Justin Simien‘s Hollywood Black, an edifying if focus-challenged four-part docuseries about the central yet under-appreciated African American contributions to cinema history, comes with a couple of semi-contradictions.
The documentary’s entire premise is based on the inadequacy of how film schools address the topic, yet it’s inspired by the book by Donald Bogle, whose Toms, Coons, Mulattoes, Mammies and Bucks has been indispensable in cultural studies classes for 50 years. It presumably aims to bring its topic to the widest possible modern audience, but does so on a streaming service — MGM+ — whose footprint is rooted in the past and nearly negligible in the present.
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Hollywood Black
Full of fascinating conversations with fascinating people and packed with interest-piquing clips, Hollywood Black nevertheless falls well short of resembling a definitive documentary on the subject. But even well-informed viewers are bound to come away with several insights and a few overlooked texts to seek out.
The Dear White People and Haunted Mansion director, who filters all four hours through his own presence as a thoughtful narrator and excitable on-screen moderator, opines that in film school, classes tend to go from Oscar Micheaux to blaxploitation to Spike Lee, “and that’s it.” Leaving aside that the field of study has changed dramatically since Simien was in film school, there’s no quibbling with his professed aspiration: “I want everyone to rethink cinema history, because whoever controls cinema, controls history.”
Simien argues that Black talent was part of the Hollywood machinery from the industry’s inception, even if it was “hidden in plain sight.” That means positioning Micheaux’s as one of the first true independent filmmakers, introducing viewers to should-be-legendary performer Bert Williams, viewing The Birth of a Nation through its blockbuster racism, and positioning Al Jolson and The Jazz Singer in the tradition of minstrelsy. Nothing here is revolutionary, but it lays a foundation for an understanding of an industry in which controlling, appropriating and stoking fear about Black bodies and voices have always been been integral to the business.
Though Simien honors iconic figures like Lena Horne — complete with stories recalled by Horne’s granddaughter Jenny Lumet — and Paul Robeson in ways that never leave you doubting their electric screen presences and unique voices, his interest is more business-minded. What were the corporate conditions that facilitated waves of Black cinematic excellence from Sweet Sweetback’s Baadasssss Song to Boyz n the Hood to Black Panther, what careers were launched by different waves of independent Black cinema, and why did so many filmmakers who seemed on the cusp of formidable careers end up getting maybe only a single opportunity?
What the documentary isn’t nearly as good at is talking about the artistry. For every film like Julie Dash’s Daughters of the Dust — its formal majesty and ample influence laid out in exceptional detail — there are a dozen films and figures that Simien showcases more nebulously. You’ll come away understanding why Micheaux has an obligatory piece of those introductory film courses, and some young viewers will probably note, “I ought to watch some Oscar Micheaux films” — but for whatever reason, Simien can’t steer the conversation to why anybody would want to. In other words, the films sometimes get lost in a continuum of influence and necessity to an informed discourse, rather than being recognized for their aesthetic or rhetorical merits. This produces either gaps or oversights; for example, Marlon Riggs is acknowledged more in terms of how Tongues United was important to Simien than in terms of Riggs’ body of work itself. Which, in turn, makes it less likely that neophytes will be informed enough to seek out Riggs’ films.
The focus is a bit peculiar given how many of Simien’s interview subjects are craftspeople themselves, ranging from Ava DuVernay to Gina Prince-Bythewood to Issa Rae to Ryan Coogler to Forest Whitaker and Lena Waithe. Simien tries to instigate conversations by watching scenes from movies with his subjects, with hit-or-miss results. The impeccably photographed talking heads — against a black backdrop or emerging from darkness in ways that are metaphorically clear — are more casually impressed by older films they may not have seen before; newer films elicit mostly gushing and enthusiasm. It’s no surprise that it’s easier to find people who are enthusiastic about Love & Basketball or Waiting to Exhale than somebody who’s willing to explain why Oscar Micheaux is cool, but it’s still limiting.
Simien and company have conversations that are funny and smart and revealing, especially when people are willing to challenge some of his points (DuVernay and Prince-Bythewood), instead of nodding along chummily. The figures who have taken the most active steps to push the industry toward inclusivity through initiatives and mentorship opportunities give the most substantive insights — not that there’s anything wrong with the lighter and more emotional responses from the likes of Gabrielle Union or the pointed observations of a W. Kamau Bell, who has been the MVP of more cultural documentaries than I can count.
Maybe it’s just the broadness of Simien’s early pronouncements that make the constraints of his corrective a little disappointing. With only four hours to work with, it’s easy to understand why certain high-profile figures are discussed but not present to discuss themselves. Spike Lee, Barry Jenkins and Pam Grier are just a few people whose absence I pondered, if not lamented. Tyler Perry, who was recently the subject of his own Amazon documentary, might not have felt the need to do more self-promoting, and the available talent sings his praises so thoroughly and unconditionally — even Simien, who mocked Perry mercilessly in Dear White People — that he isn’t necessary.
There are conversational directions that are broached and not explored. How do you talk about who gets to tell which stories and have people waxing rhapsodically about In the Heat of the Night and 12 Years a Slave and Waiting to Exhale without even mentioning what it means that those stories were told by a white Canadian, a Black Brit and a Black man, respectively? Is it enough for Simien to have sought out frequently excluded or forgotten directors like Charles Burnett (Killer of Sheep) and Charles Lane (Sidewalk Stories) for brief chats, or does the brevity hurt even more?
And how do you do a documentary about revolutions in Black storytelling without even a tiny salute to television and the opportunities that medium has presented, both for the doc’s on-screen talent and for several directors who might have had only one feature but have become prolific on TV?
That said, if Simien’s main thesis is that there are stories yet to be told in most accounts of Black Hollywood, it’s probably some sign of progress that he ends up leaving so much unexplored.
