Social Relevance within the Works of Dudley Randall and Robert Hayden.

Within the poetic works of Dudley Randall and Robert Hayden are the influences of their livelihood and culture. Naomi Long Madgett, in her article “Dudley Randall’s Life and Career” discloses much of Randall’s influence. She explains Randall takes much influence from the experiences of his own life, recalling many such events as his employment in a foundry as recalled in “George” (Poem Counterpoem), and his military service during World War II as reflected in his poems “Coral Atoll” and “Pacific Epitapns” (More to Remember). Furthermore, Madgett tells of Randall’s identification with Africa which was “enhanced by his association with poet Margaret Esse Danner”, and his “study in Ghana in 1970”, both evident in Randall’s poem “African Suite” (After the Killing) (Dudley Randall’s Life and Career). Similarly, Robert Hayden’s use of his own culture’s affairs as a springboard for his work is respected and well known. Looking at Hayden’s work, Mark A. Sanders, in his article “About Hayden’s Life and Career,” writes, “Hayden's poetry takes up the sobering concerns of African American social and political plight; yet his poetry posits race as a means through which one contemplates the expansive possibilities of language, and the transformational power of art” (About Hayden’s Life and Career). Knowing wherein the influence of each of these two poets lie allows us to further investigate African-American poetry and culture as a whole. Within this essay I will be exclusively looking at Randall and Heyden’s poetry and further developing what both Madgett and Sanders discuss in their articles. By doing so I will be able to investigate the social context in which both Randall and Hayden were present, the role these poems played within capturing the African-American image, and how the African-American perspective contributes to Modernist ideals. 

In the case of both poets, there is immediacy in acknowledging their skin-color and the effects it has on the poems subject matter. Neither poet avoids making the context of their race known, but rather use their race as a tool in which context is formed. This approach contributes greatly to the Modernist ideals of relevancy.  Both Randall and Hayden make use of their skin-color within their works because issues dealing with prejudice, self-image/worth, were (and still are) topics relevant and pertinent to discussion. Randall engages in the topic of relevancy directly in his poem “A Poet is Not a Jukebox”. The poem is a discussion between Randall and an unnamed ‘dear friend’, wherein the friend, in response to a love poem that Randall had written, asks, “But why not write about the riot in Miami?” (Line 4). His response is, “Telling a Black poet what he ought to write is like some Commissar of Culture in Russia telling a Poet He’d better write about the new steel furnaces in the Novobigorsk region…” and, “Yeah, I write about love. What’s wrong with love? If we had more loving, we’d have more Black babies to become brothers and sisters and build the black family” (Lines 11-13, 33-35). In this poem, Randall both acknowledges current events not only in relation to America, but also to events globally whilst maintaining the notion that broad themes of love transcend the relevancy of the riot in Miami. Randall’s use of his own race within the poem regiments his voice and thoughts to those of the Black community. Similarly, Hayden takes the relevancy of plight of the African-American activist in his poem “El-Hajj Malik El-Shabazz (Malcolm X)” into consideration, using renowned activist Malcolm X as the topics of his poems discussion. Hayden takes Malcolm X’s personal battle of protest and freedom, “As Home Boy, as Dee-troit Red, he fled his name, became the quarry of his own obsessed pursuit,” and layers it with articles of it’s time period, “He conked his hair and Lindy-hopped, zoot-suited jiver, swinging those chicks in the hot rose and reefer glow,” therefore, exposing the time period from an African-American perspective (Lines 8-10, 11-13).

Lorenzo Thomas, in his essay “‘Communicating By Horns’: Jazz and Redemption in the Poetry of the Beats and the Black Arts Movement,” discusses and verifies the importance of social relevancy within art, specifically that of the Black arts movements. Though Thomas’ central focus is the Jazz movement of the 1950’s and it’s importance to the Black-American image, “For the poets of the 1950s "Beat Generation" and the militant Black Arts Movement of the 1960s And '70s, jazz is perceived as a more significant social critique of an oppressive social structure,” he links Black poetry’s affiliation with Jazz, such as Black poet Bob Kaufman’s influence of Jazz through his poetic works (Communication By Horns). Thomas writes, “In Kaufman's poem "Countess Erica Blaise: Chorus," jazz is "Africa's other face, stranded--in America, yet to be saved" (Ancient Rain 12)” (Communication). The ties of social relevancy that Thomas makes to Kaufman’s work (along with others), and that of Jazz, can be made with both Randall and Hayden’s work as well, using their medium as a social critique, as a projection of their personal experience, and as a form of liberating the Black society. This is because African-American Modernist Poets like Randall and Hayden where the ones who voiced the way of thought that became the “Beat Generation” that Thomas describes. Thomas illustrates the principles of the Beat Generation and the Black arts, a movement heavily impacted by social commentary and activism, with Amiri Baraka’s “Black Art”, a poem that defines the goals of the Black Artist.

            Baraka’s “Black Art” states, “We want live words of the hip world live flesh & coursing blood,” which uses vocabulary of the time to disclose ideas of activism amongst the African-American society, “ we want "poems that kill."” (Lines 9-11, 19). Both the argument that Baraka makes within “Black Art” and the style in which Baraka voices the poem position Black Art as one whose objectives are political and significant to the current state of the Black society. Links can be made to Randall’s most well known poem “The Ballad of Birmingham”, which was a response to the 1963 bombing of a Baptist Church in Birmingham, Alabama, and Hayden’s “Runagate Runagate”, which tells of the Underground Railroad (historical, yet still pertinent to the African-American Identity). With Modernist poetry it is important to not only look at what is being written, but also the way in which each poem is written to understand the context of the times in which the author existed. Baraka’s “Black Art” calls for violence, and is written violently; therefore we can conclude the violence of the times in which this poem was written. When we look at Randall’s “Rabaul”, or Hayden’s “Monet’s Waterlillies”, we note the essence of sadness of the current situations depicted within the poems, due to the bluntness and bleakness in the way these poems are written. “Rabaul” makes the comparison of fighting for equality whether it is on one’s own soil or the soil of another nation. Randall concludes that there is indeed no difference from those fighting in distant lands for freedom and democracy, than the oppressed in America fighting for their own freedom. In “Monet’s Waterlillies”, Hayden equally compares the events of Saigon during the war to the civil unrest of Selma, Alabama. Both works depict the aggression of the times in which they were written by what they say and how they say it; both Randall and Hayden existed during a time of racial segregation, oppression, and within their work there is indication of this.

            Processing the works of Dudley Randall and Robert Hayden allows us to understand further developments of the African-American expression for rights and freedoms through artistry. With the Modernist movement, sprung from post-war discourse, idealisms formed by Ezra Pound, T.S. Eliot, etc., laid the foundation for the writings of Dudley Randall and Robert Hayden. As well, reading Randall’s “Booker T. and W.E.B.” or “Langston Blues”, shows the unity and affiliation of the African-American community within the literary world. Through this fight for racial tolerance and justice, or tolerance in general no matter the race, came the Beat Generation, which, come the 60’s then expanded into Hippie counterculture. Looking at Randall and Hayden is equal to looking at two small pieces of a larger puzzle, therefore enabling us to navigate through the history of modern poetry and it’s affiliation to the Black experience.

           

Work Citiation

Randall, Dudley. "Dudley Randall." Modern Poems. Ed. Richard Ellmann and Robert O'Clair. New York and London: W.W. Norton & Company, 1989. P. 490-494 Print.

Hayden, Robert. "Robert Hayden." Modern Poems. Ed. Richard Ellmann and Robert O'Clair. New York and London: W.W. Norton & Company, 1989. P. 484-490 Print.

Madgett, Naomi Long. “Dudley Randall’s Life and Career.” Modern American Poetry. Oxford University Press, 8/15/00/ Web. 14 Mar 2011.

Sanders, Mark A. “About Hayden’s Life and Career.” Modern American Poetry. Oxford University Press, 1997 Web. 11 Mar 2011.

Lorenzo Thomas, “‘Communicating By Horns’: Jazz and Redemption in the Poetry of the Beats and the Black Arts Movement,” African American Review.

Ennis, D. L. “Robert Hayden – Seeking Tranquility.” American Chronicle. Ultio, LLC, 8/19/06 Web. 11 Mar 2011.

Baraka, Amiri. “Black Art”. ChickenBones: A Journal. Nathanial Turner, 02/23/08 Web. 13 Mar 2011.

Archive. “Poems of Dudley Randall - Works.” PoemHunter. 22 Feb 2011

 < http://www.poemhunter.com/dudley-randall/poems/>

Archive. “Poems of Robert Hayden - Works.” PoemHunter. 22 Feb 2011

 < http://www.poemhunter.com/dudley-randall/poems/>

cock-blocked by a kiwi

             It’s proper name is Pete’s Bar and Pizzeria but over the nights spent in Waskesiu I’ve learned to just call it Pete’s. It’s a small little place, no bigger than a Starbucks. It’s where the locals come to spend their weekend nights and where the tourists come to meet the locals.

            This is where my story begins- well, actually it begins with me asking my new found friend “Dave the hotel receptionist” to meet me at Pete’s at ten thirty. He owed me a beer and a couple to funny stories. Oddly, I ended up buying most of the alcohol that night. Oh well.

            So back to Pete’s. There I sit, bar-side, with Dave to my left explaining how woman are simply amazing creatures and should be cherished, me looking around the place to see tables full of grizzly Saskatchewan dudes chugging pints of Keith's and mimicking the FIFA horn from the commercials.

            After about an hour or so Dave lays down an ultimatum, “if a tall blonde doesn’t walk through those doors in the next five minutes, I’m calling it a night.”

            I replied,  “Sounds fair.”

            Then, by the luck of every four-leaf clover in the hills of Ireland, in steps not one tall blonde, but six.

            I turned to Dave and Dave turned to me, both with smiles on our faces.  And so the hunt continues. We jumped from out bar stools eager to not look like the two lonely dudes that we were and made our way to the biggest table (hoping that they would need to sit at some point and we would have a table big enough to accommodate them). I thought that was pretty clever to be honest. Dave did too. This was about eight beers in I must add.

            So we sat, and they stood. We watched, and they continued to stand. They danced a bit, I ordered another round for Dave and I. Then, the magic happened. Apparently, these women were Roughrider Cheerleading alumni who come to Pete’s annually to celebrate their dancing sisterhood (which explained why they were all wearing big green fluffy cowboy hats). I found this out when one of the women happened to catch me looking at her. I did my best to pretend I was just casually glancing around the room, but at nine beers in I guess it seemed pretty obvious what I was actually doing. She smiled, talked with the other ladies in hats then made her way to my table. Without saying a word, she slides her hand in her pocket… She comes bearing gifts!!!… and pulls out a green golf tee with the “roughriders” printed on it.  She then slid it behind my left ear and went back on her merry way, dancing with her friends.

            I turned to Dave and Dave turned to me, both with even bigger smiles on our faces.

            Now, before I continue I must tell you a little about Dave. I met him about three weeks earlier at Pete’s. I went to scope out the Waskesiu nightlife, and happened to strike up conversation with a man named Mike, sitting next to me. Mike introduced me to Dave who just finished his shift at the hotel across the street and was still wearing his receptionist uniform (white shirt, black pants, tie, vest, and to top it off his nametag). To this day, this is the only outfit that I have ever seen him in.  He probably is wearing that outfit as I write this now.

            Back to the story, though. Dave, my fifty-five year old receptionist pal decided his chances were slim against the younger men that began to make their way into Pete’s and decided he should head home. I, being the intelligent drunk that I am, decided to persist and continue the hunt. Dave wished me good luck and said that he “owed me a beer” to which I replied, “probably”, then headed out into the night.

            Now it was game time. Well, after another pint and a trip to the bathroom, then it was game time. I looked at myself in Pete’s dirty mirror the way all hero’s of a good story do, and said “go for it Mack.” And I did, though not realizing exactly what trials awaited me outside the bathroom door.

            Upon my return I noticed that a new group had entered Pete’s and had taken refuge at the table next to mine. From what I caught when I was sitting back down, they sounded South African. A long way from home toto. The cheerleaders must have overheard their dazzling accents as well and sprung towards them like a moth to a flame. Maybe I could pull off a South African accent? I thought momentarily, then decided against it immediately. My cheerleaders were now on the laps of ravaging, drunk South Africans and I was about a three feet away, helpless to do anything.

            Then I caught the eye of my Golf Tee Girl. A smile… wait for it… then a wink. NO EFFING WAY! I had to do something. That was a sign, wasn’t it? Who winks at a guy from across the bar just for fun? NO ONE! My drunk mind screamed. But what do I do? Do I approach her and say “hey I saw you winking at me, we should persist in these romantic gestures”? No. That’s lame. I decided to wait on it. Something told me that I would get a chance to introduce myself, and from there, I think I would be golden.

            BAM! It happened. If I blinked I probably would have missed it. She and some South African left the table and went outside to smoke. This was my chance!! I jumped from my table and followed them out.

            It was a nice night in Waskesiu, the air was warm, but not – who cares. I slide my way beside South Africa and my Golf Tee Gal who were talking about some country song that they loved. South Africa spotted me sliding.

            “Hey,” he said, kind of like a greeting but sounded more like a light threat.

            So, from my ass I pulled, “Sorry friend, I just quit smoking like two weeks ago and being in the presence of smokers helps dull my cravings.” Where the eff did that come from?

            South Africa gave me a funky look that you give to your dog when you catch him humping your toaster. Yup, that look. But my Golf Tee Gal saved my ass.           

            “Oh man, I tried quitting last year, good for you honey,” she calmly said. If she knew I was lying, I couldn’t tell. “I’m Janice,” and she gave me her hand.

            “I’m Mackenzie,” I replied, shaking her hand.

            “And I’m Jordan (or Keith of Frank or whatever)” South Africa said.

            “Cool,” I returned.

            The three of us talked until their cigarettes died. I told them I was a filmmaker hired to come up for the summer to shoot video for the park and originally I’m from Vancouver. South Africa said he was up for the weekend to get away from his wife. Point Mack. Janice said she was up for the weekend with her girls celebrating the 20^th anniversary of the Roughriders. South Africa said he loved football. I said I didn’t follow it. Point South Africa. Then one of South Africa’ friend came out and said they were leaving and that if he wanted a ride he had to come with them. Point and Match, Mack. We all walked back inside and I sat down with Janice.

            From there I was introduced to the rest of the ladies in the green hats. I guess I was told their names but at ten beers in, it would have been superhuman to remember them. So I nodded and smiled then turned to my Janice, the best looking of the bunch, and tuned out the rest of the world… well tried to at least. This was about the time one of the ladies asked me if my name was Brad.

            I said honestly, “no, whose Brad?”

            “Brad’s my son’s friend. He’s our next door neighbor. You look exactly like him.”

            “I can assure you I’m not Brad. I’m Mackenzie. I’m from Vancouver.”

            Then another one chimed in, ‘Yeah, you kind of look like someone my son would hang out with. How old are you?”

            Boom! What a question. I probably was their son’s age, maybe even younger. I knew that if I told them that I was a nineteen year old looking for older loving my chances with Janice would be over and done with.

            “I’m twenty-seven,” I said, without even thinking.

            The looks on their faces were frightening. Would that cut it? Oh no, I blew it! Twenty-seven? They won’t buy that! I don’t look twenty-seven! I’m done.            

            It seemed like it was quiet for an eternity. No one wanted to pull the trigger on my charade. I had to say something.

So I asked, “Why? How old are you?”

And Janice turned to me and said, “Twenty-seven. Now buy me a drink,” with the most adorable look on her face.

By now you are probably wondering why I chose to name this story the way I did. Well, now you will begin to find out.

Pete’s clock chimed one thirty when a rugged group of Kiwi’s walked through the doors and into the bar. One of them, the leader of the pack, was wearing a sling (having just injured it from a game of rugby). This was Ash. He wore RayBan sunglasses and walked around like he owned the place, his kiwi minions close behind. It wasn’t long before they noticed one dude sitting at a table with six super hot mamas. My time was up.

“Who wants to drink from my cup?” were the first words from Ash’s mouth as he produced a large trophy from a golf tournament or something. How do you compete with a trophy?

“Oh me first!” one of the girls cried and raced to place her lips around Ash’s trophy and suck his juices. Revolting I know. Several other girls got up from the table and started to dance with the Kiwis. The loser of the bunch, I’m calling him Asswipe, (you will understand why by the end of the story), stood in the corner watching his pals bump and grind the Roughrider Cheerleading alumni.

I turn to Janice and say “I’m going to go out and get some air. Would you like to join me?”

“No, I think I’m going to dance.”

DAMN IT, JANICE! YOU'RE A DANCER! I was stuck now. I had to go out and get some air like I told her, but the only reason I said that was to be outside with her. I didn’t want to get some air. Screw air!

But by then Janice was up on the dance floor, shaking every beautiful gene her parents gave her. I made my way outside.

Outside, I met a group of smokers. They were piss drunk. I didn’t catch one name because I’m pretty sure they didn’t even know them. But it gave me something to do before I went back in to Janice. Then, to my surprise, Ash appeared beside me.

“You wouldn’t happen to have a smoke on you?” he asked me.

“Sorry man. I just quit.” I kept with the lie.

Ash asked another guy and another until eventually got a smoke.

“What kind of accent is that?” one of the drunks asked Ash.

“I’m from New Zealand.” Ash responded.

“OYE! OYE! OYE!” all the drunks started to chant.

“No, I think that’s an Australian thing,” I said.

“New Zealand, Australia, who the fuck cares, right?” one replied.

I could see that this insulted Ash on a personal level but they were too drunk to notice so they continued.

“OYE! OYE! OYE!”

“Yeah, you’re a real fun bunch,” Ash said sarcastically, dragging hard on his cigarette to get back inside.

“How did you hurt your arm?” I asked and he told me from a game of rugby.

“Rugby’s for queers,” a drunk said, “why don’t you play football or something?”

“Well, in New Zealand, Rugby is ‘the sport’. If your father ever caught you playing football he would remove you from the family,” said Ash.

“I play football,” the increasingly idiotic drunk said.

“So you’ve been playing rugby all of your life?” I asked Ash.

“Since I was four years old. I grew up –“

“OYE! OYE! OYE!”

Ash dropped his cigarette and headed back inside. I followed.

“Your mates are assholes,” Ash said over his shoulder to me.

“Their not my mates,” I replied. He didn’t seem to believe me.

Once back inside I noticed that Janice was dancing with the loser kiwi Asswipe. How nice of her. I approached her calmly and told her to “Save a dance for me.”

She smiled, and Asswipe continued to look like an idiot dancing with a beautiful woman.

It was now about ten minutes before last call and all the kiwi’s and cheerleaders, and myself, were back at the table. I was sitting beside Janice. We were both extremely aware of how attracted we were to each other. Asswipe was gushing over her from the other side. He had a taste, now wanted more.

“Let me buy you another drink before last call,” I said.

            “Sure,” Janice said, “Let me come with you”.

We both stood up from the table and made our way to the bar. On our way we ran into Ash who was just coming back from the bathroom.

“Janice, get me a drink would you?” he said.

“Sure, what do you want?” she replied.

“Whatever you’re having.”

What? I thought. So I guess I was also buying Ash a drink as well. Thanks Janice. And I did. I bought myself one last pint of Keith's and two double vodka waters (Janice was off soda). I handed Janice her drink and walked Ash’s drink to him at the table.

“What’s this?” he asked.

“You asked Janice to get you a drink. I was buying Janice a drink, so I bought yours as well,” I said handing Ash his vodka water.

“Alright, thanks- what was your name?”

“Mackenzie.”

“Cool. Thanks Mackenzie.”

“Oh and those guys back there, they weren’t my mates,” I reaffirmed.

Ash smiled. I could see he believed me now.

“I want to introduce you to my brother later,” Ash said, “You’re a cool guy, Mack.”

“Introduce me.”

Point Mack.

The lights came up in Pete’s at three o’clock. Time to get the fuck out. I turned to Janice.

“I never got that dance.”

“Oh, well we are all heading back to Ash’s cabin to listen to some music if you would like to come?”

I turned to Ash to get the okay. He nodded. So I went.

The walk to Ash’s cabin was, to put it casually, AWESOME. Janice and I were all over each other. Laughing, smiling, hugging, making out, you name it. I kept glancing over at Asswipe (whose name will make sense soon) who was green with envy.

We made it to Ash’s cabin and the dancing began. The lights were off and Janice and I were in the corner dancing very very dirty to some terrible country song she liked. A few other girls were dancing with Ash and his boys. Asswipe was sitting watching Janice dance with a real man (I just had to say it once).

Janice, I could see, felt sorry for Asswipe. Why? Don’t ask me. After we danced for like eight more songs we took a break and she went over and talked to Asswipe. They laughed and he hugged her, and took her on his lap. I watched the whole thing from the other end of the room, acting like I didn’t care. Then he kissed her.

I put down my beer and walked over to Janice. I took her hand. She started to come with me but Asswipe continued to hug her.

A kiwi on the other side of the room yelled “hey [real name of Asswipe], you’re either going to have to fight this guy or let the girl go.”

Asswipe smiled a defeated smile and let her go. Janice gave me a wink of relief and we danced for another song. I glanced over at Asswipe who was now talking with this new Kiwi. They seemed to be discussing something, but I got distracted by a kiss from Janice.

It was now four thirty. The music was done and everyone headed out on Ash’s porch. Janice went on ahead and I stopped to get my shoes on (I seemed to have been the only one who had been polite enough to take off my shoes). By the time I got my second shoe on and ready to go outside, it happened.

The new kiwi jumped out from God knows where and closed the door, locking it. He stood there looking at me. He was built. Like Rugby built.

“Sit down,” he said. So I did.

“I don’t think we’ve met. I’m Mackenzie,” I said reaching out my hand.

“I’m not going to shake your hand. I don’t mean to be rude. I will give you a high five. But I wont shake your hand. It’s a friend thing. Like to say I respect you enough to give you a high five, but I’m not your friend. I wouldn’t back you up in a fight.”

“Ok?” I said and gave him the drunkest of high fives, “So what’s up?”

“Is this your cabin?”

“No?”

“Then you need to leave.”

“I’m sorry?”

“It’s nothing personal.”

By this time Ash had run around and entered the cabin from the back door.

“Hey Ash.” I said casually.

“What the fuck is going on?” he asked me. This wasn’t the same Ash I bought a drink for. He seemed pissed.

“I closed the door and locked him in.” The new Kiwi said and gave me another high five, oddly enough.

“Oh, so you didn’t close the door?” he asked me.

“No, he’s just been sitting here,” the new kiwi said.

Ash turned away from us and began checking his phone messages.

“You need to leave man,” Ash said to me.

“Did I do something wrong?” I asked.

“No, it’s nothing personal,” Ash said, “It’s just you are going for the same girl as [Asswipe’s real name] and you need to leave.”

“I see.” Fucking Asswipe. He turned his friends on me like dogs. They do the dirty work while he sits out there with my Janice, drooling over her.

“Well,” I started, “if that’s the case Ash-

“That is the case,” Ash said without taking his attention from his phone. What a fucking guy. A real champion. Now I see why he was carrying around that trophy.

“This is your cabin and I will be on my way then. But at least take yours eyes off the your fucking cell phone for one minute and shake my hand like a gentleman.” To this day I still don’t know why I wanted to shake Ash’s hand. Ash looked up from his phone and accepted my demand.

“No hard feeling, mate. This is my brother,” Ash said pointing to the new Kiwi, “and if he tells you to go, you go.”

I turned to the new kiwi as he opened the door. This was the brother Ash wanted to introduce me to. Some introduction. I smiled and walked out of the cabin and onto the porch, but not before saying under my breath “You’re not my mate, Ash.”

Janice was sitting on Asswipe’s lap. This guy has a real lap thing. He should get a pet. I approached Janice.

“I’ve been asked to leave, so I’m going now.”

“You’ve been asked to leave?” Asswipe said with a smile on his face. At that moment I thought If Dave had stayed and was with me now I would do everything in my power to make sure Asswipe never smiled again. But Dave wasn’t with me. I was alone and surrounded by Asswipe and his gang of rugby playing kiwis.

I kissed Janice goodnight and thanked her for the dances. I was half hoping she would get up from Asswipe’s lap and follow me, but it never happened. She wasn’t the same Janice I danced with. She was different now. Even with that being said, the whole walk back to my apartment I took glances over my shoulder, hoping to see her chasing after me. But every time I looked it was just an empty street.

I remember the last thought that hit me before I passed out on my bed at five o’clock that Sunday morning. It was about the time I found that green golf tee still tucked behind my left ear. I thought: Asswipe better be getting real lucky tonight, because he just ruined a done deal.

popsicle sticks

           Across the street she sat. She was no more than six and wearing a soft pink dress, one that little girls wore on Sunday to church. She even had the bow, pink and starched, holding back her long brown hair.

            In her lap she held an empty plastic peanut butter jar. The lid sat next to her on the ground. In the neck of the jar, the part that spirals and seals with the lid, were two polar holes on opposite ends, both connected with a white string that lay limp around the girl’s neck. In the jar, were Popsicle sticks.

            Patrick had noticed this girl before, several times actually, waiting for his bus. Being a man of habit, he worked the nine to five, five out of seven, summer shift and because of this, he automatically developed a regular routine. Because of that, Patrick’s mornings brought him to the 4^th and grand bus stop. He would sit at the stop, sipping a coffee, reading some news article that seemed almost unrealistically far away. Then his bus would arrive and Patrick would board it.

            Three weeks ago Patrick noticed the girl, as described, sitting directly, (almost eerily) across from him with her jar of Popsicle sticks. Every so often she would reach her hand inside and pull out a stick and hand it to a passer by. The person would look at it, as if reading what it would have to say then put it in his/her pocket and continued to wherever they were heading. She would stay seated on the curb, staring at her brightly polished black dress shoes.

            When Patrick first saw the girl handing out the sticks, he instantly felt as though he needed to have one. Patrick felt he needed to know. But his bus arrived, rather prematurely that day, and he left in dismay.

            The following day Patrick realised how silly he had felt, thinking he was missing out on something, and made his way to the bus stop with his regularity back in swing. He watched her hand out four Popsicle sticks to people who weren’t concerned in the slightest about her. But as they read the sticks their reactions instantly changed. Some smirked. Some got angry, and even one started to laugh, uncontrollably. And after each had read the sticks they put it in their pockets and walked away. Then Patrick’s bus would arrive.

            This new routine became the point of interest in Patrick’s day. He even began to wake up earlier so he could watch all the sticks that were given out that morning. She would always be there, sitting and waiting for the next stick receivers. The reactions varied moment to moment, with no pattern whatsoever. An old woman would read the stick and would laugh, but a young teenager would cry. Then a mother would smile, and a busy father would scratch his head confusedly. Their reactions varied, person to person, but then they would all put the stick in their pocket and Patrick would get on to his bus.

            It became a form of amusement, guessing what could possibly be on those sticks. Patrick’s ideas varied as much as the reactions and became more outlandish with each given stick. Maybe it was a silly joke? Or a poem? Maybe it was the winning lotto numbers? Or a message from a dead relative? Or maybe the stick posed as some type of American style fortune cookie that revealed their future? Maybe it showed their deepest desires? All Patrick knew was that every morning the girl would have a empty peanut butter jar full of new sticks and everyone she gave them to would be changed, altered to what degree, Patrick didn’t know, but to a point where keeping the stick was unquestionably necessary. And every morning Patrick would board his bus, thinking for a change. 

Petrie and Burnett’s Representation Of The African-American Life In Relation To the Renderings of Poitier.

Within the past several decades, there has become increased commercialization of “African American persecution” films, aimed at exposing the intolerance and oppression that the persecuted Black archetype is constantly faced with in his or her day-to-day life.  Such films as To Kill A Mockingbird (1962), and more recently last year’s box office hit, Precious (2009), undoubtedly describe the stereotypes and struggles that the African-American individual living at the bottom of America’s socioeconomic ladder lives with, but fails to connect with anything outside of its specific relatable demographics. These persecution films represent only a victimized life, which ultimately can be seen throughout cinema since the beginning of film itself. Nowhere in these films are we, as film historians, shown a definitive image of the African-American life that defines yet transcends the role of the persecuted archetype and paints the African-American’s image as a whole. From the early renderings of D.W. Griffith we were shown the African-American as a fowl and destructive creature, whose only goals were to create misery on the kind and obedient white race. Bogle describes this representation of the African-American, based on G.W. Griffith’s 1915 film The Birth of A Nation, as the “Brutal Black Buck” that “move into Piedmont (the setting of the film), exploiting and corrupting the former slaves, unleashing the sadism and bestiality innate in the negro, turning the once congenial darkies into renegades and using them to crush the white South under the hell of the black south” (Bogle, 12). Although this perspective of the African-American did exist (and continues to exist), this portrait that Griffith paints holds very little historical truth of the African-American living in that time. We as a scholarly community know and understand that there is a lot more to the image of the African-American life then what Griffith has shown.  Respectively, we should be aware that African-Americans nowadays play more than the role of the persecuted victim, and to only describe them as such paints a harmfully incomplete picture. In this paper, I aim to explore both Daniel Petrie’s 1961 film A Raisin In The Sun and Charles Burnett’s 1977 film Killer Of Sheep for their uniquely specific and encompassing portraits of the African-American image while subjecting both films to a comparison of journeyed African-American actor Sydney Poitier’s actual life.  I argue that both of these films are the quintessential representation of the African-American life that transcends persecution and victimization and delves deep into the definitive truths of the human condition: Idealism, Family, and Society. Both of these films, I argue, implement an unprecedented knowledge of the African-American life that we as Film Historians, and as Social Historians, can evaluate and understand as a whole. Also, I argue using Poitier’s life as a control of the African-American life, I can put into perspective the conditions of reality that stem farther then the fantasies seen only on the screen.

Idealism is a key-weighing factor in the design of the African-American image as it is in the design of an image in general. The ideals of an individual juxtaposed next to the current status of that individual create an identifiable human condition of growth, maturity, and determination. Specifically speaking, we as film historians should able to understand where we stand in time from the ideals and dreams of African-American agent on screen. Poitier tells of how, after having seen his first movie, told his family that he dreamed of becoming a cowboy, which arguably that he did. Poitier says, “[as a child] I had no idea that Hollywood meant the movie business. I thought Hollywood was where they raised cows, and where they used horses to keep the cows corralled, and where the cowboys were the good guys, and they were always fighting the bad guys, who were trying to either steal the cows or do something to the people who owned the cows, and I wanted to do that,” an ideal that ultimately became the precursor to his life in cinema (Poitier, 18).  Poitier’s dream alludes to the American symbol of power, individualism, honor, and justice romanticized greatly in the films of the time including Henry King’s Jesse James (1939), Michael Curtiz’ Dodge City (1939) and Victor Flemming’s oscar-winning Gone With The Wind (1939). We as historians can pin-point the context of the times through Poitier’s dreams just as we should the dreams of the African-American agents portrayed on screen. Bogle, in discussion of Burnett’s film, explains how it is represents a character (Stan) who is “emotionally disconnected” and is “numb from his work and his world: a place where men plot petty would-be hustles; where women look bruised and forlorn; where he is alienated from his wife, distanced from his children and acutely aware of the absurdist, (racially) deterministic culture that offers him few options,” (Bogle, 338). Bogle continues by highlighting specific scenes throughout the film that capture this “emotionally disconnected” mentality and even acknowledges much of the film to be “metaphorical” (338). I argue that Burnett’s film encapsulates a deepened sense of established idealism that Bogle fails to accredit. Burnett’s character Stan represents a man who ultimately wants control. Just as all the other men in Watts, Las Angeles try and define their home, their social status, their money, their family; Stan becomes a proxy for the African-American man living in this subculture trying to maintain the reigns. We are shown in a scene of the film that Stan refuses to take a job offering at the local liquor store for reasons that go unmentioned in the film. Stan’s ideals ultimately fall within the realm of the American dream.  Petrie, as well, greatly exemplifies the idealism factor in his characters he portrays on screen. Lena Younger, played by Claudia McNeil, reveals ideals that represent the mentality of the past. She describes how “once upon a time freedom was life… in my time we were worried about not getting lynched and getting to the North and how to stay alive and still have a pinch of dignity… I made sure we had a home,” which represents the American historical context of the African-American image. Petrie compares Lena’s motivations with his character Walter Lee Younger who represents a more current mindset. Where Lena expresses her dreams of owning a house, Walter Lee demands that the money she is given from his fathers insurance be put towards an investment opportunity to heighten their family’s social status. Walter Lee represents a dream of assimilation with the American identity; to have money and to be somebody. Walter Lee through his aspirations and ideals represents the modern man. Lastly, Petrie demonstrates a third representation of the African-American image through Beneatha Younger, played by Diana Sands. Beneatha evokes both the cultural understanding of her heritage as well as the modernistic approach to traditional religious views, all the while pursuing a career in medicine. Through Beneatha’s ideals, she comes to represent the liberated woman. All three pursuits (the pursuit of habitation, the pursuit of assimilation, and the pursuit of liberation), defines both the time frame and the African-American image living within that time frame. In both films, through the idealism of the African-American agents portrayed on screen, we as film historians are given the capability of understanding the deeper dimensions of the individual, the social motivations, and most importantly the underlining of the family factor.

           The family factor is perhaps the most common factor represented in African-American cinema. Poitier recognizes the family aspect as “camaraderie” or “the sense of belonging” (Poitier, 33). He implicated the roles of each family member; specifically himself as a child saying “as soon as I was big enough to lift a bucket, I carried water for my mother. I went into the woods to gather bramble to make our cooking fire. Even as a toddler I had my jobs, my purpose, and I knew that I had to contribute to the thin margin of our [family’s] survival. But I was a child bathed in love and attention,” (17). The family factor is an important aspect of the African-American image and should be a crucial component when expressing that image on screen because it employs elements of past generational ties as well as the importance of future generations to come. Whether it be the lack of the positive nuclear family factor as shown in Lee Daniels film Precious, which, through a negative light reinforces the necessity of camaraderie, or in Petrie and Burnett’s films, which rely deeply on family camaraderie, the family factor is an integral component of the African-American cinema and should not be overlooked. Before I move into Petrie and Burnett’s films I would like to make the point of saying that films which neglect the family image or poorly illustrate it have gone on to receive harsh criticism from audiences and scholars alike. Such films as Stephen Speilberg’s The Color Purple, although initially hailed for bringing the Southern African-American female to mainstream Hollywood, the films problematic family images are still being discussed to this day along with it’s incendiary archetypal characters used throughout the film. I argue that films of this nature, that fail to communicate or poorly illustrate the essential element of the family are not a proper representation of African-American image of that time or of any time for that matter. The family factor derives itself into three units: the relationships between each member of the household, the duties and responsibilities of each member of the household, and family values, all of which define and encompass the family factor. In both cases, Petrie and Burnett’s films are similar, illustrating the essential implications of the family in cinema. In both films we are given a man who is both a husband and a father, and the sole breadwinner for the family. Also, in both films we are given a housewife, who is revealed to be under-liberated and stuck mainly to the chores of the house. Burnett represents the role of the wife in a key scene in his film when Stan’s wife, alone in the kitchen quietly looks at herself in the reflection of a dirty cooking lid. Soon after, she finds her young daughter singing a pop song in her closet while playing. By looking at herself in the cooking lid, Stan’s wife both A) expresses the image of the woman’s nature and beauty, and B) traps that image in the reflection of a cooking lid –the epitome of the gender stereotype. Petrie shows us many similar instances with Ruth Younger, often seen hovering over a kitchen sink throughout the film. In both cases with the wives, we are shown a quietness and sense of defeat, and with both parents, hostility towards each other on account of their social status. This depiction of the husband/wife image, although devaluating, acts as a frame of reference for its time, positioning itself firmly when roles of this type were exceedingly plausible and distinguished in not just African-American families, but in all of Western society. Furthermore, in both films we as an audience are shown a firm interest in father/son relations. From the moment Burnett’s film opens we are shown a close-up of Stan scolding his son for a wrongdoing. Stan harshly explains to his son that one day he might not be around and that he has to look out for himself and his brother. Burnett’s insistence of the importance of the father passing on his flame to his son is equaled by Petrie who from the opening scene and the antics to get to the bathroom, both father and son are shown in similar likeness. Ultimately, in both films we are shown that family is at the core of each characters motivation. Stan’s wife quietly watching her daughter sing reveals to us the freedom that she too once had –her own ideals- and allowing her daughter to continue to sing implies a motivation on behalf of hope. Walter Lee aggressively states several times throughout the film that everything that he is doing is being done for his son. Ruth Younger dreams of owning a home so that she can ultimately piece her disjointed family back together, and in time for the arrival of the new baby. The Family factor is a core factor in the image of the African-American life because it is a key in the individual motivations. Failure to properly illustrate the family factor when creating a film both fails to show the proper motivation of the agents on screen, and fails to reference society itself.

            The Social Factor, I deem as one of the most important factors of the African-American image of life on screen because it not only defines the individual but it also defines the time. Social factors encompass the living conditions of our agents, the setting, as well as the social climate of the times in which this specific story is placed, historically and politically. Also, the social factor is a major component in the development of our agents themselves, on a motivational and psychological level. This aspect of the African-American image is often lost, underplayed or forgotten in the aims to highlight the persecution of our agents on screen. From the kitchen window that shows nothing more than a collage of adjacent brick apartment walls topped emphatically with a clothesline strung with old clothes, to the anarchical politics of the apartment floor’s one bathroom, Petrie’s film basis itself in both subtlety in the social descriptions of the environment as well as forthright.  From the opening shot we are shown the living conditions of the Younger family. Instantly Petrie has established a relevant historical portrait of an African-American household beneath the socioeconomic margins fighting to stay afloat. Similar to Petrie’s approach, but different in execution, Burnett also main-stages the living conditions of his African-American agents, underlining the importance of the setting around the character, rather than just the character itself. We are taken along with Stan’s son in his pursuit of recreation throwing stones and dried dirt at his neighboring friends then at a passing train marked “Southern Pacific”. We watch the children, as they watch this symbol of years economic power slice through their home with little regard. Burnett then takes us on a journey through the decaying houses of Watts, Los Angeles as if stripping apart his setting one layer at a time, before landing us back at Stan’s house; a house in similar construct as the ones around it, and to the one Petrie frames in his film. Poitier in his renderings of his mother tells a story of how she used to take him to the ocean and throw him in before he knew how to swim. Poitier describes how “she would watch as [he] screamed, yelled, gulped, and flailed in a pain-stricken effort to stay afloat” (Poitier, 4). Then Poitier explains how seconds before he went under his father would pull him out just to give him back to his mother who would throw him back in. Just as Poitier as a child tries to stay afloat, we are instantly weighted with a similar social circumstance for both agents, and a social image is formed.  For both films, we understand the social and political factors of the time not only from descriptive imagery, but also because both of these films were made for their time and of their time. Petrie depicts America as a world outside that we rarely get a chance to be apart of, a window. Burnett shows us America as a world outside of Watts, a world that passes through and onward, with little regard of its existence. Both depictions describe a Jim Crow way of life; a life of segregation by parameter. A life that Poitier describes as a lecture young African-American’s hear from their parents: “Face this reality. You’re gunna have to be twice as good as the white folks in order to get half as much,” (Poitier, 43).  In both films, we see the assemblage of a dream or goal, just out of reach of the man of the house. For Petrie’s character, Walter Lee Younger, it is the idealization of the white upper class social statues. We witness how he dreams to one day sit in a restaurant and have casual drinks with people of statues. He complains to his wife of opportunities lost in previous business ventures and argues on behalf of upcoming opportunities. We watch him hand a dollar to his son when his wife distinctively forbids it. Society around this character has therefore shaped his motivation to strive for an image of heightened social status. In a similar case with Burnett’s film we are shown Stan as an amalgamation of his social time. We are shown Stan’s fight for status in his monologue part way through the movie where he says, “man, I ain’t poor. I give away things to the salvation army –you can’t give away nothing to the salvation army if you’re poor. I may not have a damn thing sometimes… that ain’t me and it damn sure won’t be.” In both cases we are shown a struggle for both opportunity, and a motivation towards social status, creating an image of a societal figure that transcends even race.

            Understanding the African-American image relies less on the victimization of the agent and more on the understandings of the personal, nuclear and social factors at play. Each of these factors demonstrates the motivation of the African-American on screen from a personal standpoint, through their personal goals, aims and dreams, from an external standpoint, through relationships, values and roles of the immediate household, and ultimately from a societal standpoint. Western civilization has been bound by these factors for centuries and beyond and failing to properly represent these factors in cinema fails to represent our culture.  In my paper I position two films of equal status against the life of Sidney Poitier who has lived and described life through the decades in both African-American cinema and Western society. Using the real exploits of an African-American with firsthand experience of life, cinema, culture, and the positive views of the African-American image, I argue that Petrie and Burnett’s film show likeness on all fronts. Both films represent an African-American image that goes beyond the persecution and victimization and accurately portrays a whole image of an entire culture. Films of this nature can help deepen our understanding and investigations of the African-American image as film historians, and as historians in general.

Life: a sentence that ends with death.

BETA LOVE

1

          She sits. Wait, can she sit? I mean, can I say that she sits? Is it the appropriate term? Dogs sit, so why can’t she? But dogs have legs. She doesn’t have legs she has wheels. Nothing about her moved into a sitting position, she just stopped rolling. Though, technically sitting can be defined as not in motion. A car can sit. No a car comes to a rest. A car has wheels. So why can’t she sit? Oh shit she looked at me. Smile. No, frown. It’s a God damn funeral, frown! That seemed to have worked. She’s looking away at her husband lying in his casket. Can I call him a person?

         It’s a tough thing to decipher. You never know what a Beta-person is thinking, or if they are even thinking at all. I don’t understand half of the technological terminology for what goes on in their brains- or hard drives, and I work for the company that designed them. It goes to show how big that company actually is. It has workers that can be successfully employed by them without having the slightest idea what it is the company is designing. That’s not my job. I’m a personality. One of many. It actually says that on my nametag right under my name: Personality. I’m one of the ones they use to create the personalities of the Beta-people. So I guess, come to think of it, I do know what Beta-people are thinking. They are thinking exactly what I am thinking. I just can’t understand why they would be thinking about themselves in a third person. No wait, I’m doing that. Wait, now I’m confused. I think the woman beside me is touching me but I can’t risk a look. What a bizarre thing to do, to touch another stranger? Why would she be touching me? Who does she think she is?

         Where was I? Right. She sits. Wait, why is she sitting? She should be standing. I’m standing. Wait, why am I standing? Oh my God why am I standing? Everyone’s sitting. I sit.

I now understand why that woman was touching me. I apologize. She smiles. At a funeral, really?

* * *

          In the cemetery, where the funeral has proceeded, the rain falls heavily on our black umbrellas and I watch her, as she makes sure she stays completely dry. Is that because she is not allowed to get wet? That's absurd. I’ve seen Beta-people swim before. They aren’t very good at swimming, mind you, but I am completely aware of their ability. It was in the transition between this thought and the next that I noticed her LCD eyes had changed to a pale blue. It was a sad blue.

        They lower the casket into the ground. A few other people I know are gathered around. All of them are from the office. Most are from my floor. None of them are Personalities. They all appear sad in the way that you should at a funeral, which I guess is appropriate, even for a Beta-person. Though, I’ve noticed several others avoiding her eye contact similar to the way I am. They struggle to console the widow. I’m hungry.

She turns her back to the hole as they begin to shovel. Others start heading back to their cars away from the rain. She stays.

       “Excuse me,” I would like to say and to that I would hope the reply, “How are you?”

       “I’m fine, thank you. I was you’re husband’s Personality.”

       “He always talked about you.”

       “Oh did he? What were some of things he used to say?”

       “He would go on about this and that.”

     “That sounds like your husband,” I would finish then head to my car and out of the rain. I would possibly throw in an, “I’m sorry for your loss,” if I could work it in somewhere.

      Sadly though, such a conversation would never materialize. I give her one last notice, then head to my car and for the entire ride home I justify my actions in my head. I make myself believe that no one even noticed I was present.

2

            The morning her husband killed himself I had been slightly in a jam with my superiors over a malfunctioning Gamma-bot unveiled at the AC memorial Convention Hall. I had been chosen along with a select team of five others to accompany the Gamma-bot to the hall and be present for the unveiling. I stood in the back of the group and watched the Gamma-bot play a variation of a Beethoven piece on a violin. Up until that point I had not been aware that technology had the ability to recreate music to the quality that was being showcased. I clapped along with all the others.

            The malfunction was slight, and I would even make the argument insignificant. As soon as the Gamma-bot finished its piece and as soon as the applause subsided I noticed that it had forgotten to bow. I made note of this.

            After, I spoke briefly to the other five. They had noticed it too of course and were already discussing the reason. Several of the people present were key components to the design of this specific Gamma-bot and with that being said I wondered exactly why I was present. I had no real knowledge or affiliation with this Gamma-bot. I was only acting as a representative of the company.

            The jam came when my supervisor, after I had jokingly mused that “maybe he wasn’t satisfied with the way he played?” noticed that the Gamma-bot was still present and could overhear everything the six of us were saying. I was told to be more courteous to those around me and that I should not be speaking in fields I am unfamiliar with. I pondered again why I was present to begin with.

            I apologized to the Gamma-bot while he watched us eat lunch an hour later. He practiced while we ate sushi.

* * *

            The moment her husband killed himself I was heading up the front stairs to the entrance of the building. Many others were around walking in and out and down the street. It was a miracle that he didn’t hit anyone on his way down from the tenth story. That, and the glass that came along with him landed between a man on his bike and a beta-woman on her telephone. Both screamed when they realized what had happened. It took five hours to clear the body and the window on the tenth floor still isn’t fixed. It gets quite drafty at my desk.

            Later that evening, I fixed a marginal steak for my wife and myself. She disagreed with the way I cooked the meat. I told her our marriage was a loveless one. I agreed with her in my head that the meat was poorly cooked, but in the world around me: my condo’s kitchen, I couldn’t help but disagree with everything she had to say. She picked up on my anger exceptionally fast and for the rest of the evening we didn’t speak. Not even when I choked on a piece of the meat and she had to help me.

3

            A week later I was tempted to knock on the door of the... I wouldn’t know what to call her, a Beta-widow perhaps?

A week later I was tempted to knock on the door of the Beta-widow, just to see how she was keeping. It took me several attempts at driving past her apartment before I was satisfied with the idea of engaging in conversation with a widow, Beta or otherwise.

She answered as soon as I knocked, holding what appeared to be a handkerchief. I found the concept of her tears rather perplexing.

“Hello,” she said.

“Hello Beta-person, my name is Triiamco. I worked with your husband.”

“You were at my husband's funeral. I saw you there.”

“I was.”

“And my husband used to talk all about you.”

“Of course, because your husband was my leech.”

It was at this moment, when I watched her eyes fade in blue, that I realized the possibility that Beta-people have the ability to withhold information from each other. For as it seemed, she was unaware of whom her husband’s personality came from. Is it because she didn’t ask? Or did she try and he wouldn’t tell? Or maybe she didn't want to know? Maybe by not knowing, her husband seemed more real to her."

“You killed my husband.”

“I do not understand,” I replied, rather alarmed.

“If you were my husband’s leech than you killed my husband. My husband became very depressed within the last eight or nine years of his life. I didn’t know why. I never asked him who his leech was. He never thought to tell me. He never spoke to me at all. If you truly are my husband’s leech than you must understand what I am talking about?”

“I am aware.”

“Then you are aware that your depression killed my husband.”

"I was not aware until now."

A Wordless World

The wordless world would not worry

About the worries of maintaining the past,

They would think and wonder of thought, I think

Of thought and only that.

Why Waters is Worthy.

I have chosen the works of filmmaker John Waters, specifically his 1972 midnight cult film Pink Flamingos as the main centre of focus for my essay. From what I have researched thus far, I have gathered numerous amount of arguments aimed in the direction that John Waters’ films are of a primitive sleazy nature, Pink Flamingos being the most notorious. Although crude and obviously made with low production value, John Waters’ films also correlates to many of the theories of nineteenth century dramatic theorist Antonin Artaud. In my Essay I will argue that the films of John Waters, specifically Pink Flamingos, can be comparatively related to the theories of the acclaimed and respected avant-garde theorist Antonin Artaud, specifically in his ideals within the theatre of cruelty. Through this argument I will rectify the works of John Waters as being more than just lowest common denominator sleaze films and rather as examples of Artaud’s theories of ‘true expression’ in effect. I will not argue Artaud’s theories themselves but rather compare their public reception to that of the films by John Waters, specifically Pink Flamingos. This correlation will reinforce the reason, and my thesis, as to why Pink Flamingos, and John Waters, should be considered worthy of discernment within the respectable art community

 I will begin by highlighting the key principles within Artaud’s Theatre of Cruelty. In his book Avant Garde Theatre: 1892-1992, English Professor Christopher Innes articulates Artaud’s driving theoretical direction towards “pre-rational, primitive levels of the mind” through the aim of “total immersion of the spectator in the stage action, establishing ‘direct communication’ by a level of physical involvement that acts ‘directly and profoundly upon the sensibility through the organs’, and creates a receptive state in which ‘all the senses interpenetrate’”, and through this articulation a basic understanding of Artaud’s theories are born (51-52).  Artaud’s Theatre and Cruelty, written in 1933 in his book Le theatre et son double, speaks of this “direct violent action that theatre must have” in order to adhere to this ‘total immersion of the spectator’ and ‘interpenetration of the senses’ that Innes comments on (25). Artaud’s concepts call not only for a vigilant re-sensitization of the Parisian theatres in the 30’s, as to the time in which these ideals were written, but to theatre as a whole, claiming that it “restricts itself to probing the intimacy of a few puppets, thereby transforming the audience into “Peeping Toms” (25).  Through the use of undisclosed violence and shock that he felt was capable of exercising the spectator’s emotional limits, Artaud felt that pairing theatre with cruelty would therefore create a new form of theatre “aimed at the whole anatomy” which he calls “total theatre” (27).  He envisioned this as a “believable reality” that “contained [itself] in all true feelings, [in] the heart and senses” (26). Marvin Carlson, in his book, Theories of the Theatre, astutely discerns Artaud’s vision as “a theatre that would change a man not socially but psychologically, by setting free the dark latent forces festering in the individual soul” (392). Although, I feel I must add, Artaud’s ideals lie deeply and directly within the theatre medium, his concepts of ‘shock’ revitalizing the senses on a primitive and subconscious level can be represented through various forms such as, I argue, cinema.

I will now discuss the reception of Artaud and his revolutionary new form of theatre to the mass audience. The plays that classified themselves within the theatre of cruelty, such as The Mysteries of Love, Break of Noon, A Dream Play, and The Cenci, all lacked in both a financial and appreciative support, initially (Innes, 87). During the time of which these plays where in production, Artaud’s finalized vision of his theatre of cruelty had just been released to the mass public, and although extremely interested in the ideas of true expression of the body and psyche through theatre, both the critics and audiences alike felt that these plays did little justice to the theory. The commonly held criticism of Artaud’s stage work was “that he ignored the question of the audience, and worked for psycho-social effects without considering exactly who would be affected” (Innes, 88). Artaud response to this was to pinpoint his audience by social class, and through this heightened precision, the exact responses he insisted in his plays would be met. This tactic birthed for Artaud, what I argue, a distinct audience that resembles what we are now more aware of as a subjective following, or a cult following.  Through this grew a wider appreciation for the stage works of Artaud, in relation to his theories within the theatre of cruelty, subjecting Artaud and his theories to renowned respectability within the art community.

John Waters was born in Baltimore, Maryland (the notable setting for all of his films) on the 22^nd of April, 1946. Waters’ first began making films on an 8mm camera with his high school friend Glen Milstead, who first began his running pseudo-persona motif of Divine. In an article written by Jancee Dunn, Waters states in that the most notable influences for his early films as a teenager were in direct relation to the diverse friendships that he made in high school (Dunn, np).  This became the basis of defiance that Waters has been deemed notable for in the broad cannon of his works. Waters’ films were first shown in church halls in the sixty that Waters, himself, rented out. From there a cult following was born, aiding Waters enough to be able to campaign his films by hitchhiking from town to town, beyond the reaches of his home in Baltimore. Through this tactic, Waters became aware of the social classes that his films were aimed towards, which allowed a greater reception of his work and the continuation of his campaigns. In an interview with Conan O’Brian in 2000, Waters comments on these early campaigns stating that he used to “hitchhike” to go from town to town and that because of this, he had to decide carefully which towns to visit where the reception to his films would be the most positive. In the interview Waters says, “He would go to whatever city that just had a riot and hand out fliers” understanding that through these cities’ rebellious attitudes, they could relate to his films. And although Waters claimed a cult following for his films, still wide majorities of the less tolerable art community deny Waters and his works a spot of respectability. To this very day critics alike hail Pink Flamingos as being one of the vilest and disturbing films.  After the 25^th anniversary revival, from its 1972 release, and the new DVD, Variety claims Pink Flamingo’s to be “One of the most vile, stupid and repulsive films to date.” (Dunn qt. Variety). Roger Ebert comments on the protagonist Divine, within the film, stating that she is a “cross between a showgirl, dominatrix and [a] bozo” (Ebert).  What doesn’t seem present within these critiques is the direct compatibility of Artaud’s trajectory from maintaining a cult following of his theories to wide appreciation. Waters’ following, although his films are now more renowned, still remain only a cult following, which I argue, is unjustifiable.

            Now, I will discuss John Water’s film Pink Flamingos. As emphasized on the front sleeve, John Water’s 1972 midnight cult film perversely ordains itself as “an exercise in bad taste” using bodacious depictions of gratuitous violence and sexuality to shock and emotionally maim the spectator.  And it is here where we have our first clue of difference between that of a ‘shock for shock’s sake’ artist, and a ‘shock for reason’ artist that I claim John Waters to be. Being an ‘exercise’, as John Waters claims this film is, I argue this to be the primary beacon of division between Pink Flamingos amongst other equally shocking and perverse films of the time. For Waters to acknowledge his film as an ‘exercise’ gives us, the spectator, a justifiable reason to even approach this film with a curious erudite regard.  The term ‘exercise’ in and of itself proclaims an inherent relationship with that of the spectator watching the film and no longer are we as an audience mere observers, but rather crucial components to the film. Plus, being that it is not only an ‘exercise’, but an ‘exercise in bad taste’, the spectator response becomes the primary focus of the film, rather then the subject matter shown on the screen. I will elaborate on this: having Waters claim Pink Flamingos to be ‘an exercise of bad taste’ infers that the atrocities shown within the film are merely exercises on the emotional and psychological state of the audience, and, through these emotions, aimed at creating a distinct response, which is the main goal of the film. This ideal correlates greatly with Artaud’s concepts of “total immersion of the spectator” which I stated earlier. Having Pink Flamingos be not about what the audience witnesses, but about how the audience responds through the depiction of shocking imagery, links to Artaud’s insistence of the interpenetration of the spectator’s senses through the use of whatever chosen medium.

            Next, I would like to specifically highlight Waters’ choice of cast and characters used within Pink Flamingos, specifically Divine. Within all of his films, Waters presents to us a cast of fantastic reprobates whom he has eloquently named ‘Dreamlanders’, the most notable being the overweight cross-dressing diva, Glen Milstead (aka Divine). Also present in Waters’ film Pink Flamingos are actors Edith Massey, David Lochary, Mink Stole, Danny Mills, and Cookie Mueller, who all have a reputation made through their distinct low-culture careers. This troop became a distinct and devout necessity for each and every one of Waters’ early films. I argue that the use of the real reprobate to represent the reprobate on the screen (as oppose to the respectable actor playing the part) adds an aspect of reality that directly correlates to Artaud’s ‘believable reality’ in relation to the psychological shock Artaud insisted on giving the spectator. I argue as well that the distinct choice to use only reprobates on the screen is a direct statement of anti-society and anti-culture that unites both the thematic beliefs of Waters and Artaud’s principles. Evidence of this is made clear by George Wellworth, in his book The Theatre of Protest and Paradox: “Artaud perceived men as basically barbaric, that the thick protective wall of urbane, civilized behavior they have acquired through centuries of hiding from psychological self-realization is easily crumbled by a forceful appeal to irrational emotion” (16). The use of the reprobate on the screen is this ‘forceful appeal’ and infers a social commentary to the spectator, subjecting them only to crude delinquency, and allowing nothing moral or ethical to be registered. The lack of the morally astute protagonist that the spectator can justifiably relate to throughout the course of the film, further rectifies Waters’ claim to ‘exercising ‘ the emotional and psychological state of his audience. As if Waters is asking the spectator directly: ‘how much of this distressing material can you retain before you start to relate to the characters as you do with other films?’ Specifically in Pink Flamingos, Waters gives as the atrocious protagonist of Babs Johnson played by 300 pound, transvestite, Glen Milstead’s pseudo-persona Divine.  In the most controversial scene of the film, Waters presents Divine to the spectator acting out a very vile, (and very real), depiction of coprophagy of a small dogs feces.  Apart from the mere shock and disgust that generates from the audience, the act witnessed on the screen, as well as the characters themselves, exemplifies “the spectacle” that Innes refers to in “the Artaudian formula: Primitivism – Ritual – Cruelty – Spectacle” (60). Through the spectacle of the reprobate, (Divine by definition is a spectacle unto herself) Waters demands a psychological shift in gear from his audience, and through the depiction of extreme gratuity demonstrates the “setting free of the spectators dark latent forces festering in the individual soul” as mentioned earlier by Carlson (392).

Quite interestingly, Artaud’s views of cinema are revealed within Innes’ book stating that Artaud turned from cinema of sound because of the commercialized aspects of the medium and its ability to turn “art and artists into ‘commodities’” (78). Artaud claimed that true expression in cinema did not lie within the story but rather what the camera allows the spectator to focus on, no matter how insignificant the image might be and through this focusing a metamorphosis occurs (78).  A direct comparison can be related to Waters’ views of his film, Pink Flamingos, where in the interview with Dunn states: “It was done to commit a crime, to commit a joke terrorist act against culture” (Dunn, np). The simple fact that Waters’ films have no actual story, or that the stories are to ludicrous to even care for, maintains that Waters’ primary goal lies within the directly between the spectators response to what the medium is showing them.

Therefore, I conclude with the following: I find it rather perplexing, if not bizarre that the careers of two artists can play out quiet similarly; both claim shock as a means of psychological growth; both viewed the spectators response as more important than the work itself; both aimed their sites to particular social classes to gain an initial following, etc, and yet the artist approval rate remains astoundingly different for both. As of now, Artaud is cited as an avant-garde theorist of drama equal to those of other prominent dramatic theorist including Brecht (Carlson, 392). As of now, Waters film Pink Flamingos is deemed as one of the most despicable films of its era from critics alike. My question, accumulated from the statements aforementioned is why? I restate that through this comparative look at avant-garde dramatic theorist Antonin Artaud and avant-garde filmmaker John Waters, and his film Pink Flamingos, we can conclusively enable John Waters as discernable within the respectable art community.