Four stars. Rated R, for strong violence, dramatic intensity, pervasive profanity and fleeting nudity
By Derrick Bang • Originally published in The Davis Enterprise, 8.4.17
Very few dramatic films — as
distinguished from documentaries — have left me feeling nauseous, in response
to the monstrous behavior of human beings.
Schindler’s List is one; that was a
quarter-century ago.
 |
| Racist cop Philip Krauss (Will Poulter, center left) gleefully takes charge of the lit-fuse "interrogation" of half a dozen wholly innocent Algiers Motel residents, using the greater Detroit riot as an excuse to terrorize and torture them. |
Detroit is the most recent; that was a few nights
ago.
Director Kathryn Bigelow and
journalist-turned-screenwriter Mark Boal both took home well-deserved Academy
Awards for 2009’s The Hurt Locker;
they re-teamed for 2012’s Zero Dark Thirty, their equally mesmerizing portrayal of the decade-long hunt for
Osama bin Laden, which concluded with his death during a Navy SEAL raid in May
2011.
The latter film lost some of its luster
— and probably a few Oscars — due to political sniping over the accuracy of the
CIA’s depicted use of torture (an accusation that still seems specious, given
that relevant documents remain classified). That controversy tainted a film
that deserves better recognition both as a nail-biting drama, and for having
gotten “the important stuff” right.
Bigelow and Boal may run into the
same problem with Detroit, which
would be an even greater tragedy. Although their riveting new film shines a
necessary spotlight on a grievously under-remembered tragedy in American
history — the so-called 12th Street Riot, which consumed Detroit, Mich., from
July 23-27, 1967 — Boal’s script suffers somewhat from tunnel vision, differs
at times from long-established eyewitness accounts, and in one conspicuous case
succumbs to flat-out speculation.
We experienced this problem with
2000’s The Perfect Storm, which
detailed the real-world fate of the fishing vessel Andrea Gail, lost at sea
during the nor’easter that developed in late October 1991. The paradox was
obvious: Since everybody on board died, nobody could possibly know what
actually happened during the boat’s final hours. That didn’t diminish the
film’s impact, but one had to acknowledge the contrivance of its entire third
act.
Bigelow and Boal obviously are
aware of the liberties taken here, and concerned enough to conclude their film
with a text block that acknowledges “necessary” extrapolation.
I hope that’s good enough,
because it would be awful if Detroit
were caught up in petty arguments over detail, thereby obscuring the
incontrovertible, big-picture degree to which clearly innocent, mostly black
civilians were brutalized by blatantly racist, thuggish white cops during a
particularly ghastly incident triggered during the riot.
Bigelow’s film has the immediacy
of a documentary: a we-are-there verisimilitude enhanced by blended archival
newsreel footage and the deliberate graininess of Barry Ackroyd’s street-level
cinematography. Our unease is immediate, and Bigelow doesn’t waste any time,
before confirming our worst fears.
There are no credits; after a
fleeting prologue that explains the century’s worth of racial discrimination
that turned Detroit into a simmering powder keg — presented akin to a
children’s picture book, illustrated by famed African-American artist Jacob
Lawrence — we’re dumped immediately into the ill-advised, late-hours raid by
Detroit police officers on an unlicensed drinking club located above the
Economy Printing Co., at 9125 12th St.
The (mostly white) cops expect
only a few patrons; they’re surprised to find scores of black citizens hosting
a party to honor the homecoming of two Vietnam soldiers. Rounding up everybody
for arrest takes too long; by the time the police depart with their “suspects,”
a crowd has gathered. Pent-up frustration and long-simmering rage erupt into
full-blown fury: Businesses are looted, buildings are torched.
Early on, the Detroit police
didn’t react quickly enough, believing (hoping?) the riot would extinguish on
its own. Within a day, law enforcement responds too much, with President Lyndon B. Johnson sending in the 82nd and
101st Airborne Divisions.
The sight of tanks rumbling
through Detroit’s streets is chilling.
Subsequent chaotic events quickly
center on several clumps of characters, starting with the members of The
Dramatics, an up-and-coming soul vocal group that features lead singer Larry
Reed (Algee Smith). Their potential big break at a huge performance hall is
curtailed, at the last second, by the expanding riot; the group joins fleeing
patrons on a bus, hoping to reach home and safety.
Earlier that same day, we met a
trio of young police officers led by Philip Krauss (Will Poulter); his
companions are Demens (Jack Reynor) and Flynn (Ben O’Toole). The latter two are
easily cowed by the aggressively brutal, hard-charging Krauss, a composite
(i.e. fictional) character who serves as this drama’s representation of
institutional evil.
(Demens and Flynn are equally
fictitious. Along with Krauss, they apparently stand in for — Bigelow and Boal
obviously mindful of lawsuits — actual Detroit cops Ronald August, Robert
Paille and David Senak.)
Krauss’ introduction is
startling; during a watchfully slow drive-by, he eyes the escalating carnage
and laments to his companions that “We’ve let these people down” ... and then,
with no warning, he responds to a lone looter by chasing down the young man and
shooting him — in the back — with a shotgun.
Poulter, recently seen in The Revenant, is a brave actor. His
performance here is terrifyingly persuasive, Krauss’ spiteful racism embedded
at a lizard-brain level that controls his every word and deed. This role could
easily haunt him for years, because it’ll certainly resonate with audiences for
at least that long.
The bus carrying The Dramatics is
enveloped by mob violence; the passengers depart, harassed by baton-wielding
cops, and the singers split up. Larry hustles his young friend Fred Temple
(Jacob Latimore) to the Algiers Motel, in order to get off the streets during
curfew; they’re able to get a room in the motel’s adjacent, detached
three-story manor house, known as the Annex.
Once safely checked in, they join
other residents congregating at the pool, and in other rooms: among them Carl
Cooper (Jason Mitchell), Vietnam veteran Robert Greene (Anthony Mackie) and two
white teenage girls visiting from Ohio, Julie Hysell (Hannah Murray, Gilly on
TV’s Game of Thrones) and Karen
Mallow (Kaitlyn Dever, well remembered as young Loretta McCready, on TV’s Justified).
Melvin Dismukes (John Boyega),
whose two full-time jobs include work as a security guard, is summoned for an
extra shift to stand watch in a grocery store across the street from the
Algiers. Dismukes is this script’s honorable hero, and Boyega is every inch the
archetype: an intelligent, compassionate and perceptive individual who, fully
aware of what can happen in an atmosphere of panic, repeatedly tries to prevent
people — white and black — from making rash mistakes.
Boyega is one of the high-profile
newcomers in the current Star Wars
trilogy, which doesn’t much tax his talent. It’s nice to be reminded, in this
film, that he possesses serious acting chops. Dismukes is an island of calm in
a raging sea of terror.
Cooper, goofing around in his
third-story Annex room, fires a starter’s pistol in the direction of
peacekeepers on the street below. They over-react, terrified by the
oft-repeated threat of snipers; within minutes, the Annex is assaulted and
invaded by a massive contingent of Detroit police, Michigan State Troopers and
the Michigan Army National Guard. Dismukes, recognizing an unfolding crisis,
joins them.
The Detroit cops include Krauss
and his two morally challenged companions, everybody in uniform screaming at
the Annex’s residents, demanding to know “who has the gun.”
From this point forward, Bigelow
and Boal abandon the greater riot, focusing exclusively on events within the
Annex, during the lengthy second half of their 143-minute film.
What happens is beyond sickening,
and very, very hard to watch. Because
— for the most part — Krauss, Demens and Flynn are left to conduct the
“investigation” in their own reprehensible fashion. For Krauss, this is a “free
pass” to unleash his vicious, thuggish side: an opportunity he embraces
gleefully. Frighteningly.
It feels real. It is real, to a great degree; this sense
of authenticity reflects the input Boal received during exhaustive interviews
with — most notably — Dismukes, Reed and Hysell. The horrific intensity — the
even more horrific cruelty — is unrelenting.
And just when you think this saga
couldn’t possibly get worse, it does ... during a postlude that’ll seem pretty
damn familiar to people who follow current events. And we’re left with the
reminder, as Bigelow and Boal obviously intend, that things haven’t changed
much. If at all.
All that said — and while
acknowledging this film’s power, and the well-structured precision with which
Bigelow orchestrates this story — the tunnel-visioned focus on the events at
the Annex, to the exclusion of all else, seems unjust. Forty-three people were
killed during the five-day riot, and close to 1,200 injured; none of this is
mentioned, not even during the descriptive photos that reveal what eventually
happened to key characters.
OK, fine; Bigelow and Boal had a
specific story to tell, and a specific point to make. But in their
determination to indict institutionalized law-enforcement racism, they’ve
ignored the broader socio-economic crisis, and what became of that in the riot’s aftermath. We’re left
with all sorts of questions, along with a great deal of outrage (some of which
can be assuaged via research).
Artistic passion can be a
slippery slope to shrill vituperation, and one must acknowledge that watching —
nay, surviving — this film is akin to being beaten by a sledgehammer.
That may have been Bigelow’s
intent ... and, if so — sadly — it may not be misplaced.
No comments:
Post a Comment