By Kyle Smith
Thursday, May 11, 2017
Fifty years ago, a pathbreaking year for American cinema
arrived. Two generation-defining films unlike anything anyone had seen before —
Bonnie and Clyde and The Graduate — challenged critics with
new depths of irony and previously unseen layers of subtlety. “The big events
of that period were the movies like Bonnie
and Clyde, The Graduate and 2001: A Space Odyssey,” recalled Roger
Ebert in his memoir Life Itself. “The
French New Wave had reached America. Time
magazine put ‘The Film Generation’ on its cover.”
The Graduate
and Bonnie and Clyde continue to
fascinate today — the elliptical ending of the former, the meaning of violence
in the latter. These are films that set the stage for a new era at the cinema,
genuine classics, films you watch over and over. Each was hugely successful
with audiences (in inflation-adjusted dollars, The Graduate still ranks as one of the 25 biggest hits of all time
at the U.S. box office, ahead of The Dark
Knight and The Avengers). Each
was also a major presence at the 1967 Academy Awards (presented in 1968). Bonnie and Clyde earned ten Oscar
nominations; The Graduate, seven.
So which of them won the Oscar for Best Picture? Neither.
The top prize went to a film that today is more or less forgotten: In the Heat of the Night. It’s a
cinematically undistinguished, slowly paced police procedural that is not
unlike a drawn-out episode of a TV series. In its 109 minutes, it has fewer
twists and turns than the average episode of Law & Order. The only remotely noteworthy aspect of the film is
that it has a message to declare: It’s against racial prejudice.
The black actor Sidney Poitier plays Virgil Tibbs, a
brilliant Philadelphia homicide detective who happens to be visiting
Mississippi just after the murder of an industrialist who, in his intent to
hire blacks to work at his factory, posed a threat to white supremacy. A racist
cop, spotting Tibbs sitting innocently in the train station, arrests him at
gunpoint, then hauls him to the police station, where another racist officer,
Gillespie (Rod Steiger), ludicrously tries to pin the murder on him without
evidence. Yet Tibbs is such a shining exemplar of composure, courage, and
intelligence that Gillespie asks him to assist in the investigation, begins to
admire him, and gradually learns not to be a racist. He even becomes Tibbs’s
protector against the crackers. Directed by Norman Jewison, the film is in
essence a two-hour public service announcement: “Please don’t be racist. Good
night, and safe travels.” The New Yorker
critic Penelope Gilliatt yawned at the “primitive rah-rah story” and said the
film had a “spurious air of concern about the afflictions of the real America.”
Hollywood, which then and for many years thereafter
primarily saw racism from the point of view of white saviors, gave Steiger the
Oscar for Best Actor instead of recognizing one of the year’s performances that
would prove indelible in cinema history — those given by Dustin Hoffman in The Graduate and Warren Beatty in Bonnie and Clyde, not to mention Paul
Newman in Cool Hand Luke the same
year. (Poitier wasn’t even nominated.)
The ambiguous aspects that make The Graduate and Bonnie and
Clyde worthy of discussion and repay multiple viewings are completely
absent from In the Heat of the Night:
The film couldn’t be more on the nose. Like most message movies, it goes about
its business with such single-minded determination that it fairly grinds away
with self-righteousness. It’s like a dinner-party guest who has only one
subject of conversation. There’s no need to view it again. In the most famous
scene, a stereotypical plantation owner (whose character is defined before we
even see him by a shot of a racist jockey statue out front) is fussing over his
flowers in a greenhouse when he is visited by Gillespie and Tibbs. He reflects
on his orchids in these terms: “It’s remarkable that of all the orchids in this
place, you should prefer the epiphytics. I wonder if you know why?” he asks
Tibbs. “Because like the nigra, they need care and feedin’ and cultivatin’, and
that takes time.” After Tibbs insinuates that the plantation owner might know
something about the murder, the latter slaps Tibbs — who shocks him by
immediately returning the slap. The racist can’t believe it. “There was a
time,” he mutters, “when I could have had you shot.” Times change.
In the Heat of the
Night is not what you’d call a subtle movie. There isn’t a lot to chew over
here. Assuming you already know racism is wrong, there’s no compelling reason
to watch it in the first place. It’s so obviously an inferior work of art to
the best films of 1967 that its recognition by the Motion Picture Academy seems
an undeniable example of proto-virtue-signaling. In its eagerness to advertise
its moral rectitude, the Academy overlooked the monumental films and rewarded a
minor one. From then on, the quality of a film had to be weighed against
whatever Hollywood’s political urges of the moment were.
Fifty years later, the Academy has shed so much cultural
authority that the Oscars are no longer able to guarantee even modest
box-office success for the films it lauds. Its latest choice for Best Picture, Moonlight, hits the Amazon Prime
streaming service on May 21, and the general public will get the opportunity to
judge its merits in their living rooms.
The verdict will be, I think, disbelief that such a small
and underwhelming film could be considered the year’s best offering by anyone. Moonlight is sensitively wrought, but
it’s another grindingly obvious message movie completely lacking in subtext. In
the film’s most cringe-inducing moment of didacticism, the gay, black, impoverished
and abused young fellow Chyron asks, “What’s a faggot?” and is told by his wise
older mentor, “A faggot is a word used to make gay people feel bad.”
Moonlight
arrived at a moment of liberal obsession with “intersectionality,” or
multiple-victim status, and so the polymorphously oppressed Chyron touched a
nerve among Hollywood progressives. But sit-down-and-learn-your-lesson movies
don’t age well. Fifty years from now — maybe five years from now, maybe five
weeks from now — Moonlight will look
like an embarrassingly obtuse choice for Hollywood’s highest honor.
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