to the grinning and shuffling that had marked the representation of blacks before the 1970s.

But when the era started to dissipate in the late 1970s, it became increasingly apparent that Hollywood, now devoted to blockbusters such as “Jaws” and “Star Wars,” had something else in mind. Unfortunately, the death of the blaxploitation film signaled a momentary death of popular black cinema.

With the exceptions of Richard Pryor and Eddie Murphy, the late 1970s through the mid-1980s saw little in the way of anything approximating African American film. Films such as “Ragtime,” “A Soldier’s Story” and “The Color Purple” were embraced because they were the only things that came close to satisfying the taste that those blaxploitation films had teased.

During this period, there was a vital, though struggling, African American underground film nexus featuring the likes of Charles Burnett, Warrington Hudlin and Julie Dash. But the underground came above ground with the release of Spike Lee’s “She’s Gotta Have It” in 1986. Lee’s emergence on the scene precipitated what many called a “rebirth” of black cinema, often compared to the French New Wave, with several new films and filmmakers emerging in the wake of Lee’s success.

This time though, the terms were a little different.

When the original gangstas were in vogue, most films simply featured African American actors and actresses in leading roles, yet many of the films were produced, written and directed by white filmmakers. This practice was cinema’s version of the minstrel tradition and continued through the release of Lee’s first film.

After “She’s Gotta Have It,” there was a shift in the definition of black cinema, highlighted by Lee’s claim that as an African American he was the only logical choice to direct “Malcolm X.” That had a great deal to do with controlling the means of production.

Unfortunately, African American cinema, in the aftermath of 1992’s “Malcolm X,” has often seemed to be in search of the guidance that the original gangstas want to provide. This most recent movement, which only a few years ago was being celebrated, seems to have been slightly derailed. In fact, it seems to have been retarded by some of the same practices that made the original movement stall in the first place.

At the height of the blaxploitation movement there were many misguided, morally based complaints about the damage that the “negative” images were doing. There were cries for images that would uplift, as opposed to degrade. These same lamentations could be heard a few years ago when many were complaining about an overabundance of “ ‘hood” movies. It was as if the children of those original moralists were now having their say.

The real problem with the images in African American cinema has to do with the lack of opportunity to broaden beyond a single focus, not the single focus itself, and this burden, to some extent, falls on the film industry, which has the ability to provide diverse representation.

There is indeed a place, and need, for both blaxploitation and ‘hood films, if these films are supplemented by others that span the spectrum of African American existence. The images in “Waiting to Exhale” are no more or less relevant than the characters in “Menace II Society.”

Martin Scorsese and Francis Ford Coppola have made their names by dealing with the Italian American underworld. Had their films not been made because of concern over negative images, we all would have missed out on an important part of film and American history. Though the images were not always pleasant, they were always necessary.

This should be true for African American film as well. Until African Americans and all Americans can deal with the good, the bad and the ugly of real life, we will return to these same concerns over and over again.

It is important that filmmakers use the medium of film for all of its capabilities. And to this point, the Hughes brothers, in “Menace” and “Dead Presidents,” look to be the African American filmmakers who understand that film is, among other things, an art form. Their work suggests a promising future.

African Americans in positions of power must use their resources to empower their own film culture. When Lee publicly acknowledged that he had been given financial support from several African American celebrities to help finish “Malcolm X,” lightbulbs should have gone off inside the heads of all those interested in maintaining this most precious artistic medium.

The famous friendship and cooperation of Scorsese, Coppola, Brian De Palma, George Lucas and Steven Spielberg in the ‘70s resulted in their collective ubiquitous power throughout the 1980s and into the 1990s. This is an excellent example of how to establish and maintain a true cinematic movement.

At the end of “Original Gangstas,” Williamson and Brown, having defeated one set of younger villains by using their wisdom and experience, declare to the remaining gangs that they will be a permanent part of the landscape from now on. They insist on a peaceful coexistence.

This is a lesson for African American cinema if it is to avoid the rise and fall cycle symbolized by Gary, Ind., in the film. The wisdom and experience of history, when linked with the zest and zeal of youth along with access to the corridors of power, can be a formidable combination. Can you dig it?