January 25, 2016 – Hollywood Elsewhere

One of the biggest self-congratulatory circle jerks and politically correct wank-offs in the history of the Sundance Film Festival happened late this afternoon when Nate Parker‘s heartfelt but sentimental and oppressively sanctimonious The Birth of a Nation ended and the entire audience rose to its feet and began cheering wildly, even ecstatically.

This is a sentimental, briefly stirring, Braveheart-like attempt to deify a brave African-American hero — Nat Turner, the leader of a Virginia slave rebellion in August 1831. But a black Braveheart or Spartacus this is not. Nor is it, by my sights, an award-quality thing.

It will almost certainly be nominated, of course, because it delivers a myth that many out there will want to see and cheer, but don’t kid yourself about how good and satisfying this film is. It’s mostly a mediocre exercise in deification and sanctimony. I loved the rebellion as much as the next guy but it takes way too long to arrive — 90 minutes.

Parker, the director, writer and star, sank seven years of his life into this film, and invested as much heart, love and spiritual light into the narrative as he could. But the bottom line is that he’s more into making sure that the audience reveres the halo around Turner’s head and less into crafting a movie that really grabs and gets you, or at least pulls you in with the harsh realism, riveting performances and narrative, atmospheric discipline that made Steve McQueen‘s 12 Years A Slave an undisputed masterpiece.

As noted, Parker doesn’t seem to even respect the fact that he needs to deliver the historic rebellion (i.e., horribly oppressed African-Americans hatcheting white slave-owners to our considerable satisfaction) within a reasonable time frame, which would be 45 minutes to an hour, tops. Kirk Douglas and his fellows broke out of Peter Ustinov‘s gladiator training school around the 45-minute mark.

There was an old rumor about the late Danny Thomas (yeah, I know — “who?”) that I used to laugh about at parties in my early 20s. The rumor was that Thomas liked prostitutes to give him “plate jobs.” (Don’t ask.) Except this was the kind of thing that needed to be left alone. It wasn’t something you ever wanted to read about in a major newspaper or, God forbid, hear discussed on TV or radio talk shows. It was one of those urban legends about a famous and powerful person that has always properly stayed “in the box.”

Ditto Mimi Alford’s icky story about having given JFK aide Dave Powers a poolside blowjob at Kennedy’s suggestion, and with the 35th President watching. I didn’t want to know any more than the basic details, thanks. It was just as well that none of the many tales about JFK’s sexual shenanigans were ever reported on during his administration. Reporters were less salacious back then, or at least more compassionate. Private, personal, nothing to do with the Oval Office…leave it alone.

Things are way different today. Public figures always need to keep things on the down low, of course, and only the morons tweet or text themselves into trouble. Former New York Congressman Anthony Weiner was one of these brainiacs — a firebrand liberal politician whose erections blocked any semblance of common sense, who wasn’t smart enough to understand the pitfalls of social media…a pathetic, self-destructive hound of the first magnitude. Bulging underwear photos, “Carlos Danger”…good God.

And the poor guy roasted himself on sexting alone. No adultery, no affairs, no Clarence Thomas-style sexual workplace harassment. All he did was behave like a total fool on his cell phone.

Sundance Hipsters Cheer Parker’s The Birth of a Nation In Order To (a) Fortify Their Compassionate, Racially Enlightened Filmgoer Credentials and (b) Push Back Against OscarsSoWhite

Deflating, To Say The Least