A Rambling on the Social Power of Films and How We Learn to Read Them
How language constructs thought and film canon
I sobbed in hope, despair, and admiration after watching Salt of the Earth the other day. Though I’d know about this film for years, it was the type of film that needed to cross my path exactly when it did. Salt of the Earth is a 1954 independent feature about the lives and struggles of Mexican American miners that go on strike when their rich, white bosses refuse to ensure their equality or safety. The film was blacklisted upon release and denounced by the federal government of America. It was virtually blocked from being shown to the public, and what a travesty? Salt of the Earthis pro-labor, pro-communism, pro-feminism, and a film that’s meant to remind audiences that the road to revolution is paved in hard turns, long miles, and danger. But to seek revolution, the road must be traversed.
I had just been thinking earlier that day about how a society upheaves a corrupt, neo-liberal capitalist system. My American side kicked in: “But wait,” I debated with myself, “Is revolution and violence really the answer? Is the really the only way to take back power as the people?” Then, my dear friend Eve popped in my head. This person will only be referred to as Eve for their safety. Eve is a gay, revolutionary, Turkish-born Kurd, living abroad. English is Eve’s second language, and I met them while learning French—my second language, their third— in Paris. We both went to the same school, had the same stresses, the same sadness about the world, the same carefree spirit, the same tender hearts, the same fantasies about a world of equality. We were also much more different than alike. Oil and water, me and Eve, and it made for a powerful friendship that was transformational for the both of us.
My E-v-e-oil would always respond to my pacifism with heat. They’d tell me, respectfully, that I was brainwashed by a nation-state that is corrupt all the way down to its very nascence. The United States. States. Nations. They’re all meant to control the people, and the hands moving the pieces are corrupted elite. The bourgeoisie. It was all the things I knew to be true, but it was harsh to hear from someone who had never even been to America. We argued about that too. I constantly had to break down Eve’s stereotypes, assumptions, and negative biases against America and its people. It’s a shitty house, but it’s my house, buddy. But, because I pride myself on attempting to maintain emotional maturity and level-headedness in life, I never took his digs or hostility in an argument personally. Neither of us did. We had so many hard conversations for the first time with each other. We both learned a new level of emotional maturity and open dialogue. It was truly special.
Now, Eve and I didn’t just talk about the KPP party, and Frantz Fanon, and misogynoir, and the Parisian banlieues, identity and ethnicity, and Berbers. We talked about movies, all the time. We both sat through the same poorly taught film courses in our graduate program, and we’d spiral far too often talking about how we facetiously threw away money on a fake masters. We saw so many movies in the coolest Parisian theaters together. And let me tell you, French theaters are only “cool” figurately. They’re charming and unique. But they do not have A.C. Imagine me getting fooled twice in my adult life during two legendary hot days in Paris where I melted, sweating into the seat of a muggy, stale cinema. But I digress, one particular time, I invited, well practically begged, Eve to come to either the Cinema Christine or Le Champo to see a classic Hollywood movie with me. Eve has great taste in cinema and is a stunning filmmaker, so I was thrilled to introduce them to not just any old, black-and-white film, but one of the greatest films old Hollywood has to offer: Casablanca.
After the movie, I felt like a puppy about to piss myself in anticipation wondering if Eve liked it. Immediately, I knew something was wrong when I didn’t see pure joy and tears in their eyes. I mean, I was crying, and I’d see this movie easily half a dozen times at this point. Eve didn’t dislike Casablanca; Eve just didn’t get it. I was stunned... what’s there not to get? Rick, Elsa, and Lazlo are the most tragic love triangle where all parties act in sheer bravery by sacrificing themselves for the hope of others. So, there I was, rambling at Eve explaining all these cinematic moments of perfection and catharsis in the film. Eve is slowly starting to understand and admits they didn’t catch those things earlier because everyone spoke so fast. Eve also didn’t understand any of the jokes, despite having whip-smart sense of humor. Then I began to understand.
How could I expect a Turkish citizen with their own cultural background and media literacy to understand a very American, Hollywood-sculpted film from 1942? The well-known transatlantic accent that Casablanca’s stars all speak in is well known as a sound, but there are plenty of Americans today who can’t even understand what someone from the 1930s or early ‘40s film is saying. Hell, half of us Americans can barely understand a cockney accent, and likewise, British ears can barely make out a Southern American accent. Once when my mom came to visit me in Paris, she told me to answer a woman speaking to us because my mom couldn’t understand her, despite the woman speaking to us in English just with a Swedish accent. So I could only imagine how complicated it was for Eve to follow the plot of Casablanca, then pick up on all the dry wit and wordplay, then understand the geopolitical conversations happening, all while looking at the mechanics of what’s happening on screen. What a task!
I had Eve in mind when I decided to rewatch The Big Sleep last night. Famous more so for how much raw sexuality sizzles between Humphrey Bogart and then wife Lauren Bacall than for its story. The story is more infamous for how complicated it is. It’s a film noir detective thriller that should have one clear motive, but Raymond Chandler’s original novel was made more complex when William Faulkner, Leigh Brackett, Jules Furthman, AND director Howard Hawks all tooled around the screenplay adaptation. The result is this 1946 pseudo-erotic thriller where Bogart runs through his share of women who can’t seem to stop squirming when he’s around. Me too girl. With Eve and revolution and language in my brain, I told myself that this time, I was going to focus and really take in the dialogue to understand what was being said and how. Besides, I’d seen this movie like five times, and I couldn’t remember the basic storyline. Here are the notes of what I kept, edited only for clarity (and to preserve a future adult-themed script I have in mind based on the film). SPOILERS AHEAD:
Sean Regan worked as district attorney for the old man. He was Irish Republican Army.
Arthur Geiger is man who wrote the ransom note. The daughter [Vivian] signed the checks.
Joe Brody is a gambler that the old man gave 5K to
Get Geiger off old man’s back is the mission. Holy Shit. This has within been 8 minutes!
He gets $25 a day and expenses. That’s roughly $400 today!
Carmen may want Philip to find Sean Regan?
This girl [Vivian] has disassociated. Her naivety mixed with outward sexuality is key to something deeper going on than a vixen. She’s young. She’s beautiful and rich. Obviously surrounded by older men like Geiger. She reacts to getting slapped in the face twice by saying “you’re cute.” I don’t kink shame, but I got questions about her.
Philip Marlowe touched the blood, bad detective or DNA just wasn’t a thing then?
Who the fuck is Owen Taylor? Ok he’s the driver, and it’s not Geiger in the car
5k in cash?! That’s $80k today!
Sean Regan ran off with the mob guy’s wife, and Carmen needs to borrow money from that guy to pay the new black mail of the photo of Vivian fucking Geiger.
Who the fuck is Joe Brody? Vivian is claiming facetiously that he’s the one who took the photos
Mr. and Mrs. Eddie Mars… who are these people? Ok, she’s supposed to pay him off, oh yea. Joe. So Philip thinks Joe shot Geiger
Carmen is the witness.
Ok Owen killed him?
Halfway in and I forgot the point of all of this case. Geiger did what now?
Eddie Mars? Someone told her to pay him off the case
Who the fuck is Harry Jones? Ok, he’s been tailing Philip. He’s connected to Joe Brody, and he likes Agnes. He has Eddie Mars’ wife info
Wife hung out when Sean disappeared
10 mins left and I’m still wondering who these people are
So yeah, I still don’t know what the fuck I watched besides the most American story of the 1940s: crime, murder, urban corruption, guns, the rich paying to get rid of their troubles. And it all happens so fast. Everyone ping-pongs their dialogue back and forth while facts and names just spill out of their mouths in casual conversation. The entire exercise reminded me that my ears can only hear it with clarity because I’ve been watching these movies since childhood, deciphering their content like I learned to do with the King James Bible. But thinking about Eve made me question a lot of things. Eve said to me once, rather hostile and only half-kidding, that we don’t need any of the classics anymore. They’re remnants of a white supremacist male-dominated society and have no purpose to modern audiences when there are so many movies around the world from every period.
And Eve isn’t wrong. The canon of “greatest of all time” or “best ever” or whatever hyperbole that gets thrown around to cement the list maker’s authority should be re-evaluated. They are products of Anglo-Saxon neo-liberal idealisms. I still love Casablanca’s ability to hit me in the gut whenever Laszlo leads the bar in “La Marseillaise.” I still love the frenetic energy of The Big Sleep, though I question if it’s a movie that deserves continued recommendation to newcomers to film history and criticism. Especially when a powerful film like Salt of the Earth exists and is tragically underseen and missing in the conversation about film’s importance. I’m glad to have Eve’s revolutionary spirit still with me since leaving Paris. It’s been a welcomed voice in the continuous journey to decolonize my own mind and beliefs.