What you never hardly ever see

With regard to race, Stephen Colbert has a running gag. “I don’t see race. People tell me I’m white, and I believe them because . . . ” Insert punchline. Last week, in the context of the preferential prosecution of black people for drug-related crimes, the ‘because’ was, “. . . because I get my drugs from a pharmacy.” He’ll also claim (with his typical in-character, right-wing intransigence) that racism no longer exists in America because, hey, look, we have a black President!

I doubt any of my readers would see this as anything but satire. What may not be immediately obvious, however, is the pervasive intolerance of the American entertainment industry to anyone who is other. Other than white, middle or upper class, and for the most part male. My question is, for the major media — TV, movies — how often do you see someone who is other in a role in which that otherness is not central? I would argue that the answer is hardly ever, with the notable exception of male black actors, especially Will Smith, Morgan Freeman, Samuel L. Jackson, and Denzel Washington. The big box office black actors are cast in blockbusters in which their blackness is not an issue. There can even be an interracial romantic angle without that interracial-ness becoming central (e.g., Will Smith’s relationship with Charlize Theron in Hancock). Other non-white males? Not so much.

I began thinking about this after reading the May Rolling Stone interview of Peter Dinklage, the 42-year-old, New Jersey-born star of HBO’s Game of Thrones, who happens to have achondroplasia.

Folks who watch Game of Thrones will immediately note that Dinklage’s character is not only a dwarf, but his dwarfism is central to the role, and indeed not an episode goes by in which someone (usually in a pejorative way) points out his dwarfism. Yet the role of Tyrion is a far cry from the usual Wizard of Oz style little-man, or the cute/bumbling/avaricious dwarves of Time Bandits. Tyrion is a wonderfully complex character, easily one of the most noble characters in the story.

According to the Rolling Stone interview, Dinklage is particularly proud of his role in Death at a Funeral, in which his role was not written for a dwarf. Dinklage, a tremendously talented actor, may have broken into the mainstream. Time will tell.

But think about all of the roles we rarely see in American-made TV or movies:

We rarely see Asians cast in major roles in which their Asian-ness is not somehow an issue. Charlotte Sometimes, in which all three major characters are Asian, may be a notable exception — I don’t know, I haven’t seen it.

Hispanic actors: ditto, although a few actresses (Jennifer Lopez, Michelle Rodriguez, or Rosario Dawson — who is very, very multi-ethnic) have broken the mold. And the men? Edward James Olmos is the only one who comes to mind.

And when have you ever seen a Native American cast in a “normal” role? I’m talking about actresses or actors (such as Wes Studi, or Russell Means) who are recognizably indigenous. Being 1/16 Cherokee like Cher doesn’t count.

LGBT. If they’re there, they’re there BECAUSE of their otherness, or they’re there for comic relief (which I guess is the same thing).

Disabled people: same thing.

I suspect it’s all about box office receipts (or the TV advertising dollar), or really, producers’ perceptions as to what will be financially successful. Whether their perceptions comport with reality is an excellent question. I would like to think that Americans are ready for a gay Asian woman starring as the lead detective in some big box office serial killer flick, but who knows.

Okay, enough procrastinating. Time for me to get back to my writing.

D.

Wealthy as Croesus

Just got done watching The Family Man, a 2000 film from Nicholas Cage’s production company, Saturn Films. Cage is (for me, anyway) mesmerizing as usual, so an otherwise bland and predictable plot didn’t manage to drag down the movie. The Family Man is basically a latter day It’s A Wonderful Life, with Cage in the George Bailey role, Don Cheadle as the angel Clarence. Granted, it’s an inverse Wonderful Life, since Jack Campbell’s (the Cage character’s) real life is sucky, and the imaginary one is divine.

The movie is a paean to the simple pleasures. What good is wealth if you’re alone, and aren’t the joys of a loving wife and two great kids ample recompense for a top job on Wall Street, a hot car, and a high-rent Manhattan condo?

Is it possible to give spoilers on a ten-year-old movie? If so, you’ve been warned. Once Jack gets enough of a taste of life with Kate & the kids to know this life is superior to the real one, Don Cheadle (another actor with riveting stage presence, btw) reappears and Jack knows the jig is up, he’s been given his “glimpse” of an alternate life, and now it’s back to Wall Street for him. But the old life is empty and he wants Kate, who in this universe he left over a decade ago, dumped really, and she’s long since gotten over him and moved on. No husband or boyfriend conveniently enough, but she does have a box of old boyfriend Jack’s stuff which she wants to unload on him before moving to Paris.

He tries to make headway with her, but she is over him, I mean really OVER him, and all the soulful looks in the world won’t penetrate. Paraphrasing here, “Yeah, you broke my heart once, Jack, but that was a long time ago, and I’ve moved on.” He begs her not to get on the plane but she blows him off. It’s all very moving, and if she had gotten on the plane, and if perhaps we could then see Jack striking up a conversation with someone new, this would have been a great movie. Think about it: there’s the tragedy of what he has lost, but at least he’s learned enough that maybe there’s hope for him yet. Not a Happily Ever After, but honest, because in real life you can’t go home again, but you can make a new home elsewhere.

This movie? Nuh-uh, not honest. Kate’s in the boarding line and Jack starts yelling about how they have a house in Jersey, and two kids, and how they still love each other after all these years, and how she won’t even let him touch her unless he tells her he loves her, and how their daughter can’t play violin very well but is precocious nonetheless, yatta yatta yatta . . .

Bad turn by the screenwriter, because I don’t care past relationship together or no, this woman who hasn’t heard from this guy in what, 15 years, she’s gonna be thinking, Crazy. Stalkerish crazy. And she’s gonna be calling security if he takes one more step towards her. Instead, she has coffee with him. Role credits.

The irony here is that Nicholas Cage the real life dude makes Jack Campbell look like a burger-slinger. He owns his own production company, Saturn Films, which has been turning out some big movies since 2000, including National Treasure. Cage is on his third marriage, and at one point owned 15 homes (including an island near Nassau and a 24,000 square foot home in Rhode Island), a “flotilla of yachts . . . [and] a squadron of Rolls Royces,” as well as lots of odd purchases of jewelry, art, and a big fossilized dinosaur head, for which he overbid Leo DiCaprio.

No one can accuse Cage of making nothing but HEA movies (Bangkok Dangerous and Knowing, to name two, had downbeat endings), so perhaps he can be forgiven for making one film with a sentimental ending. But it seems to me that if anyone understood how The Family Man should have ended, it would have been Nicholas Cage.

D.