It's no secret. When I saw Julie Dash's Daughter of the Dust I was mumbling so much the man next to me thought I had gas and offered a Rolaid. I'm joking. He actually got up and moved. And when I saw Charles Burnett's To Sleep With Anger I leaned over to the stranger on my left and said, Wow, intelligent, funny and complex black people on the fricking silver screen. The stranger agreed and offered some popcorn. Well, now there's a new filmmaker on the block. He's not a man of color, he's not even from a marginalized community, but the respect and depth he brings to his film Ballast is quite honorable. He's a filmmaker I support—one interested in people and places.
The New Directors/New Film Series kicked off in NYC last week and yours truly is attempting to sit front and center for every screening. But after Sunday's showing of Ballast by newcomer Lance Hammer I may need a three-day reprieve. The story of the aftermath of one man's suicide blew me away.
Ballast is set in the post-Katrina Mississippi Delta. It follows the lives of the twin brother, ex-wife and son of the deceased and how they attempt to put together the pieces of their lives. I, of course, invited a few friends to the screening. But two had deadlines to finish and one just said: "I'm not interested in seeing some black man kill himself." I assured my friend the film was about the aftermath of the death, not the death itself. About the family and how they cope and flourish. My friend assured ME it didn't matter. They had better things to do than get bogged down by some black man's suicide.
I didn't agree. Certainly the word suicide always has a daunting tone to it and not many people want to spend their Sunday propped up in some movie about desolate Mississippi and death. But it's a film, it's art. And I think a black man's death is just as important as his wedding day. In fact, the up and downs of anyone's life is profound and intriguing. You know, because it's life. So I sat there alone, squashed between a woman who smelled like martini and a man with serious intestinal activity, but I enjoyed every bit of the stark, but rewarding look at these people. How they coped moment to moment with the new card life had dealt them: a second-chance to reconsider their lives and each other, disengage from poverty, and even more interestingly, discover the value of the deceased.
I'm a sucker for small town life on film. From banjo-playing Appalachians to gumbo-eating Gullah, I love it. Besides, I'm originally from a village north of Cincinnati where there were two horse farms, woods out the wazoo, and a clause in the local ordinance not to discriminate against Blacks, Jews or Appalachians. Needless to say, it's in my parameter. And it's just refreshing to see small town black life on screen that's not a colorful backdrop for some musician's biopic.
The point of the point is that I encourage everyone to support our darkest and brightest experiences. And not shy away from what may be ugly and allegedly foreign [there was a time when folks insisted only whites committ suicide]. Filmmakers like Dash, Burnett and even Hammer, remind us that film should reflect our humanity. And by doing that, it can actually save our lives.
