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Overview
Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9781478000549 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | Duke University Press |
| Publication date: | 08/10/2018 |
| Edition description: | New Edition |
| Pages: | 248 |
| Product dimensions: | 5.90(w) x 8.90(h) x 0.60(d) |
| Age Range: | 18 Years |
About the Author
Read an Excerpt
CHAPTER 1
EDDIE MURPHY, COMING TO AMERICA, AND FORMAL NEGATIVITY
The guy on Trading Places was young and full of energy and curious and funny and fresh and great; the guy on Coming to America was the pig of the world — the most unpleasant, arrogant, bullshit entourage ... just an asshole. — JOHN LANDIS, speaking about Eddie Murphy
My significance in film — and again I'm not going to be delusional — was that I'm the first black actor to take charge in a white world onscreen. That's why I became as popular as I became. — EDDIE MURPHY
There is a curious moment at the end of the Eddie Murphy star vehicle Coming to America. The film, a romantic comedy, centers on Murphy as Prince Akeem: an African prince who travels to New York to find his bride. Along the way, Akeem and his sidekick, Semmi, become friendly with a group of men who hang out at the downstairs barbershop. As the closing credits roll, revealing the names of the actors playing the various characters, the camera cuts to Saul, the elderly Jewish man who is one of the barbershop regulars. As one of the few white characters in the film, Saul's presence in the black barbershop space creates a visual and narrative contrast with the other men who form the barbershop's Greek chorus. Indeed, black barbershops themselves have a complicated history in regard to race relations and segregation in this country, making Saul's presence noticeable because of its historic significance, and yet also natural in the film's cinematic presentation of a racially and ethnically diverse neighborhood in Queens, New York. Saul's whiteness serves an important narrative function as he becomes the "white" voice in the barbershop's discussions, such as in a recurring debate over the best boxer of all time: Saul either suggests a lone white boxer or else, in a stroke of immigrant solidarity, defends Cassius Clay's right to change his name to Muhammad Ali. Therefore, it comes as a shock when the credits reveal that Saul is played by none other than Murphy himself.
I remember sitting in the theater when the closing credits appeared and it was revealed that Murphy and Arsenio Hall had played not only the main characters but also several supporting ones as well. I was a child, and much of the performative ruse that might have been obvious to the adult members of the audience was pure movie magic for me. My mother had seen the film once already, and as the movie came to its conclusion and the credits began to roll, she leaned down and whispered with a smile, "Pay attention to who plays who." As the credits revealed the various roles that the two actors played, there was laughter throughout the packed movie theater and a bit of surprise, but most of the characters had been legible as Murphy and Hall even through the extensive makeup and wigs designed to disguise the two actors' natural features. But it was the revelation of Murphy as Saul that sent a palpable wave of shock through the audience, so convincing had been Murphy's racial masquerade.
Beyond the fun of the ruse, Murphy's whiteface performance of the Jewish Saul in Coming to America also represents an inspired twist that signifies on the history of Jewish performers of blackface minstrelsy. In film, the Jewish performer Al Jolson played perhaps the most famous blackface character in The Jazz Singer (Alan Crosland, 1927). Murphy's Saul even begins the joke that he tells over the closing credits by saying, "Wait a minute, wait a minute!" — the first words spoken by Jolson in The Jazz Singer. Murphy's whitefaced Saul not only acknowledges one aspect of racial representation on the screen but also subverts it by reversing the formula. If Jolson emphatically concluded his statement in The Jazz Singer by telling us "You ain't seen nothing yet!" then Murphy's reveal at the end of Coming to America informs us that we have not, in fact, truly "seen" him at all up until this moment.
As a play on Jewish blackface, Murphy's portrayal of Saul in Coming to America represents a formal inversion, or, more specifically, a type of formal negation, of Hollywood's conventional strategies of representation. Murphy reverses the race and the politics of the Jewish performer in blackface at the level of makeup and performance. Murphy-as-Saul, however, is just one example of the many ways that Coming to America, primarily through Murphy's influence, takes a standard Hollywood formula, one that was designed to appeal to all audiences, and reforms it into a culturally black film — a film that continues to have particular resonance with black viewers. It is this "flipping of the script" (to borrow a phrase from black vernacular) that constitutes what I am referring to as "formal negativity," or the inversion of standard modes of mainstream Hollywood and network television storytelling practices at the levels of plot, performance, and production.
In addition to reversing the existing traditional logics of black and Jewish cinematic performance, Coming to America also contains other interesting reversals of standard Hollywood conventions. For example, the film inverts the usual romantic comedy formula of A-plot and B-plot. Typically, the Aand B-plots are clearly delineated not only narratively but also by casting. In other words, the stars of the romantic comedy inhabit the A-plot, with supporting characters occupying the B-plot, often for comic relief. For instance, in the Murphy vehicle Boomerang, Murphy occupies the romantic A-plot, but comedic relief is provided through supporting characters played by actors such as Tisha Campbell, David Alan Grier, Eartha Kitt, and Martin Lawrence. This distinction is blurry in Coming to America, however, as Murphy and Hall play characters in both plotlines. In doing so, the film's structure is a callback to Murphy's stint on Saturday Night Live (SNL), where he played several different characters. Further, Murphy's immense and unmistakable influence on the film runs contrary to auteurist theories that would place John Landis, the director, as the main creative force behind the film. Not simply a challenge to director-centric theories in film studies, this reimagining of Murphy as the visionary behind the film rather than Landis likewise complicates our understanding of how we define a film as "black." Is it possible for a white director to make a "black" film, where "black" is understood not just by the race of the cast but also by its cast, themes, politics, and popularity with black audiences? Coming to America would suggest so and, therefore, troubles the commonly held assumption that Hollywood-produced films are only capable of promoting films ideologically aligned with whiteness. As I have argued elsewhere, "Hollywood films can and do offer thoughtful explorations of race and racism, even though their methods of doing so may be more fraught than those of independent films." Finally, Murphy himself, as arguably the biggest movie star of the 1980s with success primarily in white-cast films, exemplifies formal negativity as he constantly works within the very structures that Hollywood typically uses to ensure white privilege and black marginalization in order to ultimately subvert them and destabilize whiteness in his film and television projects.
I am not interested in strict ideas of intentionality: it is entirely possible that Murphy may not have been trying to be overtly political with his performance as Saul. Yet a focus solely on intentionality misses the mark in this case. Even if Murphy's goal was simply to show off his mimicry skills, his performance still reminds viewers of the role that Jewish performers have played in black/white race relations since the days of theatrical minstrelsy; it also functions as the voice of the white everyman, offering viewpoints against which the black characters can then push. And, supporting characters in Coming to America reinforce this black-oriented worldview. Reverend Brown, drawn from Hall's personal experiences, draws a connection to the tradition of the black church, or perhaps more specifically, deftly articulates some of the recognizable (to black audiences) eccentricities of the black church. And Clarence and the other barbers tap into an iconic component of black neighborhoods, perfectly capturing the ways that the black barbershop functions as an important site of black camaraderie and critical discussion.
Murphy the Matinee Idol
Coming to America would eventually go on to gross $128 million domestically and $160 million internationally, making it one of the most financially successful black-cast films in history. So why has there not been more critical discussion of it? As I argued in the introduction, Coming to America has suffered from the unfortunate timing of being wedged between the more critically appreciated films Hollywood Shuffle (Robert Townsend, 1987) and Do the Right Thing (Spike Lee, 1989) as far as discussions of 1980s black film are concerned. However, there is a less precise, but perhaps just as likely answer to this question, which is that Coming to America's success as a Hollywood product has characterized it as less black than these other two films. In other words, it is the film's very success that makes us skeptical, as if confirming that only a color-blind, universal, not really black black film can do well on the global market. It is as if Coming to America is automatically precluded from the type of serious consideration that we might give to one of its contemporaries (like Hollywood Shuffle or Do the Right Thing) because it is a comedy that came out of a Hollywood studio, was helmed by a white director, and starred the biggest crossover actor of the 1980s. Landis's own statements about the film only seem to corroborate this interpretation: "What was nice was that it was a big hit, all over the world, and no one ever thought of it as a black movie." In many regards, this skepticism of the Landis-directed, "color-blind," black-cast film is rightly deserved. As a large and powerful studio, Paramount could hire a strong comedic director and provide him with the budget to create a glossy, grand film with rich sets, costumes, and a lush score. The fact that Murphy, the film's centerpiece, was arguably one of the nation's (if not the world's) biggest stars at the time may not have guaranteed box-office gold, but it was certainly a good predictor of it.
This skepticism about Hollywood is based on the knowledge that Hollywood's formula has, undoubtedly, constantly worked to disenfranchise African Americans and lock them into stereotypical tropes since the emergence of cinema. In spite of Murphy's incredible success in the 1980s, many of his roles, especially when he played comedic sidekicks to white leads (such as in his star-making turns in 48 Hrs. and Trading Places), tiptoed too closely to the kinds of buffoonish stereotypes that many African Americans were eager to leave behind. It is accurate, therefore, to suspect that Hollywood "success" has often translated into "hegemonic" and "stereotypical" when it comes to black representations, particularly comedic representations, as Hollywood has traditionally relegated black characters to roles meant to serve as comedic relief. It is no wonder then, that those critics and scholars who are all too familiar with how Hollywood operates would rightfully regard Coming to America's triumph at the box office with skepticism.
All that being said, however, Coming to America is far from being a typical Hollywood product. As a joint venture between Paramount and Murphy's then newly formed production company, Murphy enjoyed an unprecedented amount of control over the film. This, coupled with Murphy's reputation as an international celebrity, ensured that the film reflected his sensibilities to the same extent as, if not more than, those of the director and the executives at Paramount.
First and foremost, Murphy himself challenges the idea that one must be independent and outside of Hollywood in order to offer a black-centered perspective. Though he may have found success within the Hollywood industry, and often supported its ideological constructs in his own projects and performances, this does not fully account for his politics or how his work reflects them. I want to push back, therefore, against an implicit assumption that mainstream success and black common sense (as discussed in the introduction) are fundamentally incongruous. It is Murphy's consistent quality of mainstream acceptability, I would argue, that has led many scholars to overlook the sociopolitical significance of Murphy's work (going back to SNL) and to interpret his film and television performances as inherently apolitical. That claim is based less on Murphy's actual performances and more on the presumed incompatibility between social critique and crossover success. For example, J. Fred MacDonald dismisses Murphy's success on SNL by noting that the comedian "scored well in two minstrel favorites." The use of the word "minstrel" is telling, because it references not only the form of Murphy's performances on SNL (in the tradition of minstrelsy and vaudeville) but also the type of humor that Murphy is presumed to be performing: stereotypical and designed for a white audience. Donald Bogle acknowledges Murphy's direct address of race and racism in his film roles, but he similarly dismisses the possibility of any real politics behind it: "Murphy's movies paid lip service to racism (perhaps even exploited it) but took no stands at all."
Such statements conflate Murphy's film and television work, his success in the 1980s, and his personal life, resulting in critiques that are rarely about Murphy's individual roles, but more about the idea of Murphy himself. In the 1980s, Murphy represented a brand of black comedian that seemed ready-made for crossover popularity. He got his start not in local black establishments but in suburban comedy clubs, and his ascension to superstardom would be signaled by his tenure on a predominantly white-cast sketch-comedy show, Saturday Night Live. The context of the time period is key to understanding why Eddie Murphy, and the type of comedian he symbolized, would be so successful on both television and film. His appeal as a "crossover" star — one who could attract both black and white audiences — had everything to do with his casting in big-budget action films and successful comedies alongside already-established white stars such as Nick Nolte and Dan Aykroyd. Murphy's early film career took a predictable course for "token" black performers in predominantly white films and television shows: he provided the urban edge to contrast with the white characters, playing the comedic relief to his white costars. His entry into pop culture superstardom also followed a predictable and well-trod path, one that plenty of African American stars before him had similarly taken. For example, while not comedians, actors like Lena Horne and Sidney Poitier rose to prominence in the days of classic Hollywood primarily via their appearances as the sole black figures in otherwise white films. This was not, of course, by any choice on their part, but because Hollywood created space for African American performers in only these tokenized ways. Though Murphy arrived on the scene decades later, Hollywood's logic for including blackness had changed little, so it is not surprising that Murphy's career took a similar trajectory. That Murphy functioned according to Hollywood's racist strategies for black representation is without question. Yet I contest the easy assumption that Murphy's function as a crossover, tokenized black star automatically signifies "sellout" politics. True, Murphy, especially early in his career, played the comedic relief to white characters and often tiptoed on the line of buffoonish stereotype. And it is this aspect that many scholars and critics have focused on when discussing Murphy's larger politics and performances. Bambi Haggins argues that Murphy's "apolitical" invocation of black culture and identity in his comedy is indicative of an "I got mine" philosophy that was part of an overall 1980s emphasis on individuality. Nelson George contends that Murphy's meteoric rise, alongside Ronald Reagan's election to the presidency, fully indicates the "schizophrenic nature of the American experience in the 80s." Describing the factors behind Murphy's appeal, he writes, "Because of his youth, his background, and the fact that he has only a passing connection to the old-school black comedy circuit, Murphy's views of what is funny and how to articulate that sense of humor differ from those of black comedy stars of the '70s. He isn't angry or intensely political or overly socially conscious." And even when Murphy signed an exclusive deal with Paramount for his production company to develop film and television projects for the studio, establishing a rare degree of control for a young African American actor, naysayers still accused Murphy of selling out: the director Spike Lee criticized Murphy for only owning 50 percent of Eddie Murphy Productions, with his white managers splitting the remaining percentage between them.
(Continues…)
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Table of Contents
Acknowledgments ixIntroduction. Negativity and the Black Popular Image 1
1. Eddie Murphy, Coming to America, and Formal Negativity 35
2. Relational Negativity: The Sellout Films of the 1990s 81
3. The Circumstantial Negativity of Halle Berry 114
4. Embracing the Ratchet: Reality Television and Strategic Negativity 142
Conclusion. Empire: A False Negative? 182
Notes 191
Bibliography 211
Index 219
What People are Saying About This
“An amazing and much needed critical intervention, Double Negative interrogates the ways in which respectability politics are imbricated in discussions of black representation. By questioning how media representations are deemed negative, Racquel J. Gates explodes the idea of privileging ‘good’ texts over less desirable ones. She contests the notion that negative texts are bad objects and guilty pleasures on every front, allowing for negotiated readings that offer spaces for identification, pleasure, and even empowerment.”
“In Double Negative, Racquel J. Gates places us in front of image after black image that folks concerned with the 'positive' representation of the race have tried, unsuccessfully, to repress. In the process, this willfully disobedient book challenges us to look at ourselves, as readers—the aesthetic judgments, political assumptions, old anxieties, and surprising pleasures that animate our encounters with blackness on screen.”
“In Double Negative, Racquel J. Gates places us in front of image after black image that folks concerned with the 'positive' representation of the race have tried, unsuccessfully, to repress. In the process, this willfully disobedient book challenges us to look at ourselves, as readers—the aesthetic judgments, political assumptions, old anxieties, and surprising pleasures that animate our encounters with blackness on screen.”
“In Double Negative Racquel J. Gates places us in front of image after black image that folks concerned with the 'positive' representation of the race have tried, unsuccessfully, to repress. In the process, this willfully disobedient book challenges us to look at ourselves, as readers—the aesthetic judgments, political assumptions, old anxieties, and surprising pleasures that animate our encounters with blackness onscreen.”