Boyz N the Hood; Shifting Hollywood Terrain 1433146371, 9781433146374

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FRAMING FILM T H E H I S T O RY & A RT O F C I N E M A

In 1991, Boyz N the Hood made history as an important film text and the impetus for a critical national conversation about American urban life in African American communities, especially for young urban black males. Boyz N the Hood: Shifting Hollywood Terrain is an interdisciplinary examination of this iconic film and its impact in cinematic history and American culture. This interdisciplinary approach provides an in-depth critical perspective of Boyz N the Hood as the embodiment of the blues: how Boyz intimates a world beyond the symbolic world Singleton posits, how its fictive stance pivots to a constituent truth in the real world. Boyz speaks from the first person perspective on the state of being “invisible.” Through a subjective narrative point of view, Singleton interrogates the veracity of this claim regarding invisibility and provides deep insight into this social reality. This book is as much about the filmmaker as it is about the film. It explores John Singleton’s cinematic voice and helps explicate his propensity for a type of folk element in his work (the oral tradition and lore). In addition, this text features critical perspectives from the filmmaker himself and other central figures attached to the production, including a first-hand account of production behind the scenes by Steve Nicolaides, Boyz’s producer. The text includes Singleton’s original screenplay and a range of critical articles and initial movie reviews.

BOYZ N THE HOOD

“At long last comes a book we have all been waiting for: Joi Carr’s masterful examination of John Singleton’s classic Boyz N the Hood…This book is an accomplished, enlightening piece of work, a great companion to Singleton’s film. Highly recommended!” —Donald Bogle. Film Historian/Author; University of Pennsylvania; New York University’s Tisch School of the Arts

CARR

BOYZ N THE HOOD Shifting Hollywood Terrain

“This wise and pioneering book is the first serious and substantive treatment of John Singleton’s classic film! This film and book speak with great courage and insight into the plight and predicament of young black men. Don’t miss this book!!” —Cornel West, Professor of the Practice of Public Philosophy, Harvard University; Professor Emeritus, Princeton University

PETER LANG

Joi Carr is a Professor of English and Film Studies at Pepperdine University, Seaver College, currently serving as the Director of Film Studies and Creative/Program Director of the Multicultural Theatre Project (an interdisciplinary art-based critical pedagogy). She received her PhD from Claremont Graduate University.

www.peterlang.com

20

JOI

CARR

ADVANCE PRAISE FOR

BOYZ N THE HOOD

Shifting Hollywood Terrain “At long last comes a book we have all been waiting for: Joi Carr’s masterful examination of John Singleton’s classic Boyz N the Hood. Throughout, her wide-ranging scholarship is impressive, and her analysis is illuminating. She elucidates the perhaps surprising historical/creative links between Singleton’s work, Ellison’s Invisible Man, and Van Peebles’ Sweet Sweetback’s Baadasssss Song. Also included in this valuable book are the screenplay of the film plus insightful critical essays as well as a series of interviews conducted by Carr. Her interview with Singleton reveals the autobiographical themes that went into his directorial debut as well as directors he was influenced by. Her interview with Boyz producer Steve Nicolaides says much about the state of the movie industry at the time the film went into production. Then there is her interview with actress Tyra Ferrell, who played Mrs. Baker, the mother of Dough Boy and Ricky, in the film. The Ferrell interview builds to indicate to us the position of African American women in Hollywood in the 1990s and of course, today. There is also a seemingly brief moment in the interview when Ferrell recounts an incident on set when she was not fully into her character—and how Singleton handled the situation, which succinctly reveals to us his direct, perhaps blunt, creative skills as a director as well as Ferrell’s creative awareness as an actress. Ferrell also has telling comments about her experience when working on White Men Can’t Jump. Dr. Carr also brings to her work an awareness of cultural life in Los Angeles and the dangers that exist for African American males who must walk a tightrope to survive. Most significant, in so much of this book, we see a young director (not long out of film school) coming into his own and adroitly helming a major production that was cheered when shown at the Cannes Film Festival and that has affected moviegoers (black and also white) in a way that few other films in history have ever done. This book is an accomplished, enlightening piece of work, a great companion to Singleton’s film. Highly recommended!” —Donald Bogle Film Historian/Author Toms, Coons, Mulattoes, Mammies, and Bucks: An Interpretive History of Blacks in American Films, 5th Edition, and Dorothy Dandridge: A Biography University of Pennsylvania New York University’s Tisch School of the Arts “This wise and pioneering book is the first serious and substantive treatment of John Singleton’s classic film! This film and book speak with great courage and insight into the plight and predicament of young black men. Don’t miss this book!!” —Cornel West Professor of the Practice of Public Philosophy, Harvard University; Professor Emeritus, Princeton University

BOYZ N THE HOOD

FRAMING FILM The History & Art of Cinema Frank Beaver, General Editor Vol. 20

The Framing Film series is part of the Peter Lang Humanities list. Every volume is peer reviewed and meets the highest quality standards for content and production.

PETER LANG

New York  Bern  Berlin Brussels  Vienna  Oxford  Warsaw

Joi Carr

BOYZ N THE HOOD Shifting Hollywood Terrain

PETER LANG

New York  Bern  Berlin Brussels  Vienna  Oxford  Warsaw

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Names: Carr, Joi author. | Singleton, John, Boyz n the hood. Title: Boyz n the hood: shifting Hollywood terrain / Joi Carr. Description: New York: Peter Lang, 2018. Series: Framing film; Vol. 20 | ISSN 2151-7010 Includes John Singleton’s screenplay of the film. Includes bibliographical references and index. Identifiers: LCCN 2017026105 | ISBN 978-1-4331-4637-4 (hardback: alk. paper) ISBN 978-1-4331-4638-1 (ebook pdf) | ISBN 978-1-4331-4639-8 (epub) ISBN 978-1-4331-4640-4 (mobi) Subjects: LCSH: Boyz n the hood (Motion picture) Singleton, John—Criticism and interpretation. Classification: LCC PN1997.B7188 C38 | DDC 791.43/72—dc23 LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2017026105 DOI 10.3726/b11480

Bibliographic information published by Die Deutsche Nationalbibliothek. Die Deutsche Nationalbibliothek lists this publication in the “Deutsche Nationalbibliografie”; detailed bibliographic data are available on the Internet at http://dnb.d-nb.de/.

Front cover image: Copyright © Columbia Pictures Back cover image: Courtesy of John Singleton

© 2018 Peter Lang Publishing, Inc., New York 29 Broadway, 18th floor, New York, NY 10006 www.peterlang.com All rights reserved. Reprint or reproduction, even partially, in all forms such as microfilm, xerography, microfiche, microcard, and offset strictly prohibited.

To John Singleton, thank you! I see you! To Sheila Morgan-Ward

For the first beautiful man in my life, Sammie Lee (1933–2010)

To Raymond, my love.

To Andre, Sam “Junior”, Denovious, Sadarious, Shidique, Milow, Melvin, Shawn, Charleston, Ryan, and Stanley Ty, “Keep your head to the sky.” To Cooke and Brown, gifts that keep on giving. To Laru, the definition of cool!

Contents

   List of Credits    Acknowledgments    Preface Introduction Shifting Hollywood Terrain: The Iconic Status of Boyz N the Hood

ix xiii xv xix

Part I

Prologue    “I Am an Invisible Man”: Boyz and the Literary and 3 Cinematic Imagination     Boyz Getting Behind Language: Invisibility and the Literary and Cinematic Imagination 8     Ellison’s Invisible Man (1952): Mediating Self-Knowledge Through Messianic Language 12     Van Peebles’s Sweetback (1971): Invisible Man’s Cinematic Appearance 21     Boyz in Context: The Streets of the Southland and Invisibility 30

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1    Singleton’s Cinematic Voice 2    Boyz N the Hood: Shifting the Terrain of Urban Cinema 3    A “Soulful” Director: An Interview with John Singleton 4    Launching Singleton’s Career: An Interview with Steve Nicolaides, Producer 5    Principal Cast and Crew: Reflective Perspectives on Boyz    Featured Interviews    An Actor’s Actor: Close up on Boyz with Tyra Ferrell    Spotlight on Laurence Fishburne: The Treatment with Elvis Mitchell

41 59 81 105 145

Part Ii

6    Original Boyz Press Kit 7    Original Screenplay: Boyz N the Hood by John Singleton

187 205

Part Iii

8    Critical Perspectives on Boyz N the Hood 359      Between Apocalypse and Redemption: John Singleton’s Boyz N the Hood, by Michael Eric Dyson      Mapping the Hood: The Genealogy of City Space in “Boyz N the Hood” and “Menace II Society,” by Paula J. Massood       Boyz N the Hood: A Colonial Analysis, by James Nadell       Two Takes on Boyz N the Hood, by Thomas Doherty and Jacquie Jones       “A Gritty ‘Boyz N the Hood’ Ushers in a New Phase of Cinema,” by Kenneth Turan       “A Chance to Confound Fate,” by Janet Maslin       “‘Boyz N the Hood’ (R),” by Desson Howe       “‘Boyz N the Hood’ (R),” by Rita Kempley Epilogue    Boyz and the Blues: A Legacy of Resistance and Hope 423    Index

429

Credits

Figures P.1–P.2 and E.1: “Emerging Man,” Harlem, New York, 1952. Courtesy of The Gordon Parks Foundation. Copyright © The Gordon Parks Foundation. All rights reserved. Reprint by permission Figure 1.1: Portrait of John Singleton. Publicity still portrait of American film director John Singleton, 1995. Courtesy of Getty Images (Photo by John D. Kisch/Separate Cinema Archive/Getty Images). Figure 1.2: Directors John Singleton and Spike Lee attending the New York premiere of Boyz N the Hood on July 8, 1991 at Loew’s Astor Plaza Theater in New York City, New York. Courtesy of Getty Images (Photo by Ron Galella, Ltd./ WireImage). Figure 1.3: John Singleton and Laurence Fishburne on Boyz set. Lobby Card. Courtesy of Getty Images. All rights reserved. Figure 2.1: Writer and Director John Singleton and young actors in 1991. Courtesy of Getty Images (Photo by Aaron Rappaport/Corbis via Getty Images). Figure 2.2: Ice Cube as Darin “Dough Boy” Baker. Courtesy of Steve Nicolaides.

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Figure 2.3: One sheet movie poster, Boyz N the Hood. Columbia Pictures. Courtesy of Getty Images (Photo by John D. Kisch/Separate Cinema Archive/Getty Images). Figure 2.4: Laurence Fishburne (Furious Style), Desi Arnez Hines II (Tre Styles), Angela Bassett (Reva Devereaux). Courtesy of Columbia Pictures. Figure 3.1: Director John Singleton Honored with a Star on the Hollywood Walk of Fame. Courtesy of Getty Images (Photo by Gregg DeGuire/ WireImage). Figure 3.2: Director John Singleton Honored with a Star on the Hollywood Walk of Fame. Courtesy of Getty Images (Photo by Gregg DeGuire/WireImage). Figure 3.3: Director John Singleton Honored with a Star on the Hollywood Walk of Fame. Courtesy of Getty Images (Photo by Gregg DeGuire/WireImage). Figure 3.4: 69th Annual Directors Guild of America Awards—Arrivals Beverly Hills, CA. Courtesy of Getty Images (Photo by David Crotty/Patrick McMullan via Getty Images). Figure 3.5: One sheet movie poster advertises “Poetic Justice” (Columbia Pictures). Courtesy of Getty Images (Photo by John D. Kisch/Separate Cinema Archive/Getty Images). Figure 3.6: Portrait of film director John Singleton, taken on the Columbia Studios lot in Los Angeles, California, 1994. Courtesy of Getty Images (Photo by Anthony Barboza/Getty Images). Reprint by permission. All rights reserved. Figure 4.1: Steve Nicolaides and John Singleton at Austin Film Festival. Courtesy of Steve Nicolaides. Figure 4.2: Cuba Gooding Jr. and John Singleton. “Boyz In The Hood” Press Conference—January 9, 1992. Courtesy of Getty Images (Photo by Ron Galella, Ltd./WireImage). Reprint by permission. All rights reserved. Figure 4.3: 2011 Los Angeles Film Festival. (L-R) Elvis Mitchell, producer Steve Nicolaides, director John Singleton, actor Cuba Gooding Jr. and producer

Credits | xi Stephanie Allain speak at the ‘Boyz N the Hood’ 20th anniversary screening Q&A. Regal Cinemas L.A. LIVE on June 23, 2011 in Los Angeles, California. Courtesy of Getty Images. Reprint by permission. All rights reserved Figure 5.1: City. From left, Tyra Ferrell (as Wanda Jenkins) and Valerie Harper (as Liz Gianni), in the television comedy City. Image dated January 1, 1990. Courtesy of Getty Images (CBS via Getty Images). Figure 5.2: Actress Tyra Ferrell attends the VH1 Big in 2015 with Entertainment Weekly Awards at Pacific Design Center on November 15, 2015 in West Hollywood, California. Courtesy of Getty Images (Photo by Jason LaVeris/FilmMagic). Reprint by permission. All rights reserved. Figures 6.1–6.20: Original Press Kit. Courtesy of Columbia Pictures. Copyright © Columbia Pictures. Reprint by permission. All rights reserved. “Between Apocalypse and Redemption: John Singleton’s Boyz N the Hood,” by Michael Eric Dyson, was previously published in Cultural Critique, No. 21 (Spring, 1992), pp. 121–141. Copyright © University of Minnesota Press. Mapping the Hood: The Genealogy of City Space in “Boyz N the Hood” and “Menace II Society,” by Paula J. Massood, was previously published in Cinema Journal, Vol. 35, No. 2 (Winter, 1996), pp. 85–97. Copyright © University of Texas Press. “Boyz N the Hood: A Colonial Analysis,” by James Nadell, was previously published in Journal of Black Studies, Vol. 25, No. 4 (March 1995), pp. 447–464. © 1995 Sage Publications. Two Takes on Boyz N the Hood, by Thomas Doherty and Jacquie Jones, was previously published in Cineaste, Vol. 18, Issue 4 (December 1991), pp. 16–19, 4 pp. Copyright © Cineaste. “A Gritty ‘Boyz N the Hood’ Ushers in a New Phase of Cinema,” by Kenneth Turan, was previously published in The Los Angeles Times, July 12, 1991. © The Los Angeles Times. All rights reserved. Reprinted with permission.

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“A Chance to Confound Fate,” by Janet Maslin, was previously published in The New York Times, July 12, 1991. © The New York Times. All rights reserved. Reprinted with permission. “‘Boyz N the Hood’ (R),” by Desson Howe, was previously published in The Washington Post, July 12, 1991. © The Washington Post. All rights reserved. Reprinted with permission. “‘Boyz N the Hood’ (R),” by Rita Kempley, was previously published in The Washington Post, July 12, 1991. © The Washington Post. All rights reserved. Reprinted with permission.

Acknowledgments

They are several people I owe a debt of gratitude. I could not have completed this text without your generosity of heart. I am grateful indeed. Special thanks to— John Singleton: Thank you for being so generous with your time and granting me access to your heart and creative spirit. You inspire me! Shelia Morgan-Ward: I am so appreciative of you. First, for facilitating the opportunity to connect with John and supporting the central focus of the book. Second, for being so beautiful! Thank you for gifting me with a glimpse into the strength and encouragement John speaks so openly and fondly of. Dr. Cornel West: Thank you for your critical work that stretches me and keeps me in touch with my head and heart. I am grateful to you for taking the time to encourage me. Incredible! Dr. Donald Bogle: I have been steeped in your work for nearly two decades now. I could not do any of the work I do without including your scholarship as a framing resource. Thank you for being so kind and supportive, for literally cheering me on toward completion. I really needed your thoughtful words of encouragement.

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Tyra Ferrell: What a precious gift you are! Thank you for sharing your journey with me and making me feel like family. I learned so much from your thoughtful reflection. Your story is arresting. Steve Nicolaides: One word, wow! I cannot begin to tell you how much fun I had speaking with you. Your clarity, reflection, joy, humor, advocacy, and passion for storytelling leaps off the page. Thank you for accepting this invitation. Gordon Parks Foundation: I am honored and humbled by the opportunity to include these amazing images in the book. Thank you! Elvis Mitchell: Thank you for all that you do in the arts and entertainment. You are an invaluable resource. Damon McCaskill: Much love, family. Thank you for the finishing touches. For the images and critical resources, a special thanks to— Columbia Pictures Margarita Diaz and Gilbert Emralino, Sony Pictures Entertainment Cassie Blake, Academy of Motion Pictures of Arts and Sciences Film Archive Maria Barrera Getty Images KCRW Cineaste, Cinema Journal, Cultural Critique, and Journal of Black Studies The Los Angeles Times, The New York Times, and The Washington Post Special thanks to Pepperdine University colleagues— Vice Provost, Dr. Lee Kats Provost, Dr. Rick Marrs Assistant Provost for Research, Katy Carr Seaver Research Council (SRC) and SRC Grant Office of Research and Strategic Initiatives Academic Year Undergraduate Research Initiative (AYURI) Payson Library, Pepperdine University Professor Sally Bryant: Thank you for being such a support and invaluable resource. Undergraduate Research Assistants: Olivia Robinson and Brittany New

Preface

I am a native Angelino and have an affinity for my town, Los Angeles. I am one of those native born that cannot imagine living anywhere else in the world—not because I have not been anywhere else, because I have, but because I love this town. Its crooked palm trees that lean from the repeated heavy evening breezes, the oh-so-delightful 70° weather even in our “winters,” the vibrant citrus fruit available every month of the year, the salty air that wreaks havoc on the exterior of buildings casting a slightly dilapidated air of coastal living, and now, even the dearth of water, as we exit our fifth year of drought, that makes rainy days all the more grace-filled, speaks of home to me. LA has a certain je ne sais quoi. Its richness of cultural diversity and artsy landscape resonates with who I am and who I am becoming. Ironically, I did not quite understand the profundity of this resolute spirit until I experienced Crash (2004). I knew it in my head, but discovered it as a deep abiding presence in my heart. Some films I watch, but this one I experienced. After screening it, I wept bitterly—all the way out of the theater to my car as I gestured goodbye to my friend who was eager to discuss my response, but I could not. I cried all the way home as I drove through the canyon to Los Angeles from the valley. Initially, after I settled down, I thought perhaps I was disturbed that

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Peter (Larenz Tate), a young black male, dies senselessly at the end of the film to prove a disturbing point, compounded by the fact that the actor Larenz Tate who “dies” is a dear childhood friend (his brothers, Larron and Lahmard Tate were like family to me. He was the baby amongst us then). I knew it was not that simple, but I could not articulate what I was feeling for some time. It took me over a year to figure out why the film affected me so deeply. I realized I had a hard time coming to terms with the reality that my Los Angeles was depicted as being so bitterly divided and wrestling with racism, sexism, and classism in such a destructive—dehumanizing—way. I thought, “After all, Los Angeles was not Spike Lee’s Brooklyn in Do The Right Thing (1989) whose mise-en-scène radiated sweltering heat to evoke the seething underbelly of racial tension in that cloistered community.” Or, was it? I was confounded, “Surely Lee’s disruptive Brechtian montage of racial epitaphs in the middle of the film, after Mookie and Pino argue about the definition of what black is and ain’t, does not pertain to me.” In the end, I realized I needed to come to terms with this capricious Los Angeles Crash posits as broken and listless from its lack of capacity to love. My guttural moaning was about the disturbing depiction of Tate’s fictive demise at the end of the narrative and admittedly, my close connection with him and his family from childhood. It was an unsettling thing to witness and understand the import of. Peter, the character, was a beautiful, articulate, yet misguided young man who had a future ahead of him and a family who loved him. He was murdered by a naïve and skittish officer of the law who intended to do Peter a favor by giving him a ride to his next destination (and in this case, death). This ironic and epiphanic moment with Crash about Los Angeles was pivotal for me. I had to contend with the fictive space I created about this—beautifully diverse, cool-quirky, fresh breakfast egg-white-omelet with spinach—town I love. After Crash, I discovered Boyz, literally and figuratively. I knew of the devastating reality of gang violence and the terror that became a blight on the city in the 1980s, but never spent any deep reflective time wrestling with the impact of this reality on all the lives involved, including my own. When John Singleton’s Boyz N the Hood (1991) was released, I was too oblivious, far too distant from the narrative as an artsy eclectic loner to even think to go see the film. I initially screened Boyz about a decade after its 1991 release and found it gripping, but when I taught the film in an upper division film class to undergraduates, after my described reality check in 2004 by Crash, I came to understand it viscerally. Coupled with the heady institutional/sociocultural academic “stuff” in my consciousness, with my whimsical notions of Los Angeles in

Preface | xvii check, I truly understood the funk that Boyz signifies and signifies on (through its use of classical cinematic language, yet through its black socio-political and historical frame). It caused me to touch upon deep-rooted—communal and ancestral—emotional stuff. When I consciously connected the reality in Boyz with my own, the blues came down on me like the heavy marine layer that situates itself over the Los Angeles skyline during what we call “June Gloom”—the kind of cloudy midst that the sun at high noon in SoCal cannot burn away. I liken this experience with Boyz to what Dr. Cornel West calls the “embodiment of the blues lyrically expressed.” I could hear what Singleton hoped to evoke through cinematic language with melodious precision. Singleton’s pitch-perfect filmic plaintive provocation is as poet, Langston Hughes, in his iconic poem, “The Weary Blues” describes as “Sweet blues! Coming from a black man’s soul. / O Blues!” Singleton “with his ebony hands on each ivory key / He made that poor piano [Boyz] moan with melody. O’Blues!” Hearing—feeling—Boyz required me to discover my own brother’s plight as a young black man in Los Angeles and why he chose to flee to Texas, in his early twenties; how he left LA hoping to find his voice and a life beyond the narrow options he felt he was being pressed into. I grew up hearing the same helicopters (featured in Boyz as ambient sounds) over my head at our house on the west side of mid-city Los Angeles, bordering Culver City, but never imagined that the city was under siege, that the whirling sounds that imminently echoed above encroached upon the value of my brother and father’s lives, their dignity. Sometime in the early evenings, while lounging in the living room area, I could feel the illumination of the helicopter’s spotlight, its beams turning its fixed radius our way, signaling pursuit, but I felt safe. Apparently, my beliefs and desires had legs and evidenced a kind of willfulness, expectation, fruition, while my brother’s did not, could not. I was utterly unaware of my own brother’s burgeoning nightmare right before my eyes. Our contrasting journeys that emerged from the same household, in the same town, points to the precarious nature of this metroplex, like countless others in this nation that historically evidence an anxiety-filled labyrinth for young black men and women. The chasm between hope and despair is a reality for many, especially young black males. Sure, I am still resolute about my intended lifelong relationship with this town, but its paradoxical splendor is a bitter pill to swallow. The reality is, in Crash, Peter (the character) could have been my brother, could have been Dough Boy, Ricky, or Tre (characters in Boyz). Crash’s closing sequence is disturbing. The depiction of the police officer setting his car ablaze, knowing that Peter’s lifeless

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body will be used as fodder for the flames, while shortly after the audience witnesses young boys chucking loose pieces of wood into the flames for amusement, touches too closely to reality—the statistics are staggering. Upon this reflection, Dough Boy, Ricky, Tre, and Los Angeles’s late 1980s hip-hop ethos came alive for me—with a resounding indictment on structural/institutional levels, too many to delineate in such a brief reflection. And the question still remains, what am I going to do about it? What are we going to do about it? And, what has John Singleton done about this blues existence?

Introduction Shifting Hollywood Terrain: The Iconic Status of Boyz N the Hood

“I felt like we caught lightning in a Bottle.” —Stephanie Allain Producer and Film Executive

In 1991, John Singleton’s Boyz N the Hood made history as an important film and became the impetus for a critical national conversation—a literal site of fecundity— about American urban life for some African American communities in the United States, especially for young black males. Singleton garnered two Academy Award nominations, one for Best Screenplay and one for Best Director, a historic nomination, making this then twenty-three-year-old Angelino the first African American male nominee and the youngest nominee in the Best Director category, dethroning Orson Welles nomination for Citizen Kane (1941) at twenty-five years of age. Singleton’s nomination is perceived as no small feat since Welles and Kane swept his nomination season receiving nine nods: Best Picture, Screenplay, Actor, Film Editing, Cinematography, Original Music Score, Sound, and Art Direction. Boyz N the Hood’s critical debut at the Cannes Film Festival, in May 1991 before

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its premiere in July, signaled that this film and filmmaker was special. More importantly, Boyz N the Hood’s induction into the Library of Congress National Film Registry in 2002, by the National Film Preservation Board, speaks to the film’s iconic and meaningful impact in film history and on American culture. Its status as a “culturally significant work” sets its voice up as an artifact that will be protected and likely speak for years to come about a particular zeitgeist of the time. Boyz is the embodiment of the blues and intimates a world beyond the symbolic. Boyz speaks below linguistic levels through cinematic language, its narrative moans and shouts, it explicates invisibility, creates space for empathy, and signifies on and through classical Hollywood cinematic language. I argue that this film speaks to America and the world, a confluence of all the things that make America what it really is: its desire for freedom, its sociopolitical terrain, its humanity, its travail, and its triumphs. As the novelist Richard Wright (2002) observed, “We black folk, our history and our present being, are a mirror of all the manifold experiences in America. What we want, what we represent, what we endure is what America is” (146). Boyz speaks to this evocative dialogical narrative of the black experience in America. Although Boyz focuses on the particularities of one community in South Los Angeles, the story and message is universal and provokes critical self-reflection. As Dr. Maya Angelou explains about her own work, that when she “speak[s] to the black experience,” she is “always talking about the human condition—about what we can endure, dream, fail at, and still survive.” John Singleton too speaks in this same manner. Singleton’s work derives from an impulse toward telling the stories of people in communities who have been visually represented in a fragmented manner in Hollywood cinema. His films have all been studio productions, yet most are all decidedly invested with cultural specificity. His desire is to show the nuances of the urban black experience with particular attention to the urban black male and female socialization and coming of age. Singleton is interested in emoting stories with cultural specificity that touch universal resonance regarding the human condition. It is from this deep soulful place that perhaps explains why Boyz n the Hood is still reverberating for over twenty-five years now. It seems as if each generation thus far has rediscovered this compelling seminal depiction of these particular young urban black males. Through Boyz, Singleton strips away the negation and absence associated with young urban black male voice in mainstream American cinematic arts and media. He turns historic cinematic depictions of black male pathology on its head, giving “him” voice to speak his truth to power. Singleton shifts “his” body from object to an active voice as subject. This subjectivity creates space for the audience to hear his voice and take a journey with him through cinematic folk storytelling.

Introduction | xxi What Singleton manages to evoke in a one-hundred and twelve-minute feature film is astounding. The film draws on a long history in the black vernacular tradition, one that requires a breadth and depth of knowledge across several disciplinary fields to truly digest the sociocultural and historic import. Sociology, psychology, theology, musicology, history, and literary studies all have central resonance with this text. The intertextual and extratextual nature of the film requires one to approach this film as art, as a social-cultural text, in context with filmic history in relation to film form and content, and explore the filmmaker’s biography in order to fully investigate its profundity. Sure, the tone and mood through the linear trajectory of the story is quite accessible, but the deep moaning underneath the explicit causality beckons reflection, encounter, and is quite Afrocentric in all the ways Gladstone Yearwood (2000) delineates tonally. I argue tonally (Singleton’s expressive voice and narrative content), since Yearwood would probably take issue with Singleton’s classical Hollywood style. But I argue that even in his affinity for verisimilitude, Singleton finds a way to signify on classic filmic grammar through his unique artistic voice: his autonomy during the production process allowed him to protect his vision. He functioned veritably as an independent filmmaker despite the fact that Boyz was a Columbia Picture’s studio production. Singleton’s depiction breaks new ground for African American cinematic storytellers. His vision deconstructs taboo imagery and posits an intimate experiential relationship to the content. The film’s narrative content, mise-en-scène, and ambient sonic quality delivered an “alternative way of seeing and understanding the black experience” (Yearwood 2000, 2). Though the film does not expressly function out of the African American aesthetic tradition through narrative disjuncture or explicit oppositional aesthetic practices, for example, like Spike Lee’s Do the Right Thing (1989) or Julie Dash’s Daughters of the Dust (1991), Singleton does use the cinematic apparatus to express a scathing critique. Boyz is an investigative treatise on institutional structures and strictures that function in urban communities that are undergirded by racist, classist, and sexist body politics. Through classical Hollywood continuity editing, Singleton unhouses us all. His organic social realist style manages to attain a palpable emotive state. With an absence of abstractionism—pictorial lighting, jagged lines, visual distortion—Singleton delivers a sustained feeling of anxiety coupled with sorrow. He evokes Batman’s Gotham City in a setting with manicured lawns and palm trees. The So-Cal mise-en-scène set against the narrative’s juxtaposing tone creates a foreboding presence. With Boyz, Singleton is more interested in suggesting a particular truth, not just in terms of an explicit didactic message, although he does accomplish this desire too, but more in terms of creating space for

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the spectator to discover his or her own sense of faithfulness to the veracity of the “truth” he points to in his fictive world about the real world. Singleton’s cinematic expression is stylized. His film form functions in the realist mode and in doing so, Singleton suggests that time and space, its temporal nature and corporeal substances (including sound), impact the psyche (like it does in the real world). Manthia Diawara (1993) suggests that Singleton’s use of time and space is a common storytelling structure akin “to African American folktales” (20). She notes that this kind of “literal journey in time and space overlaps with the symbolic journey of the rite of passage” and this narrative structure can also be found in “the Hollywood Western genre, the martial arts films, and the Rocky films [franchise]” (20). While journey is a significant aspect of the story’s impact, the way Singleton compresses this simple storytelling style into “affect” is uniquely his innovation. Through these seemingly hackneyed classical cinematic elements, Singleton develops a pathetic text that emotes a desire for the spectator to engage in its textured sociocultural and historic meaning. Moreover, Singleton’s representation of an intimate reality speaks with such particularity that the work feels “clothe[d]” in a sensual and “perceptual form” though the film is quite literal (Moréas 2004, 151). The film immerses the spectator in the narrative’s mood and tone like literary symbolist’s (1880s) sought to do, yet the narrative is still quite didactic. I suggest Boyz is the embodiment of the blues with a heart-wrenching spiritual underneath it reminiscent of Mahalia Jackson’s 1959 rendition of “Trouble of the World.” This film wrestles with a complex spiritual and blues reality that begs all the existential questions one can imagine. Can’t you hear Lead Belly’s (1941) “Good Morning Blues?” His natural gravelly tone and timbre communicating below linguistic levels, singing, “Well, good morning blues, blues how do you do? / I’m doing all right, good morning how are you? / I couldn’t sleep last night I was turning from side to side / I wasn’t sad, I was just dissatisfied.” Boyz intimates a world beyond the symbolic world Singleton posits—its fictive stance pivots to a constituent truth in the real world, America—and suggests that this truth possibly has a complicit relationship residing in me and you. It asks, “How do you define black masculinity? Does your definition breathe life or death into the world? What is your, our, relationship to the mythos of American exceptionalism and America’s contentious identity politics? Do you benefit from its mythos regarding privilege?” Boyz N the Hood: Shifting Hollywood Terrain is an interdisciplinary examination of this iconic film. I will traverse the intertextual and extratextual nature of the film and provide an in-depth critical perspective of Boyz N the Hood with an overview of Singleton’s critical voice. This book is as much about the filmmaker

Introduction | xxiii as it is about the film. His journey helps explicate his propensity for a type of folk element in his work (the oral tradition and lore). In addition, the text features critical perspectives from the filmmaker himself and other central figures attached to the production, including a first-hand account of production behind the scenes, by Steve Nicolaides (Boyz’s producer). The text includes Singleton’s original screenplay and a range of critical responses and initial movie reviews. I begin with contextualizing the milieu surrounding Boyz’s release—this “lightning in a bottle.” This refrain about the film was repeated in interviews post the film’s release by Stephanie Allain, a then newly promoted Senior Vice President of Production at Columbia Pictures and credited as the creative film executive who discovered and shepherded the production. She shares this sentiment about Boyz after her experience at Cannes after its debut: she said she felt like they “caught lightning in a bottle.” This sentiment seems to be true and an apropos nickname for Boyz.

References Belly, Lead. 1941. Good Morning Blues. Chicago: Blue Birds Records. Diawara, Manthia. 1993. “Black American Cinema: The New Realism.” In Black American Cinema, edited by Manthia Diawara, 3–25. New York: Routledge. Moréas, Jean. 2004. “A Literary Manifesto—Symbolist (1886).” In Symbolist Art Theories: A Critical Anthology, edited by Henri Dorra, 151–52. Berkeley, CA: University of California Press. Wright, Richard. 2002. 12 Million Black Voices. Philadelphia, PA: Basic Books. Yearwood, Gladstone. 2000. Black Film as a Signifying Practice: Cinema, Narration, and the African American Aesthetic Tradition. Trenton, NJ: Africa World Press, Inc.

Part I

Figure P.1:  “Emerging Man,” Harlem, New York, 1952. Courtesy of The Gordon Parks Foundation. Copyright © The Gordon Parks Foundation. Reprint by permission. All rights reserved.

Prologue “I Am an Invisible Man”: Boyz and the Literary and Cinematic Imagination



I am an invisible man. No, I am not a spook like those who haunted Edgar Allen Poe; nor am I one of your Hollywood-movie ectoplasms. I am a man of substance, of flesh and bone, fiber and liquids—and I might even be said to possess a mind. I am invisible, understand, simply because people refuse to see me. Like the bodiless heads you see sometimes in circus sideshows, it is as though I have been surrounded by mirrors of hard, distorting glass. When they approach me they see only my surroundings, themselves, or figments of their imagination—indeed, everything and anything except me. —Ralph Ellison Invisible Man (1952) Police! Police! Come and get this man! He’s trying to ruin the government And overturn the land! MAN THREATENS LANDLORD TENANT HELD NO BAIL JUDGE GIVES NEGRO 90 DAYS IN COUNTY JAIL! —Langston Hughes “Ballad of the Landlord” (1940)

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Figure P.2:  “Invisible Man,” Harlem, New York, 1952. Courtesy of The Gordon Parks Foundation. Copyright © The Gordon Parks Foundation. Reprint by permission. All rights reserved.

Let us explore the rich legacy John Singleton enters and invokes when he placed pen to paper. Acclaimed photographer, Gordon Parks, sought to capture the essence of Ralph Ellison’s 1952 bombshell release that changed the literary imagination in America, Invisible Man (IM). These stunning images (Figures P.1, P.2), called “‘Emerging Man,’ Harlem, New York, 1952,” originally published in the August 25, 1952, edition of Life and one as the cover image, embodies a surreal (dreamlike) quality. In “Gordon Parks and Ralph Ellison: How a Man ‘Becomes

Prologue | 5 Invisible,’” Edward Edwin Mason (2016), who teaches African American history and the history of photography (University of Virginia), provides insightful details surrounding this collaboration: Gordon Parks, the renowned LIFE magazine photographer, and Ralph Ellison, the acclaimed novelist, shared a vision of Harlem—and that vision was grim. During the decade after the end of World War II, they collaborated twice on projects that were intended to reveal underlying truths about the New York City neighborhood that was sometimes called the capital city of black America. Their first effort, in 1947, was never published. In the second, “A Man Becomes Invisible,” which appeared in LIFE …, Parks interpreted Ellison’s recently published novel, Invisible Man, through images that were … surreal and nightmarish. Parks and Ellison were friends as well as collaborators, and both were strangers to Harlem. Their roots, in Kansas and Oklahoma respectively, were culturally and geographically far removed from what Parks once called Harlem’s “shadowy ghetto.” While other African American artists celebrated Harlemites’ cultural achievements, Parks and Ellison both mourned the psychological damage that racism had inflicted on them. There was no room in their Harlem for a Duke Ellington or a Langston Hughes, or even for the ordinary pleasures of love and laughter. Instead, Harlem was, in Ellison’s words, “the scene and symbol of the Negro’s perpetual alienation in the land of his birth.”

Parks and Ellison’s desire was to immerse the spectator in an overwhelming reality, a deeply emotive space that requires contemplation and critical self-reflection. The images and the novel speak for themselves and their “truth” is stunning. Ellison and Parks’s acute sensitivity to this seemingly palpable sense of disinheritance and alienation echoes a literary and cinematic tenor by African American artists long before and long after this captivating Life editorial. Parks and Ellison capture images that emblematizes the unspeakable, the blues writ large. In The New Yorker, Vinson Cunningham (2016) discusses the powerful impact of this collaboration, in an editorial entitled, “Ralph Ellison and Gordon Parks’s Joint Harlem Vision.” Moreover, Parks and Ellison’s desire, Vinson argues, was to create images as a symbolic representation of a reality. The images posit the men and women as a displaced population, from “wartime,” as battle-fatigued refugees suffering from posttraumatic stress disorder (PTSD) after emigrating from the south to Harlem. Vinson writes: In a conceptual note, outlining what he called the project’s “pictorial problem,” Ellison wrote that Parks’s prints “must present scenes that are at once both document and symbol; both reality and (for the reader) psychologically disturbing ‘image.’”

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Ellison’s intended caption for the photo reads like a bit of harsh humanist existentialism: Who am I? Where am I? How did I come to be? Behind the endless walls of his ghetto man searches for a social reality. Refugees from southern feudalism, many Negroes wander dazed in the mazes of northern ghettos, the displaced persons of American democracy.

Ellison and Parks capture this disaffected population with lyrical expression. To add intrigue, Langston Hughes, author, poet, and playwright, posits this same population in Harlem in similar terms prior to Ellison and Parks. Hughes contextualizes the day to day way in which African Americans negotiate this shadowy existence. He chronicles the nature of invisibility and the socio-cultural and economic havoc the injustices and unexpressed pain this kind of existence causes for this population. His poetry expresses a deep understanding of this “dazed” existence from a first person narrative voice. Poems like, “The Negro Speaks of Rivers,” “I, Too,” and “Harlem,” being one of the most iconic and the impetus for inspiring other works (the inspiration for Hansberry’s “A Raisin in the Sun,” which is set in Chicago). The speaker of the poem asks, “What happens to a dream deferred?” His work provides anecdotal evidence of this way of life, this black and “blues” existence. To illustrate, “Ballad of the Landlord” signifies on how white property owners, the police force/penal system, and the media each play a collaborative role in disempowering black men. The poem begins with a black male tenant’s voice. He has clarity about the economic injustice he feels about the landlord’s slum housing; he is full of questions and demands, and he seems to have voice and agency, “Landlord, landlord / My roof has sprung a leak. / Don’t you ‘member I told you about it / Way last week?” (Hughes 1990, 238). After laying out his case to the landlord in four stanzas, the landlord still expects rental payment and threatens eviction and physical removal of his property. In this heated conversation, the tenant threatens the landlord, “Throw it in the street? / Um-huh! You talking high and mighty. / Talk on-till you get through. You ain’t gonna be able to say a word / If I land my fist on you.” The landlord retorts with brevity, in one pithy stanza with five exclamation points starting with, “Police!” His voice is so powerful that in a moment the man is mute and reduced to the landlord’s perspective which is circulated to the public as news, “MAN THREATENS LANDLORD / TENANT HELD NO BAIL / JUDGE GIVES NEGRO 90 DAYS IN COUNTY JAIL!” (239). The tenant’s perspective is erased and only his “black” body remains in the custody of the county. Hughes asserts that the personhood

Prologue | 7 of black men is often reduced to a byline expressed through media outlets for consumption. Sounds familiar? The closing sequence in Boyz N the Hood (1991)? “They didn’t show nothing about my brother,” Dough Boy states out of grief. Somehow the media consumes their death (psychic, social) and not their story (voice, value, human dignity). What does John Singleton and Boyz N the Hood have to do with Ellison’s luminous opus or Hughes’s iconic message of self-discovery and clarity regarding knowing and being America’s “darker brother?” How does Singleton step into this legacy? Marginalized people often have had to find a way to speak themselves into existence and often through the oppressor’s language. Somehow these voices from the margins find a way to speak by innovating and improvising linguistically, aesthetically, to speak truth to power, wrenching themselves from the normative gaze toward decolonization. Franz Fanon reflects on this very notion, stating “Decolonization never takes place unnoticed, for it influences individuals and modifies them fundamentally. … It brings a natural rhythm into existence, introduced by new men, and with it a new language and a new humanity. Decolonization is the veritable creation of a new man” (1961). I will frame and contextualize Singleton’s relationship by way of two extended examples. Singleton too speaks with clarity about a wartime weary population. Ralph Ellison, Melvin Van Peebles, and John Singleton, as a precocious young man in his late teens, have at least one stunning insightful exploration in common. Each man, in this case, determined to speak from the first person perspective on the state of being invisible. Through this subjective narrative point of view, they interrogate the veracity of this claim regarding invisibility and provide deep insight into this social reality: Ellison uses language to create a sphere of “existence” that steps outside of controlling social constructions toward a form of self-awareness and posits invisibility as a means to usher forth consciousness; Van Peebles, through cinematic language, conceives of freeing the black male body from a contrived and dehumanizing cinematic identity, by breaching Hollywood cinematic codes; And, Singleton through this same cinematic language gives this black male body, voice and humanizes him. Singleton gives invisibility related to black masculinity first person narrative centrality and lays bare “his black” soul which creates space for the world to “see” and “hear” him. Let us investigate further by first briefly exploring the range of artists in this legacy that echoes Ellison, Van Peebles, and Singleton’s invaluable contributions to a longstanding black vernacular tradition characterized by articulating this “peculiar” reality. W. E. B. Du Bois and Ellison’s work gifts us with specific language that conceptualizes this blues existence.

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Boyz Getting Behind Language: Invisibility and the Literary and Cinematic Imagination It is a peculiar sensation, this double consciousness, this sense of always looking at one’s self through the eyes of others, of measuring one’s soul by the tape of a world that looks on in amused contempt and pity. One ever feels his twoness,—an American, a Negro; two souls, two thoughts, two unreconciled strivings; two warring ideals in one dark body, whose dogged strength alone keeps it from being torn asunder. —W. E. B. Du Bois The Souls of Black Folks (1903) “Hence, the monotonous repetition of horror rolls in verse from one generation to another. Let us pursue this melancholic tale.” —Richard Wright “The Literature of the Negro in the United States” (1957)

It is a “peculiar” existence being “black” in America; because of this peculiarity, there are several levels of being (social identities) that some people are forced to negotiate. Some must negotiate aspects of their lives day in and day out with wisdom and skill, staying vigilant and conscious in a particular way, in order to thrive under such “peculiar” conditions (Du Bois 1994, 2). Ralph Ellison names this state of being “invisible.” Ellison examines the external phenomenon that makes this existence palpable, surreal and out of body, for some. In IM, Ellison leaves a blueprint for success or at least a crack at negotiating it (the legacy and myth of white supremacy and all the ways in which it manifests itself in the world). It is what we are all doggedly pursuing in some regard to the democratic experiment, called America. But “the reality is” keeps rearing its head as a cog in the democratic system that seems to be unwilling to disentangle itself from its disquieting past, of racial, socioeconomic, and gendered oppression. And, all of us as storied people grapple with this dialectic between America’s past and present through narrative—the mythos handed down from generation to generation that strives to provide a particular coherent American identity through time. However, author and poet, Richard Wright, argues that black artists, black poets, and authors in particular, are transfixed on voicing their experiential knowledge of America—sadly the “horror” of it as a native citizen. Its ubiquity (stories of oppression and terror) speaks more about America than the artist. The artifacts they produce, with its particularity, are wholly American. Wright (1996) asserts that African American writers are constrained to speak through and to their blues existence: Truly, you must know that the word Negro in America means something not racial or biological, but something purely social, something made in the United States. Poems

Prologue | 9 such as the above seem to imply that the eyes of the American Negro were fastened in horror upon something from which he could not turn away. The Negro could not take his eyes off the auction block: he never had a chance to; he could not stop thinking of lynching: he never had a chance to. The Negro writer had no choice in his subject matter; he could not select his experiences. Hence, the monotonous repetition of horror that rolls in verse from one generation to another. Let us pursue this melancholic tale. (437)

This multigenerational lore, produced by sculptors, painters, poets, authors, playwrights, and filmmakers, provides an anthropological study of America writ large. These distinct tales created by African Americans often forge aesthetic innovation as they seek to emote a truth, rather than simply explain this unceasing communal reality. John Singleton steps into a long history of voices striving to speak—through aesthetic language. This intangible striving toward actualizing oneself in such a historically challenging milieu has produced more material from this community than we could possibly explore. These carefully crafted artifacts provide counter narrative: for example, from the complaintive yet hopeful spirituals and work songs to Harriet Jacobs’ Incidents in the Life of a Slave Girl (1861), blues as protest, Oscar Micheaux’s filmography (starting in 1917), Richmond Barthé’s bronze sculpture, Blackberry Woman (1930, 1932), Claude Clark’s portrait, Resting (1944), Lorraine Hansberry’s “A Raisin in the Sun” (1959), to Grandmaster Flash and the Furious Five’s, “The Message” (1982) and on and on in either direction of America’s historic timeline. Take for instance, Victor Séjour’s “The Mulatto”/“Le Mulâtre” written in 1837. His gothic Shakespearean-esque tale, through narrative construction, personi­fies the institution of slavery and accuses it of catalyzing death in the world (all kinds of death—psychic, social, and otherwise). The story’s bucolic setting makes the practice of slavery stand in stark contrast. The story’s opening sets up the tale. The narrator, a white male visitor, states upon his arrival, “I had seen so many exquisite landscapes and thick, tall forests that, truth to tell, I had begun to believe myself indifferent to these virile beauties of creation. But at the sight of this town, with its picturesque vegetation, its bizarre and novel nature, I was stunned; I stood dumb-struck before the sublime diversity of God’s works” (Séjour 2004, 287). The story continues with an encounter with the white visitor and an old black slave. This interaction sets up the rest of the macabre nature of the tale by positing that the chattel slave system produces a depraved populace—no one escapes unscathed. The old man, Antoine, arrives to provide transportation for the guest and by a mere gesture of an outstretched hand, the old slave sarcastically details the critical colonial reality that functions systemically in his world: “Good day, Master,” he said … “Ah, there you are …,” and I offered my hand, which he shook in return.

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“Master,” he said, “that’s quite noble-hearted of you. … But you know, do you not, that a negro’s as vile as a dog; society rejects him; men detest him; the laws curse him. … Yes, he’s a most unhappy being, who hasn’t even the consolation of always being virtuous. … He may be born good, noble, and generous; God may grant him a great and loyal soul; but despite all that, he often goes to the grave with bloodstained hands, and a heart hungering after yet more vengeance.” (287)

The old man argues that Georges, the black male slave protagonist, is ill-fated because of systemic violence (he will inevitably become a beast and so too does his master, and even children in the community). Séjour signals his understanding of these “objective facts that state reality” (Fanon 2008, 1). What Fanon argues are facts that no longer are a question of “knowing [in] the world,” but now a pressing desire for transformation. These stories are passed down from generation to generation and their accumulation over time may be at the heart of the disavowed faith in some African American communities that Cornel West explores in Race Matters (1993). To be sure, Singleton enters a cinematic dialectic that began over a century ago, in blackface (white actors preforming “blackness”), with Edwin S. Porter’s Uncle Tom’s Cabin (1903), D. W. Griffith’s The Birth of a Nation (1915), and the advent of classical Hollywood narrative storytelling. This desire to speak and assess this communal history, I argue, is often coupled with a willful desire to get behind language to articulate the unspeakable: a desire to cummunicate below linguistic levels toward articulating deep moaning and humming, guttural articulation akin to the blues. Moreover, according to Ralph Ellison, this work is a necessary part of a writer’s vocation. Ellison reiterates Wright’s solemn conclusion about African American writers and, I would add, artists. Arnold Rampersad (2007) discusses Ellison’s musing from a speech entitled, “American Negro Writing—A Problem of Identity”: The negro writer must know that there is no escaping of language and his national identity. His job is discovering just what his relationship is to the whole national aspects of America. If he attempts to escape language, he must escape politics and then he is abstract and therefore lost. He must find some way of speaking to Negroes in order to clarify the relationship of American with the Western civilization generally. (201)

This need to have clarity, Ellison argues, is an important journey toward having a viable understanding of one’s social identity(ies) and the appending social, economic, and political consequences in America, attaining Du Boisian double consciousness and the accompanying ability to become multicontextual or some would call “code-switch” as a survival tactic (see Du Bois 1994). Ellison’s IM is a literary iteration of W. E. B. Du Bois’s concept of double consciousness: “the Negro is sort of a seventh son, born with a veil, and gifted

Prologue | 11 with second-sight in this American world—a world that yields him no true selfconsciousness, but only lets him see himself through the eyes of others” (Du Bois 1994, 45). However, Ellison uses religious language and imagery to explore and conceptualize a way for “black bodies” to attain a resurrected life. This idea evokes Romans 12:2, “And be not conformed to this world: but be ye transformed by the renewing of your mind …” (King James Version 1972). Ellison argues that double consciousness gifts transcendence. Self-knowledge transcends destructive ideology. It transforms the matrix of dehumanizing ideology into a labyrinth that can be negotiated. Du Bois (1994) considered black identity a central theme in America: “One ever feels his twoness,—an American, a Negro … The history of the American Negro is the history of this strife,—this longing to attain self-conscious manhood, to merge his double self into a better and truer self ” (45). IM explores just that. The novel is about a man’s journey to himself. The protagonist bemoans, “All my life I had been looking for something, and everywhere I turned someone tried to tell me what it was. I accepted their answers too … I was looking for myself and asking everyone except myself questions which I, and only I could answer” (Ellison 1995a, 15). “When I discover who I am, I’ll be free” he says in the midst of his journey (243). When the protagonist finally declares, “I am an Invisible man,” this signifies his shift in reality. This self-acknowledgment issues forth his identity; and though looming in the darkness, he claims he is “full of light” (6), the light of self-knowledge promising “infinite possibilities” (576). Throughout the prologue, light represents knowledge; and, the protagonist is determined to dwell in it. He avows, “Nothing, storm or flood, must get in the way of our light, and ever more and brighter light. The truth is light and light is the truth” (7). Armed with this gift of sight, the protagonist promises to use his critical thinking skills to negotiate his way through safe passages: “When I finish all four walls, then I’ll start on the floor. Just how that will go, I don’t know. Yet when you have lived invisible for as long as I have you develop a certain ingenuity. I’ll solve the problem” (7). And finally, John Singleton has a place in this pantheon of distinguished witness bearers. He is well read, immersed in music, and an avid student of cinematic language. This interdisciplinary proclivity adds rich layering to his screenplays. He too joins the chorus of artists who pursue speaking of Wright’s described “melancholic tale.” But before I discuss his voice as an artist, I think it is important to first discuss the impulse underneath Singleton’s clarity of voice. Though some quibble with his affinity for linear narratives as a black filmmaker, underneath his master class in explicit causality, Boyz N the Hood, lies a historic genealogy informing his tale, waiting to be discovered.

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Here are two referent contextual examples underneath Boyz N the Hood, Ralph Ellison’s Invisible Man (1952) and Melvin Van Peebles’s Sweet Sweetback’s Baadasssss Song (1971). Ellison and Van Peebles use particularity in their language to wrench “black” male identity (body and voice) from the socially constructed liminal frame they are posited as in American social identity politics. They both explicate a version of the black male’s experience in each regional context; they both point to a common theme of disenfranchisement and alienation and each succeed in the getaway: Ellison through his protagonist becoming self-aware (conscious) and Van Peebles through his protagonist breaking free by making it to the boarder of Mexico. Ellison uses biblical language/imagery and Van Peebles uses cinematic language (breaching conventions), but both are linguistic object lessons that can be taken up toward the process of decolonization.

Ellison’s Invisible Man (1952): Mediating Self-Knowledge through Messianic Language The settler and the native are old acquaintances. In fact, the settler is right when he speaks of knowing “them” well. For it is the settler who has brought the native into existence and who perpetuates his existence. The settler owes the fact of his very existence, that is to say, his property, to the colonial system. Decolonization never takes place unnoticed, for it influences individuals and modifies them fundamentally. … It brings a natural rhythm into existence, introduced by new men, and with it a new language and a new humanity. Decolonization is the veritable creation of a new man. —Fantz Fanon The Wretched of the Earth (1961)

Frantz Fanon’s (2005) critical theory on decolonization posits the process as a “violent phenomenon” (1). The difficulty, inevitably, is tied to the symbiotic relationships within identity politics: one must die (to the social construction) in order for the other to free him or herself from definitional social terms. I believe Ellison knows of this conceptual reality and exhibits this knowledge through his text, IM. Moreover, I believe the profundity of IM is the deft way in which Ellison uses his experiential knowledge of biblical language and imagery to argue that it is through dying to the socially constructed self that ushers in a new life and a way of being free from the psychic constraints and the impact of such a reality. Invisibility functions in two ways: (1) As a state of being, invisibility constrains one to inhabit the destructive meta-narrative about black identity, to perform “blackness”; (2) invisibility as a state of mind, liberates one’s critical consciousness

Prologue | 13 and gives birth to pragmatic, critical self-reflection—an awareness of the lie that is white supremacy, an awareness of how it functions in the world, and to declare invisibility is to be transformed by a renewed mind (Romans 12:1–2 King James Version). Henry Gates and Nellie McKay (2004), in their introduction of Ralph Ellison, ask, “Why does IM evoke such passionate, antagonist response?” They argue that Ellison’s IM marks a moment in mid-twentieth-century America: In part, the answer lies in its brilliant use of intertextual and cultural nuance and maneuver, from Dante to Louis Armstrong to German Lieder to Eliot to the slave auction to Dostoevsky. In part, it arises out of the text’s ability to simultaneously fit into and challenge a number of theoretical grids, from the American novel since World War II to the African American novel, from problems of canon formation to questions about minority and postcolonial discourse … As fresh as it was in 1952, it eschews the liabilities of pathos and opens before its readership, particularly its African American readership, a new and different order of inquiry: What is the value of self-knowledge? (1517)

For Ellison, self-knowledge is the acquisition of language and the will to speak one’s self into existence even in the midst of darkness—rejecting (historically) “black” archetypes (Carr 2015, 2). Ellison explores the very nature of the “black” self and examines the historical constructs that forged that identity. The protagonist in Ellison’s IM is determined to reevaluate these notions—what it means to be both black and American—even at the cost of losing his self, or at least the identity he considers to be his own at the beginning of his journey. Ellison pursues this project by using extensive literary and biblical allusion. Kun Jong Lee (1996) discusses how several scholars have devoted entire books on “echoes of and references to antecedent writers” (421) in IM related to the American literary canon. She argues that although this is “one of the most flourishing areas in Ellison criticism … there is still one ‘invisible’ influence on Ellison that has not been studied satisfactorily in Ellison criticism: his indebtedness to early nineteenth-century American literary nationalism” (421). Lee makes a valuable point, but I would also add that scholars have not vigorously explored Ellison’s rich “indebtedness” to his religious heritage in his fiction. Therein lies an aspect of the profundity of his text. His use of biblical language and messianic allusions raises the level of his exploration to a matter of life and death. The impetus for this exploration was initially personal since I can clearly see layers of biblical allusion in Ellison’s IM. In graduate school I gave a presentation on IM and the presentation was well received. However, when in discussion I posited the biblical text as Ellison’s primary linguistic prism for IM’s narrative, a

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major debate ensued. There were adamant naysayers who mocked my claims arguing, “Invisible’s protagonist is not a messianic figure.” Though “lo” and “behold,” a few years later Tuire Valkeakari’s “Secular Riffs on the Sacred: Ralph Ellison’s Mock-Messianic” appeared. Valkeakari (2010) opens the article with an observation regarding Ellison’s “creative use of religious idiom and imagery” (173). Valkeakari states that prior to Ellison’s Juneteenth, which was posthumously published in 1999, “commenting on religion in Ellison’s fiction tended to elicit the reaction, ‘What religion?’” (173). Juneteenth “revived” critics’ interest in Ellison’s “Christian and religious discourse in his literary imagination” (173). In “Secular Riffs,” Valkeakari focuses on Ellison’s use of religious allusions. Ellison’s seemingly “quick and brief ” religious references, his “passing (but recurring) riffs on religious idioms and imagery” actually compose “a jazz-influenced blues narrative about ‘America’ and ‘race’” (174). Valkeakari primarily focuses on the musical and folkloric way he uses religion to develop his exploration. For example, he asserts that Ellison uses the Tetragrammaton to demonstrate the “elusiveness” of African American cultural identity” (186). He states: After the narrator has passed through his “messianic” infancy, his search for identity is increasingly depicted as through periodic modifications of the King James transcription of the Tetragrammaton (YHWH), “I AM THAT I AM” (Exod. 3:14), interpreted by Jewish and Christian theologies as (being or symbolizing) the name of God. Since this enigmatic divine self-appellation denotes, in Kimberly W. Benston’s interpretive translation, “namelessness, or that which cannot be named,” it is only fitting that the narrator repeatedly evokes this name—or this anti-name, as it were—to portray his search for a new personal and cultural identity that he is not yet able to define or articulate. (186)

This pivotal analysis was refreshing since it addresses the lacuna in Ellison scholarship. Valkeakari argues that Ellison does rely on the biblical text to construct his narrative. He employs religious imagery to explore the “inter-relationship between black identity, responsibility, self-empowerment, and (self-) sacrifice in the 1930s/1940s United States” (174). However, Ellison’s project is much more significant than he allows. Valkeakari only “riffs” on instances of Ellison’s “creative use of religious idiom” (173). Ellison uses biblical language to argue that his project is tantamount to the consequences of sin, death. Like the gospel message, one must die to one’s self to “walk in the newness” of life (Romans 6:4 King James Version)—in other words, living a colonized life is like being a “slave to sin” (Romans 6:17 King James Version), and “the wages of sin is death” (Romans 6:23 King James Version). Ellison employs the Christian gospel message to assert that his narrative conversation is life altering. IM is an

Prologue | 15 earnest admonition. Ellison’s text is a message of freedom from bondage, the bondage of dehumanizing social constructs. Invisible’s protagonist is deeply aware of the magnitude of his journey: “When I discover who I am, I’ll be free” (Ellison 1995a, 243). Ellison’s protagonist steps “outside” of history to discover his own voice (meaning he becomes conscious of social identities passed down to him and he no longer wishes to be controlled by them psychologically). Ellison’s protagonist steps “outside” of history to become free from dehumanizing hierarchicalized social and cultural constructions, out of the unreality thrust upon him to claim his humanity. In essence, Ellison argues that identity is formed dialogically; and for the dispossessed, the conversation is one-sided, forged by the whims and caprices of the so-called “enlightened” majority. Ellison’s argument refracts dehumanizing notions of inferiority and creates a space for critical self-reflection. Invisible’s protagonist finds a way to free his mind and body from these constraints through invisibility. Ironically, Ellison posits invisibility as a way of life. However, not in terms of the way that invisibility functions as a form of erasure in American sociocultural space.

Identity, Voice, and History: Death to the “Blackness of Blackness” Ellison uses rich biblical allusions and direct quotes from the King James Version of the Bible to give language and weight to his claim. The core of the messianic message in the prologue serves as the narrative framework. The protagonist’s life is an object lesson. Ellison employs the biblical notions of light, darkness, blindness, sight, freedom, and life and death with precision. He uses rich paradoxical biblical language to give power to his claim. His central thesis begins with the relationship between identity, voice, and history. Toward the end of the narrative and the protagonist’s journey to himself, of which he is not yet aware, Ellison provides a key moment. The protagonist runs into one of his “brothers,” Tod Clifton. He is shocked to see that Clifton is selling little Sambo dolls in Harlem. Clifton says, “Follow little Sambo around the corner, ladies and gentlemen … There’s a great show coming up” (Ellison 1995a, 434). The protagonist is dismayed since Clifton was a staunch supporter of The Brotherhood. In this moment, Ellison reveals his project. The protagonist muses: Why should a man deliberately plunge outside of history and peddle an obscenity, my mind went on abstractedly. Why should he choose to disarm himself, give up his voice and leave the only organization offering him a chance to “define” himself? … Why did

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he choose to plunge into nothingness, into the void of faceless faces, of soundless voices, lying outside of history? (438–39)

For the protagonist, Clifton’s choice to leave the Brotherhood (black nationalist organization) was a form of death. He perceived Clifton as lost and no longer moored with a viable identity. Ellison uses this moment to define the most important concept under negotiation. He employs the biblical paradox of life and death (death giving birth to new life) to explore the relationship between self-knowledge and socially constructed “reality.” The notion of death, in this case, plunged Clifton into nothingness because he left a constructed space; but later for the protagonist, “death” will give way to life, a life “full of light” (Ellison 1995a, 6). Life born of death (to socially constructed identity) is the consciousness required to free one’s self and apprehend self-understanding. In order for anyone to be “seen” or, I would argue, “read” in the “world,” one must inhabit a socially constructed space, even if it is a marginalized space. He argues that identity and voice are tethered together. Although in this moment the protagonist has not “come to himself ” like the prodigal son (King James Version Luke 15:1–32), he sees the connection between his identity, voice and socially constructed identities. In addition, Ellison appropriates biblical language of light and darkness to demonstrate the multiple ways in which one’s “freedom” is determined by the disposition of one’s mind (an awareness that rejects the normative gaze or assents to it). Here, New Testament theological concepts of life/death and freedom functions powerfully. To Ellison “blackness” has become a thing, a place, a powerful concretized yet amorphous state of being, a chasm, a gulf between life and death, and in some cases hell. Ellison relies heavily on the paradoxical biblical notion of death giving birth to an abundant life, that is death to self, death to the “blackness of blackness” (willful participation in idolatry and in this case acquiescing to a life controlled by the myth of white supremacy and constructs that support black inferiority which in many cases educes self-hate and nihilism) (9). And in this case, Ellison defines “death to self ” as death to the colonized mind: death to a mind that is shaped and controlled by racist ideology regarding “whiteness” and “blackness” which prohibits real freedom. The alternative to death without “dying to self ” is hell, i.e., stuck in the socially constructed notion of “blackness,” which in fact is hell in IM’s text, which I will explore shortly. The prologue introduces these concepts through biblical language and imagery. Furthermore, Ellison immediately upends the notion of darkness and light. Although the protagonist has a shadow existence in the “real” world, he is alive

Prologue | 17 to himself. Ellison begins his novel at the end of the narrative with a self-declaration from the protagonist: “I am an invisible man” (1). Although the protagonist claims he is not visible to the rest of the world, he claims he is aware of his self. He declares though he lives in darkness, he is “full of light” (6). His light comes from his newfound knowledge about the “darkness” of American cultural history. The protagonist is in the world but not of the world literally and ideologically (John 17:16 King James Version): My hole is warm and full of light. Yes, full of light. I doubt if there is a brighter spot in all New York than this hole of mine, and I do not exclude Broadway. Or the Empire State Building … Those two spots are among the darkest of our whole civilization.—pardon me, of our whole culture (an important distinction, I’ve heard)—which might sound like a hoax, or a contradiction, but that (by contradiction, I mean) is how the world moves: Not like an arrow, but a boomerang. (Beware of those who speak of the spiral of history; they are preparing a boomerang. Keep a helmet handy.) I have been boomeranged across my head so much that I now can see the darkness of the lightness. And I love light … But maybe it is exactly because I am invisible. Light confirms my reality, gives birth to my form. (6)

The protagonist asserts that, deceptively, the “worldly” light that emanates from the beacon of American “civilization” is actually the “darkest” of all “lightness.” The protagonist’s recognition of this paradoxical relationship has liberated him from the ideological bondage in which he was mired. His new knowledge has given “birth” to a new self. He gave up his “old way of life” (5). He believes it was a false reality “based on fallacious assumption” (5)—the assumption that he could be viewed as a man by those who viewed him as a thing.

Blindness: A Condition of the Mind In juxtaposition to the protagonist’s new life, Ellison offers Jesus’s critique of those who refuse to “see” or “hear’” his message (John 12:40 King James Version). For Ellison seeing the light is equated with a willingness to refrain from using the dominant gaze to read and subjugate people. Invisible’s protagonist now “sees” the thick historical cloud of “blackness” that looms because of his new sight: “That invisibility to which I refer occurs because of a peculiar disposition of the eyes of those with whom I come in contact. A matter of the construction of their ‘inner’ eye, those eyes with which they look through their physical eyes upon reality” (3). The protagonist sight or “inner eye” is now informed by his critically conscious mind. Whereas those who “refuse to see” him and only see “themselves, or figments of their imagination” (3)—which is the social construct—are “blind,” sleep walkers, dead to “wakeful living” (5); they are relegated to the “darkest” of so-called

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“lightness” (6). Here, Ellison alludes to New Testament passages: “The light of the body is the eye: if therefore thine eye be single, thy whole body shall be full of light. But if thine eye be evil, thy whole body shall be full of darkness. If therefore the light that is in thee be darkness, how great is that darkness!” (Matthew 6:22–23 King James Version). Ellison exploits Jesus’s message of redemption to argue that blindness is a condition of the heart and mind, blindness is death to the possibilities of “an abundant life” (John 10:10 King James Version), if left in this state. Blindness is a static space/existence that inhibits movement. Blindness also inhibits freedom or even the ability to define what “real” freedom means. Additionally, Ellison contends blindness is pervasive in American culture, and everyone is potentially subject to this condition since it constructs a false reality for everyone. Ellison uses an unusual moment the protagonist experiences while listening to music to illustrate this point. The protagonist explains, “So under the spell of reefer I discovered a new analytical way of listening to music. The unheard sounds came through. … That night I found myself hearing not only in time, but in space as well. I not only entered the music but descended, like Dante” (8–9). When he begins listening to Louis Armstrong’s rendition of “What did I do to be so black and blue?” (1929), the protagonist descends into an inferno—the hell of “blackness.” He descends into the depth of meaning of this melancholic dirge. With his new critical mind, he is able to “hear” into the depths of unvoiced existential pain in the song. He “sees” the weight of what a hierarchicalized historical narrative does to people. He “sees” the ugliness of “blackness.” Inside of the songs meaning, the protagonist begins to experience the “blackness of blackness” (6)—the sorrow and anguish of self-loathing and longing for death. The song’s title “What did I do to be so black and blue?” as a double entendre suggests the perplexity of the involuntary and undesirable association with “blackness,” and the psychic, social, and physical violence associated with “black” existence. The lyrical content of this blues lament evokes spatial alienation on several intimate levels in one’s own home: Old empty bed … springs hard as lead Feel like ol’ Ned … wished I was dead All my life through … I’ve been so black and blue Even the mouse … ran from my house They laugh at you … and scorn you too What did I do … to be so black and blue I’m white … inside … but, that don’t help my case ‘cause I … can’t hide … what is in my face

Prologue | 19 How would it end … ain’t got a friend My only sin … is in my skin. (Waller, Brooks, and Razaf 1929)

The song’s narrative voice speaks of the alienation and anguish of living in “blackness.” He even longs for death. The speaker of the song believes “whiteness” is normative and the stuff of humanity. Armstrong’s vocal delivery underscores the incomprehensible misery this blind existence inflicts. He communicates the inarticulateness of this pain through moans, slurred speech, guttural pronunciation, and bending notes. As the protagonist begins to “hear,” he begins to encounter “black bodies” in “blackness.” He encounters a world of excruciating pain, sadness, grief, ambivalence, bitterness, prolonged depression, and hardship. He first encounters “an old woman singing a spiritual as full of Weltschmerz”—a lament about her undesirable existence. He then encounters a “beautiful Ivory girl pleading” for her life on the auction block (9). Then he hears a preacher, “Brothers and sisters, my text this morning is the Blackness of Blackness” (9). The people the protagonist encounters represent the deep actuality of racist ideology. Even the preacher is stuck in this rhetorical space. In his sermon, he ponders “blackness”: what “black is,” what “black ain’t,” and what “black will git you” (9). The condition of blindness even permeates the safe harbor of the church. Instead of preaching the gospel of Jesus Christ, God’s kerux—God’s mouthpiece—is preaching the gospel of “blackness.”

“Blackness”: Critiquing American Notions of Freedom During this haze in the depth of the song, the protagonist’s final encounter is with a slave woman who just poisoned and killed her master who was also her lover. Their conversation illustrates how a prolonged colonized existence damages a person’s mind and potential life: it stunts imagination, destroys dreams, and squelches contributions to society. Her scream catches his attention, “Get out of here, you fool!” She moans saying, “Go curse your God, boy, and die” (10). The woman’s startling pronouncement echoes Job’s wife in the Old Testament: “Curse God and die” (Job 2:9 King James). By referencing Job’s suffering, Ellison punctuates the innocence and victimization of “black bodies” stuck in this existence (and touches on notion of theodicy). The protagonist questions the woman and she shares her story: “I dearly loved my master, son … them boys woulda tore him to pieces with they homemade knives” (10–11). She explains that she saved her master from a brutal death; although she was angry because she never received her long awaited promise of

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freedom, she still loved him. The protagonist asked, “Old woman, what is this freedom you love so well?” She could not answer, “I done forgot, son. First I think it’s one thing, then I think it’s another” (11). The old woman has spent so much time in this state of “blackness” that she loses her ability to engage her mind critically. As a result, she will never be able to define a healthy notion of freedom. Ellison maintains that when the freedom of some depends on subjugating others, “real” freedom can never be defined or attained. This again is the hell that the protagonist has been freed from. And, although this particular example focuses primarily on “black” people, it has implications for anyone who is possessed by racist ideology. Indeed, the existence of “blackness” serves as a powerful critique of dominant notions of freedom and liberty.

“Wakeful Living”: Death to the Colonized Mind After Invisible’s protagonist emerges from below the surface of “Black and Blue,” he vows never to return to this place where he can “hear the silence of sound,” where he witnessed the agonizing pain and real devastation of “black” existence (13). He vows never to smoke marijuana again. He states, “I haven’t smoked reefer since, however; not because they’re illegal, but because to see around corners is enough (that is not unusual when you are invisible). But to hear around them is too much; it inhibits action” (13). In “blackness,” he felt immobile because he, as an invisible man, is acutely aware of its unreality and real imprisonment. “Hearing” in this instance is counterproductive. Ellison suggests that dwelling in “blackness” develops bitterness, hate, and a static existence. The protagonist acknowledges the malignancy that “blackness” produces and is grateful for his new self-understanding. He is finally alive, alive to living. The protagonist reflects on his life, “Before that I lived in darkness into which I was chased, but now I see. I’ve illuminated the blackness of my invisibility—and vice versa” (13). Although some may view this existence as a form of death since the protagonist cannot be categorized and placed in, what Bogle (2016) calls, a narrow “black” box, Ellison views it as an opportunity for transformation, for infinite possibilities. The protagonist responds to this perception: “I say this to assure you that it is incorrect to assume that, because I’m invisible and live in a hole, I am dead. I am neither dead nor in a state of suspended animation. Call me Jackthe-Bear, for I am in a state of hibernation” (6). Here, Ellison alludes to Jesus’s resurrection to describe the protagonist’s new state of being in the world. The protagonist explains, “I call my home a ‘hole’ it is damp and cold like a grave; … Mine is a warm hole. And remember, a bear retires to his hole for the winter and

Prologue | 21 lives until spring; then he comes strolling out like the Easter chick breaking from his shell” (6). The protagonist will emerge from his revelatory space poised for a new life. He will be resurrected. Ellison posits this text as a feasible path to a viable quality of life. IM goes well beyond simply riffing on biblical imagery and mock messianism, Ellison appropriates biblical language to urge us all to step out of the “darkness”—paradoxically “worldly” light—into “marvelous light” (1 Peter 2:9 King James Version); symbolized by the protagonist who steps out of unreality into the reality of his self. The protagonist declares, “I am nobody but myself. But first I had to discover that I am an invisible man!” (Ellison 1995a, 15). Linguistically, Ellison accomplishes the task of wrenching “black” colonial acculturation from the souls of black folks through salvific messianic language. The protagonist is confident, full of hope, and calls for us to die to colonial socialization. By the end of the narrative, the protagonist has a clear sense of his potential and a desire to participate in life consciously, “I’m invisible, not blind … Life is to be lived, not controlled” (576–577).

Van Peebles’s Sweetback (1971): Invisible Man’s Cinematic Appearance Finally, Melvin Van Peebles manages to do what is rarely done in cinema: create new cinematic vernacular to posit new imagery in Hollywood cinema arts. He decidedly does just that in highhanded fashion. He sets out to make the great escape in cinematic form—like a prisoner of war makes a getaway from being held hostage. Gladstone Yearwood (2000), film historian and theorist, argues that “Sweet Sweetback’s Baadasssss Song is an important film in the history of contemporary cinema and it is a seminal work in the exploration of an alternative cinematic expression in popular cinema.” He contends that Van Peebles signifies on classical Hollywood cinematic practices by posited a decidedly black film: “a viable black cinema cannot assert itself when it is constructed upon the very ideologies that have supported its historic oppression” (214). Van Peebles’s break with realist filmic conventions helps usher in a new era in American cinema— which the industry financially profits from by immediately appropriating Van Peebles’s aesthetic style for commercial endeavors (Blaxploitation period). Peebles’s style is self-conscious. He uses cinematic elements to question the veracity of past images of black men and the black experience. Camera movement and positioning, characterization, narrative content, motifs (violence and sexuality), and score are tightly bound to posit a new cinematic representation

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that is decidedly free of hackneyed archetypes. Yearwood continues, “When a black cinema affirms the illusion, it merely legitimizes the subordinate position of blacks within the social structure and within traditional cinema. Sweetback attacks the illusion of cinema. In the classical narrative, the viewer is preoccupied with the progression of the narrative … However, Sweetback … forcefully moves attention to the uses of cinematic language and other political and ideological questions.” His aggressive choices are designed to create disassociation from past imagery and even cause discomfort through the cinematic gaze.

Sweetback: Ellison’s Invisible Man as a Cinematic Test Case Set in South Central Los Angeles, Melvin Van Peebles’s “maverick break through” film, Sweet Sweetback’s Baadasssss Song, caused black communities to flock to movie theaters to cheer on this new folkloric hero name Sweetback (Guerrero 1993, 86). Van Peebles’s desire was to create a “victorious film” where blacks “could walk out standing tall instead of avoiding each other’s eyes,” a film in which blacks were not played in stereotypically defeated terms (88). In fact, the protagonist becomes a hero in the film through happenstance. He is handed over to the police as a possible “suspect for a few days” to appease public clamor regarding a recent murder case. This handing over of his black male body to “the system” and Sweetback’s “triumph” in the “get away” is at the heart of the narrative. Van Peebles raises a question: who has the right to determine the disposition of the black male body, thereby constructing black male identity (especially in cinematic terms)? This discourse is but a continuation of the conversation Ellison thoroughly investigates in IM. In addition to the commodification and exploitation of black masculinity, both Van Peebles and Ellison explore this question in terms of the relationship between language and identity and the effects of violence within a community. Ellison examines this question by methodically illustrating that identity is often forged by socially constructed norms of the majority and argues that the dispossessed must somehow “get behind” or step outside this construction in order to begin forging their own identity. At the end of Ellison’s novel, the protagonist is armed with this knowledge of self-determination; however, that is where the novel ends. The audience does not know what IM’s protagonist becomes. I argue that Van Peebles’s Sweet Sweetback is an authentic departure from literary and visual historical archetypes of black masculinity and as such it renders it as a test case of self-creation. Moreover, in as much as both Van Peebles and Ellison explore the same question of identity under a similar context, Sweet Sweetback’s

Prologue | 23 Baadasssss Song is an authentic visual representation of the emergence of Ellison’s IM from his black “hole” (Ellison 1995a, 6). Van Peebles’s cinematic representation of Sweetback provides yet another opportunity to explore linguistic deconstruction of the colonial definitions of black masculinity. In addition, this representation is only the beginning of this emergence, signifying progression in this continued dialogue regarding black masculinity masterfully explored by Ellison.

A Test Case: Invisible Man Emerges as Sweetback Sweet Sweetback’s Baadasssss Song is a continuation of this dialogue instigated by IM. Van Peebles wants to reclaim the black male body as well as the black experience and speak of it on his own terms. Sweetback is in the midst of urban landscape and takes up the mantel where the IM lays it. In the third scene of Sweet Sweetback an important exchange takes place between two local police officers and Beetle, the owner of a neighborhood brothel. As the police officers peer through an opening into a room where a sex show is commencing, the officers ask Beetle if they could “borrow” one of his men so they could “look good” in the eyes of their police commissioner. The policemen wanted to offer a temporary scapegoat for a crime that took place (before the narrative begins) in order to quell the uproar within the community. Beetle replies, “When did you people get so interested in black folks dead or alive?” One of the police officers replies, “We’ve got a good understanding. Let’s keep it that way.” This conversation can be interpreted on two levels. One interpretation would be at the level of the narrative in which the police officer is encouraging Beetle to keep his deal with them so he can continue to receive police protection. More importantly, this conversation is indicative of the dialogue Van Peebles wants to engage in with Hollywood regarding visual representations of black masculinity. The white police officers represent the status quo in the film industry who just wants to borrow images of the black male when it is financially convenient. The industry has engaged in careful use of “black” imagery—from buffoons, to brutal bucks, to docile asexual servants, to regal examples of assimilation—and in the decade before the release of Peebles’s film, Sidney Poitier’s beautiful presence is emblematic of the image Hollywood felt it needed to portray for the sake of looking “good” in the eyes of cinema going audiences while still profiting. However, in the opening credits before the movie, Peebles provides a brief synopsis of his reasons for making the film. He asserts, “I made the movie because I got tired of us being portrayed that other way. So I wanted a movie where we win … No cop out … I wanted something we didn’t have to be ashamed of … a living workshop.” In contrast to Hollywood’s

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choice of black representation, Van Peebles felt the need to portray the black community oppositionally. Sweetback is unashamedly raw and base, as a form of signification. Van Peebles expresses a desire to reclaim cinematic “black” male identity, his body and voice. He breaks from Hollywood conventions seeking to create for himself (and for the community) a new active voice and persona with agency. Van Peebles accomplishes this task through characterization and narrative structure.

Characterization: Sweetback Has a Body in Motion The protagonist in IM encounters several women, but in every instance he refuses to partake in a sexual act or he is forbidden to take part. In stark contrast, Sweetback is fully aware of his body and the narrative constantly points to his body. In doing so, Van Peebles is claiming ownership of it. By choosing to display sexually charged black male and female bodies, Van Peebles shatters all past asexual representations as well as codes regarding filmic sexuality. Donald Bogle, in an interview with New York Times film critic Hale Broun adds, “In the thirties, we get the comic male figures and in the fifties we get people like Poitier and Belafonte who have the goods to be sexy, but never used them. I think it was Melvin Van Peebles’s great gift, great insight, that he realized the black audience wanted a viable, sexual, assertive, arrogant black male hero” (Broun 1973). Sexuality functions in the movie as an entrance into Sweetback’s world, but also as a way for Peebles to display the black male body unashamedly; Sweetback has a body and it is always in motion! His sexuality is not denied in any way. Each sexual encounter confronts a taboo in society: prostitution, public sex, and miscegenation. The controversial nature of hypersexuality in the film represents Van Peebles’s oppositional gaze. Sweetback is introduced to the audience as a sexual being with volition, breaching nearly seventy years of prohibition and pathology in Hollywood filmic representation. His first sexual encounter in the film takes place in the brothel where he lives and does chores for the owner. One of the prostitutes summons Sweetback into her room and proceeds to remove his clothes. He unflinchingly begins to help her remove his clothes as she directs him toward the bed. Initially, he does not quite know what to do in this moment but the women chides, “You ain’t at the photographer’s. You ain’t getting your picture taken. Move!” Sweetback immediately responds without a word. Her contorted facial expressions become the focal point for most of the remaining shots. She is so “satisfied” with his “movement” she calls out “you got a sweet back.” In this instance, the camera zooms in on Sweet’s

Prologue | 25 face and he gives a smirk, not quite indicating pleasure but more of a conscious acknowledgment that what he has done is good (for him it is a moment of empowerment). At this point, he realizes this sexual act commands power even at such a young age. The prostitute’s command to Sweetback to “move” relates to the historical representations of blacks in the movies. This male body is not just for a photo op. It is to be displayed and used for pleasure, not for exploitative purposes; the black male body is no longer just for consumption. In this scene this neglected cinematic body has become sexualized and powerful, ironically through taboo imagery. In addition, Van Peebles uses the diegetic gaze (characters on screen) and cinematic gaze (omniscient narrator—the camera) to require the audience to participate as voyeurs. For instance, the sex show scene calls attention to this display of sexuality. The audience of the sex show mimics the audience watching the film. It is as if Van Peebles wanted the audience to be reminded of the voyeurism that is taking place. The spectators in the house are a diverse group of people: white males, white females, black males, and black females, of various age ranges. They all watch. However, the close-ups seem to concentrate on the responses of the individuals who are black. Some of their expressions are telling. They are deriving pleasure from looking and express their responses visually and audibly: some buck their eyes, some were sucking their teeth while others become sexually aroused and begin touching their partners. There is an air of greediness for such imagery in their eyes and in their faces. Van Peebles’s emphasis on desire in the scene echoes the black audience’s desire to see such spectacle—their own representations wholly actualized beyond the realm of domesticity. Similarly, another sexual encounter takes place in the woods after Sweetback escapes the police with the help of some of his friends. This display of the erotic shatters any previous notion of the black buck as predator and places one of the most historically inflammatory images on screen for consumption: a black male and a white female engaging in pleasurable sexual behavior. Initially, the scene has a foreboding tone. He and Moo Moo hide out in what appears to be an abandoned industrial plant. While resting, they are discovered by a motor cycle gang. Initially, the audience is led to believe a fight will ensue since the bikers are extremely hostile. The gang members taunt Sweetback and challenge him to a fight with one of their members. The bikers allow Sweetback to choose how he wishes to fight; instead, he decides he would rather have sex. A white female biker takes on the challenge and they publicly engage in sexual intercourse. She is left lying on the ground in complete “ecstasy.” This sexual encounter breaks the norms expected of any black male in the movies. Sweetback chooses to have sex (in public) rather than fight. Van Peebles suggests the old southern “white male’s”

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fear has come true. The black male does have sexual prowess and is capable of satisfying a “white” woman’s sexual desire. Peebles seems to be asserting that there is nothing left to withhold from the black male. He has openly engaged in the forbidden. What’s left? In the final sexual encounter, which takes place near the borders of Mexico, Van Peebles uses this scene to reveal that he believes “the Hollywood system” is uncomfortable with seeing the black male engaged in sexual activity. The police arrived at a camp of hippies and the campers tell them that Sweetback is among them. The police see a figure they believe is Sweetback and begin to follow him to a bush. When they peak to see if the man is indeed Sweet, they find a couple engaging in sexual activity. The two officers immediately laugh and dismiss the man as someone else, since they did not believe Sweetback would be having sex in such a moment. In both instances, when the police officers see Sweetback having sex they laugh. They laugh at the site of his genitals in the sex show scene and they laugh in this instance. Van Peebles characterizes Sweetback as a sexual person (whether it is comprehendible or not) and as such frees filmic black masculinity from suppressed representation and past deviant ones (violent aggression and sexual violence et al). In addition to the sexual content of the film, Sweet’s body is always on the run. Running is a shift in character development, which harkens back to The Graduate (1967) (countercultural movement). This motif is symbolic of a quest. Sweetback’s journey of movement has great significance toward advancing this new identity of black masculinity on screen. Also, like the protagonist at the end of IM, Sweet is running: running away from authority and running toward freedom. In past representations of black males in motion, they generally were involved in some servant role: butler, doorman, driver, etc. However, Sweetback is moving away from probable incarceration and/or servitude toward freedom and infinite possibilities. To illustrate, after Sweetback’s second getaway, he comes upon a ditch and runs upward toward the street. When he reaches the top of the hill the camera angle moves from behind him and cuts ahead of him. The audience is already over the other side of a concrete barrier that Sweetback is approaching. As he looks over the waist-high cement barrier, the audience sees a sign that reads “caution” on the other side of the concrete wall. As Sweet leaps over the wall, he leaps over the sign and continues to run through the city reaching Beetle’s place hoping to momentarily hide there. Symbolically, Sweetback is treading new ground that causes him to literally leap beyond caution.

Prologue | 27

Characterization: Sweetback Gets Behind Language As described in the opening section of this exploration, the acquisition of language is at the heart of Ellison’s novel. The language the protagonist learns in IM teaches him to be subject rather than object. He chooses to speak himself into existence on his own terms, “I am the invisible Man.” Van Peebles takes this notion a step further (or shall I say backward). In the narrative, Sweetback speaks approximately five times; metaphorically, Sweetback has regressed to a prelinguistic state. The audience does not know what he is thinking for most of the narrative. Throughout the film, Sweetback looks directly into the camera. However, his flat/blank expression makes him unreadable. These kinds of close-up shots are the antithesis of Hollywood narratives. Van Peebles strips the audience of knowing exactly what Sweetback is thinking. The audience is forced to experience the score and look for cues from the mise-en-scene to uncover his motives. This choice is effective and breaks with past representations that framed black men as utterly known, demystified, in both thoughts and actions. Past representation provided predictability in every way. Sweetback is far removed from these historical constraints and the audience is forced to hear his thoughts through other conventions. He is conscious. To cite an instance, a peculiar exchange happens between Moo Moo and Sweetback after the encounter with the bikers. This scene is unusually silent and seems awkward from an audience member’s perspective—Van Peebles using the production design in this instance to make a point about this new kind of black man in cinema. He posits that he is free. Two of the bikers lead Sweetback and Moo Moo to a small cabin to hide out. Moo Moo takes a look around and finds some beer in a small refrigerator. He hands Sweetback a beer and simply points to the pool table and they begin to play. On the opposite side of the room there is a mirror which covers most of the wall. As they play pool, they both have moments looking in the mirror. This stylistic effect seems to evoke the substance of each character. The audience is forced to contemplate along with the characters as they view themselves in the mirror. Shortly after these moments, two policemen rush into the cabin and try to subdue Sweetback and Moo Moo. Sweetback attacks one police officer and turns the pool table over the other officer. In doing so, the mirror on the wall is cracked, leaving a small portion still hanging on the wall. When one of the police officers tries to grab Sweetback, again the camera pans and the image of the police officer is isolated in the small section of the mirror. Sweet can see the policeman, but the policeman cannot see him. Sweet has the upper hand. Metaphorically, Van Peebles points out that Sweet is clever and cannot be contained.

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Narrative Structure: The Function of Violence Violence in the film is as relevant as the sexual content. Violence functions as a critique of past inauthentic representation of the black experience and also suggests this erroneous misrepresentation in cinema is a form of violence. He uses police brutality to comment on the nature of Hollywood cinema in relation to black cultural representation. The police depicted in the film are characterized as lawless and lacking integrity. In their pursuit of Sweetback, they find satisfaction in harming any black male, even when innocent. This depiction questions the ubiquitous representation of law-abiding peace officers posited in American cinema. Van Peebles uses these instances to reveal the social injustice that seems sanctioned by law. They are two instances when police officers misidentify two innocent black men who they violently assault without care. Shortly after Sweetback’s escape from the back of a police car, the police receive a tip from a hotel clerk that he is in a room with a woman. The officers rush to the scene and kick open the door and immediately begin to assault the black male they find in bed. The assailant is brutally battered and then after he is hardly recognizable, one of the officers pulls his head up by grasping his hair and asks the other officer if the “assailant” was Sweetback. The identifying officer says, “That’s not him.” The other officer replies, “So what.” Their casual attitude about harming an innocent man helps posit Sweetback as folk hero—who the community hopes defies authority and avoids capture. The scene that follows closely after is self-reflexive and actively condemns the practice of misidentification and brutality. When Beetle is summoned to the morgue to identify Sweetback, the police officer pulls the drawer open and Beetle looks down at the body. The camera tilts up toward Beetle’s face so the audience can see Beetle’s expression, but the police officers cannot. Beetle recognizes the police caught the wrong man and gives a smirk while the camera lingers on his face. The law harms yet another innocent victim by misidentification (and Hollywood cinema is implicit in this critique as a culprit in practicing systemic misrepresentation). Van Peebles uses Sweetback’s acts of violence to suggest that he is justified in his choice to defend himself and his friend against rogue police officers. The two major instances of violence take place when Sweetback “feels” compelled to “save” Moo Moo and free himself. One instance takes place after Beetle offers Sweetback to the police for a “couple of days.” Sweet quietly follows the officers out to the car without a word of objection and sits in the backseat. The officers initially say they will not use handcuffs, but on the way to the police station they respond to another

Prologue | 29 call. Upon arriving at the scene, one of the policemen decides he will have to use the handcuffs on Sweetback, “just for appearance sake.” The officer mistakenly deems Sweetback as innocuous. Just another “lackey” who only needs handcuffs to appease the crowd. After arresting Moo Moo, “the one who’s been stirring up the natives,” the officers proceed to a secluded location and immediately begin brutalizing him. After realizing the two assailants were still cuffed together, one of the officers remarked, “let’s see if we can get a little air between you too [Sweetback and Moo Moo]” and then proceeds to release Moo Moo’s cuff. Sweetback steps away from the beating and turns his back on the scuffle. He then turns toward the camera with no expression at all and then looks down at the cuffs (a couple of times) and then perfunctorily beats the cops into unconsciousness. The officers underestimate Sweetback once again and received meted out justice for their senseless brutality.

Narrative Structure: Function of Extended Montages and Soundtrack At the end of the narrative, there are long montages of landscape during Sweetback’s running sequences. Van Peebles uses the montages as a window into Sweetback’s consciousness. It also evokes the theme of the individual versus society. Sweetback is no longer constrained by the urban terrain. He is now in the open under the “canopy of heaven,” as the morning dawns. in this montage, there are a few shots that seem to be from Sweet’s point of view. These shots are in soft light and cut between mountain ranges and skyline which give the impression that all of Sweetback’s running has finally ended in a place of possibility. The landscape is indicative of a promise land; the subjugating power has ceased. He is no longer in the authority’s sphere of control. The soundtrack functions in the same way. Consider, for example, African drums beating softly as he continues to limp toward Mexico. The drums signify a renewal for Sweetback, as if he has returned to his “tribal state” before ever being pressed into a Western “role.” Clyde Tayler (1996) makes a significant commentary on the function of the soundtrack in black cinema by stating: In Afro Film, music relates to screen action more like the relation of guitar accompaniment to sung blues, broadening the primary narrative statement with commentary that sometimes modulates its direction but as frequently establishes ironic, parallel, or distancing realism. When used as sympathetic accompaniment, the music in Afro cinema frequently shares connotations with its audience of collective, cultural-historic significance, in contrast to the music of bourgeois, commercial egoism. (242)

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Van Peebles uses the soundtrack at the end of the film in such a way. As Sweetback is running, the audience begins to hear a refrain, “they bled yo Mama, they bled yo papa, they bled yo sister, they bled yo brother, they won’t bleed me.” The refrain is both a commentary on the historical black experience, but also speaks for Sweetback and his quest to reach the border where he has a chance to free himself. The spiritual songs also echo this sentiment, “by and by when the morning come all the saints of God are gathering home we will tell the story how we overcome we will understand it better by and by.” This spiritual is a song of hope, in addition to “Wade in the water,” a song sung in this same sequence infers baptism, renewal.

In Conclusion The opening release of Melvin Van Peebles’s Sweet Sweetback’s Baadasssss Song as with Ellison’s debut of IM was received with mixed emotions—the first being criticized for being too “militant,” the latter being criticized for not being “militant” enough. But certainly, Sweet Sweetback is a continuation of the discourse initiated by IM. Sweetback’s momentary descent into a black hole [which is a sewer line], in the middle of the film, on his way to a makeshift church symbolically signifies the continued contemplation of black masculinity. In the prologue of the novel, the protagonist of the IM asserts, “Call me Jack-the-Bear, for I am in a state of hibernation” (Ellison 1995a, 6). Curiously, Beetle tells Sweetback to go into hibernation like a bear, but Sweetback refuses to do so. For the protagonist of IM the sewer becomes a womb as it were and he is re-birthed at least for a moment as Sweetback through oppositional cinematic language. Boyz N the Hood engages this same black masculine trope Ellison and Van Peebles explore, but in a contemporary urban setting. He (this “black male” construct) is a trope that transmogrifies into a seemingly new iteration based on time/ location and historical circumstances. Singleton obliterates the construct and gives him voice and his self-aware narrative explicates him. Singleton takes the audience on a voyeuristic journey through this invisible “black” man’s voice.

Boyz in Context: The Streets of the Southland and Invisibility Overcrowded and exploited politically and economically, Harlem is the scene and symbol of the Negro’s perpetual alienation in the land of his birth. —Ralph Ellison The Shadow and The Act (1995b, 296)

Prologue | 31 Like Ellison and Parks’s perspective of Harlem, Singleton’s Los Angeles is much grittier than the iconic glitzy seduction that the city is exploited as. Sure, celebrity culture and the exotic and the erotic flourish in the spaces that require an entrance fee and they—those who can afford an entrance—too may be pressed into things as they pursue the illusory. Most people here in Los Angeles live from day to day eking out a living, since our electricity, natural gas, gasoline, organic food, and parking (even at the beach) all seem to be a bit higher than in most places in the country. Singleton at a young age felt this dissonance between the real and implied Los Angeles, living in Inglewood in an area called “The Bottom’s.” Boyz N the Hood tells of Singleton’s conscious journey to himself as a man and a filmmaker. The semiautobiographical story posits a treacherous landscape that he himself successfully navigates with both a loving mother and father gifting him with wisdom along the way. In Boyz, the city of Los Angeles is posited as a modern-day DC comic, a Gotham City—only not that fictive. The 1980s was a tough decade for Los Angeles. A casual drive through the segregated enclaves could not always reveal the devastation that might have been transpiring behind closed doors. Los Angeles County is vast. It ranges from multimillion dollar coastal homes nestled in the Santa Monica mountains, to lake front living in Castaic, to arid desert communities or blazing hot San Fernando valley suburbia, to hardcore city dwelling in the concrete jungles of South Los Angeles. As the largest county in the region when the demographics started shifting, the working class and poor felt this shift the hardest. Though the summer Olympic games hosted by Los Angeles in 1984 provided some economic relief, the shifting polity and demographics would usher in a new era. Minority communities experience a disproportionately higher unemployment rate, dropout rate (literacy), educational inequality, poor health services, discrimination, and the infiltration of crack cocaine and ensuing violence. They suffered in larger numbers. Urban working class poor communities were met with the daunting task of making “Los Angeles a livable city” (Gottlieb et al. 2006). By the end of the decade in 1988, Los Angeles County Police Department’s Chief Daryl Gates instituted his controversial Operation Hammer. On designated weekends, Chief Gates would dispatch dozens of officers into a region of South Los Angeles to create intimidation hoping to shift the culture, to “retake Los Angeles back.” Times staff reporter, John Johnson (1989), shares his eyewitness perspective on an operation about a year into “The Hammer” Program, July 1989. He starts by describing one of the stops: Four young men lay face down on the asphalt of a South Los Angeles street, while a police helicopter circled overhead, illuminating the scene with an eerie, flickering light.

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A half-dozen police cars blocked the street and officers poured out with weapons drawn on the suspected gang members. No drugs or guns were found, but a husky man with braided hair was found to be driving without his license so police, as one officer sardonically put it, arrested his car … “We’re taking their wheels and putting them on their heels,” said Sgt. Rey Avalos. It was early Sunday morning, and Los Angeles police officers were in the second day of an anti-gang sweep their supervisors have named “Operation Hammer.” From Saturday night through Sunday morning, about 250 officers moved through crime-heavy neighborhoods, seeking to “put pressure” on gangs, said Deputy Chief William Rathburn. The operation, reviving a show-of-force tactic that debuted last year, by late Sunday had resulted in 221 arrests of gang members. But Operation Hammer differs from the big sweeps last year, when Chief Daryl F. Gates declared war on “rotten little cowards.” Last summer, 1,000 officers were deployed on the streets and paid overtime; this time there were fewer officers and no overtime …

These periodic weekend operations were perceived as the militarization of the police, what Mike Davis (2006) in City of Quartz describes as the “Vietnam-like neighborhood sweeps and harassments” (vi). The officers were perceived as arresting young black males for petty minor infractions as a bullying tactic. Davis, in his discussion of “A Generation Under Curfew” in the same text, frames this analysis out of a central tenant Chief Gates expressed himself, “I think people believe that the only strategy we have is to put a lot of police officers on the street and harass people and make arrests for inconsequential kind of things. Well, that’s part of the strategy, no question about it” (284). This practice yielded high numbers of arrest over a short period of time. Just one month after Johnson’s story, Los Angeles Time reporter, George Stein (1989), provides more news coverage on the weekend Hammer activity: A Los Angeles Police task force called Operation Hammer arrested 352 people in South Los Angeles over the weekend … The area of the sweep was bounded roughly by the Santa Monica Freeway on the north, Imperial Highway on the south, the Inglewood city limit on the west, and Alameda Street on the east. The weekend sweeps began in early 1988 and were dubbed “The Hammer” by Police Chief Daryl Gates, who said the operation was designed to “make life miserable

Prologue | 33 for gang members” by arresting them and their associates for both major and minor offenses. (Los Angeles Times, August 21,)

The way the strategy was deployed helped facilitate a more agile/mobile system to process youth “offenders” and by doing so created a robust database of young black men in Los Angeles County who then were marked for “surveillance” (Davis 2006, 268). These practices were perceived as functioning like a police state and heightened profiling, criminalizing black male bodies. This historic activity is referenced in Straight Outta of Compton (2015), the implications are explored in Michelle Alexander’s The New Jim Crow: Mass Incarceration in the Age of Colorblindness (2010) and Ava DuVernay’s documentary, 13th (2016). The confluence of the socioeconomic and institutional milieu in the 1980s created a perfect storm for a burgeoning matrix of underground economies in Los Angeles and communities across the nation (for gang sets and the like).

Masculinity and 1980’s Artistic Zeitgeist The 1980s zeitgeist reflects an uneasiness with the journey toward a semblance of wholeness, a collective social desire for health and personal well being. Music and cinema explicitly began searching for language to articulate this restlessness in this new political economy of anonymity and consumption (consumerism), its felt psychic violence manifested itself in many ways artistically: (1) 1980s underground hip-hop culture responds to the actionable brutality in their localities with ferociousness, often citing the police practices as unconstitutional, naming “it” and providing an aesthetic vernacular for their lived experience; (2) American cinematic arts responded to a perceived swing to conservatism of the Reagan era in two distinct partisan directions. Specifically, in Hollywood films, there was this bipolar response with a bit of soft nostalgia with coming of age/youth-oriented stories like E.T.: The ExtraTerrestrial (1982), Stand by Me (1986), and this uptick in hypermasculinity (the fetishization of it) in films like Raiders of the Lost Ark (1981), First Blood (1982) (Rambo franchise), The Terminator (1984), Arnold Schwarzenegger’s physique, Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom (1984), and more of the Rocky franchise. By contrast, Martin Scorsese posits stylized antiheros, who are flawed, fragmented, and wrestling to reconstitute a self in the “mean streets” of this new era. And finally, closing out the decade Spike Lee sounds an alarm with Do the Right Thing (1989): “Wake Up!,” exclaims Mister Señor Love Daddy (Samuel L. Jackson), the radio disk jockey in the fictive Bedford-Stuyvesant section of Brooklyn. This call to consciousness seemed to be in the air, especially for young African American men. Los Angeles artists were also exploring the unresolved

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sociopolitical climate in their own communities as well. Rap artists like NWA, Easy E., Ice-T, Ice Cube, and Tupac Shakur (a bit later) speak to the moment and angst of this late 80s/early 90s period. What also surfaces is a rise in black nationalism in Los Angeles. For example, in 1988, Los Angeles activists started the Recycling Black Dollars program that focused on encouraging African American citizens to support local black-owned businesses toward the economic development of urban communities in the Southland. Singleton heard this call too—felt the absence of his voice in the language he loved, cinematic language. After screening Lee’s film, Singleton states, “I was so affected by his movie … I went to my dorm and I just started writing this screenplay. I said I got to come hard for LA. And that’s when it really hit me. That movie, Do the Right Thing, made me write Boyz n the Hood” (LA Film Fest, 2011). From an early age he dreamed of making a film about his community. He saw a gap and wanted to fill it, much like Toni Morrison felt when she graduated from college and did not see a reflection of her self in the literary imagination— language. She proposed to fill the gap with her authenticity and earnest dialogical encounter (counter narrative/oppositional gaze), which began as a short text, then later becomes The Bluest Eye (1970) (see Morrison, 1992; hooks 1999); also, like Morrison’s novel, there is no visual presence of a white community and its espoused notions of supremacy (the myth of white supremacy) but the ideological construct and structural dominance is felt. Yet, in its absence it speaks so loud that it is constraining/controlling the community depicted in her fictive town. They, like automatons, willfully respond to the ideology through varying levels of self-hate and melancholy. “Free will” is difficult to find with such preponderance of self-doubt. Still in his teens, Singleton decides to put South Central Los Angeles on the “cinematic” map. His gripping tale speaks of an inarticulable time and space. The fluidity of style and unpretentiousness cuts through the decades and speaks to contemporary issues the nation continues to grapple with (e.g., Black Lives Matter and grassroots social justice activism). Singleton challenges the mythos of the brutal black buck D. W. Griffith constructs through cinematic innovation, as a pioneer of multicamera setups and continuity editing. His historic feature film, The Birth of a Nation (1915), catalyzed the resurgence of terror in black communities across the nation while simultaneously catalyzing independent black cinema (see Stokes 2007). Singleton argues that African American males are not synonymous with violent criminality. He suggests that society is violent; poverty or being “black” does not equal violence. He suggests

Prologue | 35 something more pernicious is at work in these communities. He tacitly evokes a gothic absurdism, a setting (of time and space) that presses people into things, phantoms (evoking Ellison’s IM). Boyz N the Hood’s Dough Boy (Ice Cube) is a social construction—a by-product, a self-creation of a violent society that mythologizes white supremacy. He is a concretized manifestation of the horror and pain of such terror. Singleton argues that Dough Boy is an invention. He is a refraction of the ilk that breathed life into the inflammatory representation evoked by Griffith’s Birth of a Nation. His sullen disposition matches his brooding heart. Dough Boy’s presence reifies the controlling myths this nation is so evidently still gripped by. This lonely young man full of self-loathing is fictive, yet reverberates in the nation’s imagination and has real-world consequences. Akin to Ellison, Singleton posits that these men function in and through invisibility.

Invisibility: Nihilism and the Paraphernalia of Suffering Finally, in response to the chilling reality of the Southland, Singleton finds a way to speak with a new vernacular in cinema. His authentic expression embodies a contemporary experience—a coherence that ironically posits fragmentation and alienation in contemporary late capitalism, the manifestation of death to self (and not Ellison’s version of it), a contemporary IM protagonist seeking deliverance from his unreality. Although his text is not adroit at exploring intersectionality and posits female characters narrowly, Singleton is astute. He takes Chief Gates’ illegible, invaluable, “rotten little cowards”—the no bodies—and puts flesh on their indivisibility, puncturing the status of illegibility. The audience reads Dough Boy, Tre, and Ricky like a good book. Singleton draws the spectator into this intimate space and emotes a reality. He makes these young men legible (with an identity, a life) in their struggles and Dough Boy’s tacit brokenness. What Gates fails to see and understand is their suffering. Singleton understands and he reveals that Dough Boy does not fully comprehend the depth of his pain of rejection, but we witness it and come to “know” what it looks like and feels like. In reality, these young black men, in particular, held on the fringes of society disproportionately, desire to join society with legitimacy and in this case by any means necessary. This choice to sacrifice one’s own life while striving to gain mainstream legitimacy is a trope in literature and in film. Typically, this desire is usually depicted as a “positive” example, but nonetheless the young black male’s fate even in these cases still end in death, symbolically and/or literally. Take

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for instance, Claude McKay’s (1922), “If We Must Die.” The speaker of the poem muses over the value of the way one dies: If we must die—let it not be like hogs Hunted and penned in an inglorious spot, While round us bark the mad and hungry dogs, Making their mock at our accursed lot. If we must die—oh, let us nobly die, … What though before us lies the open grave? Like men we’ll face the murderous, cowardly pack, Pressed to the wall, dying, but fighting back! (53)

The speaker of the poem argues that death is inevitable; however, despite this overwhelming “truth” of being outnumbered, the possibility of victory can still be obtained: by choosing to die valiantly. Since this strength of character is valued by the dominant group, as a controlling ethos, this same group would be held accountable to honor any one who fights courageously, even an enemy (e.g., 1995’s Tuskegee Airmen and 1989’s Glory). The films that use this trope are often loosely based on a historic group or figure. African Americans have been, for a few hundred years, trying to speak themselves into existence: to cite two of the earliest examples James Gronniosaw’s Narrative of the Most Remarkable Particulars in the Life of James Albert Ukawsaw Gronniosaw in 1770 (expresses his desire to hear books “talk” to him as he witnessed the books talk to his white captor) (see Gronniosaw 1999) and in 1789, Olaudah Equiano’s The Interesting Narrative of the Life of Olaudah Equiano, or Gustavus Vassa, the African. So the desire to participate in the dominate value system is not new—it has just transmogrified into something imperceptible perhaps, but at the root is the same unction. In the contemporary context, these young men seek to acquire a “readable” social identity, an identity that mimics the perceived accepted dominant norm, that at times includes the fetishization of “masculinity” and its concomitant centrality to a participatory democracy and consumer culture that often includes forms of violence. Like a modern-day gangster does in films, these young men (and women) long to find their voice through the capitalistic norms of consumption and the fetishization of objects. In my critical perspective on Good Hair (2009), I make a similar resonant point. I argued that Good Hair reveals what Nathanael West (2009) describes as the “paraphernalia of suffering” (30)—what he deems as the fetishization of objects:

Prologue | 37 Good Hair in fact reveals a symptom of the problem … It reveals what Nathaniel West called the “paraphernalia of suffering,” the fetishization of objects. In West’s Miss Lonely Hearts, he explores the nihilism associated with the great depression and dehumanization born of capitalism. For West it is the web of relationships that functions perniciously, especially among the oppressed. Consequently, nihilism is overcome only by transcending this state of being with material goods, “stuff.” According to Diane Long Hoeveler, West is positing the claim that “all of us are used goods, that all of us are involved in an exchange system in which we are forced to barter ourselves to the highest bidder, that all of us are rejected or extraneous objects seeking some sort of system to give us meaning and value.” Although West primarily explores human pain and alienation in terms of its relationship to poverty and impotence, I will use his poignant and evocative observation to provide a framework for the conversation about Good Hair. The “paraphernalia of suffering” describes the objects and practices associated with the pursuit of Western constructs of beauty, namely Eurocentric hair styling and hair texture. Rock’s documentary speaks the unspeakable. The reality is that the black community is still struggling with self-love, especially as it relates to seeing, knowing, and experiencing beauty on its own terms. Furthermore, Good Hair begs the question whether this kind of exploration of aesthetics of beauty in the black community is really of any value since it is tied to malignant ideology and the global economy—ideology that reifies black inferiority. Good Hair uncloaks the degradation of this relentless and unattainable pursuit of white constructs of beauty without critically engaging them. Hair weaves and particular hair styling has become a fetish, an emblem of this pursuit. What is actually on the market is the western notion of beauty, which can never be procured. The documentary reveals how consumers—consumers of an intangible construct that perniciously determines self-worth—have produced a multibillion dollar industry. (Carr 2015, 56)

What Boyz N the Hood reveals is disturbing: young people negotiating their “black maleness,” striving for what they can never attain—the status of the idealized American man—yet expressing avarice toward becoming this construct at whatever cost. The subtext argues that black males, in particular, are pressed into “things” in their pursuit of being clothed in “white” masculinity, which includes money, violence, and patriarchy; they strive to participate even if it is through an underground economy and street machismo ethos. These men are responding to their desire for validation. Singleton’s text horrifies and sentimentalizes simultaneously. Boyz N the Hood is protest literature and lyrical storytelling simultaneously. It explores a fine line between a soft expression of social determinism and an express critique of a system that sustains itself through systematic disenfranchisement and caste segregation.

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In Race Matters (1993), Cornel West speaks of this social despair and argues that it is highest among African Americans. Personal will is an important factor in participating in social progress, but there are real barriers that we must contend with as a society which claims to be interested in the humanity of all. West argues that nihilism “increasingly pervades black communities” (22). He explores the contemporary circumstances black communities find themselves in. He notes that traditional paths toward wholeness do not exist in the same way as in the past in African American communities. The ancestral bridge to self-knowledge no longer carries the same survival impulse since those institutions are no longer the center of the familial unit (starting with church, faith) and as such it is difficult to constitute a self, an identity, in such a reality that has no mooring to combat the increasing fragmentation of a market-driven society. He argues that there was once a time when “the genius of our foremothers and forefathers was to create powerful buffers to ward off the nihilistic threat, to equip black folk with cultural armor to beat the demons of hopelessness, meaninglessness, and lovelessness” (West 1993, 23). West’s text posits a contextual frame for Shifting Hollywood Terrain. Dough Boy and the like are a refraction of the society that produced them and their behavior and social structures have a delineated relationship—framed out of an ideological belief system (colonial practices—slavery, Jim Crowism, and contemporary residual systems). Singleton exposes the flip side of American Exceptionalism, the prison industrial complex, and the myth of white supremacy, its malignancy. The subtext evokes the social and historical conditions that forged this community to the fore. His text intimates that social constraints prohibit these young people from having viable space/options to explore their potential. In Boyz, South Central Los Angeles becomes an intimidating presence and this fictive space feels lawless like a noir’s urban setting or Gotham City’s high contrast space that suggests that criminality is pervasive and only fragmented people can exist in this space; in this space self-alienation just happens and beautiful people, families, struggle with/to love. The Southland’s milieu is the aggressive antagonist in this story and hard to destroy since it is so powerful and amorphous. The central protagonist Tre Styles (Cuba Gooding, Jr.) exclaims, “I want to get out of LA … I am tired of this s—t!” Noted by several critics, John Singleton’s searing look at the reality of Los Angeles is unapologetic. Singleton reports that through laughter and tears he wrote this feature in a secluded space on campus while in college, University of Southern California. He manages to turn a stereotypical figure in American pop culture inside out, deconstructing his “dark” body and revealing his humanity and

Prologue | 39 his capacity to love. This text is deeply political, yet creates space for dialogical encounter. Through cinematic language, Singleton invites the spectator to take this journey with these three young men. This journey contributes to the possibility of developing a radical (deep-rooted) consciousness that creates space for transformational learning and social change.

References Bogle, Donald. 2016. Toms, Coons, Mulattoes, Mammies, and Bucks. New York: Continuum. Broun, Hale. 1973. “‘Is It Better To Be Shaft Than Uncle Tom?’ An Interview with Donald Bogle and Roslind Cash.” New York Times, August 26. Carr, Joi. 2015. Encountering Texts: The Multicultural Theatre Project and “Minority” Literature. New York: Peter Lang Publishing, Inc. Carr, Joi. 2013, Winter. “The Paraphernalia of Suffering: Chris Rock’s Good Hair, Still Playing in the Dark.” Black Camera International Journal, BC 5(1):56–71. Cunningham, Vinson. 2016. “Ralph Ellison and Gordon Parks’s Joint Harlem Vision.” The New Yorker, June 5. http://www.newyorker.com/culture/photo-booth/ralph-ellison-and-gordonparkss-jointharlem-vision. Davis, Mike. 2006. City of Quartz.: Excavating the Future in Los Angeles. New York: Verso. Du Bois, W. E. B. 1994. The Souls of Black Folks. New York: Dover. Ellison, Ralph. 2003. The Collected Essays of Ralph Ellison. Edited by John F. Callahan. New York: Modern Library. Ellison, Ralph. 1995a. Invisible Man. New York: Vintage Books. Ellison, Ralph. 1995b. The Shadow and The Act. New York: Vintage. Equiano, Olaudah. 1789. The Interesting Narrative of the Life of Olaudah Equiano, or Gustavus Vassa, the African. New York: W. W. Norton. Fanon, Frantz. 2008. Black Skin, White Masks. Translated by Richard Philcox. New York: Grove Press. Fanon, Frantz. 2005. The Wretched of the Earth. Translated by Richard Philcox. New York: Grove Press. Gottlieb, Robert, Regina Freer, Mark Vallianatos, Pand eter Dreier. 2006. The Next Los Angeles: The Struggle for a Livable City. Los Angeles, CA: University of Southern California. Gronniosaw, James Albert Ukasaw. 1999. “Narrative of the Most Remarkable Particulars in the Life of James Albert Ukawsaw Gronniosaw, An African Prince as Related by Himself.” In I was Born a Slave: An Anthology of Classic Slave Narratives, Volume I, edited by Yuval Taylor, 12. New York: Oxford University Press. Guerrero, Ed. 1993. Framing Blackness: The African American Image on Film. Philadelphia, PA: Temple University Press Philadelphia. hooks, bell. 1999, “The Oppositional Gaze: Black Female Spectators.” In Feminist Film Theory, edited by Sue Thornham, 308–20. New York: New York University Press. Hughes, Langston. 1990. The Collected Poems of Langston Hughes. New York: Vintage.

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Johnson, John. 1989. “Night of the ‘Hammer’: Retaking the Streets of South L.A.” Los Angeles Times (Los Angeles, CA), July 3. http://articles.latimes.com/1989-07-03/local/me-2254_1_operationhammer. King James Version. 1972. New York: Thomas Nelson Inc. Print. Lee, Kun Jong. 1996. “Ellison’s Rac Mason ial Variations on American Themes.” African American Review 30(3):421–40. Mason, John Edwin. 2016. “Gordon Parks and Ralph Ellison: How a Man ‘Becomes Invisible’.” Time, May 20. http://time.com/4328189/gordon-parks-and-ralph-ellison-how-a-man-becomesinvisible/. McKay, Claude. 1922. Harlem Shadows: The Poems of Claude McKay. New York: Harcourt, Brace and Company. Morrison, Toni. 1992. Playing in the Dark: Whiteness and the Literary Imagination. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. Rampersad, Arnold. 2007. Ralph Ellison: A Biography. New York: Vintage Books. Séjour, Victor. 2004. “‘The Mulatto’/‘Le Mulâtre,’ trans. Philip Barnard.” In The Norton Anthology of African American Literature, second edition, edited by Henry Louis Gates Jr. and Nellie Y. McKay. New York: W. W. Norton & Company. Singleton, John. “2011 LA Film Fest: Boyz N the Hood.” Film Independent, June 24, 2011. https:// www.youtube.com/watch?v=VZzom2yh0DQ. Stein, George. 1989. “LAPD Nails 352 in Operation Hammer.” Los Angeles Times, August 21. http://articles.latimes.com/1989-08-21/local/me-652_1_operationhammer. Stokes, Melvyn. 2007. D. W. Griffith’s the Birth of a Nation: A History of the “Most Controversial Motion Picture of All Time”. New York: Oxford University Press. Sweet Sweetback’s Baadasssss Song. 1971. Dir, Melvin Van Peebles. Melvin Van Peebles and John Amos. Zenon Entertainment Group. VHS. Taylor, Clyde. 1996. “New U.S. Black Cinema.” In Movies and Mass Culture, edited by Jon Belton, 242. New Brunswick: Rutgers University Press. Valkeakari, Tuire. 2010. “Secular Riffs on the Sacred: Ralph Ellison’s Mock-Messianic.” In Blooms Modern Critical Views: Ralph Ellison, edited by H. Bloom, 173–99. New York: Bloom’s Literary Criticism/Infobase. Waller, F., H. Brooks, and A. Razaf. 1929. “What Did I Did To Be So Black and Blue [Louis Armstrong] On The Essential of Louis Armstrong [CD].” New York: Columbia/Legacy (1979). West, Cornel. 1993. Race Matter. New York: Vintage Books. West, Nathanael. 2009. Miss Lonelyhearts and e Day of the Locust. New York: New Directions. First published in 1933. Wright, Richard. 1996. “The Literature of the Negro in the United States.” In The Harlem Renaissance 1920–1940, edited by Cary D. Wintz, 428–60. New York: Routledge. Yearwood, Gladstone. 2000. Black Film as a Signifying Practice: Cinema, Narration, and the African American Aesthetic Tradition. Trenton, NJ: Africa World Press, Inc.

1

Singleton’s Cinematic Voice

Figure 1.1:  Portrait of John Singleton. Publicity still portrait of American film director John Singleton, 1995 (Photo by John D. Kisch/Separate Cinema Archive/Getty Images). Reprint by permission. All rights reserved. “We are beautiful. And ugly too.” —Langston Hughes “The Negro Artist and The Racial Mountain” (1926)



“I wasn’t into film to get money. I just wanted to make classic films about my people in a way no one had ever done.” —John Singleton Rolling Stones (September 5, 1991)

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John Singleton functions like a West African griot. His storytelling feels like lore—like a culturally specific yet universal story passed down from generation to generation. He has chosen to be a “truth teller,” a prophetic voice that truths experiential knowledge about his community, like a witness bearer. His aim is to lay bare a reality, its beauty and its ugliness too. His unflinching depictions cause some to grimace while others mourn or possibly judge. He too desires to carry a message, but often refrains from resolving the tension of his paradoxically complex yet stock (social stereotype) depictions. Social typage is relevant and complexifies his narratives. When exploring Baby Boy (2001) in an interview with Patrick Goldstein, Los Angeles Times, they discuss the difficulty of depicting unhealthy people stuck in arrested development onscreen. Singleton says, “I’m just being honest—I’m not wrapping things up in an easy package … It may be dysfunctional, but it’s real.” Authenticity is his mantra and he hopes to deliver it through story organically. He believes in his creative impulse and is unabashedly confident about his ability to tell a good story. He relies on the effect and affect of the oral tradition to create space for his characters to speak their truth. He credits Pulitzer Prize and Tony Award-winning playwright August Wilson for inspiring him to want to write, “August Wilson is the reason I am a writer.” He has an affinity for Wilson’s use of the black vernacular tradition and his facility with language. Singleton considered Wilson his interlocutor and esteems him with high praise: “He’s like Chekov to me. What’s beautiful about him is that he’s so in tune with African American culture, and he’s very much in the tradition of the oral tradition of story-telling … He really has a flair for the language of African Americans and it’s just something that I really have a large affection for … I told him I wished he was my grandfather because I could talk to him about stories and language and playwriting” (Silverman 2009, 77). Singleton and Wilson spent a great deal of time over the years conversing. To be sure, Singleton’s journey to July 12, 1991, his feature film debut, began long before he penned Boyz N the Hood’s first words. Singleton knows film. He studies it closely. He knows the aesthetic lineage of major cinemas around the world and with this knowledge he wants to tell specific stories steeped in the black cultural experience. He is passionate about the art of storytelling and wants to tell culturally specific stories through this uniquely expressive language, hoping to capture spontaneity and create dialogical encounter. His personal story is as unique as the stories he hopes to continue to tell and because of his love for cinema coupled with his natural propensity for an organic style, one cannot hold him to the fire on his pattern of creative choices. he is active and quite open to exploring new ideas.

Singleton’s Cinematic Voice | 43

1991: An Inaugural Breakthrough Year for Black Cinema This is a critical time for black cinema, which, really, is in its infancy. This opportunity brings with it a special responsibility—because a lot of people who are more talented than we were didn’t get a shot at doing this. So it’s important for new black filmmakers to be correct with their craft. If one black filmmaker messes up, the rest of us will be made to feel it. —Spike Lee New York Times Magazine (July 14, 1991)

In a New York Times Magazine article written in July 1991, Karen Grigsby Bates explores the influx of black filmmakers during this period. She references Spike Lee’s exhortation to black filmmakers to hone their craft and honor the legacy of those who were equally gifted yet not allowed to participate in the industry. Lee states, “This is a critical time for black cinema, which, really, is in its infancy. This opportunity brings with it a special responsibility.” Lee makes a significant point. Black filmmakers have only been “allowed” to occupy a narrow space in mainstream American cinema; this art form and potentiality related to black filmmakers is still in its formative period. In the last one hundred years, there are only three periods where black filmmakers can be identified for in-depth study of their active participation in American cinematic arts. Sure, a smattering of marquee actors and filmmakers pepper the periods in between, but by in large the silence is deafening. After the 1920s to 1940s, the black independent film movement led by Oscar Micheaux came to a halt and even after the 1970s creative resurgence catalyzed by Melvin Van Peebles, Gordon Parks, Ivan Dixon, Charles Burnett, and Ossie Davis and others, there was yet another noticeable absence of black filmmakers in independent and commercial American cinema (see Bogle 2016). With more young black creatives seeking undergraduate and graduate education in the early 1980s in cinema arts, a new cluster of filmmakers started a cinematic revolution with Spike Lee credited for leading the way. His critically acclaimed She’s Got To Have It (1986) inaugurated a new era. He inspired a new generation of filmmakers with the quality of his work and the impact of his subsequent works that followed: School Daze (1988) and Do the Right Thing (1989). With Lee’s mesmerizing interpretation of thematic content through a commanding utilization of camera positioning and movement, a self-reflexive mise-en-scène, and a thematically stylized Isaac Hayes-esque score, like Picasso used his paint brush, Lee established his voice through innovation and stormed the bastille breaking the concretized hegemonic rule in mainstream American

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cinema, inaugurating himself as a major in the industry. Shortly after Lee’s debut, others like Robert Townsend and Keenen Ivory Wayans followed. For instance, with his $100,000 movie bank rolled through his personal credit line, Robert Townsend’s satirical Hollywood Shuffle (1987) raised consciousness about the narrowly defined ways actors as late as the 1980s could only sustain a living by participating in contrived imagery that intimated black inferiority and aberrance. Shuffle’s tragic/comic walk through American film history embodies a critique, film historian and scholar, Donald Bogle (2016), explores in a textbook of over four hundred pages: “After the tom’s debut, there appeared a variety of black presences … the coon, the tragic mulatto, the mammy, and the brutal black buck. All were character types used for the same effect: to entertain by stressing Negro inferiority … In the early days when all the black characters were still portrayed by white actors in blackface.” Townsend dared to speak about the elephant in the room at each of his casting calls—what Bogle calls Hollywood’s “blackface fixation”—which compelled him to write his debut screenplay (27). Bogle argues that Heart of Dixie’s (1929) triumph in film history being the “first all-Negro musical … pinpointed the problem that was to haunt certain black actors for the next half century … Directed by whites in scripts authored by whites and then photographed, dressed, and made up by whites, the Negro actor” was forced to participate in performing a construct of the black experience. He continues, “To do so he [the actor] gives not a performance of his own, not one in which he interprets black life, but one in which he presents for mass consumption black life as seen through the eyes of white artists” (27). Townsend’s tale ends by stating, “There is always work at the Post Office.” The narrative’s close is a clarion call to artists to decline this kind of participation in the industry. Then, Keenen Ivory Wayans, with his quirky pastiche parodying style, followed with I’m Gonna Git You Sucka (1988). These three men, among others, through grit and determination cut a path. Their successes caused major studios to begin seeking to finance and distribute more films with this edgy independent film vibe. This new period of feature film production played a crucial role in catalyzing the breakthrough that follows in 1991. Their work and the production activity that follows helped solidify a viable industry for black directors that still evidences new filmmakers joining the ranks each year. At least for now it seems that American cinematic history may never again experience an extended absence without such invaluable contributing voices. What happens next concretized Singleton as a central figure in what critics begin to refer to as the black new wave in cinema. His debut as a first-time director was stunning—a commercial and critical success. With approximately a $6 million budget and about 46 days of shooting, Boyz still came in under budget

Singleton’s Cinematic Voice | 45 and grossed $57–60 million domestically and $100 million worldwide, making it the most profitable movie of 1991, considering its low-budget/high-profit ratio margin. And frankly, on the other hand, one has to admit that Singleton was actually an anomaly for the time period. What first-time young black screenwriter, not too many years out of his teens, gets funded and distributed by a major studio to direct his first feature? Yet, his success started a flurry of activity in the industry. Studios started scouting for similar products; some called this effect “the Singleton thing.” This new interest in urban narrative by studios signaled a radical shift for young black screenwriters and directors. Grigsby Bates (1991) explains that “the Singleton thing” became the common “Hollywood parlance” to refer to “Hollywood’s sudden open-door policy toward black filmmakers, particularly those telling black stories.” She states that in 1991 “several studios—among them Warner Brothers, Columbia, Goldwyn, New Line, and Island World” all had “black films in the pipeline.” By the end of 1991, nineteen films were released which surpassed “more than in all of the previous decade.” She humorously surmised that Singleton’s success caused a “frenzy for black product … so great that black film properties may be to the nineties what the cell phone was to the eighties: every studio executive” had “to have one.” However, in Framing Blackness: The African American Image on Film, Ed Guerrero (1993) believes Singleton’s unparalleled success ushered in a new business model for the industry: “Singleton’s film has fulfilled Hollywood’s low-budget, high-profit black production formula beyond the industry’s wildest expectations, becoming the most commercially successful black film ever” (182). Boyz is also credited for being the first major studio film to be funded and distributed that featured an all-black cast in an urban Los Angeles setting. Indeed, Boyz cemented Singleton’s future in the industry while simultaneously opening the doors for others to join the fray, although some might question under what conditions. Though John Singleton initially set out to be an indie filmmaker, his debut with Boyz created space for him to continue his creative trajectory on his own terms in the commercial arena. His classical Hollywood form inspired many to follow him into the arena.

Spotlight: 1991 Releases This list provides a reference for the year and is not exhaustive. The months indicate the initial U.S. theatrical release and does not include film festival releases and initial limited regional releases.

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1991 Release

Director

Studio

Straight Out of Brooklyn

Director/Writer: Matty Rich

Samuel Goldwyn (June)

New Jack City

Director: Mario Van Peebles

Warner Brothers (March)

The Five Heart Beats

Director/Writer: Robert Townsend

Fox (March)

Talkin’ Dirty After Dark

Director/Writer: Topper Carew

New Line (March)

A Rage in Harlem

Director: Bill Duke

Miramax (May)

Jungle Fever

Director/Writer: Spike Lee

Universal (June)

Hangin’ with the Homeboys

Director/Writer: Joseph B. Vasquez

New Line (April)

Boyz N the Hood

Director/Writer: John Singleton

Columbia Pictures (July)

Livin’ Large!

Director: Michael Shultz

Samuel Goldwyn (September)

House Party 2

Directors: G. Jackson/D. McHenry

New Line (October)

Strictly Business

Director: Kevin Hooks

Warner Brothers (November)

True Identity

Director: Charles Lane

Touchstone (August)

Daughters of The Dust

Director/Writer: Julie Dash

Kino International (December)

Establishing His Voice as a Filmmaker: John Singleton A Student of Cinema: A Precocious Nine-Year-Old?



What real filmmakers do is they study films, the study of their craft. No matter how much success they encounter, they are always in the process of studying. Nobody is an expert in filmmaking. Anyone who tells you … is lying. I’m a student. —John Singleton Time (March 23, 1992)

Singleton’s Cinematic Voice | 47 John Singleton is on the record about how he came to establish his voice in cinema. This book is indicative of that. But, what one might find unusual about his story is that it started quite early for him. He became a student first (and still is). He had no camera or any other extraneous equipment in tow, but what he did have was his imagination and an abundance of intellectual curiosity. Singleton is a bit of an anomaly in this area too. He knew he wanted to be a filmmaker early in life and chose even in his leisure to be a student of the craft with whatever resources he had readily available. In this case it sometimes meant watching films out of his mother’s apartment window. This self-described “latchkey kid” lived near a drive in theater, the Century Drive, a 1949 landmark theater in Inglewood, CA, that boasted of a 180 foot × 62 ½ foot, single Cinerama screen that set 25 feet off the ground. This magnificent treasure provided him countless hours of free screenings. He would look out of their apartment’s adjacent window watching movies without being able to hear a sound (Alexander 2009, 148). He loved movies and the art form as a practice long before he attended college at the University of Southern California to study screenwriting. He is clear about the moment when he chose film or maybe when it chose him. When Singleton was nine years of age, his father, Danny Singleton, took him to see Star Wars (1977). He thought he was going to see Herbie Goes to Monte Carlo (1977) by Disney at the Grauman’s Chinese Theater on Hollywood Boulevard, but his father surprised him with Star Wars (Alexander 2009, 148). He recalls, “We stood in line for over an hour and when the movie came on it was Star Wars. Man, the visuals were so strong—the whole movie was just amazing” (Goldstein 1991, 10). He continues to recall this formative experience in summer 1977: I remember the star cruiser coming down chasing a smaller ship and firing at it, and that was the defining moment for me. That’s when I decided I wanted to be a filmmaker. I saw Star Wars about a dozen times over the next three years, and because I saw the movie again and again and again. I began to break down how a film was made. I learned that a film had to be written, shot, and edited … At the time, I knew nothing about Black pioneers like Gordon Parks, Melvin Van Peebles, or Michael Shultz, whom I admire … I only knew about George Lucas and Spielberg. (148)

The sheer pleasure and whimsical nature of his initial experience with Star Wars made him an immediate student of the craft and from elementary school to junior high school he made animatic storyboards. In his leisure he would draw a series of the same image on paper—one image at a time slightly shifting the drawing to simulate movement, “little animated films on paper.” He soon enlisted a friend who was a better drawer to help him. He says, “My friend Aaron Spears and I would do this all the time” (Alexander 2009, 148).

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By the time he started studying film formally in college, he had accumulated quite a bit of knowledge in film history and aesthetic practices. This social capital kept him focused on his need to excel and find his artistic point of view as a writer. Right after high school he took an 8mm cinematography class at Pasadena College and used filmic equipment for the first time and then began shooting (Alexander 2009, 150).

His College Experience to Feature Director Any fool can figure where to point the camera. But you have to have a story to tell. —John Singleton Time (March 23, 1992)

Singleton explains that his college experience shaped him—made him tougher and even more focused. He was determined to excel and knew he was a gifted writer and made sure his output evidenced that reality. In a 1992 Times article well after the release of Boyz, his mother, Shelia Morgan-Ward, who was a pharmaceutical company sales executive at the time, comments on Singleton’s disposition, “John takes pride in who he is,” and his father, a mortgage broker at the time Danny Singleton adds, “The confidence is in the genes” (Simpson 1992). Simpson begins the article by framing Singleton in the flurry of activity she noticed surrounding his immediate and immersive introduction to fame. She assesses that “the calls you receive are a barometer of [one’s] importance” and it seems that this young man who felt isolated from his peers in college was now receiving “calls to schedule interviews” and meetings with the White House, the Today Show, and director Francis Coppola. Right after his summer course at Pasadena College, Singleton started his first year at the University of Southern California in the Filmic Writing Program. He opted for writing since he believed getting a studio feature as a director was probably not a possibility. He won three coveted student awards: two Jack Nicholson awards, in 1989 and 1990, for best feature length screenplay and the Robert Riskin Award for screenwriting in 1989. Singleton’s tenacity and finesse in networking would prove to be an asset. He secured several internships with reputable industry companies. At nineteen years of age, he landed his first paying industry job on PeeWee’s Playhouse as a production assistant/security guard. There he met Laurence Fishburne, who periodically spent moments with him on the stage during breaks. He also landed a TV Directing Internship with The Arsenio Hall Show (Goldstein 1991, 10). While doing what he termed “grunt” work as an intern and production assistant, he realized he was not going to just get handed a script from a studio to direct a major feature.

Singleton’s Cinematic Voice | 49 He states, “I learned at an early age that I was going to have to take my career into my own hands and control my destiny as a filmmaker” (64). And in fact, his internship at Columbia Pictures, as a script reader, would change his life. He read scripts and did coverage on them. Singleton’s persistence eventually helped him get his Boyz script in the right hands, Stephanie Allain, a creative executive at the time. But in the meantime, the script passed through several hands. First, Karen Teicher, the internship program coordinator at Columbia, read two of his scripts Twilight Time and Boyz N the Hood. She thought his work had merit and shared the scripts, but did not get any traction. She then helped John secure meetings with Creative Artist Agency (CAA) and William Morris with hopes of helping him get talent representation. During his first meeting with CAA he was offered representation. He signed CAA in his senior year at USC, with Bradford W. Smith (who later joined Singleton’s New Deal Productions) (Alexander 2009, 153). The next few Boyz script reads happened around the same time. For instance, Russell Simmons, music mogul, also received the script and was interested in producing it. During this time Orion also read the script and sent coverage on the script stating the writer had “no talent” and “the dialogue was bland” while Columbia’s coverage stated “in the hands of a good director, this could be a very great film” (154). He said during this time in college he felt empowered despite feeling alienated by his peers: “I’m in film school and I got an agent! The top agency in Hollywood.” He continues, “That was my attitude … I had to prove something … I had to prove that our stories were worth something and that was a combination of what was going on in hip-hop at the time” (Alexander 2009, 154). At this same time Stephanie Allain read the script and felt compelled to advocate for it. Allain became the catalyst at Columbia to usher Singleton into executive meeting with Frank Price, Chairman, and Michael Nathanson, Executive Vice President of production, to ink the deal. In a Los Angeles Times article in 1991 Price states about Singleton’s script, “I thought John’s script had a distinctive voice and great insight. But when we met, I was really impressed. He’s not just a good writer, but he has enormous self-confidence and assurance. In fact, the last time I’d met someone that young with so much self-assurance was Steven Spielberg. We had John do some test scenes with several actors and they turned out so well that I became completely convinced—I thought he’d do a terrific job as director” (Goldstein 1991, 4). I will return to Allain’s comments about the script and the production process in a later chapter. She was and still is a close collaborator with Singleton and is always cited as the integral force behind Boyz’s journey to the theater. Fortunately, Singleton knew the best thing he could do for his career included getting as many people in the industry as he could to read his scripts: “I always feel like

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the cheapest way to make a movie is to write it. The hardest thing to do, besides write a great screenplay, which is hard—it’s like climbing Everest. The second hardest thing to do—the next mountain to climb—is to get somebody to actually read [it]” (Austin Film Festival). Within six months of starting as an intern at Columbia Pictures, he went from script coverage to becoming a feature film director for a major Hollywood studio. He snagged a multipicture exclusive deal with Columbia over three years, from 1991 to 1994. Ironically, before Boyz, his directing experience consisted of two 8mm student films. For Singleton, the art of the deal included tenacity, confidence, and communication skills—and language is, of course, his primary artistic medium.

Finding Specificity in His Voice Cinematic artists who wish to have a modicum of success must find a point of view and this work is often described as the most difficult part of the filmmaking craft. Singleton was conscious of his voice, but had not yet landed with a particularity uniquely his own. In “On Becoming a Writer,” Ralph Ellison explains that his writing helped him explore his existential questions. He asserts that his fiction writing created space for him to explore his questions in an explicit way. He states, “fiction … became the agency of my efforts to answer the questions: Who am I, what am I, how did I come to be? What shall I make of the life around me[?] … How [to] confront the snarl of good and evil which is inevitable? What does American society mean when regarded out of my own eyes, when informed by my own sense of the past and viewed by my own complex sense of the present?” (2003, 59). Ellison’s reflection reveals that his desire was to speak and explore from an authentic place and in doing so the process itself could be life affirming for him. Singleton did and still does just that. He allowed his exploration of the medium point him in a direction which landed him where he spent most of the time, home: South Los Angeles. Like with Star Wars, it is yet another encounter with a film and filmmaker’s voice that inspires his own aha moment related to his voice. It was Do the Right Thing (1989) and Spike Lee. After screening the film, Singleton realized he too had a distinct point of view, which was his own experience in Los Angeles, specifically South Central. He admired Spike Lee’s clarity of voice related to Brooklyn, NY, and realized that he too had such clarity about his own personal journey in Los Angeles. As an aside, after screening a film by happenstance, Singleton saw Lee in the theater lobby marketing one of his films. Singleton took a moment to introduce himself. This conversation forged an artistic connection and friendship. Singleton’s admiration for Lee’s work helped him solidified the initial trajectory of his career.

Singleton’s Cinematic Voice | 51

Figure 1.2:  Directors John Singleton and Spike Lee attending the New York premiere of Boyz N the Hood on July 8, 1991 at Loew’s Astor Plaza Theater in New York City, New York. Courtesy of Getty Images (Photo by Ron Galella, Ltd./WireImage). Reprint by permission. All rights reserved.

While in college the two stayed in touch and Singleton began considering Lee a mentor. At Cannes 1991, both Singleton and Lee debuted with Boyz N the Hood and Jungle Fever. Lee’s work received special mention by the Ecumenical Jury (that honors works that “reveal the mysterious depths of human beings through what concerns them). Lee’s work also won the Best Supporting Actor category for Samuel L. Jackson. Singleton, in an interview, speaks of this time at Cannes: Spike and I went to dinner the first night … and later had lunch … we’d only known each other on the periphery before, because I was in school and he was doing his thing … We had a kind of mutual admiration because we both went to film school … I have a natural admiration for what he’s accomplished, and it was really cool for us to sit down and talk candidly back then. At that time, he was like a big brother to me, and I would say, I want to grow up and be like you. (Alexander 2009, 157)

They decided to consciously forge a brotherhood and support one another’s work in whatever meaningful way they could. Singleton’s respect for Lee’s work and accomplishments motivated him to make Los Angeles a central part of his storytelling. Singleton believed the LA landscape had plenty of questions that begged to be explored and he wanted to bring them to life cinematically.

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Singleton considers himself a writer first and a director out of creative necessity. He believes directors have the power to bring a vision to fruition and early on he was unwilling to hand over his script to someone else to impose his or her horizon on it (interpretation through personal effective history) (Gadamer 1998). For instance, when offered an initial deal for Boyz, Singleton was unwilling to consider that option as even a remote possibility: “In the business you get hired for your vision, and your vision begins with your script. I’m a writer first, and I direct in order to protect my vision. Boyz is a good story, a real story, and they wanted it. Simple as that” (Grigsby Bates 1991). He was concerned about his story rather than monetary compensation. He wanted to keep the film’s cinematic world tied to his own lived experience. In the same interview with Bates, Singleton unapologetically retorts, “It’s my story, I lived it. What sense would it have made to have some white boy impose his interpretation on my experience?”

Figure 1.3:  John Singleton and Laurence Fishburne on Boyz set. Lobby Card. Courtesy of Getty Images. Reprint by permission. All rights reserved.

In fact, Stephanie Allain, who now primarily spends most of her creative time as an independent film producer, believes her experience with Singleton provided

Singleton’s Cinematic Voice | 53 training grounds for her steady collaboration with auteurs currently. Out of that experience, she came to understand her role as a creative producer more holistically. She experientially knows the value of safeguarding narrative vision and the resultant possibility of critical and box office success. She reflects on this collaboration in a recent interview for the Producers Guild of America. She asserts, “John Singleton taught me how to be a producer for writer-directors, because he was so fierce in protecting his vision—and he was right. It really taught me the power of the auteur and how to protect that vision as a producer” (McMahon 2015). Singleton’s interest in cinema never wavered with each educational opportunity, from elementary school to high school, where he spent a year in the valley, to matriculating as an undergraduate at USC. Whenever he recalls difficult moments as a teen during this time, he seems to express that he derived power from them—moments of alienation seemed to embolden him. He managed to cultivate creative interests with a couple of friends even when he experienced “culture shock” from being bused to a San Fernando Valley high school. He said of this uncomfortable experience he learned that he needed to fortify his mind. He shares his response to that experience in an interview for Premiere with Martha Southgate. He explains that after that experience he said to himself, “[I will] never [again] let an environment f— with my self-esteem. I’m stronger than that.” Southgate asked where he felt that resolve came from, “what allowed him to come out whole.” He answered, “My mother was a strong black woman; my father was a strong black man. Even though they never married, they made sure that I came up right” (1993).

Singleton’s Cinematic Style Singleton’s work with Boyz is out of a specific context which I explore extensively socio-culturally in the Prologue and the rest of the book. In this section I will provide some stylistic elements that are present across his filmography. I will use Boyz in some instances to provide examples of some of his practices.

Classical Hollywood Narrative Singleton is a child of classical Hollywood narrative form, yet he turns it on its head on a shoestring budget. To be sure, his habit of watching films without being able to hear the audio provided a valuable education. I can image him lost in the fictive worlds following each narrative at every turn, frame by frame.

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His narratives are linear and he rarely deviates from a realist mode of screen reality. S. Craig Watkins (1998), in Representing: Hip Hop Culture and the Production of Black Cinema, examines how Singleton reimagines the hood in cinematic space. Watkins explains that: Singleton’s authorial style demonstrates a commitment to the basic esthetic and narrational principles that govern classical cinema. The classical style is mostly characterized by its paradigmatic organization and obedience to a historically constrained set of more or less likely options. Singleton’s affinity for classical cinema, however, does not necessarily preclude the possibility of devising a representational politic that bears the marks of ideological struggle. (213)

In Boyz, Watkins argues that Singleton is able to develop a “subtle but informed” theme that suggests “entrapment.” This accumulations of the linear conception of time becomes important by the end of the narrative. I argue that this accumulation over time begins to functions in a pathetic mode, educing a tone, feelings related to vulnerability, sadness, and/or pain. The linear progression of the characters’ experiences in the story amplifies the metanarrative associated with the mythos of the urban community depicted in the film which also adds an extratextual layer to the filmic experience. This redoubling effect and affect accumulates over the fictive story time and space which aids in compressing the experience of the characters and the viewer’s perception of that experience. As a result, the movement toward an inevitable resolution becomes aggressive. This modality in Boyz suggests that there may be a cyclical nature to the communal experiences with violence and feelings of alienation. Time and setting in this case suggests a generational cycle of such hardship. The story itself then becomes a tale with generational implications through his linear storytelling style. Though the typical expressions of the black aesthetic tradition are not literally present (e.g., temporal distortions, flashbacks), the subtext related to time and space has the same effect as repetition, polyrhythms, call and response, the moan and shout, and the notion of double consciousness. The trajectory of the story as it unfolds becomes a contemplative space for the spectator (rather than an ancestral space for affirming identity reflection and formation). The startling reality day after day has a tonal impact characteristic of a social realist film (Diawara 1993). Boyz, for instance, obviously is a sociopolitical text, yet exploits its linear film form to engage in an oppositional aesthetic practice (through its accumulation of affect in/through narrative content).

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Blend of Fictive and Documentary Realism: Cassavetes-Esque Style In Singleton’s use of classic narrative storytelling the breadth and depth of ideological complexity is always functioning in the subtext of the narrative. Singleton’s style of shooting organically allows for a more spontaneous developing of story spatially. Singleton’s approach to shooting is reminiscent of independent film pioneer of cinéma vérité, John Cassavetes (his blend of fictive and documentary style). Cassavetes choice to shoot on location and often in motion with the flow of dramatic action connotes fluidity and a tenor of realism. His improvisational style makes it difficult for spectators to be able to differentiate between intentional and organic aspects of mise-en-scène. In Singleton’s case, for instance, there are moments while shooting Boyz on location organic elements in the environment were captured that enriched the story. Singleton welcomed these natural occurring moments during takes and as a practice whenever filming he tries not to have a rigid outline for capturing every shot (although he is quite intentional about the purpose and the kind of camera positioning/movement). He does not seem to be a fan of artificiality and stylized camera movement. He opts for tracking shots that follow movement in a scene. His intent is to place the script at the center of the process and allow it to drive the production choices toward narrative meaning.

Self-Reflexivity Singleton does typically use the opening title sequence and/or opening establishing shot for thematic expression. He breaks from classic narrative conventions for a more thematic effect by using loose causality or some other audio/visual explicit fragmentation or distortion. For example, Boyz N the Hood starts with an opening audio montage as it bridges subsequent title cards and transitions to the first shot of the film. This opening sequence in operation breaks the forth wall—the fictive stance—for didactic purposes. This initial sequence sets an explicit frame through which the spectator engages the rest of the narrative. Baby Boy (2001) has a similar effect with voice over narration and symbolic imagery of a man in his mother’s womb.

Character Centric Narratives “Character always. I let character dictate my story,” Singleton said adamantly in an interview for Movie Makers with Erich Leon Harris (2000, 17). Characters are

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at the center of his stories; each choice he makes in film form is usually motivated to explicate some aspect of a character’s psyche. As a screenwriter, Singleton strives to develop complex central characters, who each have an inner life that you can “feel.” Their temperament and concomitant behavior is plausible even if they are “deviant.” Singleton’s characters are not found on the proverbial shelf in a narrowly defined “square box” sitting on the shelf waiting for actors to perform as prescribed by stereotypical conventions that espouses black inferiority (Bogle 2016). He develops characters from the inside out—fleshed out people with depth and a complex psychology. He is concerned with the controlling attitudes and beliefs underneath the behavior characters display. His supporting characters also have complex presentations that the story may or may not explore, but add texture to the narrative. His typical practice is to present a range of character types and even with his use of stock characters, he hopes to reveal their humanity in some way.

Zeitgeist Leitmotif: Function of Score Singleton is a hip-hop filmmaker, a child of hip-hop and resonates with its voice: its power, bravado, agency, political sensibilities, and imagination. He aims to construct the aural quality of his scores to suggest a particular ethos and state of mind. He seeks to capture the spirit of the age through tone/mood (whether it’s symphonic or otherwise). In a Rolling Stones interview in September 1991, he explains the interconnectedness of the relationship between film, music, and culture. He asserts that “music reflects the condition of the culture. Film is an extension of the music” (Light 1991). His early films cinematically operationalize a hip-hop ethos and functions thematically as leitmotif, at times as an explicit or implicit refrain. Singleton emotes the angst and feeling of constraint articulated in the early underground hip-hop movement that had not yet become mainstreamed in the late 1980’s. In fact, music is a central part of his creativity. He strives to express the mood and tone of films like soul music, to capture the essence of its emotive quality cinematically.

An Actor’s Director As a director, Singleton is interested in empowering his actors with the space and confidence they need to deliver authenticity and he enjoys working with new talent. He is most interested in the ethos of his characters and cast with this priority in mind. While at USC he explored acting himself. He thought it would

Singleton’s Cinematic Voice | 57 make him a better director. He thought it would hone his communication skills. In fact, during this experimental phase of the craft, he went out on casting calls and actually booked a role in a Burger King commercial while in school. During preproduction of Boyz N the Hood, he continued taking an acting class. He shares this insight about the value of learning how to communicate with actors, stating learning the craft “help[s] me as a director to learn how to communicate with actors. Because creating rapport with actors is all about communication. And that communication can be verbal or it can be non-verbal” (Silverman 2009, 67). He recalls working with Laurence Fishburne (Furious Styles in Boyz) and the valuable anecdotal information he provided about Francis Ford Coppola’s style of working with actors on set (Alexander 2009, 152).

Filmmaker Highlights The following highlights about writer-director, John Singleton, come from a range of articles and magazine editorials. This list is not exhaustive, but does represent significant artists that he has indicated has had an impact on him as a young filmmaker. As an ardent student of film, his tastes are wide-ranging and his affinity shifts artistically based on his creative focus at any given time.

Inspirations/Artistic Influences John Cassavetes Federico Fellini Francis Ford Coppola Alfred Hitchcock John Huston Akira Kurosawa Spike Lee George Lucas Gordon Parks Steven Spielberg Martin Scorsese François Truffaut Orson Welles August Wilson

Various artists: Soul Music and Hip-Hop To cite a few Soul artists: Al Green Aretha Franklin Marvin Gaye

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References Alexander, George. 2009. “Why We Make Movies: Black Filmmakers Talk about the Magic of Cinema.” In John Singleton Interviews, edited by Craigh Barboza, 147–62. Jackson, MI: University Press of Mississippi. Bogle, Donald. 2016. Toms, Coons, Mulattoes, Mammies, and Bucks. New York: Continuum. Diawara, Manthia. 1993. “Black American Cinema: The New Realism.” In Black American Cinema, edited by Manthia Diawara, 3–25. New York: Routledge. Ellison, Ralph. 2003. The Collected Essays of Ralph Ellison. Edited by John F. Callahan. New York: Modern Library. Gadamer, Hans-Georg. 1998. Praise of Theory. Translated by Chris Dawson. New Haven, CT: Yale University Press. Goldstein, Patrick. 1991. “His New Hood is Hollywood.” In John Singleton Interviews, edited by Craigh Barboza, 3–11. Jackson, MI: University Press of Mississippi. Grigsby Bates, Karen. 1991. “They’ve Gotta Have Us.” New York Times, July. Guerrero, Ed. 1993. Framing Blackness: The African American Image on Film. Philadelphia, PA: Temple University Press Philadelphia. Harris, Erich Leon. 2000. “The Shafting of John Singleton.” In John Singleton Interviews, edited by Craigh Barboza, 112–20. Jackson, MI: University Press of Mississippi. Hughes, Langston. 1926. “The Negro Artist and the Racial Mountain.” The Nation, June. Light, Alan. 1991. “Not Just One of the Boyz.” Rolling Stones, September. McMahon, Jeffrey. 2015. “The Sweet Spot: Stephanie Allain Stays Independent in the Heart of Hollywood.” Producers Guild of America, June 8. Silverman, Ron. 2009. “American Film Institute Harold Lloyd Master Seminar with director John Singleton.” In John Singleton Interviews, edited by Craigh Barboza, 58–78. Jackson, MI: University Press of Mississippi. Simpson, Janice C. 1992. “Not Just One of the Boyz.” Time, March. Singleton, John. “On Story: 601 John Singleton’s Classic Influences.” Austin Film Festival, April 16, 2016. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9ZgTzCfMzJs Southgate, Martha. 1993. “Boyz II Man.” Premiere, August. Watkins, S. Craig. 1998. Representing: Hip Hop Culture and the Production of Black Cinema. Chicago: University of Chicago Press.

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Boyz N the Hood Shifting the Terrain of Urban Cinema “Increase the Peace”

Figure 2.1:  Writer and Director John Singleton and young actors in 1991. Courtesy of Getty Images (Photo by Aaron Rapoport/Corbis via Getty Images). Reprint by permission. All rights reserved.

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Shifting Hollywood Terrain There is a pantheon of films set in Los Angeles, but very few have been able to capture the emotional presence of a bustling metropolis while maintaining the intimate emotional reality of living in such a sprawling space like screenwriter and director John Singleton. He is cited as one who has peerlessly interpreted this disquieting juxtaposition with critical success in Boyz N the Hood (1991). This film aesthetically defines a genre that many immediately stepped into: Juice (1992), Posse (1993), Menace II Society (1993), Clockers (1995), and Hoodlum (1997). Though set in a contemporary context, the intertextual nature of the story suggests the long-standing effects of displacement due to policy, regulations, and felt institutional powerlessness for those who dwell in an urban environment. Set in South Central Los Angeles, Boyz privileges us with the opportunity to walk with Tre, Ricky, and Dough Boy. The narrative emphasizes time in a particular urban space and through this narrative structure Singleton emotes a reality that seems to argue the cyclical (generational) nature of social problems in this space. The story includes a range of issues the young men and women have to face: teenage pregnancy, drug addiction, youth violence, fatherlessness, and psychological trauma in the home and by those in authority, specifically by police officers. Most importantly, Singleton constructs a “new” reality cinematically for urban space depicted in Hollywood cinema. He audio/visually explicates the ethos of hip hop culture while coding new conventions and expectations for urban stories. This new cinematic terrain evokes a complex psychic reality. Boyz explores the psychic terrain that young black men specifically confront: negotiating negation, invisibility, and black male pathology. The film’s subtext examines the notion of disinheritance. Film scholar, Ed Guerrero (1993), in Framing Blackness: The African American Image on Film, explains that “Singleton’s tale makes it clear … that in occupied territory all paths are closely intertwined, for black people are not seen for what they aspire to; rather, what they are suspected of ” (184). Boyz interrogates the long history of generational anxiety and social injustice. In this film, the community feels isolated and devoid of a communal dialectic that could offer relief, support, and wisdom—in this space there is no room for encounter or even a desire for it (other than Furious Styles’s characterization). Nihilism is at the center of the community for young men like Dough Boy. Young men like him internalize thier pain and heap self-loathing upon themselves. The text suggests that innocent young men become targets of layers of violence and often do not escape its ultimate consequence of death (social, psychic, and/or demise).

Boyz N the Hood  |  61 The opening black frames of the film defines the reality of this “space.” The story is introduced in the context of violence through a sound montage without a visual referent, which Singleton calls a “symphony of violence” (See Chapter 3, 86). The sound mimics something one would see and hear in a news clip. The choice to lead with a black screen causes the audience to fill the visual void on screen with his/her imagination and relationship with such sounds (be it news, entertainment media, or life experience). The sound montage is layered and sets the scene: the audience hears masculine voices identifying someone as a target for violence, then screeching wheels of a vehicle pulling up, gun fire that sounds like an automatic weapon, people screaming and scattering from the scene, a female police dispatcher stating, “a possible 187 at Crenshaw and Century,” then police sirens, an approaching helicopter, and a child’s voice lamenting, “They shot my brother.” In a very brief period of time the setting is established in a tangible way from a sonic perspective without privileging sight. The black screen elicits active participation. In fact, the opening black screen and title cards, according to Singleton, is an homage to Star Wars (1977). Ironically, this opening screen does not scroll text to evoke a mythical tale like Star Wars but, it certainly evokes mythos (beliefs) about a specific community, whose identity is often prescribed in disturbing ways for unsettling socio-political reasons. The use of the black screen and title cards engages the audience’s imagination, critical thinking skills, and heart. Statistics appear on screen in juxtaposition with the violent sounds which makes for a startling reminder of the thin veil between reality and fiction. The first card reads, “One out of every twenty-one black American males will be murdered in their lifetime.” The second title card reads, “Most will die at the hands of a black male,” and is followed by the sound of a single gunshot and then cuts to the first visual: a stop sign. This didactic self-reflexivity breaks the forth wall and signals a call to critical engagement. The audio montage bridging the title cards introduces the social message and calls for communal responsibility. The absence of the visual representation of the violent act along with the stop sign immediately insists that the film will not be about consuming violent spectacle. More importantly, the film will delve into the causes of such acts and plea for an end to such violence through new cinematic language (audio/visual means) and subjectivity. This sequence entices the audience in and then turns the gaze on its head. Instead of consuming violent imagery we meet African American children walking to school. The story in this moment posits an extended first person experience functioning through the oppositional gaze (see hooks 1999). Through this shift, the narrative suggests that the story will be told from their perspective, first person. As a result, the audience is positioned in the counter narrative perspective which disrupts the status quo cinematic story posited about their bodies

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(lives/voice). Boyz creates a new story about the violence through first person voice rather than from the normative gaze—for exploitative purposes and/or for pure consumption (news/media outlets/community outsiders). The uses of regulatory signs create space for contemplation and calls for peace and active participation in caring for these young people’s lives. The visual representation in the film is smooth, contiguous, but the sound design (diegetic ambient sound) punctuates the reality of the space causing discomfort. The child’s voice in the montage suggests that the young man who was shot has value. He was loved. In other words, this point of view and spatial location places the boys at the center of the narrative, on their own turf, on their own terms. They (Tre, Ricky and Dough Boy) become the subjects of this coming-of-age story and we are invited to take a first-hand journey with them. This kind of extended intimate subjectivity breaks new ground for Hollywood cinematic arts. The use of continuity editing, realistic camera positioning, and movement helps construct a tonal disjunction from typical negative social typage. The camera does not judge them. They are free to just exist and speak. The tracking shots and natural camera movement help facilitate a type of reportage, as if the story is in documentary form (explored in Chapter 1—akin to Cassavetes filmmaking style)—the footage feels like it is peering in on the three young men’s lives from day to day. This style posits extended first person POV and subjectivity and this clever aesthetic choice embodies a form of resistance, counter narrative through classic Hollywood cinematic convention. This style rejects racial subornation and hierarchical relationships toward the subjects and posits an active voice and perspective that comes from an insider’s point of view. The audience becomes witness bearers of what follows and as such develop an empathetic relationship from the opening frame. The young men tell their own story and we learn about the minefield they must traverse daily in their “black” bodies (referring to Ellison’s notion of the social construct of “blackness”). In Representing: Hip Hop Culture and the Production of Black Cinema, S. Craig Watkins (1998) states, “Singleton’s development of the entrapment theme is subtle but informed.” The story immediately gets to socialization. He elaborates by stating, “The theme is particularly relevant … The three young males experience social isolation differently. So while Boyz is organized on the basis of the classic ‘coming-of-age tale’ popular in American storytelling, Singleton creates a fictional world that nuances how this popular narrative style is applied to young African America males” (213). In this case, we learn that this neighborhood constructs you—if you are not deliberate and conscious every day. The opening suggests that anyone in this setting, especially children, has to develop critical thinking skills, problem-solving skills, and a temperament that will help one survive such a caustic space that refracts a destructive image of their social identities.

Boyz N the Hood  |  63 This space connotes constriction, no voice/agency, and possibly a fated space functioning in a caste system. The final cut to the classroom scene, in the opening sequence, punctuates this point by positing that the classroom material the elementary children are subjected to frames them in negation. The cut introduces a white female teacher providing course content on the Thanksgiving holiday. This stark shift inside the classroom feels absurd after learning about the children’s community. The lesson about the holiday feels pernicious, like a revisionist tale created to obfuscate the real tragedy of subjugation and violence that historically ensued.

Socialization: In the Home and on the Streets Singleton accomplishes this task by concentrating much of the film on the socialization of the three central characters, Tre, Ricky, and Dough Boy. The audience quickly learns that gunfire and death lurk at every turn. Death is a reality that the children understand and discuss with regularity. The young men know way too much about guns and mortality and consume sites of violence and death as spectacle. We learn that the children gain this knowledge from their parents, siblings, and from “the streets.” Singleton espouses this message by repetitive thematic sequences. This special education seems a natural occurrence in this space. In the first sequence, we walk with the children to school and peer in on their conversation and activity, Tre and his neighborhood friends (Bobby, Trina, and Keisha), all about nine or ten years old. As they head down the street toward school, they discuss what it would be like to be shot. Trina remarks, “My mother say ‘a bullet doesn’t have no name on it.’” Bobby still leading the group responds by saying, “I ain’t afraid to get shot. Both my brothers been shot and they still alive.” Tre answers, “They lucky.” Bobby then later asks, “Y’all want to see something?” They agree and the young boy then leads the group to an alley. The scene immediately cuts to a “one way” regulatory sign as the camera pans down and across the screen to reveal the four children entering an alley way with three more signs looming to the right above their heads, “Wrong Way,” “Do Not Enter,” and “One Way” pointing in the opposite direction. Upon approach to the location the ambient sound (flies buzzing about) and the light music score suggests discomfort awaits. Upon arrival, police yellow barricade tape demarcates the small area signaling it as a crime scene. They approach cautiously, looking at the ground. Trina asks, “Is that blood? What happen?” Bobby retorts, “What do you think! Somebody got smoked! Look at the holes in the wall! You stupid!” Trina defensively responds, “Least I know my times tables! Look why is the blood turning yellow?” Tre answers, “That’s what happens when it separates from the plasma.” The children also begin to view acquiring knowledge

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about violence and death as valuable and as relevant as academic knowledge; Bobby is quite versed on death and guns, but Trina knows her times-tables. It appears young women may have a little more leeway to develop and mature, than men in this environment. In the absence of a body, Tre immediately assumes the person who died was a man as he identifies “all that grey stuff” on the ground as “his brains.” Tre already knows black men in this space are more vulnerable to victimization. The children spend an inordinate amount of time talking about violence and death. This first sequence transitions into the classroom setting. The first three shots are images on a wall that feature children’s drawings: a body in a casket, a police car and a black assailant standing with his hands up, and a helicopter identified as LAPD lurking in the sky with an active spot light. These images are contrasted with a sound bridge of the white female teacher’s voice sharing a sanitized version of the Thanksgiving holiday. This stark contrast critiques the kind of education the students receive in the classroom setting and suggests its inadequacy and irrelevance. Singleton punctuates this message again with another sequence. This one is in the context of play. In their leisure time, the boys consider its reality (death) in their neighborhood a fun taboo adventure rather than understanding its finality. Shortly after Tre moves to his father’s house this scene is repeated with a different group of friends: Dough Boy, Ricky and Little Chris. Chris asks, “Y’all want to see a dead body?” Dough Boy says, “Yes.” On their way down the train tracks they have a conversation about guns. The camera shot is long and wide and then cuts to another shot capturing the boys through the chain link fence parallel to the tracks. As they discuss Tre’s father’s gun Chris shares, “I got a Deuce Deuce. My brother gave it to me before he went inna county jail … Got it under my bed. Wanna see it? It’s loaded too.” They see a dead black male body lying on the ground near shrubbery decaying. Dough Boy asks, “What’s that smell?” Chris answers, “That’s how they smell after awhile. I wonder why it’s taking so long for them to pick him up.” This kind of grotesque spectacle around black male bodies develops apathy toward this kind of body. The children viewing a dead man’s body as spectacle is disturbing and foreboding, a black male body lying among trash is something fun to see. The narrative moves from socialization outside (street ethos) to inside the home. Singleton juxtaposes two distinct styles of child-rearing and argues that the way a child is raised will affect the outcome of his or her life. Furious knows about the dangers of the streets and raises Tre with a stern hand. He is a disciplinarian and stresses the importance of education and much of his time with Tre is focused on teaching him critical thinking skills and the relationship of actions tethered to consequences. On Tre’s first day with his father on a permanent basis, Furious makes Tre spend the entire day raking leaves in the yard. The scene cross fades several shots of Tre raking the leaves as the sun sets. Later that evening Furious tries

Boyz N the Hood  |  65 to comfort Tre by saying, “You may think I’m being hard on you right now. But I’m teaching you how to be responsible.” In a subsequent scene Furious takes Tre to the beach and they continue going over the rules of the house. He asks, “Are you a leader or a follower?” Tre answers, “I’m a leader.” Furious gives him tenets to live by and also teaches Tre to value black men. For instance, after a failed late night robbery attempt in their home, Tre wanted to know if his father “got him.” Tre states, “You should have aimed for his head.” Furious reproves him stating, “Don’t say that. I would only be contributing to killing another brother.” On the other hand, Dough Boy and Ricky are raised in an undisciplined home, an environment where they can come and go as they please. Their mother is doting toward Rick and at times abusive toward Dough Boy. She clearly favors Rick over Darin. In an early scene their mother tells Dough Boy, “You ain’t s—t … You’re just like you’re daddy and you ain’t gonna amount to s—t.” She shows concern for Dough Boy from time to time, but does not offer much by way of discipline or a positive value system. For example, Dough Boy shows early signs of growing up to be a violent perpetrator when he confronts some neighborhood boys who take his brothers football. The older boy punches Dough Boy and kicks him after he falls to the ground. Dough Boy muses quietly, “I wish I could kill that motherf—.” Dough Boy is left with a street ethos since his mother does not provide any intervention. He has a street ethos that will eventually lead him to pull the trigger in revenge of his brother’s death, but Tre, who has been taught to value the life of another, gets out of the car, and returns home in the end. In addition to socialization, Singleton characterizes the community as violent and asserts that despite the positive choices parents and children make, the possibility of the threat of violence still lurks: violence instigated by a peer or a police officer. Consequently, even in daily routine there is the risk of becoming a victim. This knowledge of potential violence and death produces the nihilistic worldview these young men seem to wrestle with (Dough Boy in particular). The casual and unexpected nature of victimization becomes palpable. For instance, on one occasion Tre is returning home from seeing his girlfriend and crosses the street as a car passes. The driver slams on breaks and the rear passenger on the driver’s side points a shotgun at his face and says, “What’s up mark?” Tre braces himself in fear, but this moment turns out to be only an idle threat for the passenger’s amusement—this time. Throughout the narrative young men are called “marks.” This moniker indicates that the black male is prefigured as a potential target. There are other instances in the film where a mere car driving by evokes concern in Dough Boy and his buddies as they sit on the porch in casual activity. In addition, these men are portrayed as being victimized by systemic profiling and police brutality. In the midst of daily routine or social activity the men are at

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risk. Tre and Ricky, now 17 years old, goes to “hang out” on the Boulevard. Ricky accidentally bumps a guy who gets angry and shoots a gun in the air which causes the crowd to scatter. Immediately after this incident, police stop Tre and Ricky for “speeding.” Both men are anxious because they do not know what could occur. The police officers order both men out of the car and the officer on the driver’s side asks Tre, “What set you from?” The police officer assumes the two young men are gang members and pulls out his gun. The officer jams the gun under Tre’s chin and presses the barrow into his flesh. This African American officer (Coffey) is the same person who years earlier told Furious that he should have killed that late night robber, “one less n—’ out here on the streets.” Tre is released by the cops because they receive a call and goes straight to his girlfriend’s house to spend time with her. There he releases his anxiety by fighting the air, throwing his fists while crying. Singleton paints a bleak future for these men and emphasizes their need to carefully negotiate the lurking violence that always seems to be present in their lives.

Function of Score In Boyz N the Hood nobody is rapping, but it’s a hip hop film because it has the political as well as the cultural aesthetic that rings true. —John Singleton Rolling Stones (September 5, 1991)

Boyz N the Hood’s score is primarily symphonic. Singleton wanted the film to have a timeless quality. However, Singleton’s desire was to frame the film out of the ethos of hip-hop culture—the film is an extension of the music’s cultural reso­nance (Light 1991). Ice Cube’s presence in the film evokes the sociopolitical and cultural dimensions of the subculture and keeps that tension in the story’s progression. Because the score uses hip-hop sparsely when the referent appears, the aesthetic cues the audience’s affiliation with whatever knowledge, or lack thereof, they may have of the culture (for pleasure, resonance, or feelings of alienation and/or empathy). Guthrie Rampsey, Jr. (2002) explores this specific notion of Kassabian’s affiliating identifications in “Muzing New Hoods, Making New Identities: Film, Hip-Hop Culture and Jazz Music.” He states, “The connections that perceivers make depend on the relationship they have developed with the songs outside of the context of the film experience” (14). Therefore, whether we hear the music or not, the political implications become apparent. For instance, in Do the Right Thing (1989), Spike Lee uses “Fight The Power” as a thematic leitmotif. Its recurrence throughout the film engenders familiarity with it sociopolitical tenor and guides the audience’s emotional journey with the characters. Rampsey argues:

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Figure 2.2:  Ice Cube as Darin “Doughboy” Baker. Courtesy of Steve Nicolaides. Reprint by permission. All rights reserved. [that] Lee is able to re-encode rap music’s signifying affect during the film’s narrative. Lee can achieve this because he capitalizes on the history of Public Enemy’s reputation outside the use of “Fight the Power” in this film … At the same time, the repetitive hearings of the piece allow us to spill into the assimilating identifications arena. (14)

Lee cleverly creates space for the spectator to shift from outsider in relationship to the political message to insider in relation to character development, thereby the sociopolitical message embodied in the song becomes more relevant to the viewer. This affect is a heuristic process that allows the spectator to discover meaning for himself or herself. The narrative story tethered to the verve of the hip-hop song develops meaning as the leitmotif accumulates with each utterance. Rampsey contends that “the repetitive use of ‘Fight the Power’ allows Lee to manipulate audiences of different subject positions to the musical conventions and political message of the piece” since they have now experienced it “cinematically” (316).

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Singleton in Boyz exploits this affect in a palpable way. With Ice Cube’s presence as Dough Boy in the narrative from childhood, the audience experiences him as subject for an extended period of time and develops an attachment to his desires and feelings. The story itself is taken up by this ethos and the music then becomes serendipity. Ice Cube’s “How to survive in South Central” a song on Easy-E’s, “Easy Duz,” functions as the subtext for the film and comes to a crescendo in the last sequence. The audience feels the tragedy long before it actually occurs at the end of the narrative, yet it’s still tragic nonetheless. Background Score Song “A Bird in the Hand” “Jam on It” “Every Single Weekend” “Growin’ up in the Hood” “Ooh Child” “It’s Your Life”

“How to Survive in South Central” “Just a Friendly Game of Baseball” “Just Ask Me To” “Let’s Go” “Mama Don’t Take No Mess” “Me and You” “Spirit (Does Anybody Care?)” “More Bounce to the Ounce” “Setembro” “Spirit (Does Anybody Care?)” “Sucker M.C.’s” “Sun Shower” “Too Young” “Work It Out”

Performed by Ice Cube Newcleus Kam (written by Ice Cube and Kam) MC Eight The Five Stairsteps Too $hort “Hangin’ Out” by 2 Live Crew, Fresh Kid Ice, and Brother Marquis Ice Cube Main Source Tevin Campbell (Feat. Chubb Rock) Kool Moe Dee Yo-Yo Tony! Toni! Toné! Force One Network Zapp Quincy Jones Force One Network Run-D.M.C. Dr. Buzzards’ Original Savannah Band Hi-Five Monie Love

Song “How to Survive in South Central” “Just Ask Me To” “Mama Don’t Take No Mess” “Growin’ Up in The Hood” “Just a Friendly Game of Baseball” “Me and You” “Work It Out” “Every Single Weekend” “Too Young” “Hangin’ Out” “It’s Your Life” “Spirit (Does Anybody Care?)” “Setembro” “Black on Black Crime”

Artist Ice Cube Tevin Campbell Yo Yo Compton’s Most Wanted Main Source Tony! Toni! Toné! Monie Love Kam The Hi-Five The 2 Live Crew Too $hort Force One Network Quincy Jones Stanley Clarke

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Figure 2.3:  One sheet movie poster, Boyz N the Hood, Columbia Pictures. Courtesy of Getty Images (Photo by John D. Kisch/Separate Cinema Archive/Getty Images). Reprint by permission. All rights reserved.

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Sonic Landscape Singleton employs a specific plan for the sonic landscape of the film and the ambient quality of the film suggests that peace is hard to come by in this ‘hood. For the duration of story time the space is immersed in a cacophony of sonic disruptions: cars passing by, airplanes, helicopters, dogs barking, children playing, and police sirens. The offscreen sound extends the frame and instead of making it feel more expansive, the diegetic clamor causes a feeling of constriction. The mundane nature and its ubiquity creates meaning: sheer sonic chaos without a moment of freedom from its angst educing quality. This effect sends a subliminal message that frames the community as one under duress. The sound of choppers in classic Hollywood cinema usually signifies being immersed in the theater of war. The effect in a community begins to feel foreboding. Singleton adds, “I’ve heard the copters all my life. It’s an incredible kind of psychological violence. It makes you not think in terms of the future, because who knows if you will be around … The only reason I ever thought of the future was because my mom and pops made me think about it. If I’d joined a gang, my pops would’ve kicked my a—” (Goldstein 1991, 5). The sound design’s shifting hierarchy and sound bridges add complexity to the narrative and suggest that the community is under siege. By the end of the narrative it “feels” more violent than it actually is (there are two instances of violence). But everything the audience experiences—the communal and institutional disenfranchisement and alienation—before Ricky’s death, makes that experience all the more disturbing. The subtext of violence is layered and multimodal (visual, audible, and narrative). We learn that each person must stay vigilant in this space. For instance, Brandi (Tre’s girlfriend) is depicted as having trouble studying because of collateral noise in the space and over her community. The sonic quality of the film creates a menacing presence and suggests that the community is under surveillance and in imminent danger.

Dispelling Myth: Landscape and Dialogue In addition to meticulously detailing the psychic violence in the community, Singleton displays the aesthetic aspects of the community to dispel common myths about South Central Los Angeles. Singleton is detailed in his presentation of the landscape. His choice of location shooting visually argues that this community parallels any other urban community in the United States and has just as much potential as any other community. It is not the abyss. Good can come from it.

Boyz N the Hood  |  71 For instance, as Tre’s mother, Reva, drives through the neighborhood on her way to Furious’ house, Singleton takes a sweeping long shot that captures the neighborhood streets. In full daylight, each frame is filled with blue skies and palm trees, she sees children playing and riding bikes, an ice-cream truck passing by, one man watering his grass, a woman working in her flower garden, and row after row of kempt homes. In addition, although all young male characters use colloquial language, Singleton uses the dialogue to reveal the complexity of the characters’ considerations and concerns through the young male characters’ use of colloquial language. These extended conversations demythologize the usual negative social typage associated with black vernacular language. Their language is not reduced to hackneyed, one-dimensional representation. Moreover, in this film each young man has dreams and thinks about important issues in life. For instance, Tre and Ricky always discuss their future plans while walking down the street or driving in Tre’s car. Tre also discusses why he fears having sexual intercourse with his girlfriend Brandy and the shame he feels for lying to his father claiming he is not a virgin. Over a game of cards Dough Boy and Chris discuss how one can contract AIDS and in Dough Boy’s car, Chris asks a theological question about the existence of God and theodicy. The film presents these men as real people, complex young men, arguing that their lives are valuable. Ricky and Dough Boy are not just statistics and simply reporting the news about their deaths is an unethical practice. These young men have families and communities that mourns their death because they experienced their humanity.

Characterization Boyz has a range of character types and each has a unique point of view, concern, and complex emotional life. In addition, they each have an inner life that you can feel in their demeanor and in their behavior. Singleton develops complex characters with rich emotional lives: his or her body and internal motivations drive their behavior (be it aberrant or otherwise). In Boyz, the audience has an opportunity to walk along each young man’s experience and come to know each man’s psyche, their strengths, and their flaws. The spectator comes to understand how their social conditioning and subsequent expectations and behavior cohere and reveal the range of options set in each circumstance/scene. We explore the relationships they have with each other and come to know their perspective on life along with their general disposition. In fact, Singleton reveals Tre, Rick, and Dough Boy’s humanity. The narrative starts when they are about ten years of age and shifts to their late teenage years,

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seventeen years of age. This bird’s eye view of the maturation and daily life provides invaluable insight into their inner life. The first act ends with Dough Boy being handcuffed by police officers as they take him into custody for a juvenile offense then shifts to their late teens for the duration of the story, after his release. From the narrative’s start, the audience can surmise the relative trajectory of the boys’ lives.

Furious Styles (Laurence Fishburne) “Any body can have a baby, but it takes a man to raise a baby.” “Who is it we see getting killed out here every night?! The men! Nothing but brothers!” —Furious In this setting, the actors could easily disappear into speeches or stereotypes, but they don’t; the film’s strength is that it sustains an intimate and realistic tone. Mr. Fishburne, who is called upon to deliver several lectures, manages to do so with enormous dignity and grace, and makes Furious a compelling role model, someone on whom the whole film easily pivots. —Janet Maslin, “A Chance to Confound Fate” The New York Times (July 12, 1991)

Figure 2.4:  Laurence Fishburne (Furious Style), Desi Arnez Hines II (Tre Styles), Angela Bassett (Reva Devereaux). Courtesy of Columbia Pictures. Reprint by permission. All rights reserved.

Boyz N the Hood  |  73 Styles owns a business in financial services and is depicted as a philosopherteacher. He is expressly didactic and spends most of his time speaking to Tre (and to the audience) as an object lesson. He spends each moment with Tre imparting information and wisdom. He seems to view each moment as a “teachable moment.” His dialogue suggests loving communication and affection, along with a desire to inculcate discipline. At his center is a community ethic and he sees even a criminal as a potential brother. Furious has a black nationalist edge and this aspect of his life is not explored in detail. He is depicted as even tempered, reasonable, open to listening, enjoys laughter, and is genuinely interested in developing a strong relationship and bond with his son. His primary goals are to reign in Tre’s frivolity and guide him toward maturation and developing his ability to discern.

Father and Son Conversations The audience does not get much of Furious’s background besides the tidbits of information about his relation with Reva Devereaux (Angela Bassett) and his grandmother—but what we do learn helps us understand his drive and determination: a. He shares his personal stories with Tre: teenage pregnancy and fatherhood at 17 years and his story about being raised by his grandmother, rather than his absentee father. b. He shares his experience in military service in the U.S. Army and his belief that it is not a viable option for a young black man based on his experience. c. He discusses sexuality openly with Tre and desires to create consistent communication. He encourages Tre to take personal responsibility for his behavior and make the best choices related to his potential future. Although some of the advice may be perceived as unorthodox and as sexist, he keeps an open line of communication with Tre and checks in with him regularly about his emotional health. Boyz embodies the father/son motif explored in Sounder (1972) and Nothing but a Man (1964). They each examine African American men wrestling in oppressive socio-cultural and economic environments and examines its impact on socialization and fatherhood.

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Darin “Dough Boy” Baker (Ice Cube) “What you hit me for?! What you hit me for?!” “… I don’t even have a brother no more. Don’t have no momma either—she loved that fool more’n me anyways … S—t.” —Dough Boy

From childhood, Dough Boy is depicted as a fearless leader and protector. He is loving, nurturing, more self-aware than Tre (Cuba Gooding, Jr.) and Ricky (Morris Chestnut), and actively seeks answers to the disparity he experiences in the home by his mother, Brenda Baker (Tyra Ferrell), often asking her questions about her behavior. He is articulate, has intellectual curiosity, emotional intelligence, and is quite reflective. On the other hand, he is a brooding soul and spends much of his time thinking, reflecting, and asking questions. He seems to be wrestling with self-hate, apathy, pain, theodicy, and melancholy. Dough Boy knows the streets and lives by the ethic and his stint in juvenile detention cut his adolescence short and as the narrative unfolds the audience learns he becomes a gang member and also sells illegal drugs. The audience develops a close bond with Dough Boy since they experience his genuine charisma and his mother’s abuse. He helps develop the emotive presence and empathetic relationship with the viewer. As the audience journeys with him, we begin to see his potential and his victimization. We see that he is “pressed” into someone he may not have become because he perceives his options as limited.

Tre Styles (Cuba Gooding, Jr.) “You still got one brother left.” —Tre

As a child, Tre exhibits issues of impulse control and does not know how to temper his attitude in the classrooms. He is depicted as an energetic young man free to just be an adolescent. His supportive father, Furious, requires obedience from him and he is compliant. He respects his father and shares what he learns from him with his friends. He and Ricky forge a close bond. As a teenager he spends his time pursuing a relationship with a neighbor, Brandi. He is focused on school and eager to go to college since he feels like a target for random violence by his peers and the police that patrol his neighborhood area. He longs to leave his Los Angeles neighborhood.

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Ricky Baker (Morris Chestnut) “Yeah I heard about that test … Can’t get into college without it, right?” —Ricky

Ricky is introduced in the narrative as a young athlete who hopes to attain a professional career. He is a teenage father, with a son, and has a live-in girlfriend. His mother (Brenda Baker) dotes over him, yet despite this smothering he wrestles with self-doubt. He questions his intellectual ability and may opt to enlist in the military as an alternative plan.

Brenda Baker (Tyra Ferrell) “You ain’t s—t, you just like your daddy!” —Brenda

Her characterization is complex. The audience never really uncovers what is vexing her soul, but we know she is in a great deal of pain. She is Dough Boy and Ricky’s mother and although she loves them both, she expressly favors Ricky. The audience does not get an explicit back story, but the dialogue suggests that she does not have an affinity for Dough Boy’s father. She is verbally and physically abusive to Dough Boy. She has high hopes for Ricky’s future and invests a great deal of effort supporting him and his family in her home. She is openly hospitable and loving to Ricky and cannot seem to show Dough Boy any meaningful affection. She shows concern for him, but only glimpses to Tre without Dough Boy’s knowledge of it or in a momentary embrace. She only calls him by his formal name, Darin, and her expectations for him are quite low. Brenda’s characterization is an offshoot modern glimpse of Claudine (1974) to a certain extent.

Reva Devereaux (Angela Bassett) “What you did is no different from what mothers have been doing since the beginning of time. It’s just too bad more brothers won’t do the same. Don’t think you’re special.” —Reva

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Reva is depicted as a strong and self-sufficient woman who loves her son, Tre. She sends him to live with his father, Furious, out of love and concern for his personal development while she studies to earn a master’s degree. She hopes that his father will be able to temper his borderline misbehavior before it’s too late for intervention. She is career orientated and considers education a priority. She is elegant, calm, ferociously protective of Tre, and has her wits about her. Furious perceives Reva as having bourgeois sensibilities.

Brandi (Nia Long) “I want to go to college before I get married and there is no guarantee that I’m gonna marry you. Shoot, I don’t even want no babies. You haven’t even given me a ring.” —Brandi

Brandi is a young woman trying to stay focused so she can attend college post high school graduation. She is depicted as studious and disciplined about her academic development. She is in a relationship with Tre, but is trying to manage his expectation for intimacy. She is Catholic and believes in propriety. She cares about him and is open to a long-term relationship in the future. They spend a great deal of time together talking and sharing personal concerns and anxieties. She is a central figure and influence in Tre’s life. Their relationship also signifies hopefulness. Their coupling argues that this community produces healthy young people who go to college and thrive: Brandi and Tre head to Spelman and Morehouse at the end of the narrative.

A Note on Female Depictions Guerrero (1993) notes that the film is criticized for adhering to “dominate values” and functions through a rigid moral binary of “good” and “bad” (186). To be sure, the film does support a value system and uses this moral underpinning to appeal to a sense of justice and fairness which drives the narrative’s call to action to become a part of the communal solution. Moreover, I argue that Singleton allows the narrative to breath—live in its funk and complexity—and does not contort the text to judge every perceived immoral/transgressive behavior or attitude. Film narratives usually carefully guide the viewer, pointing out who to love, who to hate, and who to judge. Boyz does not control the spectator in this rigid judgmental way: the narrative structure reveals a complex reality

Boyz N the Hood  |  77 and utilizes character behavior/commentary to drive the primary theme of alienation and familial/communal social responsibility. As a result, the overarching good behavior that is rewarded is related to that explicit narrative point, but the nuanced representation of misogyny and other characteristics like drug dealing, crack addiction, et al. are not explicitly pointed out as “deviant” or destructive behavior in each instance. The film’s lack of intersectional discourse (especially related to women) has received a sustained critique over the years as an egregious oversight. Admittedly, this film is focused on saving young black men’s lives and unfortunately women are collateral fodder in Singleton’s call to action to the community at large. The film has been hotly criticized for its hyper-masculine perspective at the expense of black women and single mothers. Jacquie Jones (1991) in “The Ghetto Aesthetics,” argues that there is a “preponderance of unchallenged” rhetoric and characterization that posits black women and single mother in two derogatory liminal spaces, moreover each women is defined in relation to a male counterpart”(32). Mothers are posited in negation in the film and the female depictions are not status quo by any means. The story could have easily developed more narrative time with Reva Devereaux or Mrs. Brenda Baker’s depictions (perhaps their back stories) and with this addition, the narrative would have more dimension in this area. To be fair, this story is focused primarily on the young men and their lives.

The Production and Film Release While writing the script, Singleton says he felt like he “poured out” his own life. He said he cried and laughed while writing and found it was a cathartic experience (Alexander 2009, 158). Singleton insisted on directing his own film so he could retain creative freedom and bring his own vision to life. He wanted to shepherd it to fruition. After obtaining the contract to make the film, Singleton reports that he watched several youth-oriented films to glean inspiration: “Luis Buñuel’s Los Olividados (1950) and Hector Babenco’s Pixote (1981). I was looking at Stand by Me (1986) by Rob Reiner. I was looking at all these different movies— youth movies—from around the world and then applying that to South Central Los Angeles” (Williams 2001, 143). The film was shot in continuity, scheduled by John Nicolaides, Boyz’s producer. Singleton states that this process was useful as a new director. In a panel discussion at the 25th Anniversary Celebration hosted by the Academy of

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Motion Pictures and Arts, he remembers how he benefited from the shooting schedule: A lot of movies are shot out of continuity. But it’s my first movie. And he knew I was a novice. So he specifically scheduled the movie in continuity. So as the movie goes further along, I’m learning how to direct. So as the movie becomes more and more intense, and it comes onto the third act, camera work is more fluid. I’m getting better and better and taking more chances. I’m like doing different things. I got to tell you thank you very much for that, Steve. (Singleton, 2016)

Singleton is credited with launching several careers in front of and behind the camera with African Americans comprising 90% of the production crew. This practice was not typical of union features, Singleton states, “I didn’t ask anybody if I could, I just did it” (Grigsby Bates 1991). According to Nicolaides, the production schedule wrapped on time and on budget. When the film debuted at the Cannes Film Festival, in May 1991, it is reported that after the screening Singleton and the film received a twenty-minute standing ovation (Allain and Nicolaides). The release experienced some controversial moments along the way. The trailer, when released, received some criticism for its violent content. The trailer was cut for dramatic impact, which is a common practice, and in fact some movies after release do not contain some of the footage featured in the trailer. Trailers are cut to function as a teaser. Singleton helped cut the trailer himself and believed the montage he selected generated interest in the movie: “It got the motherf—in the theater. That’s the bottom line. If the trailer for Terminator 2 showed the part where he agreed not to kill anyone, nobody would have gone to see it … People went with lower expectations; they thought it was the same old bulls—t action-adventure in the streets of South Central L.A. But when they saw it was more, the really watched it” (Light, 1991). After the release, there were reports of violent incidents near theaters and in surrounding areas. Although the incidents occurred in, relatively speaking (reportedly about twenty out of eight hundred or so), a few theaters, Singleton expressed concern upon hearing the news and expressed that these incidents are emblematic of a bigger societal issue, he “did not create the conditions.” Indeed, this is true. Ironically, this film generated such interest and resonance that two warring factions (gang sets) wanted to go screen the same movie. This point is oddly missing from the coverage during the initial film release cycle. The film remained in all eight hundred theaters for the duration of the theatrical distribution cycle.

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Semiautobiographical The film benefited from its semiautobiographical nature. The overarching story is similar to Singleton’s life: being sent to live with his father after a skirmish at school and his childhood close friendships. He said because he was small and needed to assert himself: “The thing that made me different from my friends was that I had a strong commitment to not back away from a fight. I wasn’t big but, I could mess with people’s heads … That usually did it. They’d start screaming and go running off to the teacher. I didn’t do anything stupid. I used my brain. I guess I was lucky. If I did something bad, I never got caught. And if I did something good, everybody noticed” (Goldstein 1991, 4). He said his transition to junior high was a bit challenging. He said when he started junior high school, he had “problems.” He says, “Because I wore glasses … I was picked on, but I was not about to be no punk. So I carried a box cutter to school, because this kid kept asking me for money and my comic books.” A bully was threatening him and trying to take money from him. So he took a box cutter and one day he slashed the guy’s jacket who was harassing him and was suspended from school (Alexander 2009, 148). “He never tried to ask for money again,” Singleton states humorously (Simpson 1992, 32). But later after the school policy change (no metal objects allowed in school), a teacher caught him with a metal comb he said he carried “to pick out his little afro.” He felt his teacher embarrassed him in front of the class so he responded disrespectfully by throwing the comb in his face and shouting expletives (Alexander 2009, 149). The next day his address changed (He said it felt that swift). This was right before his twelfth birthday. He was sent to live with his dad and was enrolled in a school in San Fernando Valley. Though challenging, he said there he found a group of guys who liked the same things he enjoyed—“comic books and movies.” “I could be a film geek. I could love movies, I could love comic books” (Alexander 2009). He developed several good friends in the neighborhood and some of their personalities are a part of the films tone. Dough Boy is modeled after a friend in the neighborhood, Michael Winters, a friend since sixth grade—considered the neighborhood enforcer whose real nickname was fat back (Goldstein 1991, 8). His parents never married—Singleton lived with both as they co-parented. Sheila Morgan-Ward and Danny Singleton agreed to an informal co-parenting arrangement. Morgan-Ward states, “John’s father was not my enemy. You don’t have babies with the enemy” (Southgate 1993, 52). Her gritty determination to love her son in a life giving way forged a free-spirited, confident, creative artist named, John Singleton.

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References Alexander, George. 2009. “Why We Make Movies: Black Filmmakers Talk about the Magic of Cinema.” In John Singleton Interviews, edited by Craigh Barboza, 147–62. Jackson, MI: University Press of Mississippi. Boyz N the Hood, dir. John Singleton (Los Angeles, CA: Columbia Pictures, 1991), DVD. Goldstein, Patrick. 1991. “His New Hood Is Hollywood.” In John Singleton Interviews, edited by Craigh Barboza, 3–11. Jackson, MI: University Press of Mississippi. Grigsby Bates, Karen. 1991. “They’ve Gotta Have Us.” New York Times, July. Guerrero, Ed. 1993. Framing Blackness: The African American Image on Film. Philadelphia, PA: Temple University Press Philadelphia. Jones, Jacquie. 1991. “The New Ghetto Aesthetic.” 13(3–4):32–44. Hooks, bell. 1999. “The Oppositional Gaze: Black Female Spectators.” In Feminist Film Theory, edited by Sue Thornham, 308–20. New York: New York University Press. Light, Alan. 1991. “Not Just One of the Boyz.” Rolling Stones, September. Maslin, Janet. 1991. “A Chance to Confound Fate.” The New York Times, July 12. Rampsey, Jr. Guthrie. 2002. “Muzing New Hoods, Making New Identities: Film, Hip-Hop Culture, and Jazz Music.” Callaloo, Vol. 25, No. 1, Jazz Poetics: A Special Issue (Winter, 2002), pp. 309–320.” Baltimore, MD: The Johns Hopkins University Press. Simpson, Janice C. 1992. “Not Just One of the Boyz.” Time, March. Singleton, John. 2016. “Boyz 25th Anniversary Celebration.” Academy of Motions Picture of Arts and Sciences. www.oscars.org. June 10. http://www.oscars.org/events/boyz-n-hood-25th anniversary-screening-and-conversation. Southgate, Martha. 1993. “Boyz II Man.” Premiere, August. Watkins, S. Craig. 1998. Representing: Hip Hop Culture and the Production of Black Cinema. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Williams, Phillip. 2001. MovieMaker Magazine, June 1.

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A “Soulful” Director An Interview with John Singleton

Figure 3.1:  Director John Singleton honored with a star on the Hollywood Walk of Fame. Courtesy of Getty Images (Photo by Gregg DeGuire/WireImage). Reprint by permission. All rights reserved.

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John Singleton’s longevity as a screenwriter, director, and producer can in some cases be summed up in one word: disciplined. He does not rest on his laurels. He works with intention and is dedicated to the craft. He is a no nonsense kind of guy and keeps his head down in his creative work. He is a multi-genre feature film director whose varied work ranges from the historic fiction, Rosewood (1997), to a high action franchise film, 2 Fast 2 Furious (2003). He has helped launch several careers in front of and behind the camera for both young men and women like Morris Chestnut, Nia Long, Cuba Gooding, Jr., Ice Cube, Taraji P. Henson, Tyrese Gibson, and many more. The stories he tells resonate because there is a familiarity to them. He puts flesh on stories that feel like they have been passed down from generation to generation. This now seasoned veteran even has his named etched in a star on the Hollywood Walk of Fame right in front of the historic Grauman’s Chinese Theatre (August 26, 2003). He is a father of five and was married once for a brief time. Fatherhood is a priority for him and he for a period of time purposefully lowered his production activity to concentrate on nurturing his children. This man who once briefly worked as an elementary school teacher while trying to break into the business, with hopes of becoming an indie filmmaker, is now a distinguished guest lecturer at his alma mater, University of Southern California. His contributions to American cinema have shaped a generation of young filmmakers.

The Interview My intention with this interview was to find out more about the man behind the now iconic movie, Boyz N the Hood (1991). He has granted several interviews over the years about the film and has since written, directed, and produced a lengthy filmography. When I arrived to pick him up at the location, he approached the car with a smile as I noticed his deep suntan. On our way to the interview location, I immediately learned that he loves being on the water paddling and that he is quite adept at multitasking—between our brief conversations in the car to and from the interview location, he screened a few voice messages, sent a few messages, spoke to a few people, and mapped out the rest of his day and evening. Though he had a slightly intimidating terse tone before we sat down for the interview (I think he was in business mode), when we sat down and began the conversation he was present, pleasant, and gracious. By the end of the interview I learned that he is wholly immersed in the aesthetic, that he spends a great deal of time in solitude in his creative process, writing, thinking, and planning his next steps.

A “Soulful” Director | 83 He is levelheaded, introspective (almost meditative), and not impressed with Hollywood hoopla and celebrity. I also learned that he is affable, kindhearted, humorous, intellectual—though quick to say “do not over intellectualize”— action-oriented, decisive, and quite engaging. Most importantly, I learned that he is still that young tenacious filmmaker at heart, who believes his best work is still ahead of him. Let’s get right to it. You ready? Let’s go. Why do you believe this film has had such longevity and resonates with so many people, multiple generations? John Singleton: I believe that Boyz N the Hood has had such a lasting impact because the picture really came from the heart. Yes, it was a commercial endeavor but it really was, I think, a statement—me making really a statement trying to establish my voice as a filmmaker. The film came about because I was a USC [University of Southern California] film student and I wrote it when I was 20 years old, in the fall of 1989. Well that actually would make me 21 … when I wrote it [laughter]. So the early fall of 1989 I wrote it and I did it as a response … after coming out of a screening of Do the Right Thing [1991]. I saw Spike [Lee]. I met Spike when I was coming out of high school going to USC. I had been pretty much on an acquaintance basis with him since then all through film school. As a young black filmmaker going to film school in the 1980s, to actually know Spike Lee was a huge thing. It actually galvanized me through school, especially going to USC, which was a predominantly white university, at the time. It wasn’t as diverse as it is now. It gave me a kind of thematic to follow in terms of black cinema. Following Spike’s work [helped me gain clarity], I was like, “Okay.” Then seeing Do the Right Thing and being so overwhelmed by how great the picture was made me think of what I wanted to try to say. I thought, God, I got to establish my voice as a filmmaker. “So what’s my voice?” And I thought … Well I’m from Los Angeles; I’m from South Central L.A., and listening to the music of the time, EZ, NWA, and Ice-T and some of the LA rap that was coming out, I was like, you know, nobody’s talking about what’s happening in LA. So I set out to write a screenplay about the people that I grew up with … the dudes I grew up with. Basically the film is really about black male pathology and I think that’s what has made it endure. Because the pathology of young black men growing up in a society that, at times, I jokingly say, loves and is fascinated with them, but ultimately hates and wants to destroy them, including themselves, and it creates kind of a nihilistic environment. Where, you’re taught to have the potential Joi Carr: John Singleton: Joi Carr:

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to explode. And, that pathology still exists, so that’s why the film is so persuasive and people still watch it and become enlightened by it. Yes, and despite that palpable essence, it’s even hopeful … which is fascinating. Yeah it is. Yes, and it’s hopeful in a way that is reality based, not based on cinematic fantasy. It is. The picture ends on a hopeful realistic note—that the two main characters that are still around [Tre and Brandi] will go off and find something away from Los Angeles, in terms of getting an education and whatever … and they still find it within their own communities. They both go to [historically] black colleges. So that was really important to me. I use the notion of pathology and nihilism. Right, okay, so I caught it [laughter]. So you got a good quote. Yeah, totally. As an aside, so what was it like getting a star … I’m going to get back to the film, but I will just straight out ask … what was it like getting a star on the Hollywood walk of fame? Crazy! Was it shocking to you? It was great. Yeah, it was very shocking to me. It was a huge honor! I used to sneak into the [Grauman’s] Chinese Theatre [at Hollywood and Highland]. I used to catch the bus up to Vermont … the 204 bus up Vermont and then down Hollywood Boulevard with my friends … and to be able to be there and with my friends who used to sneak into the theater, it was a great honor. It was great; it was awesome. I just can’t imagine. The first film I saw there was Star Wars [1977]. Yeah? Me too. Really? Yeah. First one there too … That was my first film I actually ever saw in a theater. Yeah? Yeah … oh, wow! [laughter] What were your thoughts when you heard that the US Library of Congress deeming Boyz “culturally relevant” in 2002 and announced that your film will, in perpetuity, be protected by the National Film Registry? It felt great; it felt awesome. I’m really proud of that picture. The picture set a paradigm for what I’d like to do with most of my films: imbue them with as much soul and cultural resonance as possible— so kind of tantamount to how we feel when we listen to old soul music or works of art … like Marvin Gaye, Al Green, Aretha Franklin, and James Brown. That’s the artistic aesthetic I want for the films that I make. I want them to be true representations of what I was feeling at that time, and in that moment, as a black man in America.

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Figure 3.2:  Director John Singleton and Laurence Fishburne; Singleton honored with a Star on the Hollywood Walk of Fame. Courtesy of Getty Images (Photo by Gregg DeGuire/WireImage). Reprint by permission. All rights reserved. Joi Carr: John Singleton:

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Wow! And I do … you can feel that. I call it the blues, an embodiment of the blues. You feel that soulfulness in your piece. Yeah, I do. I feel that. Boyz, it was great because it was unexpected. It was unfettered. The script didn’t go past any kind of committee to be made, it just went into production. The studio read the script and just said, “Okay,” and just gave me the money to go out and do it … and people were afraid to go out on the set and say anything to me, so we made the movie the way we really wanted to make it. Did it surprise you on the commercial success of it? No it didn’t. I thought the film would do very well with black people. I had no idea that it would have as much of a resonance as possible. At the time I wasn’t really concerned with anything other than a young black youth audience seeing a reflection of what we were going through. The move was basically a filmic answer to what was happening [musically] musical-wise within America at the time. I can’t rap, I’m not a DJ, I don’t make beats, but I can make movies. So that was my kind of attitude at the time.

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Figure 3.3:  Director John Singleton celebrating with audience, honored with a star on the Hollywood Walk of Fame. Courtesy of Getty Images (Photo by Gregg DeGuire/ WireImage). Reprint by permission. All rights reserved. Joi Carr:

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Yes, I definitely feel that resonance—makes complete sense. You were training to become a filmmaker. I love the opening of the black screen. I love that you’re saying … Well, that right there was influenced by Star Wars. Boyz N the Hood opens the same way Star Wars opens. Boyz N the Hood was my Star Wars. I had the thing [black screen] come up and it just comes up and instead of a star field or a symphony going, you hear bullets and stuff, it was a symphony of violence. Because Star Wars was one of the first films I actually saw that I watched over and over again. I deconstructed it by watching it: how the picture was made and how to capture an audience’s attention. So that’s where it comes from—all the way from the once upon a time in South Central Los Angeles. All of that. I didn’t think about that. The black screen, for me, was saying that you’re about to imbue the typical image attached to this audio with a real depiction of the story. You were about to tell the real story behind it and give it some depth.

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Figure 3.4:  69th Annual Directors Guild of America Awards—Arrivals. Beverly Hills, CA. Courtesy of Getty Images (Photo by David Crotty/Patrick McMullan via Getty Images). Reprint by permission. All rights reserved.

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Yeah, but no, you’re intellectualizing it. What it was just to put you in … That space. Yeah, that space. Also, the film is not a very violent film but what happens is there’s this undercurrent and this tension that something is going to happen because you’re in that environment. And the irony is, if you’re from that environment, it affects you on another level. You really feel that tension because you felt that out in the environment. But if you’re not from that environment, you feel it in another way, like, “Wow, do these people live like that?” But if you’re from that, you’re like, “Okay, this is the real s—t.” Yes, that’s what was crazy to me is all the helicopter sounds, all the ambient sound that you have in the film. And I lived near Culver City so I was used to the helicopters so I usually know when there is a suspect involved and it was a constant threat. So wow, that was awesome. I’ll get to the violence in a second. I wanted to ask you, it’s reported that at the Canne’s Film Festival you got a 20-minute standing ovation after the film screenings? Something like that I don’t remember. One of the producers reported that. I was too elated once it went well and stuff and people applauded and stuff. It was great. I was there with Cube. Basically Cube was the only cast member that was there and Eddie Murphy and Quincy Jones were there to support me. And I was like, wow, Eddie Murphy. Did it feel surreal? [laughter] Yeah, it was surreal, just to be there with Eddie Murphy and Quincy Jones. It was wild. Twenty-three year old? Yeah, twenty-three year old; my first movie, man [Singleton paused to think about that thought]. I understand that some of the overarching parts of the story were semiautobiographical. Right? Yeah, only the fact that the kid moves from living with his mother to living with his father because he’s a little bit unruly. That is [true]. You were unruly? Yeah, I was unruly. My mother … I got sent from living with my mother to living with my father because she wanted me to come in when it was getting dark and I didn’t want to come home. I was like, “I’m out with my friends and …” I got too big for her to tell what to do, so she sent me to my father. I could see that. [laughter] “Too big for your britches,” is what they say. Mmmhmm. So many of the critics’ responses were really favorable.

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Not everyone actually. They were really mixed on the film on its initial release. They certainly changed their stories since. Only within a year after its release or as it received more critical acclaim and Roger Ebert gave it a glowing review. Some critics … you have to understand that most critics of the time … of course, there were no ethnic critics at all, so you have basically a group of white men intoning what they feel about a movie like Boyz N the Hood. It could just as well have been a science fiction movie to them. You see what I am saying? Yes, totally. Because they’re not in and of the culture. It’s a different language. Not of the language, the times. Also, it’s a very contemporary, youth-based picture. It’s a coming-of-age film. It’s a coming-of-age film about people that are totally different from those people. And so they’re looking at it, you know what I mean? But Roger Ebert, God bless his soul, his wife is black. He’s from Chicago. He has black children. So he can watch it with an informed perspective and say wow. He can [gain an] understanding with an authenticity of what they picture was. See what I’m saying? I do. He says it was thoughtful, realistic, and he also said that your style … You have your way with a subject and a style and that resonated with him. He spoke of it as the artistic success of the piece. Did you hear that part early on too or was that later? No, I mean … I couldn’t look at the reviews as much. I’d see it. I’d be elated about the good and I’d be disheartened about the bad ones. I mean, people at the time … Even the good reviews or even some of the bad reviews would chastise me for being, what they said “slick” with the way I shot it. I consciously, as a director, pulled back from being too showy with my camera work. I tried to be as mature as possible, given my naïveté with how I moved the camera. Because one of the things that is a stereotype of young directors that get a chance to shoot feature films are they move the camera incessantly for no reason at all. When I teach film to young directors, I show them two films. I show them a film by a USC graduate named Phil Joanou called Three O’Clock High [1987], which is not a particularly great film at all. It’s actually a very awful film, very simple premise. But the director who was, at the time, supposed to be like Steven Spielberg’s protégée. He was a kid plucked out of USC to do a feature film. He did a great short film. He moved the camera really wildly, interesting shots and stuff like this, but none of them were of service to the story. So I show that film, and then I show Citizen Kane (Orson Welles 1941). Another young director, who moves the camera …

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Intention! With intention. In a very different way and stylistically for the service of the story. And so at the age of 22, I couldn’t totally intellectualize this, but I said to myself, I’m going to just do what I feel is right, in terms of pictorially, how I shoot this. I would watch different films. Once they gave me the green light on the movie, I was like … Because I talked to them, it’s like I was a hustler. Like a cinematic hustler. I had a meeting on the movie. And they said, “Okay, what if we told you, we want to give you $150,000 for the script and we’ll let someone else direct this movie?” I heard about that. I said, okay, we can end the meeting now. Fine, I’ll go to some other studio. Because this is the movie me and my friends set up on the porch, and talked about. This is the movie we want to see. You see what I am saying? Right. So I started watching, when I got the green light, I set up and I watched The Godfather I (1972), I watched Taxi Driver (1976), I watched a movie that Gus Van Sant Drugstore Cowboy (1989). I watched some really interesting films. Pixote (1981) by Hector Babenco, a Brazilian film that I really love. And I watched movies, not for the technical aspect of it, but for the construction. Because I didn’t know anything about directing when I did Boyz N the Hood. But I knew about film thematics. I knew what made a good film. [I wanted] to try to capture an audience’s attention in an emotional way. At the time I felt, you don’t have a good film unless you make people laugh and you make them cry, and you make them want to cheer at certain points. So that’s what I was going for with the picture. Well, and you can feel it. I think that’s with the success of it; it’s so emotive. And even talking about Dough Boy [Ice Cube]. Dough Boy. My students love him! They empathize with him and they seem to understand him. Yeah, he’s a great tragic-flawed character. I used to tell Cube. He’s my Toshiro Mifune [Japanese actor who collaborated with director Akira Kurosawa]. In the sense that I like to direct him when he’s not saying anything because the nonverbal looks on his face are phenomenal. I can tell him something and then he’ll go in and do it. Instead of like as the camera’s rolling, talking to him while he’s acting. He just gets it. He really does. It’s his face and his body. It’s the best thing he’s ever done, huh? We’re trying to find something to do together again, but I want him to do something dramatic. He’s always been funny. The world knows him as funny. But

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when he was like the hardcore rapper, he was funny; people didn’t know that. Now the world knows he’s funny. Definitely. I didn’t know he was funny. I’ve seen him in some of those last films. The press coverage on the opening was a little bit different. They were fixated on the notion of violence attributed to the film: the external violence. But that violence wasn’t attributed to the film. That violence was going on before the film came out. They were fixated on it; it’s so weird. Yeah, that’s the notion of certain people to continue to scapegoat. Let’s find a scapegoat. We don’t know why certain problems are. We don’t have an interest in solving any kind of problems amongst whatever … So let’s just scapegoat. Did it irritate you that they kept reporting it attached to the film? Yeah, I was like this is bulls—t. That’s not what the movie’s about. You’re just finding a way to try to attach what’s going in society to the film, but the film is talking about those ills. It’s true. First of all, the film isn’t that violent. It isn’t that violent. No it isn’t. It’s not a violent film at all. There’s only two instances really. The dead body in the piece and constant lurking, you feel that part of it. So when you decided to talk about … well for instance, the moment when Trey comes home, when he goes to his girlfriend’s house after being stopped by the cops. And he’s fighting the air and crying. Was that kind of the “invisible institution?” What were you trying to think about? Was that directed or did it just happen? You’re over intellectualizing it. That’s fair, but that’s my job [laughter]. I was just curious. Did you direct him to do that? Or did he just do it? It’s written in the script. It is? Yeah, it’s black male frustration and pathology. Some people punch at the air. Some people go shoot somebody else who looks just like them. And other people commit suicide. It’s just what certain men in environments like that go through. I get it and well of course I could see the symbolic reality of not truly being able to defeat such an amorphous oppressive presence in his life. It was clever, realistic angst. You can think about all that stuff, but it’s just pure frustration. Pure masculine frustration. Okay, I like that. As far as the Reagan moment, that people find quite humorous and suggestive? That’s just me being cheeky. Okay, I can buy that.

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Tell the kid to put a finger up at Reagan. I knew you totally directed him to do that. The stop sign in the beginning of the film reminded me of Cool Hand Luke (1967). It starts with Luke (Paul Newman) destroying parking meters. The idea of using regulatory signs and objects. What that an homage to any film? Did you think about that in advance? No, I just thought it was a cool way [to start] … I always feel like the first image of the movie should thematically have to do with what the whole movie’s about. So that’s what that is. Okay, I can totally see that and feel it. It works on so many levels. What about the railroad tracks? That was a bite from Stand by Me [laughter]. With the kids on the railroad track going to see the dead body? Stand by Me. That’s right, there’s your homage. It’s all good. So how did you respond when you finally found out you were nominated for two Academy Awards? What was that like? It was great. I was in bed in Las Vegas at the NATO [National Association of Theatre Owners] Showest Awards and I called my mom up and I said, “Mom, your baby boy was nominated for two Oscars this morning”—and she screamed and stuff. It was great, good. I felt great because I never wanted to be one of these people that came into the business that was begging for adulation. There’s a certain system that the machine is built on. It’s built on entertainment, and getting out to the most people possible, but I really, really wanted to just establish and have a voice as a filmmaker. Whatever that is going to be and have my films be as unique as they could be. Even if I have a film that has no ethnic people in it, I’m doing it from a black male perspective. That’s what gives what I do some flavor. Sure, what I like is that that you acknowledge that you’re coming from a point of view … Yeah, that’s what makes me special. That’s what makes me unique from Joe Blow from whatever, directing a picture. I think that has served me very well. It has and actually given you an edge. Let’s talk about that night. What was the night like [at the Oscars February 12, 1992]? It was great. I didn’t expect anything much. I just loved it. And my friend Jonathan Demme won for Best Director. I met him before I even made Boyz. He was going to hire me to write a movie about instances of racism on college campuses and all this stuff and I pitched to him a movie called Higher Learning when I was in college. He flew me to New York. That was my first business trip to New York. He won for Best Director for Silence of the Lambs (1991), a movie that he was trying to show me before I even directed Boyz N the Hood. So it was a great night. That’s one thing

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I do love about the business, is it’s very much a community … in a sense. I can’t really say I’m an outsider anymore because I’ve been doing it for over 20 some odd years and I kind of know everybody. I was honored to have been nominated for two Oscars. The youngest and the first African American. It’s incredible. Yes, yes. It was good, you know. You just took it in stride? Or did you have a moment? I tried to take it in stride because I didn’t want to get gassed up about it. I still knew at the time I had to forge a career for myself. I had a lot of work to do. I was hustling to get my next movie, Poetic Justice (1993) with Janet Jackson going on. So I really couldn’t enjoy it—I didn’t let myself enjoy it. Yeah, I could see that you would just focus on the work itself, a true artist. I was trying to focus on the work. I didn’t want to get sidetracked on what the journey was going to be. I read that you had said that you knew that Ice Cube was the guy for you? Oh, yes, I wrote it for Ice Cube. Really? With no experience at all? I wrote that role as Dough Boy for Ice Cube. The guys on the porch were supposed to be NWA. But Ice Cube quit the group, so he was the only number I called, who I was actually on a first-name basis with, that talked to me on an ongoing basis. Cube and I were friends before we did Boyz N the Hood. Makes sense, right? Yeah, yeah. And you launched several careers in from of the camera and behind the scenes as well. Is there anyone you particularly take pride in? Do you think about that? It’s an incredible number of people! I don’t think about it. The cast was untested! It was a bunch of new folks, except Fishburne and Bassett getting started. Just new people … people that were interested or interesting to me! Is there one character that you felt resonates more or less with what you were specifically trying to do outside of Dough Boy? Really the three guys. Trey, Ricky, and Dough Boy are different facets of me and my friends that I grew up with. I have heard you talk about that. What about Ricky’s mom, Brenda? And her issue … [you get flack for the women]. Yes, [but] there are so many women out there who are considered pillars of our communities. They have various sons. Some of them have sons by different men and some of them, as human beings are prone to do, have their favorites.

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Figure 3.5: One sheet movie poster advertises Poetic Justice (Columbia Pictures), directed by John Singleton and starring Janet Jackson and Tupac Shakur, Los Angeles, California, 1993. (Photo by John D. Kisch/Separate Cinema Archive/Getty Images). Reprint by permission. All rights reserved.

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Did you conceive of it by intuition? It was playing out a little bit of a drama. I’ve never seen anyone do that. It’s kind of like a tragedy, something inspired by a Greek tragedy. There’s two sons, two different fathers. One father probably treated her differently than the other father. One [of the fathers] probably had a fondness for her [Brenda]. I didn’t put a back-story to it. It just felt that it was something that would resonate naturally with the audience. I definitely felt that. She had a complexity I wish we could have explored in the film. She troubled me. And I threw that factoid in the mouth of a friend of mine who was actually in the movie. He’s not alive anymore. The character Dooky, played by Dedrick Gobert, when they sit on the couch—he rides them all the time [Dough Boy and Rick]—he says, “They got different daddies, that’s why.” He throws a matter-of-fact dialogue out—that’s an informational thing. Brenda also says something like that to Dough Boy, “You’re not going to amount the anything, just like your daddy.” Something crazy like that. I don’t remember. No she tells Rick? No. I don’t remember. Damn, I wrote it … [laughter]. It’s been so long [laughter]. I want to transition into what you said about Fishburne and his relationship with Coppola. Did he just finish a film with Coppola? He had done four movies with Francis. I met him on Peewee’s Playhouse, and I was just so enamored with him as a young actor. Because Fish started acting at eleven and he was a veteran. I wrote that role for him as well. He was one of the first professional people I knew in the business. I met him when I was nineteen years old. I told him “I’m going to write a movie, and you’re going to be it.” [laughter] He was like “Go ahead brother, I know you are.” Whether he believed me or not, I was serious and so, it all worked out. I think all the film buffs know him from Corn Bread. Corn Bread Earl Me (1975) and Apocalypse Now (1979). True, true. I hear that one of your aspirational persons is Spielberg and of course, Lee. Oh, Spike Lee, Steven Spielberg, Francis Coppola, Akira Kurosawa, François Truffaut … they’re kind of like my cinematic idols. What I like about you is that you watch film. A lot of our students do not want to watch film they just want to pick up the camera. You can’t do it. You can’t do it! You can do it, but you won’t amount to s—t. You have to find out what existed before to create your own path. I always suggest to filmmakers pick up a … Oh, I forgot to

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include John Huston and Alfred Hitchcock … and Woody Allen too … and Mel Brooks [laughter]. I love so many types of films and filmmakers … for different reasons. You have to study what came before you. I always suggest to them to pick up a biography of a filmmaker that you don’t know anything about. Read the biography then after you finish the biography watch all the films that that person’s made. I did that in film school and I still do that. Even filmmakers that I have seen their stuff before. I read a biog’ of them then go back and look at all their stuff. Oh wow, that’s a great practice. I do that also with musicians. It allows me to think about creativity in a different way. I try to be creative even when I’m working. I try to make it as organic as possible so that it’s coming from the heart … so that it’s not coming from a place where it’s just like, I gotta get this down on paper. I try to make it flow. Who do you listen to, music wise? James Brown … I listen to a lot of people, its more like who did I listen to today. Who did I listen to today? I listen to James Brown, Marvin Gaye, Aretha Franklin … I played a Richard Pryor record, “Bicentennial N—r.” What else did I play [pausing to think about the question]? I listened to Debarg, “In A Special Way.” I played … I was just sitting. You know, I have a different life now then I did back then, but I still play the same d—n music. Do you have vinyl still? No, I play it on the iPod. I was just listening to stuff, relaxing. I heard that your films have earned over half a billion dollars. Oh really? Wow! I didn’t know that. How do you define success? Success is very fleeting. But I think its whatever you want it to be. I define success by doing what you want to do and still maintaining your soul. Not becoming something that you never thought you’d be or that you never wanted to be … and I felt good about that. I felt like, I defined myself, I don’t let other people define me. So you don’t want to lose yourself in the process of the journey? No. Which a lot of people are willing to sell themselves in order to do that. Exactly. So for you, over two and a half decades later, how have you grown or changed as a man? I think I’ve evolved; I think I’m more mature as a person. I’ve benefited and suffered from the same thing as many young black men in LA or elsewhere have, growing up who are my contemporaries. I was taught to have the potential to explode or be angered at any fleeting thing … or whatever.

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Who tempered that for you? I think I tempered that for me. I think I knew and I just matured to a level earlier on in my life where I just knew it was better to be methodical about things and just not reactionary. I can tell you spend a lot of time reflecting. Yes. So that’s what I kind of teach to people, to young men. I was telling my mother that there are so many men different people that are raised by women so they’re always in defense of their manhood. So as soon as someone threatens their manhood, they’re quick to act, instead of being methodical about it. But a real man doesn’t have to prove that they’re a man. They know. They know. You can destroy anything with the way you carry yourself as a man. You can create tension or destroy tension with the way you carry yourself and some people never learn that. You can be in control of everything or you can be not in control of anything, including yourself and a lot of people never come to that point in life. That’s the pain sometimes, on the journey … of becoming conscious, self-aware. How has your artistry evolved? What’s your thing, what’s your project now? Has it shifted has it changed, Other than being authentic? It’s always about authenticity. It’s about putting as much soul into whatever I am doing as much as possible … whatever story I’m telling. It’s just trying to get the soul on the screen. So that’s when you’re most satisfied with your artistry? Yeah, when I’m putting as much soul and personal resonance on the screen and people are affected by it. Does faith play a role at all? People rarely ask that question. I’m curious. In a way yeah, I thank God every day. God guides me and leads me. It’s led me through a lot of different journeys where there could have been another path for myself … you know? So, I forget the saying, “There but for the grace of God, go I.” Uhhmm. Something like that. I wanted to ask you about some of the people that you’ve worked with … share what comes to mind. Dr. Maya Angelou? Poetic? What did you learn? Describe the experience. I learned that she’s a pistol. She’s just a beautiful soul. I couldn’t really write too much dialogue for her, I had to ask her to improve most of her dialogue in that film. The irony of it is, it’s funny, Tyler Perry bit off of me years later and had her do the same thing in his movie. Nobody noticed it. Nobody did [laughter]? Nobody really noticed he did the same scene from Poetic Justice. He used the same music too.

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Are you serious [laughter]? The O’Jay’s and everything. Nobody really looked at it, but it’s cool, I looked at it as a homage. Incredible. So it was in his consciousness. Uhhmm. Wow! Okay, Tupac. What was that experience like? That could be a whole other forty questions. How could you truncate it into one word? Can you? I don’t know just [pauses to think] … He was a cool dude to me. He was funny, he was charismatic, but he was very, very guarded and pained as a person, even at young age, even at 20, 21. He really did have kind of nihilistic point of view, even though sometime he projected something different. We were like brothers, but we fought like cats and dogs sometimes, but we were friends and we had a lot of great plans to do. I’m probably the only one to tell, “Pac, you should forget about all that music s—t and just be an actor.” That’s what I said. He did have that potential as an actor. The Jackson experience: I know you’ve worked with them. Michael first. I always knew I was going to meet Michael Jackson. So when I met Michael Jackson it wasn’t like a surprise. Why did you always know that? Because I grew up with Michael Jackson. Hearing his music and everything. I just knew it. I grew up listening to his 45s and eating the Jackson 5 cereal. So when I met Michael, it was like I knew him. He just sat up and talked. He hired me to do the second single of the “Dangerous” album, “Remember the Time.” I wrote it … I kind of “jonesed” him and stuff he said what would you do? I told him I didn’t like the “Black and White” video—I thought it was corny. I think you can do better. I told him you’re a crooner, you sing love songs. People love his love songs. I told him which songs I liked on the album and I said, if I do your music video man, I want to put nothing but black people in it. He said, “We can make it all black.” I said okay, “If you hire me, it’s gonna be all black.” And he said was like cool. People don’t understand Michael Jackson, despite the visual, was a black man. He was a very competitive businessman and had business acumen and he taught me a lot about being a leader, even at 23 … 24 years old. He said, “You have to be the person that guides people.” I’m probably the only one to sit up in my car and listen to Richard Pryor with Michael Jackson. Driving around with him and stuff. He had a driver’s license. I was like, “Let me see your license!” Michael, yeah [laughter]. Janet? Lovely, I love Janet. Lovely. She’s great … just a cool person. She would go to Roscoe’s Chicken and Waffles with me. She’s funny

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and … I think at the time I met Jan she really just wanted to have as many genuine people around her as friends. You get into a certain mode as an entertainer and you don’t know who is genuine. She has always been really, really good to me. How do you negotiate that kind of decision regarding intimate friendships? You just get to know people and people reveal themselves over time. Wisdom, alright. I wanted to ask you what do you consider your finest work? Do you have one? I haven’t done it yet. I don’t think I’ve done my best work yet. Only a pure artist would say that. I will eagerly await what it might be. What do you hope your film legacy will be? Just that he was a very soulful filmmaker and he dealt with the subject matter in a different way. People understand that … it’s the same thing … we could ask what was James Brown’s legacy? What’s Marvin Gaye’s legacy? I’d like to have people watch my films over and over and over again. And they say wow, this is some good s—t. It’s like listening to a soul record. If you look at some of my work, that’s what it kind of is like. You don’t understand why you’re watching it over and over again and it’s because it’s soulful and different from the crap that some people make. It’s true, you feel it; there’s some soulfulness. So how has being a parent changed you? It’s made me even more patient with life and people and everything. I have two kids in college now, both are in film school. My son’s in his second year at USC and my daughter’s getting ready to graduate from LMU … both screenwriting majors. It’s really matured me in a different way. I’m a single dad and the first two are in college. There’s only one with me right now. It’s been good. It’s slowed down my output of films, but I think the most important thing to me was to be a parent. I didn’t want my kids to be … you grew up in entertainment. I didn’t want them to be a bunch of Hollywood f—k-ups who had a successful father and then they didn’t do s—t with their lives. [I would tell them] “Listen, the reason I’m here and you’re here is because I grew up in the f—g library.” Excuse me in here cursing. “If I disappear tomorrow you have to be able to go what you want to do.” So I always made an emphasis on education and, more so, practical know-how and common sense and hopefully they will be alright. So they did effect the trajectory of the amount of what you were doing. Yeah, for the past seven or eight years I’ve been pretty much a single dad. That’s impressive, utterly important work. Thank you, sir. Finally, I want to share some quotes others have said about you. About Boyz, Roger Ebert said, “One of the best American films of recent years, a

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human drama of rare power.” He says, “You are a born filmmaker.” How do you respond to that? That’s awesome! I was humbled by that. Do you feel like you’re a born filmmaker or you’ve become one? No, I don’t think I’m a born filmmaker; I think I’m still trying right now. You are also a pure student as well. Is there anything you would add, that I haven’t asked? No, you’ve pretty much covered it. Yeah, we got some good stuff. Yeah, in record time too. Thank you for being so generous with your time. It was a pleasure.

Reflections on John and Boyz “Boyz N the Hood” has maturity and emotional depth: There are no cheap shots, nothing is thrown in for effect, realism is placed ahead of easy dramatic payoffs, and the audience grows deeply involved. By the end of “Boyz N the Hood,” I realized I had seen not simply a brilliant directorial debut, but an American film of enormous importance. —Roger Ebert Chicago Sun Times (July 12, 1991)



He creates a comfortable environment … He creates the type of environment where I feel I can be me. —Tyrese Gibson Savoy (June/July 2005)



He’s brilliant because he understands casting. You can have a great script and go and hire a bunch of ok actors, but John understands that chemistry on film is important, so casting is important. —Tarji P. Henson Savoy (June/July 2005) From the beginning of his career, John has crossed over to all kinds of audiences. He always stood out as someone who’s not only in touch with the youth culture, but who has a great eye for casting and finding new talent. It’s no secret that our history is bad in need of discovering fresh actors and filmmakers, and we expect that John will be a bridge to help us connect with them. —Marc Shmuger, Universal Chairman Los Angeles Times (June 20, 2006)



The last time I saw someone with that kind of confidence, it was Steven Spielberg when he was about that age. —Frank Price Time (March 23, 1991)

A “Soulful” Director | 101 I told John Singleton, I said you—not only are you a great filmmaker, but he has the ability to pinpoint and identify actors that are just a little bit extraordinary. And I’m not saying that about myself. I’m saying that about the people in the film, and the longevity and the careers that were launched from that film. It’s amazing. —Nia Long Build Series (Published on Jun 14, 2016) Nia Long remembers “Boyz N the Hood” live on AOL BUILD at the AOL BUILD HQ in NYC

Figure 3.6:  Portrait of film director John Singleton, taken on the Columbia Studios lot in Los Angeles, California, 1994. Courtesy of Getty Images (Photo by Anthony Barboza/ Getty Images). Reprint by permission. All rights reserved.

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Filmography Rebel (2016) (TV Series; Creator and Director) American Crime Story (2016) (TV Series; one episode) Empire (2015) (TV Series; one episode) Abduction (2011) Four Brother (2005) 2 Fast 2 Furious (2003) Baby Boy (2001) Shaft (2001) Rosewood (1997) Higher Learning (1995) Poetic Justice (1993) “Remember the Time” Michael Jackson (1992) Boyz N the Hood (1991)

Screenwriter Baby Boy (2001) Shaft (2001) Higher Learning (1995) Poetic Justice (1993) Boyz N the Hood (1991)

Producer Illegal Tender (2007) Black Snake Moan (2007) Hustle & Flow (2005) Baby Boy (2001) Shaft (2000) Higher Learning (1995) *Lists not exhaustive

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On Baby Boy (2001) Singleton on Baby Boy Joi Carr: John Singleton:

Joi Carr:

Do you ever grow weary talking about Boyz? Yeah, kind of. I mean, I’ve done other pictures—seeing like Baby Boy was a companion piece to Boyz N the Hood. Baby Boy is when it all came together. It’s a different thing. It’s another exploration of black male pathology. The tragedy in it is when this man becomes something he didn’t want to be. The whole thing of the questionability of the rite of passage when it comes to urban youth … black male youth fulfilling that ability to explode and turn on themselves or each other. Because you have the capability to kill another man, specifically another black man, does that make you a man? And in the end he ends up killing someone because the love of his girlfriend, and then moving out of his mother’s house, becoming a different man, but what kind of man does that make him? It’s a profound thing. But the reason people watch it over and over again is because some of that stuff is lost in them, but other stuff is like d—n, some of it isn’t, because they’re living it. What makes me different as a filmmaker is a lot of the things I put in my films, people are actually living. So when they’re watching my films, they are watching a reflection of themselves, or their family members or people that they know. My films are very much in the tradition of African oral storytelling. Which is chronicling our stories orally. We pass them down from generation to generation. They’re basically the visual representation of that. That’s why it’s so resonates. It resonates so much with people who can see aspects of themselves or people they know. It is gripping— love, joy, pain, all of it.

References Ebert, Roger. 1991. “Boyz N the Hood.” Chicago Sun Times, July 12. Gibson, Tyrese. 2005. “John Singleton: Hollywood’s Star Maker and Rule Breaker.” Interview by Jawn Murray. Savoy, June/July. Henson, Tarji P. 2005. “John Singleton: Hollywood’s Star Maker and Rule Breaker.” Interview by Jawn Murray. Savoy, June/July. Long, Nia. 2016. “Nia Long Remembers ‘Boyz N the Hood’ live on AOL BUILD at the AOL BUILD HQ in NYC, 01:50.” Build Series, June 14. https://www.youtube.com/ watch?v=Iw_CNHz-KEk. Price, Frank. 1991. “Not Just One of the Boyz.” Interview by Janice C. Simpson. Time, March 23. Shmuger, Marc. 2006. “More Color Please.” Interview by Patrick Goldstein. Los Angeles Times, June 20.

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Launching Singleton’s Career An Interview with Steve Nicolaides, Producer

And Steve did something very, very [important]—he’s my first producer … thank you for this. He specifically scheduled the movie—a lot of movies are shot out of continuity. But it’s my first movie. And he knew I was a novice. So he specifically scheduled the movie in continuity. So as the movie goes further along, I’m learning how to direct. So as the movie becomes more and more intense, and it comes onto the third act, camera work is more fluid. I’m getting better and better and taking more chances. I’m like doing different things. I got to tell you thank you very much for that, Steve. —John Singleton AMPAS 25th Celebration (June 10, 2016)

Who could have predicted that Steve Nicolaides would be the perfect selection to serve as the sole producer on Boyz N the Hood. How his affinity for shooting on location and his propensity for social justice—love for “the little guy”—would make for a historic showing. Nicolaides read the script after the persistent cajoling of Stephanie Allain, a then creative executive and shortly thereafter, Senior Vice President of Production at Columbia Pictures. She is credited with pitching the film to top studio execs and thereby launching John Singleton’s career as a filmmaker. And thanks to her persistence and keen judgment, Nicolaides lands the production leadership role.

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Figure 4.1:  Steve Nicolaides and John Singleton at Austin Film Festival. Courtesy of Steve Nicolaides.

And now, after over 35 years in the industry, he still considers his experience with Boyz to be a special part of his life and a highlight of his career contributions. What follows in this interview is a peek into the heart and mind of a man who is passionate about storytelling and who has spent a great deal of his life empowering others to bring their visions to the silver screen. His selfless leadership style and collaborative spirit leaps off the page. The critical questions I explore probe his intimate history with Boyz’s production at each stage of the creative process: his role in the production as producer who had a central role in launching this iconic film and history making filmmaker, John Singleton. This might well be the lengthiest interview on record to date and the insightful conversation and reflection was a pleasure, indeed.

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Figure 4.2:  Cuba Gooding Jr. and John Singleton. Boyz N the Hood Press Conference— January 9, 1992. Courtesy of Getty Images (Photo by Ron Galella, Ltd./WireImage). Reprint by permission. All rights reserved.

The Interview On Childhood and Getting into Show Business Joi Carr: Steve Nicolaides:

Joi Carr:

Steve Nicolaides:

Thank you so much. I feel like I know you. I’ve seen so many interviews with you. Well, you know, that’s true. There’s been way too many for somebody who never wanted to be in front of the camera. But, you know, every once in a while, a falling star lands in your lap, and I’m really glad that Boyz N the Hood has a lasting legacy in our culture, because it is a part of our culture that we need to continue thinking about and looking at and shining a light on. That’s right. I was so impressed with how you just seem so present and often express how you experience the world and the human condition. You seem immersed in it and aware of it and conscious of it. And I was wondering, where does that come from? Well, again, I don’t know. Probably my earliest memory was I lived on a dead end street in Van Nuys, and I was probably about five

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years old, and that street was full of kids my age, you know, baby boomer kids. All our parents were in World War II, and as soon as the war ended, they all knocked up their wives … [laughter] And there was one bully on the street who kept picking on a kid that I really liked, and I finally just had enough of it. I stepped up into the circle and hit him right in the chest with my two hands, and I said, “Cut that out,” you know. And everybody just sort of— ooh, you know. And I’m not a physically imposing person. I’m five foot six, you know. Joi Carr: So you just had it with him. Oh, you look tall in the interviews [laughter]. Steve Nicolaides: No, I’m not … I was also adopted, and so I kind of think that somewhere in the deep psyche is an understanding of people who get picked on, people who are left in the dark, people who didn’t get nursed by their moms. You know, just I’ve always been a lover of that culture, and a fighter for social justice, for human rights, all of that, basically. The rights of the little guy. My granddaughter is adopted, and I love—we have so many friends who had adopted. It’s definitely the right thing to do. And so—also in terms of social justice. But I think it—in my case, I mean, I have no idea, you know, of why I have always been a fighter for the little guy, the underdog, but I think it has something to do with that fact. Joi Carr: When I hear you talk, I just feel like you have a real connection with being able to articulate that, and its unusual coming from a filmmaker, a male filmmaker in this case. Steve Nicolaides: Yeah. But, I mean, I was an athlete when I was in junior—in grade school, junior high, and high school. And I loved being on a team. I loved being the captain, because I thought early on in my life that the more comfortable and welcoming and supported you make those around you, the better the unit is. And I feel that about a football team. I feel that about a movie crew. I feel definitely about that—like that about a society, a country, and really the world. I just don’t understand why there’s so much resentment toward people who aren’t like you. Joi Carr: Yeah. I am perplexed too. Steve Nicolaides: It just really—it’s so easy to feed everybody and so easy to make—to give a little, if you have a lot, that will go so far to making the ones who have nothing have a little, and ease their pain in the world. And—yeah, it just makes complete and total sense to me. If you think of civilization as a team, you want your team to thrive as a unit. Joi Carr: Yeah—seems to make more sense. Steve Nicolaides: I’ll get off my soapbox now.

Launching Singleton’s Career | 109 No, the soapbox is good. I’m quite perplexed by the deep-seated difficulty people have with experiencing diversity. It’s just—it’s disturbing, actually. Steve Nicolaides: It’s stunning. You know, it’s stunning. I mean, the rich people, the white bigots, they all love to hate the other, unless the other is the quarterback of their home team football, or Tiger Woods, or Beyoncé, or Salma Hayek. It’s a really weird time in the human culture right now. Joi Carr: Yeah. Yeah. I feel like we’re living in a— Steve Nicolaides: We’re so full of hate and so full of suspicion and so full of I’m taking care of me and I don’t care what happens to anybody else. Joi Carr: I think consumer culture really does thrive on it, for sure. Steve Nicolaides: Yeah. It’s amazing. So tell me—tell me—we’ll start with your childhood, Joi Carr: since you started there. Tell me what aspects of your childhood made you decide to be a filmmaker. What—was there epiphanies or moments that led you in that direction? Steve Nicolaides: Well, my father was an accountant for a TV production company called Filmways. Highly successful. They did Beverly Hillbillies and Green Acres and Petticoat Junction and Addams Family and Ozzie and Harriet. And so from the time I was 11 years old, every summer, I worked on the studio lot in Hollywood as the lot delivery boy. So I got to be around a culture of laughter and stress and a little bit of glamor, although I didn’t really know what glamor was when I was in junior high. And it was also long hours, and if you commit to finishing a job, you had to finish the job. And when the bell rings and your shift is over, you don’t go home unless the job is done. My first job in the movie business, I was 11 years old, and I was given a job of answering Mr. Ed fan mail. [laughter] Joi Carr: That’s hilarious! Who would have thought? Steve Nicolaides: So it was always—in my life, it was always sort of magical. I remember being at the office one evening waiting for my dad to finish and take us home, and the janitor who emptied the wastebaskets and filled the water coolers with ice came through, and he’s a big, tall, handsome black man with a deep voice, and he asked me what I was doing. I said, “Oh, I’m just snapping pictures of Mr. Ed and sending them back to these people who are fans.” And I said, “Do you ever watch the show?” And he said, “If I want to be involved with a story about horses, I would read the Greek myths.” And went on and on to tell me about flying horses, and even in the world of cheap joke Hollywood TV production, there are a lot of dreamers. There are a lot of educated people who think it’s just pretty darned good to be able to go to work every day wearing Levis, even though Joi Carr:

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you’re dreaming of finishing your PhD on Odysseus, you know, to deliver the call sheets for Green Acres, or Beverly Hillbillies. So I don’t know, I sort of grew up—I was a shy kid. I was an athlete. But I always had in the back of mind rumbling around the glamor of show biz, I guess. Joi Carr: So Filmways. Steve Nicolaides: Yeah, it was a big one. It was a really big TV production company. Joi Carr: That sounds pretty whimsical, though, to grow up in a creative space, and you are just running errands, but you’re also immersed in that culture, and it gives you kind of a window into the creative world. Why weren’t you an actor or a screenwriter or director? Why producing? Why that aspect of the business? Steve Nicolaides: Yeah. Well, I wanted to be a writer. I wanted to be a fiction writer. That’s what I studied at college, and I was a very shy kid, and honestly, I think I just didn’t have the confidence to think that what I had to say meant anything. So—my wife and I were living in Santa Barbara at the time, and she got pregnant, and we had a baby. And I said, “Okay, I have to be a dad now. I have to earn money.” So this [was] in the early seventies, and I was a long-haired hippie, and countercultural [laughter]. I didn’t want to work for the corporation. And the only industry that I really could imagine myself tolerating and thriving on was the entertainment business. So we moved back to LA, and I went to work as a secretary in the office. And a couple of production people liked my sense of humor and my energy, and said, “Come on, be a PA [Production Assistant] on these TV movies.” And then they left the company and went to another production company that made Saturday morning kids’ shows. And they said, “We’ve got 63 half hours to make in 3 months. Can you come and help us?” So I quit a steady job, and for the first time, I became a freelancer, and I was a freelancer for the next 35 years. Joi Carr: That straight into it? Wow, courageous dive into it. Steve Nicolaides: Not worrying about when the job was over, would I get another one. Because I—what I found is that in movie production, there’s two qualities that will allow you to go from $100.00 a week, go get this and go get that guy, to $3,000.00 a week production manager, and those are a steadiness of purpose, eyes on the prize, seeing way down the road, not being knocked off your feet by the every day, every hour, every minute little problems, bumps in the road, and then accepting the fact that you have to work really long hours. You know, I was saying to somebody the other day, I made lots of money in my career, but if you add up all the hours from the 14 or 15 hours a day during shooting, to the 10 hours every weekend

Launching Singleton’s Career | 111 getting ready for the next week, I probably ended up making $9.00 an hour. [laughter] But it—like people who are addicted to soldiering, to war, you know, they’re not doing it for the money, and I wasn’t doing it for the money. I loved the business. And as I got more and more experience and more and more well-known, I was able to pick and choose the projects that I worked on. And I was very, very lucky to have been able to make some wonderful projects, things that—I have a nine-year-old granddaughter, and last summer, she came over, and one night we watched Princess Bride, and then another night we watched Beverly Hills Chihuahua, and then another night, we watched Nacho Libre, and then another night we watched—I can’t remember what it was now. Eventually, we’ll get to Stand by Me. A little older. And then eventually to Boyz N the Hood, and to Little Big League. And, you know, it’s when you get to sort of the downside of your career, and there’s a lot to be proud of and a lot to share backward with your family and kids and friends, it’s really nice—it’s really good. Joi Carr: Yes, it seems really rewarding, and you seem satisfied and content, actually. I can hear that already. That’s the unusual, in fact amazing part of it as I listen to you. Steve Nicolaides: Yeah. So what school did you go to and what did you study? Joi Carr: Steve Nicolaides: I went to the University of California at Santa Barbara, and I studied English literature and history. It was the late sixties and early seventies, so it was a time of intense social upheaval. I ended up dodging the draft for about two and a half years before I finally got a medical, you know— Joi Carr: Waiver? Steve Nicolaides: —dispensation. And I didn’t—I never graduated. I didn’t really see what a degree in English would give me unless I wanted to be a teacher, which would have been fine with me. I love kids. I still do love kids. And—but that was—not at those times. You know, those times were way different. You know, way different. Joi Carr: Yeah, I imagine. Steve Nicolaides: After the Vietnam War, the [folks who] run our government understood that you can’t have a draft where Trump’s kids get drafted, you know. I mean, even President Trump dodged the draft, as did President George W. Bush. So they don’t have a draft anymore. They just pay [minority groups] who can’t get paying jobs anyplace else, a living wage, and promise them the GI bill and college tuition and all that, and in my humble opinion, turn them into killers. Joi Carr: I just actually—thinking about Boyz N the Hood—we’ll get to the entire film in a second—but that was his option [Ricky’s character].

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The only technology in the film is that moment where he’s looking at TV, and Ricky decides he might enlist in the Army. Steve Nicolaides: Yeah. “Be all that you can be” [Unites States Army slogan]. Joi Carr: Yeah. It’s just—it’s a disturbing moment in the movie. He felt that was his only viable option besides being an athlete. I’m actually going to talk about that part in the book as well. So how— Steve Nicolaides: I taped that—I taped that off of my TV, on my VCR. My VCR played it back on the TV in the movie. Because I asked a lawyer at Sony at the time, “Can I—can we put this in the movie?” He said, “You know what? It was funded by taxpayer dollars. It’s owned by the public. You can do anything you want with it.” And I was surprised, because even in the early nineties, everything had to be licensed and, fear of litigation and all that kind of stuff. But it’s really true. And that’s been the choice for young underprivileged or undereducated men in our country really for a long, long time, is to bang, go in the Army, or, you know, work in fast food. It’s— Joi Carr: It’s just disturbing [Pausing to reflect]. So you end up getting married and moving to LA, which community? Steve Nicolaides: I lived in North Hollywood, where I grew up. I moved back to LA. My oldest daughter Jenny was a baby. I worked in a production company as a secretary, and then became a production assistant on actual productions. And I just fit in, you know. I—like I said before, I like being on a team, and I’m a good team player, and I— at the beginning, I didn’t know what a zoom lens was. I didn’t know what a 10K is. I didn’t know what a call sheet was. I didn’t know what any of it [was]— Joi Carr: Oh, my gosh. On the job training. Steve Nicolaides: Kept my eyes open, and I learned, and I was not—I was kind of starting at the bottom. And a lot of people who come into the business at a young age, they basically want to start at the top and work their way down. But when you tell them they’re supposed to come in at 6 AM and go home at 6:00 PM, go over to McDonalds and get 400 chicken sandwiches because we’re going to be working now until 10:00 tonight, “F—this s—, man. I don’t want to do this.” [laughter] Joi Carr: That’s funny, because I read an interview with John [Singleton]. He actually said that. He’s like, “I didn’t want to do that. I was—” he was on an internship as a director, shadowing a director or something, and he got mad because they were treating him like an errand boy. [laughter] Steve Nicolaides: That’s true. You know, that’s John to a T. He worked on Darkman the summer before Boyz N the Hood. It may have been the spring before Boyz N the Hood, because that’s the only way he could afford food. He ate off the catering truck. You know, I actually

Launching Singleton’s Career | 113 loaned John I think it was $2,000.00 before Boyz N the Hood—I forget. Both our payments, our initial payments, were held up by the studio until a certain time, like eight weeks before production or something like that. And he was dead broke. And so that’s what happens, you know. When you’re poor, you’re a slave, or you’re a potential slave. Joi Carr: Yeah. Yeah. Speak! Steve Nicolaides: And there’s one thing about John Singleton that is true, is that he ain’t no slave. Joi Carr: He is not. Steve Nicolaides: Nah, he ain’t.

Figure 4.3: 2011 Los Angeles Film Festival. (L-R) Elvis Mitchell, producer Steve Nicolaides, director John Singleton, actor Cuba Gooding Jr. and producer Stephanie Allain speak at the Boyz N the Hood 20th anniversary screening Q&A. Regal Cinemas L.A. LIVE on June 23, 2011 in Los Angeles, California. Courtesy of Getty Images. Reprint by permission. All rights reserved.

On Boyz Joi Carr:

So what we’ll do is let’s shift—we’ll shift to the film, and then I’m going to go back to some of your biography, and I want to go through your [filmography]—some of the films that you worked on, because it’s a pretty cool list of films and collaborations.

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I’ve heard the story before, but for the readers, I want them to be able to know how you came on the project and why you accepted this particular opportunity. Steve Nicolaides: Well, I had just finished working on my fifth movie with Rob Reiner, a movie called Misery, which was aptly titled. Joi Carr: What was such a problem—I’ve heard you say that a couple of times. I want to know what was going on. Steve Nicolaides: Well, it was just, you know, shooting on stage for so long. Joi Carr: How long was it? Steve Nicolaides: You know, I like to be outdoors. I like to be in the real world, you know. I mean, the early part of Misery was the best job I ever had. The location manager and I were in a hotel in Reno, and we would have breakfast in the morning, and I’d pull out a big map of the mountains, and I’d say, “Okay, you take this sector, and I’ll take that sector. We’ll go up and look for beautiful, magnificent places to build Annie Wilkes’ house? But then it became just a—shooting on stage. Shooting on stage is kind of like being in prison. [laughter] You know, everybody’s bored. We’re doing the same thing. We’re taking the same walls out and then putting them back in. And people start to— their attention wanders, and they get sort of funny and try to pull funny jokes on you. Joi Carr: Start losing focus, huh? Steve Nicolaides: Anyway, it was—that movie ended, and it was late spring, I think. And my son Aaron was graduating from sixth grade and going to junior high, and I kind of understand that, you know, when your kids go to junior high, that begins the process of saying goodbye to your parents, you know. Joi Carr: Yeah. Steve Nicolaides: They get involved with other things. So I wanted to have a summer with him. Billy Crystal, who is a friend of mine, we had worked together on When Harry Met Sally, asked me to produce City Slickers. And I said to Billy, “You know, I love you, man, and I love this project. I would love to go to New Mexico and look for cattle ranches and open spaces and all that, but I want this summer with my kid.” And he said, “You know what? I totally understand that, and I totally respect that.” We went back to Cambridge, Massachusetts, where we had friends, and Aaron, who is a basketball player, wanted to go to the Basketball Hall of Fame in Springfield, I think, Massachusetts. So we went back there, and my good friend and the wife of my best friend, Stephanie Allain, who was a development person at Columbia, called me, and she said, “Oh, my God, I just read the greatest script I’ve ever read in my life, and you have to read this in the next two days.”

Launching Singleton’s Career | 115 And I said, “You know, Stephanie, I don’t want to work this summer. I want to spend it with Aaron,” and blah blah blah. And she said, “No, no, no. You got to read this. It’s going to be the greatest—” so just to shut her up, I said, “Okay, send it to me” [laughter]. She sent it to where we were staying in Cambridge, and I read it. My sort of rule of thumb is I sit down and start on page one and I finish it, it’s a great script. And I read it, like in probably an hour. It was— Joi Carr: That compelling, huh? Steve Nicolaides: And something just rang a bell in me. You know, I’m just a hippie at heart. I believe in justice. I believe in fairness. I believe in giving the people who don’t have opportunity and have not had help along the way, giving them opportunity and help along the way. And so I called her back and said, “Okay, I’m in.” So I was living in Pasadena at the time, and John’s mom Sheila lived in Pasadena. So John and I met at Sheila’s house. And I looked at him, and he’s so young, sort of unsophisticated, or some would say clueless. And I said, “Why me?” And he said, “Because you worked on my favorite movie of all time.” I said, “What was that?” “Stand by Me.” And so we talked and what I said is—because I had the summer before I prepped a version of the movie Rainman that didn’t get made. But we were [that summer] in a production office right next to Dennis Hopper’s movie Colors. And I would love to wander into the art department and look at all the pretty murals of Justice Now and all this kind of stuff. And it just felt to me like it was Hollywood goes to the Ghetto, and I couldn’t stand those kind of movies. I didn’t like the movie, either. But I have great respect and admiration for Dennis, Sean Penn, and Robert Duvall. I said to John, “Okay, well, two things. Two pieces of reality, for me at least. One, we’re not going to get a big budget on this, because you’re directing. Two, I don’t want to do Hollywood goes to the Ghetto. I want to shoot it real. I don’t want to move anything. I don’t want to paint beautiful murals on walls. You know, it should feel like a documentary.” And he said, “I’m totally with you on that.” So we shook hands. We, you know, to this day, we’re really good friends. You know, I love him. He loves me. We laugh. He loves my caustic sense of humor, and I love his naïve confidence, you know. Joi Carr: Caustic. [laughter] Steve Nicolaides: I can get under anybody’s skin. I don’t believe that. You seem so warm. It’s crazy. I keep telling you, Joi Carr: I feel like I know you, because I’ve been watching so many interviews, and I am thinking, what a nice man and you actually are.

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Steve Nicolaides: Joi Carr: Steve Nicolaides:

Yeah, well, you know, I mean, you get one life on earth. Why not be nice? Right! Why not be kind? Why not be giving? Why not—I don’t understand these people who are suspicious and grumpy and selfish and all this kind of stuff.

On Preproduction Process So you shake hands, you accept the film—what I haven’t heard is the description of the preproduction process, because I’ve heard a lot about the production, but not necessarily what you sketched out related to the preproduction process. Steve Nicolaides: Well, so we end up with offices in the Thalberg Building at Sony. That’s the most famous building in movie history, I think. Beautiful deco building at Sony. Joi Carr: Nice. Steve Nicolaides: And for some reason, they put John’s office right next door to Gary Martin’s office, and Gary Martin is a big, powerful production executive, runs the studio production-wise, and he’s a good friend of mine. So the first day that John and I get there, my office is across the hall and down a little way, and I go in and say hi to Gary, and we’re in his office chit-chatting about what this movie’s going to be and how we’re going to do it. And all of a sudden John shows up about 10:30 in the morning and puts on some just bumping rap music. You know, shakes the walls and rattles the windows in Gary’s office. [laughter] He says, “What the hell is that?” You know, that’s your director, man. Joi Carr: Oh, my gosh. [laughter] Steve Nicolaides: Yeah. So like in four hours, John’s office was moved down the hall from Gary. [laughter] Joi Carr: He’s like [John getting moved], he’s out of here. Steve Nicolaides: He’s out—you’re not next to me, I’ll tell you that. Wow—too funny. John … [laughter] Joi Carr: Steve Nicolaides: Yeah. But then, it’s production, so John and I hang out, and I say, “How do you see this?” And nah nah nah nah nah. And we start to—we find a casting director. We find an art director. We start looking for crew. We find a production office in Leimert Park. And the studio, this is like—this is in the days when the average movie will—studio movie is probably $30 or $40 million, and this was a $5 million movie, or $5.7 million. Joi Carr: Yeah. I’ve been hearing $5.7 and $6 Million-ish. Joi Carr:

Launching Singleton’s Career | 117 Steve Nicolaides: Joi Carr: Steve Nicolaides:

Joi Carr: Steve Nicolaides: Joi Carr:

Steve Nicolaides:

Joi Carr: Steve Nicolaides: Joi Carr: Steve Nicolaides:

Joi Carr: Steve Nicolaides:

Joi Carr: Steve Nicolaides: Joi Carr:

Yeah, that—it was at that range. I don’t know if it was $5.650 or $5.7, but it was around there. Okay. It came in on budget. So we go—as fast as we can, we get away from the studio. And to be honest with you, the studio was fine with that. They didn’t want to have anything to do with this movie. And so we just went off on our own. It was really like Joseph Conrad, Heart of Darkness. Get on the road and sail up the Congo and let’s see what you come back with. [laughter] There goes your literary background, putting it to use. Yeah. Well you know, life is a journey, isn’t it? Yes, it is. Wow, okay. So you land in Leimert. So how did you find Jaki Brown, who now has a thriving career? I understand that the project pretty much launched several careers behind the scenes, and Jaki Brown, you know, has stated that this was her big break. How did you all find crew?— Big break for all of us, really, for—including Fishburne—I mean, he was the only sort of known entity, and he was known as Cowboy Curtis. You know, he was in Red Dawn, I think, a Walter Hill movie in Chicago. Like he wasn’t—and of course, he was in Apocalypse Now when he was a teenager. Yes. I mean, he’d been working for a while, but still pretty early in his career, you know— Yeah. And School Daze and, you know, that— Cornbread, Earl and Me, way back in the day. Yeah. But I don’t remember how we came to Jaki—probably John’s network. But, she is one of the greatest human beings that I ever met in my life, and certainly one of the greatest pros in the business. And I remember the first day of auditions—and John will disagree with me on this, because he remembers it totally different than I do—but John and I went to her office at 9200 Sunset Boulevard, and Larry Fishburne came along with us, because he was John’s touchstone in terms of actor quality. Yes, of course. And the second person in the door was Cuba Gooding, Jr. And the third person in the door was Morris Chestnut. And, you know, somebody, I think it was me, but John thinks it was him who said, “Well, we got Ricky and Tre. Shall we go have lunch?” I mean, it was perfect, that movie is so perfectly cast. Tyra, who I think you talked to— Yes, Tyra Ferrell. I did. Yeah. She wanted to play Tre’s mom. She told me that.

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Yeah. Did she tell you that? But she was so magnificent as Mrs. Baker, and she had such a perfect attitude, and a—you know, a scary, beautiful, angry look to her, that we said, “No, no, no. You’re Mrs. Baker!” Joi Carr: Yes! Steve Nicolaides: And it was Fishburne who told us about Angela Bassett, because they had almost did Daughters in the Dust [Julie Dash film] together, and that version of it fell out. Fish said, “You know, you need to read Angela. She’s something.” And so, brick by brick, we started to put it together. We found a crew. The goal was to have as black a crew as possible. Joi Carr: Okay, unusual. Steve Nicolaides: I was completely fine with that. I wanted my production coordinator, Linda Folsom, who has been with me—who at that point in time had been with me for years—But for the most part, we found black technicians to do just about all of the jobs. And we were moving along. We were picking locations. We got a cameraman. We’re getting ready to shoot and we’re casting. We’ve got almost a full cast. And at some point in time, I said, “Wait, I’m doing a Columbia Pictures movie, a studio movie, and none of these people are in the union, you know?” Joi Carr: Oh, man. Didn’t think about that. Steve Nicolaides: Yes. And—but I know that the union people are not going to come to South Central to shoot. So I went to Gary Martin, who is a big—or was a big, stern, tough guy, but had a heart of absolute solid gold—And I said, “I want to go to the union, and I’ll bring you this movie, and you’ll get the pension and health and welfare payments off their salary, but you have to grandfather all the people that we’ve hired on this crew into the union.” So there was probably 25 black technicians who have a lifetime full of frustrating trying to get into the unions, and boom, they were all in. Just like that. Joi Carr: That’s significant. It really is. Steve Nicolaides: It’s probably the proudest thing that I have about Boyz N the Hood. I—and I’m still good friends with a lot of them. You know, when we get together for various reunions, we all hug and we all laugh, and it’s really good. Joi Carr: While we’re talking about production, I wanted to talk about the art direction. I really see how you wanted to make it look like a documentary and feel like a documentary, and I actually talk about the film kind of like a Cassavetes—John Cassavetes style. Steve Nicolaides: Oh, that’s great praise indeed, you know. I think John would agree, and certainly I think that the Cassavetes movies are magnificent. Steve Nicolaides:

Launching Singleton’s Career | 119 I really do feel that. I teach Shadows, and I just—wow, I could see how he was trying to blend a real-world situation with a fictive story and the art direction I enjoy because of that. And did you select Bruce Bellamy, or was that another John pick? Steve Nicolaides: Well, Bruce was friends with John I think at USC, and Bruce had gotten into the union as a set dresser. So Bruce and I had lunch, and basically I said, “This is kind of the kind of movie that the art director is really going to be the location manager. I don’t think we should change all that much, maybe some furniture. I don’t want to paint walls, and I don’t want to—certainly don’t want to paint murals.” And he said, “I totally agree with you, man. Let’s just do this.” So Bruce is wonderful. He worked really hard. He helped us find so many of the locations. And the thing, when you’re producing, you’re trying to surround the director, who’s basically—his job is to answer 1,000 questions a day—you’re trying to surround him with friends and confidantes and people who give him security and confidence to make decisions, because as a producer, I always say, we can’t do nothing. We have to make a choice, even if it’s a bad choice and we go down the road three more days, and we realize it’s a bad choice. We can always come back to point zero. But to stand there and stew is wrong. Let’s make something—let’s try to make something happen. And Bruce was really helpful and integral in that process, because imagine for your first gig in the movie business, you’re directing a studio movie [John Singleton], you know. Joi Carr: That’s crazy! Steve Nicolaides: Are we dolly tracking this back in the backyard? Do we want a crane up high in the trees? Do we want—duh duh duh. You know, a million questions. Joi Carr: Were you initially concerned with supporting such a young filmmaker, first screenplay, directorial debut, major studio support? And you were at the helm as the only producer, which is unusual. Were you—? Steve Nicolaides: Unusual! That’s because nobody wanted anything to do with Boyz N the Hood, until they saw it, and then everybody wanted to climb on the bandwagon. But no, I mean, I—it was the greatest experience of my career, without any question, because by that time I had enough experience to be really confident about my leadership abilities and with the fact that I—could point people into what I believe is the path to excellence. You know? I mean, my motto has always been it’s just about striving for excellence. Joi Carr: Right. Glad you signed on. Joi Carr:

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Steve Nicolaides: Joi Carr: Steve Nicolaides:

Joi Carr: Steve Nicolaides: Joi Carr: Steve Nicolaides: Joi Carr:

Steve Nicolaides:

Joi Carr: Steve Nicolaides:

And we did that. The biggest chunk of the puzzle was in the perfection of the casting. Yes, did you get the young people? You all rarely talk about that part. Well, Jaki Brown—to her credit. I mean, Desi [Arnez Hines II], who plays young Tre, he was really the only one that we saw that we thought could be Cuba [Tre Styles character] as a little boy. He—initially, we all sort of had a little bit of questioning, but he was really good in the movie. And then Baha [Jackson], you know, I forget where Baha came from, but I’m sure he came from Jaki. But he was Ice Cube [Dough Boy character] as a little boy. Oh, my that little face [Baha]. He was perfect. That face of his. Yeah. I mean, to me, he steals the movie, honestly. “Come on, man. Give me the ball.” You know? I mean, he was great in that movie. Yes. And he sets up this—he sets up—immediately sets up the empathy that you feel for him [Dough Boy] later, because you see how much he loves his brother, and he supports him, and how he just—he just sets it all up, really, early on. Yeah. “Oh, Rick, I told you not to bring that ball. You know what I mean?” [laughter] You know—it’s just—you know? And then when Cube goes with Rick and runs down and jumps in the car and drives to the alley, it’s the same impulse. Yeah. Yeah. You know, it’s the same brotherly love. It’s the same brotherly protection.

On Production Schedule Joi Carr:

Steve Nicolaides: Joi Carr: Steve Nicolaides:

For sure. How long was the shoot? I’ve heard 40 days, and then I’ve also heard 6 weeks. So how long was it? I heard it was brief, like a TV production schedule. It was—I believe it was 46 days. Forty-six days. Okay. Uh-huh. So that’s an eight week, five days—that’s nine weeks of five days a week. We didn’t shoot on the weekends. And—that’s the thing—that’s the difference between a TV movie and a feature, is that you’re not accepting performance until you get one. If it works, if it feels okay, then we’re moving on. I’ve just got five more pages to shoot before lunch. And that was not that way in Boyz N the Hood. We got a—I mean, I’ve been on much bigger movies that had 80 and 90 day schedules, but 46 felt fair to me, and I think—I still think it was fair.

Launching Singleton’s Career | 121 Okay. I don’t think the movie missed too many shots. No, it was strong, it feels good. Here we are, 25 years later, talking about it. Steve Nicolaides: Yeah. Joi Carr: I hear that you actually had encouraged John to actually take a few more shots, because he would be like, “Okay, move on.” Steve Nicolaides: Yeah. I remember the first day of shooting, we were outside the Baker house, and we’d do one take, and he’d say, “Cut. Okay. I’m happy” [laughter]. So we would go to the second shot, you know. “Good. I’m happy.” And I finally had to go up to him and say, “You know, you can do more than one take, man. You know? Ask her to do it a little softer or a little faster or whatever.” And— but that’s who John is. John is a—he’s a leader, and he’s a team player, and he’s full of energy, and just wants to—“let’s just go,” you know? Joi Carr: Yes, I do. It if feels good, it’s time to move one. Steve Nicolaides: And certainly that’s who he was on Boyz N the Hood, and probably still the same. Joi Carr: Yes, I felt that even when I interviewed him. He just had so much energy. It was incredible. He was really generous, too, with his time … I’ve been curious—I wanted to know—what street is that on, the neighborhood set? I don’t seem to know where that is in LA? Steve Nicolaides: The Baker house? Joi Carr: Yes, where was that? Steve Nicolaides: You know, it was somewhere— Joi Carr: Was that in Compton? Was it actually in Compton? Steve Nicolaides: No. It was—boy. Around 46th Street and just east of Crenshaw. I don’t remember the name of the street. Joi Carr: Oh, okay. I know where the vicinity is in my head now. Steve Nicolaides: The Styles house was right across the street. And Brandi’s house was right next to the Styles house. But now that I think about it, because I believe it was in the Rollin 60s territory, so maybe it was not 46th Street. Maybe it was— Joi Carr: 60th? Steve Nicolaides: —60th or somewhere around there. Yeah. Joi Carr: So what are some of your best memories during the production process? I know you all had some precarious situations, communitywise. I’ve heard some—you guys were threatened or something one time on Crenshaw. Steve Nicolaides: Yeah, when they did the car scene on Crenshaw. Boyz N the Hood became sort of public at that point, because we were on Crenshaw Boulevard on Wednesday night, and there was an incident where one of the extras, who was a blood, punched out a kid who was Joi Carr: Steve Nicolaides: Joi Carr:

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wearing blue. And there was a rumor that went through the crowd that the bloods were going to come back and shoot up everybody, as it actually happens in the scene. So we moved the production trucks onto Crenshaw Boulevard to block the shooting area. We continued to shoot. And then my friend Wolfgang Bodison, who I had known from the Castle Rock days, and who was one of the—one of the accused in A Few Good Men, after this movie, he was the picture car coordinator. So he was out in the community, and word got to Wolfgang that a guy named Bone wanted to meet the producers. Joi Carr: Who? Steve Nicolaides: He’s famous [Cle “Bone” Sloan—activist and filmmaker, and allegedly gang affiliated]. He’s one of the guys that Suge Knight [allegedly] hit [with a vehicle] during the shooting of Straight out of Compton. Joi Carr: Oh, okay. Steve Nicolaides: He’s a really good dude. But at the time when I first met him, he wanted to have dinner at Boulevard Café on MLK and Crenshaw at 10:30 at night. So I went to the dinner with Wolfgang, and there were these two black guys who were like twice the size of me. And I thought—I said to my wife, you know, “I hope I make it home tonight, you know.” Because I had no idea. And he said, “Look, man, I never even heard about a little shitty movie called Boyz N the Hood until two days ago, and now I understand that the movie is dissing the bloods. And rumor has it that you’re going to have Ice Cube blow away the blood gangsters at a hamburger stand directly across from the housing project on MLK called the jungle, which is a total blood territory.” Joi Carr: Yeah. Whoa. Steve Nicolaides: “—total blood territory.” And I said, “You know, the director of this movie told me that there was no more colors, there’s no more blue and red and this.” “That guy gave you a piece—a load of shit.” Joi Carr: He totally lied? Steve Nicolaides: Yeah, he totally lied, you know. “And so I don’t care about your movie. You can do whatever you want. The bad guys drive a red Hyundai, you know, and wear a red Chicago Bulls cap. That pisses me off, but I’ll let that slide. But I’ll tell you this. I can’t control some 14-year-old who wants to get his stripes in the bloods walking up into the crowd and pulling a gun out and shooting Ice Cube in the back, who’s wearing a blue Detroit Tigers baseball cap.” I said, “Okay. We didn’t—we don’t need to talk anymore. I get it. I’m sorry. I apologize. There—you know, [I said] “this is a movie about peace, not about war.” Joi Carr: That’s right.

Launching Singleton’s Career | 123 “And I’m going to change it.” And the next morning on the set, John came up, and I went to John, and I said, “Look, man, I had dinner with Bone, and he’s saying that there’s—that we’re crazy, shooting the murder scene at a hamburger stand across from ‘the Jungle,’ because this guy says he’s the king of the bloods in the Jungle, and he can’t vouch that some 14-year-old with a 9 mil is not going to walk out of the crowd and pop Ice Cube.” And John said, “No, we’re not changing our location spot.” And Cube was there, and he said, “John, John, listen to Steve, man. Let’s—are you crazy, man?” Joi Carr: Basically, “I love my life.” Steve Nicolaides: God. Yeah. I like my life, you know. And so we both talked John down, and we changed the location to Eat-a-Burger in the Crenshaw Mall. I have no idea if it’s still there. Joi Carr: Okay. No, it’s not. I know where you’re talking, though. Steve Nicolaides: Yeah. But—and we changed it, and everything was fine, and there was no problem, no trouble, no nothing. But— Joi Carr: And you know that’s still down the street from “the Jungle” [Baldwin Village area in Los Angeles about a square mile, recently featured in Training Day (2001), often referred to by locals as “the Jungle,” initially due to local foliage and later due to the dense population and alleged violence]. Steve Nicolaides: It’s still right down the street from “the Jungle,” but it’s not right across the street, and it’s—you know, the Crenshaw Mall parking lot is— Joi Carr: Which was pretty big. Steve Nicolaides: —kind of—yeah, and it’s not really—but it doesn’t feel like the hood, you know. Joi Carr: Yeah, it doesn’t. You’re right about that. That’s kind of a precarious situation. Steve Nicolaides: Yeah! But that was really the only testy thing. I mean, for me, as a producer, the scariest thing was we were shooting on our street, and Dedrick [D. Golbert featured in Boyz as Dooky], the guy with the pacifier, pulls up and parks on the street, the next street over, and the LAPD guy was—we usually had two or three LA—off duty LAPD as security, along with the Nation of Islam. And he says, “I know that car.” And he runs a check on the car. He says, “Steve, come here. I want to show you something.” Joi Carr: Oh, brother. Steve Nicolaides: And we pull up the ticket on the car, and the driver, Gobert Dedrick has a warrant out. He’s got a warrant out on him. He says, “You know if somebody pulls him over, he’s in jail, and he’s out of your movie.” What? So I took him to court the next day. His case got put on the docket. It was the last one. It was a Chinese judge in downtown Steve Nicolaides:

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Joi Carr: Steve Nicolaides:

Joi Carr: Steve Nicolaides:

Joi Carr: Steve Nicolaides:

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LA. The judge looked at it and said he had 100 hours of community service and did 1 hour of it. Bucket him. Boom. Gavel goes down. What?! Which means he’s going to jail. “Your Honor, can I talk to you for a minute?” And I stood up, and I walked up, and I said, “This guy has got—has changed his life. He’s an actor in a major motion picture now. I will vouch for him, after the completion of his job—he’s earning money—I will vouch that he will come back and do the community service.” And the judge looked at me—and I actually even had to put on a white shirt and a tie to do this. [laughter] You had to dress up a little bit, huh? Yeah. And he said, “Okay, I’ll give you 90 days. Boom.” You know, and so Vdub [his nickname] got to finish the movie. Of course, and this is—this is the irony all time—we had the cast and crew screening at Sony several months down the road. This is the celebration of our work. Vdub is driving down the street, gets pulled over by a cop. He hasn’t done any community service. So they put him in jail, so he misses the cast and crew screening. Yeah, I learned that he died later. And later he died in a—I guess he was out there drag racing—he had a Chinese girlfriend, and some [guy] … they got into it, and he got shot. I heard that was in 1994. I read about it in the LA Times. It’s just disturbing. Yes, he was a beautiful cat. He was a really funny guy, really lovely guy. Yeah. Sweet family. Jaki Brown said he wore—the pacifier, he actually would suck on because he was working on not smoking or something like that. Oh, I don’t know … he was the head of the VW Car Club in South Central. Oh, I didn’t know that. That’s why he was called Vdub. And John Singleton walked by and came up to him, and he said, “Who’s that guy with the pacifier? He’s perfect for Dooky.” “Well, let me go talk to him?” He had never acted before. He’d never been in front of a camera. But he was a natural. I did not know that’s how you all cast him. Yeah. He was going to be an extra. Yay, I just got a good scoop. That’s so funny. He was wonderful in the movie. Bless his heart. I was sorry to hear that he had passed. Yeah. You know. [pausing for a long moment] What are some other moments on the set? I’ve heard you talk about the death scene before. Powerful—well, did you want to share that?

Launching Singleton’s Career | 125 What moments or shoot dates just stand out to you, that kind of resonated with you? Steve Nicolaides: Well, when Ricky Baker gets shot in the alley. Joi Carr: Yes. Were you on set every day? Did you go on every day? Steve Nicolaides: I was on set every day, and I probably never went back to the office until after we wrapped. And then I would have to go back and sign all the checks and POs and—it was a really hard and long job for me, but I wanted to be there, because I’m a perfectionist, and I didn’t want people to make stupid mistakes or make decisions based on cloudy information. And, it was my job to bring it in on schedule and on budget, and … Joi Carr: That’s what you did! Steve Nicolaides: And that’s what I did. Joi Carr: Yes, you sure did—close shepherding. I didn’t know that you shepherded it so closely. Steve Nicolaides: Yes, every movie I’ve ever made—I love the set. I love the team. I’m the cheerleader. I’m the boss. I’m the guy. And when people can’t resolve their differences, I want to be there to resolve the difference, you know. Joi Carr: That’s right. Steve Nicolaides: The day that Ricky got shot in the alley was the first day that Quincy Jones came around. Quincy had heard that there was something real going on here, and he wanted to come and talk about the music and meet John—but budget started. Russell Simmons came around, and so Quincy came to the set, and we’re losing the light, and we’re doing the scene where the camera is back in the alley, from Tre’s point of view, shooting toward the red Hyundai, and Ricky running away, … And John was with Quincy. I had to go over to him and say, you know, thank you to Quincy, “Thank you for coming. We need to get this while we still have light, because we have a couple of other shots,” blah blah blah. Quincy understood. Quincy is a beautiful cat. And we pulled John away, and we made the shot, and then turned the camera around for when Ice Cube and the other guy rolled up in the gold car, and then Chris comes in his wheelchair, and they pick him up, and put him in the car. And it was one of, if not the most, emotional couple of hours in the filmmaking—in my history of filmmaking. It was so [Long pause]. Joi Carr: I can feel it … you are trying to articulate what it was like … I can feel you searching for words. Steve Nicolaides: The scene speaks for itself, you know, and— Joi Carr: Yes. The scene does speak for itself. Incredible. Steve Nicolaides: Yes. And then when they bring his body into Mrs. Baker’s house, and he’s laid out on the plastic covered sofa, which I love—

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—and, “What happened? What happened?” “What did you do?” And then when Tyra goes off on Ice Cube, that was complete extemporaneous, completely out of the box. Cube, I think his mind was blown because she was so powerful, that they held each other— you know they stood toe to toe as great actors in that scene. And, of all the scenes in that movie, of all the sequences, the killing of Ricky Baker, and Mrs. Baker’s reaction, is I think as powerful as it gets. Joi Carr: Yes, believe it! Steve Nicolaides: In film, and I always say to people that prior to Boyz N the Hood, we—everybody else in America thought, you know—what are these crazy black kids doing shooting each other every weekend, or—you know? Crips and bloods and crack cocaine and all that kind of stuff. When Ricky Baker goes down, then all of a sudden, there’s a face to the murders. There’s a back story. There’s a young man with a family and a young man with dreams. He could play football for USC. And I really believe that in a really sort of whispery, distant way, that was the beginning of Black Lives Matter. Joi Carr: The resonance is there. Yes. I heard you say that at the AMPAS [Academy of Motions Picture of Arts and Sciences] 25th Celebration on tape. Steve Nicolaides: That they’re—these are people. They’re not just, you know, f—ing gangsters or whatever you want to call them. They’re people. Joi Carr: Some construct or idea, a figment of your imagination. Steve Nicolaides: Yes! Exactly. Joi Carr: People with lives. Really! Steve Nicolaides: People with lives, with dreams, with hopes, with back stories, with— Joi Carr: Loved ones. Steve Nicolaides: Yeah! Yeah. And that’s—if there’s one ultimate thing to be said about Boyz N the Hood, is that all the characters in that story are loved, you know and should be loved and are real. And this is not a black and white—this is not a Marvel comic. This is what swimming in the pool is like. Joi Carr: Yes! It’s interesting, because we—most people—well, initially, if you read the script, you feel like Tre is an important central character, but in the end, Dough Boy is the one who ends up opening up space for people to perceive and understand what’s actually going on in relation to these young men. And they love him, and they weep over his death. Steve Nicolaides: Right! Yeah. Joi Carr: And I just—I found that just really significant, the way in which he was able to draw us in.

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Yeah! And of course— From a little boy, from Baha Jackson’s performance, Dough Boy is a gladiator, and he’s going to fight for right. And at the end, he loses his life, but he fought for the integrity and the love of his family. And, you know, what better way to live your life? True. What do you believe made Boyz N the Hood so progressive for its time? Is it just primarily the depiction and the space, and here we are, 25 years later, still exploring it? What’s its legacy, do you think? Well, hmm. Good question. You know, one of the things that—I’ve seen it a couple of times in the last five years, and one of the things that nobody talks about is how funny it is. It is. Yes, there are moments that are really funny. Yeah. But I think that Boyz N the Hood, for urban black communities, that—in a way that like August Wilson plays say the same thing, but they don’t say it with teenagers and freshness and they’re not set in the nineties. They say that, oh, we’re here. We’re struggling. This is what our life is like. And you can’t deny us that. And it’s— Yes, absolutely. Authentic voice—August Wilson all the way. Boyz N the Hood, it’s true in Latino communities, it’s true in Vietnamese communities, it’s true in Filipino communities, it’s true in Puerto Rican—you know, it’s—I mean—what’s the difference between Cornbread, Earl and Me, or, you know, some of those 1960s flick movies that seem so kind of saccharine, as opposed to—? Yeah, it’s kind of flat. This is real. This is not that—these are not white characters being portrayed by black actors. These are are black stories being portrayed by black actors.

On Release Joi Carr:

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Yes, perceptive What Donald Bogle calls “blackface fixation”—the practice of white actors as characters performing “blackness,” he calls it that. I’m going to shift to the Cannes Festival experience. What was that like with Boyz? Well, we showed the movie to the studio executives. We finished it. We had mixed it. It was done. We showed it to them. And it was, maybe 40 white executives from distribution to creative, and probably 10 guys at the end of the movie were crying their eyes out. Oh, my goodness. Everybody said, “This movie has to go to Cannes. This movie is important. This movie has deep power. It reaches into your chest

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and rips your soul out.” And, so I didn’t have any idea what the Cannes Film Festival was like. I always thought it was “Cannes,” you know, and somebody said, no, it’s “Cannes.” [Comparing pronunciations] Joi Carr: So this is your first time? Steve Nicolaides: We all went there, and it was really fun. And all of a sudden, there were huge billboards of Boyz N the Hood and Ice Cube and the poster, and—I mean, I’ve told the story and I’ll tell it again about the premiere. We were in the category Un Certain Regard, which we didn’t win, but our screening was I think on a Saturday afternoon at around 2:00 pm. We went in. The Black Hollywood royalty was there, from Quincy Jones to Wesley Snipes to Spike Lee to— Joi Carr: I heard Eddie Murphy was there. Steve Nicolaides: Yes, Eddie Murphy was there. Right. And several others, you know. And John was there. And I was sitting next to Frank Price, and right behind me was Roger Ebert and his wife. So—and I’m kind of thinking, oh, I want to meet the person who translated Boyz N the Hood into French. You know? [laughter] Joi Carr: Oh, my goodness. That’s right. Steve Nicolaides: You know, it’s like “motherf—king” this … Joi Carr: Yeah, yeah. How do you do that? Translate that? [laughter] Steve Nicolaides: Yeah. Yeah. So the movie has a buzz, definitely. Cube and John are there. The lights go down. The movie plays on. The movie is over. “How to Survive in South Central” is on. The end credits are rolling. And the lights come back up. And all of a sudden, the theater erupts. Joi Carr: Oh, my! Steve Nicolaides: It erupts! The whole—everybody not in the balcony leaps to their feet, and its standing ovation, cheering, crying their eyes out. I look to the balcony. People are hanging off the balcony, slapping their legs with one hand while holding onto the railing, trying to get John’s attention. It was— Joi Carr: What an incredible experience! Steve Nicolaides: —a stunning experience, most stunning moment in my whole life, other than the birth of my kids. And I turned around, and I looked behind me, and there was Roger Ebert and his wife [Chaz], and they were the only two people in the whole theater who weren’t on their feet. And they both had their hands in their faces, crying their eyes out. Joi Carr: Oh. Moved. Steve Nicolaides: And they were so touched. And Roger actually became a champion of it. That was in May, and the movie came out in— Joi Carr: July.

Launching Singleton’s Career | 129 —late June or—yeah, July. And for the next month and a half, every couple of weeks he would say, “Don’t forget, it’s coming. Don’t forget, Boyz N the Hood.” It was—I mean, I’m so grateful for the moment. I wish everybody on earth had that kind of moment, because it is—it was the most life-affirming, happiest moment I’ve ever, ever, ever, ever had in my life. Joi Carr: Oh, my goodness. Wow! Steve Nicolaides: And so my wife and I went back to the hotel to get something to eat—and in her formal gown, and we were coming back up the Crescent, whatever it’s called, to go have something to eat. And as we were walking along the sidewalk, there was a giant row of guys with cameras clicking. Their backs were to us. They didn’t even see us. So we had to sneak around to not get run over. And this was a bank of photographers shooting a picture—shooting pictures of John Singleton with a beret walking down the street. He looked at me and winked at me [laughter]. He was [in the moment]—you know, the legend was born that day. It was unreal. Joi Carr: How did you sleep that night? Steve Nicolaides: I slept very well. I got a little too drunk, and people told me, Quincy played in the jazz bar across the street from the hotel at around 1:30am. You know, and Quincy Jones was like—nobody thinks of it, but at his basic, he’s one of the greatest trumpet players to ever walk the earth. I missed that, dang it, but I slept really good. You know, we—I mean, that movie stole Hollywood. It changed the whole equation forever and ever. Joi Carr: That’s—the name of my book—I wanted to ask you about that while you’re here. I’m calling it Boyz N the Hood: Shifting Hollywood Terrain. Steve Nicolaides: Yeah! Joi Carr: And you just encapsulated that idea right there. I just— Steve Nicolaides: It did, no question about it. Yep. Joi Carr: Stephanie Allain said in that moment [at Cannes] she knew that you all had caught lightning in a bottle. Did you feel the same way? Steve Nicolaides: Of course. Yeah. Absolutely! Joi Carr: Of course you do. [laughter] So when you all—when it finally hit the States, did they get it like Cannes got it? Steve Nicolaides: Well, the opening night, my son Aaron and I—Aaron was probably about 12 or 13 years old—we went to the Magic Johnson Theater on Crenshaw, where there was a metal detector. Everyone who came in had to pass through the metal detector. Joi Carr: Yes, right off King Boulevard and Crenshaw. Steve Nicolaides: Yeah. And I had been in touch with marketing people at Columbia, and it only opened—it opened in 800 theaters and it stayed at 800 Steve Nicolaides:

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theaters its whole run. They had sold every seat at every screening starting at noon on that Friday afternoon. Incredible. So Aaron and I got in the car to drive back home, and I called my wife, and I said, “We’re the kings of Hollywood.” She said, “Oh, no, it’s horrible.” And I said, “What do you mean?” She said, “Oh, you haven’t heard?” “No.” And there were shootings all over the country. You know, John and Cube were in Universal City. And John saw this big guy wearing a red jacket go into the theater. And he went up to the stand and said, “You’ve got to take that guy out of here. There’s going to be trouble here.” And sure enough, there was a shooting in or near that theater. And the next day, there was a big press conference at the Four Seasons in Beverly Hills, and so it— So the violence … —it had its birth in America in—it was a difficult birth. I am sure it was. You know, we all said the same thing, that every weekend in America there are murders, and nobody cares, and really, it’s not a big deal. When white theaters get shot up, it’s an outrage. And this is the culture that we’re trying to shed a light on. Yes! And what’s interesting I’d heard—I don’t know if it’s true or not, but it was reported that it was 20 sites out of 1,000 theaters. It was just about 20 of them. I don’t— No, I think the release was—started at 811 theaters, and stayed there. Okay. We never went wider. I think Sony knew that it was a gold mine in VHS and— Ah, so they wanted to hold it. And they didn’t want to— Saturate the market. Well, yeah, or spend the money on making more prints. Ah, that makes sense. Yeah, it does. Yeah. Yes. And in those days, for the profit participants—John and me weren’t included in the— The back end? —ancillary markets. Oh, so no ancillary at all? Not in those days. I mean, we’re both profit participants—it’s been a nice income maker last 25 years. That’s good.

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But nothing like what the studio made in the first two years. I understand it was reported as being the most profitable film in 1991, because of the margin. Yeah, the— —the margin. The profit and loss statements from ’92 or—it’s like $35 million in the red. Unbelievable. Unbelievable. Yeah. So what people have not—did not report about the violence, which I’m surprised by, but I mention in the book, I argue that John was able to make a film that caused two warring factions to want to go see the same movie. It— That’s true. It resonated with them—yeah. And it opened a dialogue between them. Sure. Years—in the two or three years afterward, there was a concerted effort to make peace among the Bloods and the Crips. And actually, I think that was sort of popping the pimple on that whole thing. Yeah. I mean, it resonated with— There’s still gang warfare, but it’s not just black on black anymore. That’s right. It’s more green than anything else, more about money. Yeah. It resonated with both preexisting beefs, and it spilled over, because they wanted to go see art. Yes. Yeah, true. This is such a good conversation. I want to ask you first about your involvement in the postproduction, and then I’m going to ask you about the Library of Congress, being inducted.

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Let’s circle back. In post, what did you do? I’m curious about that. Well, that was just like shooting, it was all a new adventure for John, and so I was there virtually every day. How long did it take? Well, I think the Director’s Guild gave you either eight or ten weeks for the director to get his cut together. And then you would show it to the studio. There would be notes. There was almost no notes. Tight work. From his cut. And then probably another six weeks to get the sound effects and the Foley, the optical, and cut on film. It was not like it is today at all. There was nothing digital.

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Yeah, you can’t drag, drop, copy, and paste, and all that stuff. No, no. None of that. When you—when we would say, “You know, I think this show should be extended another three seconds,” you’d have to go in the bins to see where the trims were. Joi Carr: That was Bruce Cannon, right? Bruce was doing that? Steve Nicolaides: Yeah. Bruce was a beautiful guy, and a great cutter, and John’s longest and oldest and truest in the filmmaking business. Joi Carr: Collaborator. Steve Nicolaides: And he is a—a beautiful cat as you ever want to meet in your whole life. Joi Carr: They have worked together on almost all his films now. Steve Nicolaides: Except Shaft, I couldn’t get him on that one. And he—is the most beautiful cat you ever want to meet in your whole life. Joi Carr: You did Poetic, too. I want to ask you about that in a second, too. So the post—I didn’t know that the DGA gave you a timeline in the post to cut— Steve Nicolaides: Yeah, there is a set amount of time—I don’t remember back in those days, whether it was eight or ten weeks. But now it’s ten weeks and nobody can see the cut. Nobody is allowed from the producing company to see the cut. And so you work it out. And we made subtle changes. We made fixes. The movie dragged in a few places, so we cut this section … and one performance wasn’t very good, so we trimmed that. It’s what happens in every movie. And John was for the most part very—not malleable, but very—he’s a really smart guy … And he agreed with most of the things that Bruce and I thought needed to be done. Joi Carr: Oh, okay. Steve Nicolaides: And then Stanley Clarke came in, and sort of, I don’t know, maybe six or seven weeks into John’s cut, he gave Stanley a VHS copy of the movie, and then we went over to his studio in Benedict Canyon, and he sat down at the synthesizer and played the movie. He played the score and all of a sudden the movie just like exploded. Joi Carr: Just came together. Where did you do the Foley? And is the opening montage Foley? Steve Nicolaides: You know, the Foley was done at Sony, and there’s definitely some Foley in there, but that was all shot on location. The—you know, the airplane that lands [in the shot] over the stop sign … LAX [Los Angeles Airport]. Joi Carr: It just happened? Steve Nicolaides: It happened. Joi Carr: Perfect timing, seriously. Steve Nicolaides: Well, yeah, here in Inglewood … you don’t have to wait too long for— Joi Carr: A plane to fly overhead. Joi Carr: Steve Nicolaides:

Launching Singleton’s Career | 133 —a plane to land at LAX. There is no peace in that sky over there. It’s just so loud. I tell you. Inglewood is right in the airport corridor. [laughter] Steve Nicolaides: Yeah, yeah. [laughter] Joi Carr: It’s incredible, but I guess you get used to it. So how did you feel about, well, one, learning about the Oscar, and then, two, learning that the film was going to be protected in perpetuity by the United States of America as a significant cultural artifact? Steve Nicolaides: Well, I’m going to be a little snippy and bitter. Joi Carr: That’s okay. Steve Nicolaides: Because I think that if you nominate the writer and the director of a movie, that the picture should be nominated. Joi Carr: I couldn’t believe that the picture wasn’t nominated when the screenplay was. Steve Nicolaides: No … and the directing. But that was the politics of Hollywood, you know. Barbra Streisand’s movie—what is it? One of my favorite books of all time … Prince of Tides, was—I thought a really flawed movie, but it got the final nomination. That was in the days when five movies got nominated. Today it would have been nominated for sure. Joi Carr: Oh, that’s right. Steve Nicolaides: Boyz would have been nominated for sure. But I was not a Hollywood player, and—anyway, I was thrilled for John, and I’ll tell you one funny little story. The week before we started shooting, we had a big long table, cast read through the whole script, and I think we were pretty much fully cast. Everybody was there. Maybe I read a couple of little parts—we didn’t want to bring people in. And at the end [of the read], John came up to me and hugged my shoulders and said, “I’m going to get a f—ing Academy Award nomination.” [laughter] Joi Carr: So he said it early? Steve Nicolaides: He said it. Oh, yeah, he knew it, man. I mean, that read through was so hilarious and so touching, and Fish and Cube and Tyra and—oh, God, it was just rocking. You know, those were in the days before digital, or someone would have shot it with their iPhone. But I don’t think it exists anymore. Joi Carr: Yeah. Oh, no. You didn’t get to capture that, huh? Steve Nicolaides: No, that was all new, you know. We were making—nobody knew what we were making. Joi Carr: True. I mean—now people think about capturing everything, because of the DVD later, you know. Steve Nicolaides: Yeah, yeah. Exactly! Joi Carr: You can make some money. Steve Nicolaides: Joi Carr:

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Yeah. How did you feel about the Library of Congress, when you found out about the film registry? Steve Nicolaides: Well, President Clinton mentioned Boyz N the Hood a couple of times in the context of talking about we need to be honest about what life is like in our inner cities. There was something on one of the Academy Awards where Chris Reeves came out and said, “One of the most important things about movies is social justice,” and the first clip was from Boyz N the Hood. Joi Carr: Oh, okay. I did not know that. Steve Nicolaides: So we all know that this is—a sort of signature movie. Joi Carr: Yeah. Makes sense. Steve Nicolaides: But the Library of Congress, you know, these are the people who put Walden Pond and Huckleberry Finn—these are the people who put the crown jewels on artistic culture, and they said, “Boyz N the Hood, you’re in there. You’re in that club.” That’s amazing to me! Joi Carr: Yes, I can imagine. Steve Nicolaides: That makes me really, really proud. Joi Carr: I’m just—I’m thrilled to know that this film will be here to tell a particular story. Steve Nicolaides: No, it will never go away, you know. Joi Carr: Yeah. Long after we’re gone. Steve Nicolaides: Long after we’re gone. Joi Carr: I know. Do you ever get tired of talking about the film? Steve Nicolaides: Oh, no! You know, you and I should spend a weekend and smoke a whole bunch of dope and drink a whole bunch of whiskey, and I could tell you stuff that you would be laughing for the next few years, you know? [laughter] You know the first day of shooting, the B camera operator is in the camera truck, and we’re wrapped, and I get a thing on the walkie-talkie, “Steve, you’ve got to come to the camera truck right away.” And I go there, and I forget his name now, but he’s in the dark room, and he says, “I popped the—we changed the film cani­ ster, and the spool jumped, boom, you know?” And so everything flew all over the place. So we put it in a black plastic bag and sent it to the lab. Everything was trash, so there was no [usable footage]— so we lost one roll of the B camera the first day. Joi Carr: Oh, my goodness. The first day. Steve Nicolaides: There are 100 stories on that movie like that. But the—the scene where Cuba’s in bed with his girlfriend and— Joi Carr: With Nia? Steve Nicolaides: —his mom comes up with the knife? Joi Carr: Oh, yes, the little fantasy scene. Steve Nicolaides: Joi Carr:

Launching Singleton’s Career | 135 The fantasy scene, yes. So she’s coming up with the knife. The camera’s up in the bedroom. She’s showing her tits and there’s some sort of a little early version transmitter on the camera that goes down to a monitor where John is downstairs, and that transmission bleeds into the neighborhood. Joi Carr: Oh, no. Steve Nicolaides: This old guy comes out of his house and says, “I was just watching the news, and all of a sudden there’s a naked black woman on my TV.” [laughter] Steve Nicolaides: And all the Teamsters are out on the street just falling over laughing. [laughter] Joi Carr: So the transmission actually interrupted his television and broadcast the shot? Steve Nicolaides: Exactly. I don’t know how it happened, but it happened. But anyway, that production has a million stories. Joi Carr: That’s a good one— Steve Nicolaides: —really hilarious. That’s a good tidbit. No one’s heard that—you haven’t shared that Joi Carr: with anybody yet. Steve Nicolaides: No. You’re the first one to hear that one. Yeah. Joi Carr: Thank you. Oh, my gosh. That’s hilarious. Steve Nicolaides: Mm-hmm. Steve Nicolaides:

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So—okay, in between, you decide to do Poetic Justice, and it’s quite different, because— Yes. —it has a female as the central subject matter. It’s more art-centric with a vibe and focus to it. So how was shooting? The subject is different, and then he’s now on a second film, has a little more seasoning—he has a little more understanding about the process. How was that experience different? And then also dealing with Janet Jackson and Tupac and Maya Angelou? Well, night and day, you know. I would say, and I have said … that Boyz N the Hood and Hollywood’s reaction to it ruined John—for a while, you know. For a while. Yes, it’s hard. How do you recover from all that success? … I don’t know. How do I say this? You know, we went from Boyz N the Hood to a beauty parlor. And—but what was great was Tupac [Shakur] and what was great was Janet [Jackson] and what was great was Tyra [Ferrell] back, and Roger … it was fantastic to be around that all the time. The cast was great. I don’t think the

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story [was the best move after Boyz]—I think the story was way too literary for the guy who made Boyz N the Hood. Joi Carr: Yes, I could see how people could perceive that. But, you cannot put John in a box. Steve Nicolaides: Yeah. I remember walking down the hall at the Thalberg Building—He had a one sheet for it, and it was—it was sort of a pastel drawing of a—of Janet’s writing book. And I said, “John, what are you takin’ about man? You’re the guy who made Boyz N the Hood, make something strong,” and we ended up with a one sheet of Janet with—in profile, and a much stronger one sheet. But—I just think he got sort of fried … whatever you want to call it. It’s a good movie. It has two central, incredible performances. Fantastic performances. And, Tupac—I will be forever grateful to John for allowing me to meet and hang with Tupac. He was such a f—ing great dude, happy, confident, swaggering, soulful. You know, I hugged him at the end of the night at the Poetic premiere, and I said, “Do all of us a favor, man. Try to stay alive till you’re 30 years old. You’re the black Bob Dylan. You’re a poet, man.” I hugged him, and I said, “Don’t—try to stay alive until you’re 30 years old. Don’t get caught up in this bullshit about [being] hard and gangster and all that kind of stuff. You’re a poet, man. You’re the black Bob Dylan.” Joi Carr: Ah, I see the folk connection. Steve Nicolaides: And, you know, and he gave me a hug and said, “You know—.” As white guy as I am and as black a dude as he was, I think we had a—certainly a deep respect, and I think an honest affection for each other. I really liked him. I just liked him so much. Joi Carr: You were fighting for him in your heart, huh? Steve Nicolaides: Of course, man. I mean, we—you know, it’s like John Lennon. Wouldn’t you like John Lennon to be alive today, and wouldn’t you like Tupac to be alive? Joi Carr: Yes, I understand. Steve Nicolaides: Yeah. Let’s hear what these beautiful souls think about all this bulls—t that’s going down. Joi Carr: Exactly. Their voices are important. So I understand your assessment and I totally get what you’re saying about that particular film. I think it was kind of difficult transition—you start so high and then what—there has to be a lull, or at least a precipice, where you kind of hit plateau—balance out a little bit … Steve Nicolaides: He’s 24, 25 years old, too. I mean, this is young to be king of Hollywood. Joi Carr: Yes, it’s really young, and kind of scary to start out that way, and where do you go? Do you become haunted by that experience that you had? And how do you—how do you transcend how you started, or at least move or continue your journey? Yet, he manages to do it.

Launching Singleton’s Career | 137 Steve Nicolaides:

Joi Carr: Steve Nicolaides:

Joi Carr: Steve Nicolaides: Joi Carr: Steve Nicolaides:

The thing about John is that he always assumed that was going to be the journey, and that is the beautiful aspect of his character, is that his confidence is supreme, and—but I’ve been in the movie business, which is an art form that is unique to art, its collaborative, and almost every time that I have seen a truly gifted artist fall flat on their f—ing face, it was when they had nobody calling them on their bulls—t, when they had no collaborators, when they had no one saying, “You don’t need this scene, or this scene goes on way too long, or what are you doing here?” I mean, that’s the thing. Nobody makes a movie by themselves. Nobody. Mm-hmm. And that’s not just technical. That’s storytelling, and that’s acting, and that’s choosing selections. You need a partner or partners, and sometimes the ego gets so enlarged and so overfed that people think they don’t need partners. And John stays open, which I like. I like that a lot. Mm-hmm. Mm-hmm. Yeah. I really do. I’ve noticed that. And he stays loyal to Bruce, and Bruce is a great partner with him—a great partner.

On His Collaborations Over the Years Joi Carr: Steve Nicolaides:

Joi Carr: Steve Nicolaides:

Joi Carr: Steve Nicolaides: Joi Carr: Steve Nicolaides:

Yes, he is. So you had a partner, Rob Reiner. You worked with him several times. How did you begin this relationship? The first one was a John Cusack movie called The Sure Thing as his production manager. Stand by Me was the next one. Rob had a bad experience with the production manager on This is Spinal Tap, and asked a mutual friend of ours, Bill Finnegan, “Do you know somebody who I would get along with?” And Bill said, “I know the perfect guy.” So I did Sure Thing, Stand by Me. Then we went to England and made Princess Bride. We came back to New York and made When Harry Met Sally and went to Reno and made Misery, and the next one was A Few Good Men. So Princess Bride has this cult following. It’s just—it’s a hilarious film. Well, everybody comes up to me and says, “You worked on my favorite movie of all time,” and the first thing I say is, “Princess Bride?” And almost 90% says, “Yep.” Were you involved in any of the casting? On any of those movies, no. Okay, purely production. A production guy, so I find the locations and hire the crew and organize the schedule and kept track of the budget and supported

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my friend and my leader, Rob. On Princess Bride, I directed a lot of the second unit. Joi Carr: I didn’t know that … I loved the locations that you selected, by the way, and—I can tell that the community, that cast, like the cool environment obviously was—healthy. They seemed to have this camaraderie even on screen. Steve Nicolaides: Yeah. Princess Bride was maybe an $18 million-movie, which is considered a low budget movie in the day. But we scheduled it to the point where Cary and Chris Guest and Mandy Patinkin all had six weeks of fencing training. And Chris Sarandon and Chris Guest had a couple of weeks of horse riding training, because we wanted to be able to shoot and make our days, and the best way to do that is to have actors who were prepared for the physical stuff. The sword fighting, with a few exceptions, are all done by the real actors. There’s a couple of doubles in there. Of course, that was made before CGI, so there are no computer-generated images in the movie. Joi Carr: True. Steve Nicolaides: So it was—not to pat myself on the back too bad, it was really well produced. Joi Carr: Well, it feels that way. It feels cohesive. Feels like they had a good camaraderie, and it has an authenticity to it that is really enjoyable. Steve Nicolaides: Yeah. So Norah Ephron’s When Harry Met Sally, did you sign on just Joi Carr: because you had a relationship with Reiner, or was it the script? Steve Nicolaides: We were friends, and we were going to do, one [film] after another after another [together], for sure. Joi Carr: Were you surprised by the success of When Harry Met Sally? Steve Nicolaides: Another good question. I remember seeing—the first preview of a movie was in a theater in Pasadena, and we went in, and it was a packed audience. The lights went down. The movie starts. When Billy gets in Meg’s car at the University of Chicago, and starts popping grapes in his mouth, and then turns to the window and spits the seeds out, and he hit the window, and he says, “Next time I’ll roll the window down,” people started laughing, and they never stopped laughing the whole movie. [laughter] We knew this was a monster hit, and it was a monster hit. Joi Carr: Yes, it’s just so good. You can go back to it over and over again. It’s just so good. It’s well-written, too. Ephron’s an incredible writer. Steve Nicolaides: Norah is a great writer. Yes, she is. You did Aaron Sorkin’s A Few Good Men, Tom Cruise, Joi Carr: Jack Nicholson, Demi Moore. Principals, big cast. How did you respond to that—this particular film?

Launching Singleton’s Career | 139 Steve Nicolaides:

Joi Carr: Steve Nicolaides:

Joi Carr:

Steve Nicolaides: Joi Carr: Steve Nicolaides:

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Steve Nicolaides: Joi Carr: Steve Nicolaides: Joi Carr: Steve Nicolaides:

The thing about A Few Good Men, Rob and I would talk about this, because it’s about a son who has a domineering father—the way … we both shared that legacy and so we connected on that level. I am very proud of the movie, and I got to actually go to Guantanamo Bay for research, and it was before 9/11, so there was no prison, none of that kind of stuff. Really? I have infinite respect for Rob. I love him as a human being, and I am proud to say that I watched him go from, that guy on All in the Family to an Academy Award-nominated director. Can we briefly talk about your current wife, Caroline Thompson [screenwriter and director], and your collaborations with her—I noticed that you only did one movie together, Buddy. We did Buddy together. That’s where we met. Oh, okay. And what’s up with the gorilla in the story? What? An eccentric socialite raises a gorilla as her son. Okay. It’s the story—it’s an interesting story [about] a woman who says that primates can be taught to behave like humans. It was [set] in the twenties, and it was sort of about intellectual New York. We had fun. It was a really tough shoot, because it was a very modest budget. It was a lot of animatronics where you make suits and put little people in them and you radio control the fingers and their eyes. She wrote it, right? She wrote it and she directed it. She’s a very talented woman. And we have horses and dogs, and a crazy life. Too funny. She’s done some amazing films—wrote Edward Scissorhands, Addams Family, Nightmare Before Christmas, Corpse Bride. I thought, what a great screenwriter. I was excited when I realized you two were married. Yep. It’s wonderful. So what do you do in between films? Well, I’m retired. I made a documentary a couple of years ago about the water crisis in the West. Is that Eyes on the Sky? Eyes on the Sky, yes. And Los Angeles Unified School District saw one of the community screenings—we had about 20 community screenings—and so they came to me about using Eyes on the Sky as a sort of tent pole. And last fall, they screened it, and they put up a competition amongst high school students in the LA Unified School District to make a documentary about ecological situations. The projects are due on—I think tomorrow. I’m going to be part of the judging, and on the 17th of May, they’re going to award the winner, and show Eyes on the Sky, along with the winning

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documentary. And they’re naming the prize in perpetuity for my granddaughter, who I dedicated the movie to. So that’s been very nice. And then, I live in—we used to live in Ojai, and now we live in Santa Barbara, and it’s full of young filmmakers who I keep getting calls on how do I do this, what do you think … so I try to mentor people. But mostly, 35 years in the movie business exhausts me. Joi Carr: Yes, I can imagine. Steve Nicolaides: And I’m happy to sit back and read and do a little bit of writing. Joi Carr: You’re still very young. Steve Nicolaides: I’m still young, but sometimes I feel like I’m young, and sometimes I don’t. Joi Carr: Indeed. Understood. Steve Nicolaides: My 39-year-old son died of cancer last October. Joi Carr: Whoa. I am sorry to hear this. Steve Nicolaides: I have two girls and a wife. So I’m still—I’m pretty much over that, but I’m still sad, and it kind of, you know, it kicked me in the nuts for several months. Joi Carr: I can’t imagine. What was his name? Please tell me his name. Steve Nicolaides: His name is Aaron. Joi Carr: Oh, [sigh] Aaron passed. So sorry to hear. Steve Nicolaides: Yes, Aaron passed. And John—you know, John and Aaron were very good friends. Aaron, when I got Boyz N the Hood, I said, “Teach me about rap.” I didn’t know anything about rap. And he said, “Well, okay, let’s listen to NWA, and Ice Cube has got a new album coming out,” and duh duh duh. And then Poetic happened, actually, we shot in Pismo Beach, where Aaron was living. And he and his homies rode their bikes down to the beach … so I’m kind of legend amongst his crowd. Joi Carr: With deep sympathy. I can hear your smile you love as you tell the story. I saw the AMPAS video of the 25th anniversary, and when you told stories—when you were sharing about wanting to take time to spend the summer with him, I could see how happy you were to think of him— Steve Nicolaides: To remember my life with him, yes. Yeah. Joi Carr: Yeah. It’s amazing. How did fatherhood change you? Is Aaron your only son? Steve Nicolaides: He’s my only son. I have a daughter— Joi Carr: You said Jenni? Steve Nicolaides: —who was actually here this past weekend, with her daughter, and she’s great, you know. I mean, a death in the family changes everything. Joi Carr: Oh, yes, for sure! I call it the new normal. You have to figure out how to live differently.

Launching Singleton’s Career | 141 Steve Nicolaides: Joi Carr: Steve Nicolaides: Joi Carr: Steve Nicolaides: Joi Carr:

Steve Nicolaides:

Joi Carr: Steve Nicolaides: Joi Carr: Steve Nicolaides: Joi Carr: Steve Nicolaides: Joi Carr: Steve Nicolaides: Joi Carr: Steve Nicolaides: Joi Carr: Steve Nicolaides: Joi Carr: Steve Nicolaides: Joi Carr: Steve Nicolaides: Joi Carr: Steve Nicolaides: Joi Carr: Steve Nicolaides: Joi Carr: Steve Nicolaides: Joi Carr: Steve Nicolaides: Joi Carr: Steve Nicolaides:

Yeah … [pause] How old is she now? She’s 44. You just—as an aside, you just seem like a really beautiful person, if I could just pause and say that. Thank you very much. I—you know … I try to be happy. I try to be optimistic. And I try to be giving. Yes, I see that. You’re approaching 35—well, over 35 years now in the industry. What do you hope that your legacy as a filmmaker will be? How do you perceive it? What do you want it to be? Well … I’m always drawn to stories about kids, and I made—or I worked on three of the greatest kids’ movies ever, Stand by Me and Boyz N the Hood and School of Rock. And that’s fine with me as a legacy. I’m going to name the film, and I want you to just come up with an immediate word or phrase. Eyes on the Sky. Water. Menthol. Oh, confused young person. Sleepwalking. Kind of a crazy black chick in New York. [laughter] Beverly Hills Chihuahua. If you’ve got an eight-year-old kid or eight-year-old grandkid, put it on. It’s a great movie. Okay. Nacho Libre. Jack Black, a special dude. Special dude [laughter]. Annapolis. James Franco, complicated, but hardworking and very intense. I loved him. Okay, the documentary Knives in My Throat. Oh, boy. The other crazy black woman in New York. Oh, dang. Poor crazy black women in New York. [laughter] Yeah. Yeah. The Forgotten. Dominic West, beautiful cat. School of Rock. Oh, man. Just a total lovefest. Oh, that’s cool. Marci X. Funniest script I ever read. The worst movie I ever worked on. [laughter] I won’t explore that. No, don’t. It’s not worth it. Shaft. Ooh, boy. Like working at the United Nations.

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Joi Carr: Steve Nicolaides: Joi Carr: Steve Nicolaides: Joi Carr: Steve Nicolaides: Joi Carr: Steve Nicolaides: Joi Carr: Steve Nicolaides: Joi Carr: Steve Nicolaides: Joi Carr: Steve Nicolaides: Joi Carr: Steve Nicolaides: Joi Carr: Steve Nicolaides: Joi Carr: Steve Nicolaides: Joi Carr: Steve Nicolaides: Joi Carr: Steve Nicolaides: Joi Carr: Steve Nicolaides: Joi Carr: Steve Nicolaides: Joi Carr: Steve Nicolaides: Joi Carr: Steve Nicolaides: Joi Carr: Steve Nicolaides: Joi Carr: Steve Nicolaides: Joi Carr: Steve Nicolaides: Joi Carr:

Okay, I don’t think I’ll explore that, either. [laughter] The Deep End of the Queen. Deep End of the Ocean? Oh, yeah, Deep End of the Ocean. I’m sorry. Producer. [laughter] Michelle Pfeiffer, one of the all-time pros ever. I’ll go back to Buddy. Buddy. Hmm. Love. Sexy director. Yeah. [laughter] Sexy director. Well, alright. A Boy Called Hate. My best friend Mitch’s best movie. Little Big League. So dear to my heart. Love baseball and maybe the best producing job I ever did. Oh, wow! Poetic Justice. Tupac. Ah. A Few Good Men. Bob Richardson. Okay. Who was he? He was the DP. You know, he’s won three Academy Awards … an amazing dude. I should know that. Yes! You should [laughter]. I’m so sorry. I’m a cinema professor … [laughter]. I’ll skip Misery. Misery? You know, I love Jimmy Caan, and he’s my friend, and we had a great time. Okay. When Harry Met Sally. New York City. All right. It Takes Two. Ooh, Dallas. One of the great cities of all time. You are definitely a location guy. I am, definitely. Yes! Let’s see. Happy. It’s a TV movie? Happy is a TV movie, Dom DeLuise. Yep. Oh, that’s right. That’s a really cool one. I mean, I liked that one. Yeah, me too. Will There Really Be a Morning? Oh, that’s Toronto, which in the eighties was a fantastic city. I love Toronto. You are a location guy [laughter]! Not in Front of the Children. John Lithgow. Was that your first time meeting him? Yep. Marion Rose White.

Launching Singleton’s Career | 143 Steve Nicolaides: Joi Carr: Steve Nicolaides: Joi Carr: Steve Nicolaides: Joi Carr: Steve Nicolaides: Joi Carr: Steve Nicolaides: Joi Carr: Steve Nicolaides: Joi Carr: Steve Nicolaides: Joi Carr: Steve Nicolaides: Joi Carr:

Ooh, Nancy Cartwright, the voice of Bart Simpson. I didn’t know that. So you met her early. Mm-hmm. The Kid from Nowhere. Beau Bridges. Great dude. Berlin Tunnel 21. Berlin in 1980, honeymoon, greatest city I’ve ever been in … in my life. City in Fear. City in Fear. Mickey Rourke. Okay. Then I’ll end with—there’s two. Stand by Me. River Phoenix. And, Boyz N the Hood. I’m going to say John Singleton. Okay, that’s fair. I like to end the interview with asking how do you define success? When you put your head on the pillow at the end of the day, most of the time, you can smile. That’s great, thank you. I’m so honored that you would give me this time to speak with you. You really do seem like an incredible person, a really conscious person who is reflective. You seem to have a sense of yourself—how you feel about the world, yourself, what you love, what vexes you most, and it’s exciting to have been able to spend some time on the phone with you. Thank you so much. I’m so honored by that.

Reference Singleton, John. 2016. “Boyz 25th Anniversary Celebration.” Academy of Motions Picture of Arts and Sciences. www.oscars.org. June 10. http://www.oscars.org/events/ boyz-n-hood-25th-anniversary-screening-and-conversation.

5

Principal Cast and Crew Reflective Perspectives on Boyz

The cast and crew have participated in several interviews over the years. This chapter features an extensive interview with Tyra Ferrell (Brenda Baker) and an interview with Laurence Fishburne by Elvis Mitchell for KCRW’s “The Treatment,” along with highlighting brief reflective comments by Ice Cube, Morris Chestnut, and Nia Long on their roles in the film.

Principle Cast and Crew Ice Cube Cuba Gooding, Jr. Morris Chestnut Laurence Fishburne Nia Long Tyra Ferrell Angela Bassett

Darin “Dough Boy” Baker Tre Styles Ricky Baker Furious Styles Brandi Brenda Baker Reva Devereaux

Nicole Brown Brandi, Age 10 Baja Jackson Dough Boy, Age 10yrs Desi Arnez Hines II Tre, Age 10yrs

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Donovan NcCrary Valentine Harrison Dedrick D. Gobert Regi Green Regina King

Ricky, Age 10yrs Bobby, Age 10yrs Dooky Chris Shalika

Bruce Canon Charles Mills Stanley Clarke Bruce Bellamy Kathryn Peters Darryle Johnson Shirlene Williams

Editor Director of Photography Music Art Direction Set Decorator Costumes Costumes

John Singleton Screenplay and Director Steve Nicolaides Producer Stephanie Allain Senior Vice President of Production, Columbia Pictures (at the time of production/release and who shepherded the project)

Ice Cube (Darin “Dough Boy” Baker) In an MTV Interview in 1990, Ice Cube briefly reflects on his first feature role as Dough Boy: Ice Cube:

Interviewer: Ice Cube:

Acting? Felt like a fish out of water, but I caught on, you know. It’s different from making records of course. Making records, I’m the quarterback. Now I guess I’m just like a running back or a tight end, because I’m waiting for the director to tell me which way to go. But John Singleton, he’s a 22-year-old brother. This is his first movie. He just graduated out of USC. He does a movie about South Central Los Angeles. He’s from South Central Los Angeles. So the story’s very sincere. And it hits home. That’s why I did it. And he worked with me a lot. So I haven’t seen the final edit of the whole movie, but I’ve seen dailies. You know … I think it’s pretty good. What’s the character that you play? A character named Dough Boy. He’s a guy [that] comes from a family with one—just his mother and his brother. And you know it’s about a guy who went the wrong way. His brother plays sports.

Principal Cast and Crew | 147 He’s … an adolescent. He’s been a juvenile delinquent. And it’s all about his life now, compared to his brother’s life. So it’s about people. Ice Cube (1990) MTV News Published on July 7, 2016

Morris Chestnut (Ricky Baker) In a recent interview on The Jimmy Kimmel Show, Chestnut recalls auditioning for the role of Ricky Baker: How did you get that part in the first place? Was that your first— obviously your first big role, but was it your first role? Morris Chestnut: It was my first big role, yes. I got my SAG card doing the television version on Nightmare on Elm Street. That was also a horror movie back in the day. So I did the television version, got my SAG card, then auditioned for this movie. And it was really kind of—It wasn’t easy, but the pressure wasn’t on, because they said—I went and met John. He was my age. So it wasn’t like I was meeting this older director. Then they say, well, you have to go for a screen test. And I said okay, cool. That’s when I got nervous. They said screen test. I was like oh man, got to go down to this big Warner Brothers or Paramount or Columbia, wherever. Then it was some place in South Central, right where I actually went to—Marla Gibbs used to have an acting school in South Central, and I used to go to that acting school. And when they said the audition was—the screen test was at that acting school, so I felt really comfortable in it. Morris Chestnut Published on January 31, 2017 Jimmy Kimmel Show Jimmy Kimmel:

Nia Long (Brandi) “Last week, we did a Q&A at the academy, and it was—I was just like—my whole entire career just flashed right before my eyes. And it feels like yesterday that I was Brandi in that Catholic school uniform, running across the street to say that Ricky got shot. And I grew up in that neighborhood, so that film is so close to my heart, and really close to my experience as a young girl growing up in South Central Los Angeles. And I’m just thankful. I think that film educated the

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world. I think that the women and children and boys and teenagers that grow up in that neighborhood, that live in that neighborhood to this day, didn’t really have a voice. And Boyz N the Hood shook things up and made people realize that there are young children living in these inner cities that are faced with gang violence, police brutality, all the themes that we’re actually dealing with right now—if you go back and watch Boyz N the Hood.” Nia Long Build Series Published on June 14, 2016 Nia Long remembers “Boyz N The Hood” live on AOL BUILD at the AOL BUILD HQ in NYC.

Spotlight An Actor’s Actor: Close up on Boyz with Tyra Ferrell Tyra Ferrell has only had one professional job thus far, acting. She has been dedicated to the craft most of her life, starting with her training at the High School of Performing Arts, in Houston, Texas (one of three schools of its kind in the nation at that time). Post college, she landed several roles in off Broadway shows, “The Wiz,” “Sophisticated Ladies,” “Ain’t Misbehaving,” and “Dreamgirls,” and her first Broadway production, “The Lady and Her Music,” starring Lena Horne. She is known as an actor’s actor. She has been featured as a guest star and a supporting actor in television and feature films, over fifty credits: e.g., Hill Street Blues, Quantum Leap, Bronx Zoo, and many others, to fighting for bigger roles like Jungle Fever, White Men Can’t Jump, The Corner, E.R., and a few more dozen. Her peers point to her performances as an authentic reference for/of the craft. Her work in Boyz N the Hood is mesmerizing. She manages to capture Brenda Baker’s psychology with deep resonance. Miss Baker is disturbing and Ferrell places her finger right on the pulse of her broken heart and complex psyche. This in-depth interview is a reflective walk down Ferrell’s history with the craft and an intimate peek into her psyche. After interviewing her, it’s hard to believe this gentle and loving artist could play Miss Baker so ferociously—artist is the operative word here. She is passionate about the craft and is diligent in honing her skills. She considers a clutter-free mind the best canvas for an actor, so she stays focused on the relationships in her life and does not consume much of pop culture. She too (like Nicolaides) has a heart for social justice. She is an advocate, alongside her husband, Don Jackson, and quite passionate about this central work in her life.

Principal Cast and Crew | 149 She is now back from her hiatus—supporting her husband and raising her daughter Amina—and ready to bring more fictive people to life.

An Interview with Tyra Ferrell On Childhood and Getting Into the Business Your childhood. How would you describe it? I would describe it as a mother who was very strong, very wise, and very protective. And would tell us things. Like when you get up in the morning, put on your clothes, make your bed, and come out dressed and clean the house. She taught me how to be clean. She taught me how to work hard. And I had a couple stepdads, so she wanted me to be respectful at the same time. And it was a wonderful childhood. In fact I had a mother who loved me. And I was like her—when dads didn’t work out, I was her little man that would help her paint the house. My relationship with my mom was very close. I don’t understand how people don’t get along with their mothers, even though they may have problems with them. I didn’t understand that. But when I started talking to my siblings, I understood they had issues with mom in the way that she was, but I never did. Joi Carr: So, that was news to you. How many siblings are there? Tyra Ferrell: There are five of us. And I’m the second. Joi Carr: How many boys and girls? Tyra Ferrell: Only one boy and the rest are girls. So. But my mom was really strong. She worked three and four jobs. I didn’t know. There’s such a thing as ghetto heaven for me. And I always thought I was a little rich girl, because she made sure I had everything I wanted to wear. I was nominated best dressed at my school. And so one day she had to sit me down and say—I had everything I wanted, but she had to say, no, we’re poor, I just worked three jobs every day, I have to take a bus. And everything you want is because I work hard for it. She taught me how to save money. Every dollar you get, make sure you take a portion of it and put it here. She used to save money so we could have a great Christmas. So my mom was my—she’s my rock. And she is my everything. What an example and inspiration. What’s her name? Joi Carr: Tyra Ferrell: Rachel Maple Ferrell was her name. She is now Rachel Johnson. Joi Carr: So what formative experience as a child do you think helped you become who you actually become later? Outside of her influence, were there experiences? Was it always artistic? Joi Carr: Tyra Ferrell:

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I used to watch TV. My sister would watch The Three Stooges, which I didn’t relate to, or The Marx Brothers, which I couldn’t relate to, but I used to watch old movies, where I’d see very powerful women, like—I wish I had better examples, but they didn’t come until later, like Diana Ross, and Lady Sings the Blues, that’s the one thing I connected with, or Dorothy Dandridge in being sexy and powerful. But it was Betty Davis. It was Joan Crawford. Barbara Stanwyck. Women who were walking around in control and powerful. But I never saw us in those roles. But those were the roles I identified with. And I knew that’s what I wanted to do. But I was a real wild child. I used to have to fight, because I spoke proper as they say in the hood. Why you talk so proper? And my teachers would hear my cadence, and would want me to narrate plays, would put me in charge of reading the story to the class. So I would get up and tell stories, and everybody was excited about the stories I would tell. The “Bluebeard” story I would read to the class and there was some excitement there. But when I would walk home, I’d have to fight. Because kids would say, “Why you talk so proper?” and want to fight. So I’d have to fight and I was a good fighter. So I would beat everybody up. I was in the streets fighting. Because— Joi Carr: You had a beautiful voice, sense of self. Tyra Ferrell: I had a beautiful voice, and I could sing, so bullies would pull me off to the side and say sing “Summertime” for me, because my mom used to sing “Summertime” to me as a kid, and that was my favorite song and I used to sing it beautifully. Joi Carr: It’s my favorite, too. Tyra Ferrell: Is it really? Joi Carr: It is. I sing it often too. Tyra Ferrell: Lena Horne hired me on Broadway— Joi Carr: Yes, I saw that. What a way to start … with a legend. Was this the first job? Tyra Ferrell: It was my first Broadway show, but I did a lot of off Broadway, offoff Broadway. I did the Manhattan Theater Club which was a really big deal where Ain’t Misbehaving started, and that’s where—and it was my first gig, and in the New Yorker or New York Magazine, the title was “More Could Have Been Done With This Manhattan Theater Club, Only Tyra Ferrell Is Marvelous.” And you have five people in it. And that’s when I said, you know, that was nice for me, but to—you want a collaboration where the whole piece works, where you can stand out. So I got the biggest reviews, and best reviews coming straight from Houston in this Manhattan Theater Club which is one of the most highly rated theaters off Broadway, and that was my first intro, so it was pretty cool. Tyra Ferrell:

Principal Cast and Crew | 151 Joi Carr: Tyra Ferrell:

Joi Carr: Tyra Ferrell:

Joi Carr:

Tyra Ferrell: Joi Carr: Tyra Ferrell: Joi Carr:

Tyra Ferrell: Joi Carr: Tyra Ferrell: Joi Carr:

What was the name of the show? It was a tribute to … Dorothy Fields. Manhattan Theater Club. It’s called A Lady and Her Music. I sang beautiful songs, solo, and they went crazy over me and just raved that—and the New Yorker, I mean that’s where everybody looked, and [in the review they said] only Tyra Ferrell was marvelous, and they talked about what ‘I had coming out of me’ takes people years to try to attain. I mean it was the most glowing— Did that give you motivation? Well, it said to me that I was doing what I wanted to do, what I was called to do, what I was born to do, and he saw exactly what I want people to see in me—because my tears in the mirror as a kid thinking no one liked me was [difficult], but when people saw me [perform], they thought I was beautiful, they got everything about me. So later I knew I’d made it when Stevie Wonder wrote a song for me [for a film]. Because I used to vacuum to him in my mom’s house, because I was always cleaning, like my job was to clean [laughter]. [It really moved me when] he wrote a song for me because my blackness was really important, because people in the neighborhood said I was the ugly one in the family. So guess what the name of his song is for me? It’s called “Queen in the Black,” in Jungle Fever. This man cannot see. He was in the editing room listening to my voice on screen [and wrote the song based on my voice], which was part of my personal meditation [learning to loving my dark self ]. I didn’t know I was meditating as a kid. I would go hide in my closet amongst the shoes and pray and cry. And he wrote a song for me called “Queen in the Black,” and that’s my theme song for Jungle Fever, that’s when I knew I had made it. If nothing else had happened, he did that for me. “Queen in the Black!” How powerful for you personally. To have to negotiate that as a child and then … I’m dumbfounded right now. This is so beautiful, affirming. Yeah, Stevie did that for me. So I— Wow. I’m happy [that’s all I needed]. So when you tell me you used to go in the closet and hide and pray and meditate, tell me about those types of moments, what would cause you to do that, and how it helped you become who you are today. Well, because I had a hard time because I was the ugly one. So everybody, all the other four, were light skinned? They weren’t light skinned, but— Just brown?

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They were brown, or my younger sister, because we had different dads, but I don’t really talk about that, because it’s not anything my mom’s proud of. But she was married four times with four sets of kids and I was the darkest one [perhaps] because I stayed outside a lot and kids are just cruel. My last name was Erasmus, Tyra Erasmus, and the Erasmus family is a big deal in Houston. I don’t even know that family, and I kind of rebelled against it because all the siblings in that family—they have Erasmus Street, I can show you Erasmus Park. But as a kid, my dad wasn’t there for me so I didn’t even want to claim that. So being the darkest one in the family … people were cruel. People wanted to fight me. And I used to fight, but I used to win every time. I can still fight. I’m a fighter. So what happened was I’d go in my closet when I cleaned my house and I just had a lot of private time, because mom, she wouldn’t let us go [much], she was very protective. I’d just sit in my closet amongst my shoes, and I didn’t know I was meditating and visualizing. I was just in there [the closet] crying and talking to myself. I would get in trouble with my stepdad, because I had a mouth—I would talk back and when you talk back you get in trouble and get sent to the room. But he didn’t know I would go in my room and close the door and just sit in the mirror and watch myself cry and talk to myself—just talk about God and being beautiful … [how my] my big lips were sexy. I would talk myself into beauty and not knowing what I was doing, watched myself cry, look into my eyes, talk to myself. I was my best friend. Joi Carr: Gifted yourself with yourself. Loving yourself. Tyra Ferrell: Yeah, exactly and I didn’t know I was doing that. Joi Carr: Right—that was serendipitous. It happened because you were doing that, which is beautiful. Tyra Ferrell: Serendipitous, tell me what that means. Joi Carr: That means when you’re doing one thing, you end up benefiting from it in a way that you didn’t know you would be able to benefit from it. Tyra Ferrell: That’s exactly it! Joi Carr: Which is gorgeous. So when did you know acting was what you were going to do, and why did it end up being acting and not singing, since you were so good at both? Tyra Ferrell: Well, when I was in junior high, I wanted to be a cheerleader, but my dad said cheerleaders don’t make Cs and Ds in class: “Cheerleaders make As and if you don’t come home with straight As and get rid of some of these Cs and Ds, then you can’t be a cheerleader.” So I went home and said, “Okay, I’m going to go to the drama department. I’m going to go to speech.” So I went to the speech Tyra Ferrell:

Principal Cast and Crew | 153 department and you had speech tournaments back in the day where you win trophies for doing dramatic interpretations, comedy, all that. So I would always do really, really well. Joi Carr: Cleaning up and making better grades. Tyra Ferrell: I was cleaning up—and that’s when they were bussing teachers into our neighborhoods, the white teachers. Joi Carr: Into Houston? Tyra Ferrell: Yes. What part of Houston? Joi Carr: Tyra Ferrell: I was in Sunnyside, which was right near the Astrodome. Sunnyside is a little [area]—it’s middle class, but still considered the ghetto, but I considered myself middle class, because we had two cars, a yard, I mean and it’s not— Joi Carr: Working class is what it sounds like. Tyra Ferrell: Yes, working class. That’s what it was. But it was a neighborhood of all black people—keep me on point because sometimes I— Joi Carr: No, this is good information. Tyra Ferrell: The question? Oh, when they started bussing, they didn’t bus us out of our schools, they bussed white teachers into our school to experience them—so I had this white teacher named Miss Dorsette. I did a dramatic interpretation where I’d cry and have everybody in the audience crying. And I was in junior high school at about that time—it was a slave woman who they were taking her child away from, but she would drown it before she’d let them take it. And that was in— Joi Carr: Where did the piece come from? Tyra Ferrell: I don’t know but Miss Dorsette would give it to us, she’d give us things. But what happened was she said, “You—there’s something really special about you, really special about you.” So what she did was when the High School of Performing Arts came to our school in Houston, Texas—it was the third in the nation, modeled after the one in New York City—she did all the paperwork for me. Called my mom and said your daughter needs to audition for this school, because she’s really talented and I did. I auditioned in singing, dancing, and acting and all three departments said they wanted me. But, I got to choose which one I wanted. And when I did dance, ballet, it was the hardest. They wanted me to keep my butt tight and I liked my butt moving because I remember one day in the hallway I saw this beautiful black sister, she was upper class, and she had long legs, and she had the sexiest walk in front of me, and I was like I would love to have that walk. Right? So when I go to high school, and I’m taking dance class, they’d say—and it’s ballet—“tighten your butt, Tyra, tighten your butt, tighten your butt, don’t let it move.” I dropped out because

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I wanted my butt to move. There was something about my butt [laughter] that I thought needed to not be controlled. Joi Carr: Right, right [laughter]. Tyra Ferrell: So then singing, I did singing and I’d get the leads to songs, because I had a great range, but if you put me with harmony I’d always go to whatever I heard. So I didn’t read music and I knew I didn’t want that. But acting I had more control over. I knew how to character develop, I knew how to do improvisations, I knew how to feel. So I said I’ll take my three hours a day in acting. So that’s how I chose acting. What I learned is that when there’s real talent, the professors gravitate to you, or the teachers gravitate and help and uplift, and so I got a lot of work. Then when I found that I was sailing, I didn’t have to fight in the streets anymore. I left the neighborhood to go to that school. And it was everything to me and I knew in that moment that I didn’t want to stay in Houston. Everything I did was going to get me to the big screen. My job was to wash dishes at night. So when everybody went to bed, I was standing there and the window was my [movie] screen … you saw my face. Joi Carr: As you were cleaning. Tyra Ferrell: As I was cleaning the dishes … the dishes. The forks had to be in a certain place, the plates were—but I saw myself in that window— Joi Carr: Framed. Tyra Ferrell: Framed. And I saw myself on screen, and visualized myself. So Houston was the stepping-stone. But I knew I needed to get what I saw on the big screen where everybody saw it, everywhere. So those were my visualizations, like my affirmation— Joi Carr: In high school? Tyra Ferrell: In the High School of Performing Arts in Houston, Texas. Joi Carr: So the big break was off Broadway— Tyra Ferrell: No, I went to a university. I went to a junior college first, because I didn’t have great grades, but the director over the High School of Performing Arts knew I had something. She was Elizabeth Montgomery who used to do Bewitched, Tommy Tune, she had connections. And whenever they would come to direct us in musicals to travel or do anything, she’d always ask [the guess professionals] who … is going to make it? And they’d always point me out. They’d have big directors like Elia Kazan, who did On the Waterfront come to the school. And out of all the students, he would zoom in on me. He told me, “Take my name and number if you go to New York call me.” I never did, but … I just had that luck or I was very blessed that people could see in me something. Joi Carr: You had “it.” That’s what they call it—the “it” factor.

Principal Cast and Crew | 155 The it thing. So what happened was I had to go to college. A lot of my friends went straight to New York and bombed and had to come back. But I love security and I don’t like stepping out there not knowing what’s going to happen. So I knew I had to go to four years of college. So in junior college, I was starring in everything. Then I got the scholarship to go to University of Texas, where I … [played] Portia in The Merchant of Venice and that was a big deal. But every summer, in high school, I auditioned for Six Flags and I got the job. So that paid my money, $350.00 a week. Joi Carr: That’s good. Tyra Ferrell: A lot of money as a young girl, 17. So I was making money, but I wanted to get closer to New York as I graduated. So in college I decided to join the New Jersey company [instead of working for Six Flags]. It’s closer to New York, I thought I could go in and audition. So I got up super early before the auditions and I walked—I went over the hill, and I knew it was super early, and there was this old man with gray hair standing in the door, and the doors were locked because it was too early. So and I’m going to tell you his version [of the story], because he told me. I’ve been wearing this since 1978, he gave it to me as an opening night gift for Lena Horne, and I’ve been wearing it ever since 1978 [pointing to piece of jewelry]. But here’s the story: I go early, and it’s a big hill [to walk up], because University of Texas is a big university and it was 5,400 kids in my dorm. But anyway. So I’m walking over the hill and I see this man and I can’t get in. He’s standing there so he opens the door for me. I’m walking around, he goes, “Who are you?” I said, “I’m here to see that director.” And he goes, “Really” and I say, “Yeah because I’m going to be a star one day and I’m going to be—” and he goes, “Really?” So then all of a sudden it turned out to be him. He says, “Be careful saying you’re going to be a star because there are all types of stars. Are you going to be a commercial star, are you going to be a comedic star, because be careful what you ask for because you’ll get it so be specific about the star you want to be.” I thought, “Okay.” He says, “I’m that director.” I say, “Really?” So he says “Yes, come in here and let’s play.” I learned getting there [to auditions] early, observing, finding and doing your homework— Joi Carr: Yes. This a good thing. Tyra Ferrell: He said, “Sing for me.” And I sang “Summertime” a cappella and he loved it because it had a lot of range. I did a dance for him and he says, “You know what, you don’t belong here in Houston. You belong in New York.” He discovered Paula Kelly [actor and dancer]. I told him, “I’m starring in The Merchant of Venice, why don’t you come see me?” He said, “Absolutely.” … And then he saw me and Tyra Ferrell:

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when it was over [the show] he told me he needed to my mom, “You don’t belong in Houston, you don’t.” I said, But I’m doing my student teaching and if I finish my student teaching I’ll get my degree.” He goes, “Hmm, no.” So he got my mom on the phone. I still have the letter he wrote me in my Bible right now because I keep things, Bob Herget. He talked to my mom and said, “I’ll take care of her … I’ll set her up with agents.” There was the Barbizon Hotel for Women where Carol Burnette, women, and models used to go and stay. Joi Carr: I’ve heard of that. That was a quick introduction to the business. Tyra Ferrell: “He said I will take care of her, you don’t have to worry about her,” and my mom looked him in the eye (because she saw the same performance he did). She never wanted me to be an actress … She fought me really hard. And then she said okay. They worked it out, she gave me [her blessing]— Joi Carr: How old were you then? Tyra Ferrell: I was twenty-two … so she gave me $500 and she said here’s cash, but he had set up the plane ticket, he got me in the Barbizon Hotel for Women. It was like a room for models and actresses where you sit in your room and you can sit on your bed, twin bed, and put your feet up against the wall, but it was the coolest place. Studio 54 was happening at the time. It was all that. So that’s what I did. Joi Carr: Young courageous. And then I went there and he set me up with some of the biggest Tyra Ferrell: agents and I chose my agent because Superman came out— Joi Carr: Christopher Reeve. Tyra Ferrell: So I was sitting—I went to all these big agents, and they made me sing and dance, and wanted to sign me right away, but what was different about this particular agent, Baker … first of all, Christopher Reeves came out of the door … and he looked at me, because he was friends with the agent, and I said, “Wow, I think I want to be here, Superman.” But what [really] changed it, they asked, “What do you want to do, Tyra?” That’s when I knew I wanted this agent as opposed to anyone throwing me out to whatever was there. I said I want to act. He says, “Okay, well we’re going to groom you and work with you on that.” And so after I got that big agent, everything was smooth. That was my intro—a little angel came down and this is the story he tells. He died around my opening night … when I was opening [with] Lena Horne— Joi Carr: What a whirlwind … he died that night (Bob Herget)? Tyra Ferrell: He couldn’t come to my opening night because he was in the hospital—a stroke, wouldn’t give up cigarettes and drinking and stuff. He told me to “stay here, in New York, and get all your chops

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Joi Carr: Tyra Ferrell:

Joi Carr: Tyra Ferrell: Joi Carr: Tyra Ferrell:

Joi Carr:

Tyra Ferrell:

before you go away to LA.” And, he gave me this [pointing to piece of jewelry] and he wrote the most beautiful letter when he gave it to me. He used me in all of his jobs, and his directing things. During his summer jobs he did industrials, where you sing about cars and sing about clothes—that’s how I made money like $1,000 a week. I was learning how to save. Good guy. He was an excellent guy. And when he passed, he couldn’t come see me on Broadway, because he was ill. But … and I wear this. He gave it to me. It’s brass. And I wear it—if they don’t make me take it off in a movie, or anything, I keep it on. It’s my little secret, since 1978. So that’s what that is. That’s how I got started and that’s how I got out of Texas. His story includes [a description of seeing me over the hill]—he described me in his own words as this energy, this beautiful big Afro girl, and the movement, everything about me, coming over that hill, and coming down to that door, when he described it. I knew I made an impact on him as much as he did on me, so that was really nice. He saw you as this ethereal being coming over the hill [laughter]. Whatever that was. That was my connection to getting there without having to beat the pavement [laughter]. For sure, wow! What was the name of the show he couldn’t make it to? Was that the first one? No, that was the Lena Horne show, The Lady and Her Music, but he saw my layout in the Manhattan—and he called, and he was so excited, because he discovered me, but he also discovered Paula Kelly. He told me the story, he saw her and he was instrumental in Paula Kelly being a big deal. She was in Sweet Charity. Thank you so much for gifting me with this opportunity to reflect with you. It is always fascinating to hear about how one comes to this business. You’re welcome.

On Boyz Joi Carr: Tyra Ferrell:

I wanted to ask, first,—when you reflect back on your experience with Boyz N the Hood, what’s the best part of that journey? The best part of that journey was being able to collaborate on the role and being appreciated for who I was. As opposed to—and not being a token, know what I mean, in a way—there were times when I would be on a set, and I’d be the only black person, right? And to be involved—and Lawrence Fishburne recommended me to John Singleton, because we’d done School Daze together, and for some strange reason, he knew of my work. So the best experience was

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Joi Carr: Tyra Ferrell: Joi Carr: Tyra Ferrell:

Joi Carr: Tyra Ferrell:

Joi Carr: Tyra Ferrell:

Joi Carr: Tyra Ferrell:

Joi Carr:

John got me, he understood me, and my audition was so fun, so much fun, and I had prepared for it, even down to the things that you see me do— Physically? Physically, because I love this business, and I think that when you start with the physical part, the inner part really comes with it. Yes, you get that body, you get their [characters] body first. So it was about collaborating and him really getting me and saying yeah, yeah, let’s do that, or—and I got into acting because I love being directed. If I could do it my way— That’s interesting. Oh, yeah, I love being directed. Because to me it’s like if I can do it my way, and then you tell me another way, and I could do it that way, and then say let’s try this way, and you do it three different ways and you know that it connects— Stretched. Getting stretched. Yes. It’s fun. It’s fun to be able to do what they ask you to do and more. So I love being directed. And listening and looking at the excitement of John Singleton, and how I could tell right away he got it, that was fun, because it was like this time people were collaborating with me, asking me how I feel, how do you want to do it? Let’s talk about it. And that’s what acting is about. It’s like playing and like theater is great because one day those same lines could be different the next night … you find the excitement, you find that character, and new things happen. How many days was your shoot? Do you remember? Was it brief? No. I shot for—I feel like I had done Jungle Fever one month, it took about a month. I did a month on Jungle Fever, and soon as that was over, I had that script, in New York, and every time I would pick up Boyz I would get nauseated, because Orin Goode in Jungle Fever was so different from Mrs. Baker, and I did them a month apart. Orin Goode was the bebop educated girl, then Miss Baker was who she was. So I realized I couldn’t multitask, or I couldn’t even pick that script up, because she was so different. So when I finished that I went right on the set to Boyz and it was about a month. I remember it being a whole month worth of—if I wasn’t on set for the whole month they shot it, I was coming in and out for the whole month of whatever doing my different shoots. So how did you give yourself over to Mrs. Baker, who she was? Because she is the one who helps create empathy for Doughboy. You, as the audience, love Doughboy and you want—you understand him and have a relationship with him because of this relationship

Principal Cast and Crew | 159 with his mother, and you—you’re that connecting piece for him. For someone who’s a drug dealer and the audience to be empathetic toward him relies heavily on who his mother was. So how did you get in that headspace? Tyra Ferrell: One of the things I recognized is my mom. My mom was married more than once. So my siblings, we don’t all come from the one dad, except for the last two, so I understood what that was about … how a mother feels about the men, how they treated her—sometimes what I [as Mrs. Baker] saw in Ricky and then you’re just like your dad [to Dough Boy]. You get some of that [idea]. And, I lived in a neighborhood with that sort of thing, and you go to some kids’ houses and you’d see their moms and hear what they have to say to them, and my mom was really hard on us, on some level. But I understood her pain, infidelity—my last stepfather was really horrible and I understood her pain. So I think it’s like doing Portia in The Merchant of Venice. Something about the words jump inside of you and you go there. And Mrs. Baker—because I could have done Angela’s role, too,—I thought I was a better suited for that role [Angela Bassett as Reva Devereaux] —until I saw her audition, and then I met Angela. She was that role. Like I was Mrs. Baker. But the words just came to me and felt really good and I knew how I wanted to feel. I mean I don’t smoke, so that was work getting that cigarette to flick. I mean I flicked it and everybody talks about how great it is. But I may have gotten it right three times out of 13 takes. So it was work. So it’s all about editing. Joi Carr: It’s true. You cocked your head a certain way, and when you look at him [Dough Boy], just amazing. Powerful. Chilling. Tyra Ferrell: But so how did I come about it? It’s like I come to any role. The language speaks to you, and when it gets inside of you, you know where to go. And whatever emotionally—you always have to draw from any emotion. Like think about it, I didn’t think I’d be good because now I could play Mrs. Baker differently because I have a kid, I know what it’s like to be married, I have had experiences since I was so young then. I mean, I didn’t think they would believe me. And the scene with Ricky when he comes home, dead. Joi Carr: I have to talk about that scene. It is so disturbing and seared on my conscious. Tyra Ferrell: We’ll talk about that later. Joi Carr: No, no, let’s talk about it. So when he dies, what was that like? What was it like shooting that scene? What was going through your mind? Tyra Ferrell: First of all, after we shot that, I think John says we only did three takes. I feel like we did thirteen. I feel like I did it so many times,

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Joi Carr: Tyra Ferrell:

Joi Carr:

Tyra Ferrell:

Joi Carr: Tyra Ferrell:

Joi Carr: Tyra Ferrell:

but when I heard John at the 25th reunion [25th Anniversary celebration and Conversation, June 2016, hosted by the Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences], I realized that it was just me and whatever angles they did. I felt like they did it so many times, but how did that feel that way? I went home, after I shot that scene, and I was scared to death, because it was the first time that I got off like that, that I really used everything I had in me and I was so embarrassed, I couldn’t believe what I did, and I was so— You surrendered to Mrs. Baker. Thank you. That’s what I did. And I was uncomfortable with that because I had never surrendered like that on camera before. I was really petrified. What got me over it … I went to see a screening of some movie, and when I came out of the theater, this young boy, he may have been maybe eight, walked up to me and kept going “Oh my God, oh my God, oh my”—he was doing what Mrs. Baker does when she sees Ricky [in the scene after his death]. I looked down at him, and he was doing it over and over again to me and it kind of scared me. So I thought what was that about? And what I found out later is that when people would go see the movie, I really touched them in my delivery, and I had no idea … It’s the most excruciating scene in the whole film. It’s the apex of the film. You just lose it, you get lost in all that emotional experience. How did you feel about Mrs. Baker? Did you feel sorry— I liked her. I liked her because I understood her. My last scene when I’m crying and I look at the paper … they had liquor all over the table like she was a drunk or something. I said get rid of all that. She’s not a drunk. She’s Mrs. Baker. She has a real job and loves these kids. It’s just that one I [Mrs. Baker] knew he was bad in the streets and the only way to make him stop being bad was telling him about himself and maybe he’ll come around. I mean I loved her. I thought she was a nice person. I mean I added the scene where I go get my shoes on and get dressed I mean to me— To match Ricky? Yeah. But that was an accident because something they had didn’t work so they brought me another shirt in and I thought I liked it and I wasn’t even connecting the fact he had on the same color, no, no. To me, it was an accident. I could be wrong, but— But it was perfect. Right, but I did do this one thing. I knew if you see a picture of me [as Mrs. Baker] with Ricky, and whenever we took pictures with the young boys for publicity, I always leaned towards Dough Boy, because I knew I was abusing the kid so I wanted to always show love to him even though I’d touch Rick or something, something inside of me wanted them to know that I love my boy—I [Mrs.

Principal Cast and Crew | 161 Baker] love this guy [Dough Boy], it’s just that I had a love–hate relationship with his dad that I put on him because his dad did what he did to me. That was my breakdown of it. So I had to do the homework about it. But at the same time, if you look closely in that one scene where Ricky comes in and I say, “You did this” to Dough Boy [Ice Cube], I made sure there was one moment where for a moment I hugged him really tightly just to let him know for a moment I wanted to melt into his arms because I loved him too, but then when I realized I was melting in the arms of someone who was— who caused this—then I had to fight back. And there was a big deal director I forget his name, who said to me, “Tyra that one moment in that scene, I saw, and I was so glad, because I don’t know if anybody else saw that moment where—” Joi Carr: I did. I think that’s why it’s so painful. Because we do—So it’s disturbing, because we see you get lost with him for a moment. Tyra Ferrell: Oh, good … I give him a little love, then I have to break away from it. So. Joi Carr: And then you totally go left. And you—of course you blame him for everything out loud and it’s so painful because it’s not his fault. Tyra Ferrell: No, it was not his fault. Joi Carr: Yeah, but is a gripping performance. Tyra Ferrell: The thing is—I didn’t know about rap music. I never listened. I was always in my head in acting classes or thinking about scripts. I have to tell you a story about Ice Cube. Because I refused to call him Ice Cube. [On set] I said where’s my son—they said, “Ice Cube?”—I said, “Ice Cube, who would call themselves Ice Cube, I said what is his real name?” They told me his name is O’Shea Jackson. I said, “Okay.” So he’s across the street with his boys and I said, “O’Shea.” And he jumps up and looks and comes running over and he goes, “What is it?” I say, “Let’s rehearse this scene.” And he said, “Let me tell you something. I’m Ice Cube, I have a reputation, nobody calls me that but my mom.” And I was like, “Okay, well I’m playing your mom so let’s work” [laughter]. I didn’t know about NWA. I didn’t know about any of that. I found out when I went home after I filmed the movie and [told] my brother, who’s seven years younger than me and who’s hip-hop—I said, “I’m doing this movie with this guy they call Ice Cube.” His eyes lit up. He said, “Tyra come in my room.” He opened up his room and there was Ice Cube, NWA, all over his wall. I said, “This guy’s a big deal, huh?” He said, “Yeah.” Joi Carr: Too funny. This was his big cross-over debut as an actor. Tyra Ferrell: So in one scene he said, “Tyra don’t knock off my hat.” You know the scene where Ricky comes in and I said, “What happened?”

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He told me when we were rehearsing a little bit, “don’t knock off my hat.” I’m an actress and I wanted him to act. I didn’t want him to be caught up in that damn hat, so I knew every time they say action, first thing I was going to go for was that hat and try to get to it, and I knocked it off every time. I wanted that hat off his head. I was working. I was like—acting is technical. … It’s about continuity. It’s about things you have to repeat every time but you have to be real in the moment and convince people it’s just organic. But it’s technical. So there are things I did. Even when I slapped him, every time we rehearse, he would move … he would move, so I thought okay I’ll hold the slap and come from another angle when he’s not expecting it from this angle. That’s how I got my slap [laughter]. Joi Carr: Wow [laughter]. Mrs. Baker was a mess. Tyra Ferrell: So it’s technique. Study [laughter]. Joi Carr: It was real. You felt it, it felt organic, and it was painful. Tyra Ferrell: Painful. When I saw it the first time, it was the first time I went to a movie theater with any of my work, even on TV, where I didn’t see myself, where I totally sat down and enjoyed the entire movie and walked out moved. And I said, “Oh, my this is special.” Joi Carr: That’s exciting. Tyra Ferrell: I was blown away. Joi Carr: What about Laurence Fishburne’s character [Furious Styles], and your character’s dynamic? Tyra Ferrell: My attraction with Fish was that John expressed to me that Mrs. Baker had a crush on him, and she wanted him, but she—like he [Furious] said, “She was too loud.” But the thing with Fish’s character … John told me I had the hots for him, and I wanted him, but I was too aggressive … I wanted him to know. So whatever John told me to do, that’s what I did in that scene. Joi Carr: That’s a humorous scene. Tyra Ferrell: When I came back [to set] from doing Equinox, that independent film, [I returned to set do the scene when] I come in and get those drive by shooters off my couch or something like that, and call them a mother f—, or some—and I came back after doing a shoot, being totally removed from the movie, and I said, John, “I can’t do it.” He goes. “Let me tell you something, you’re not Tyra Ferrell in another film. You are Mrs. Baker, so get whatever you have in your head out, and remember who you are in this movie. And you go back to what you were.” And I was like, “Okay” [laughter]. So then I remembered who Mrs. Baker was, because I wasn’t that woman.

Principal Cast and Crew | 163 What do you think its [Boyz] enduring legacy will be? Why do you think it has such resonance? Here we are, 25 years later, the Academy throws you all a celebration, you have a conversation, it’s in the registry, the Library of Congress film registry, which is a big deal— Tyra Ferrell: That’s beautiful. Joi Carr: So why do you think it’s so enduring? Why do you think it’s touching? Tyra Ferrell: Because for the first time I think that’s where Black Lives Matter really started. Do you see what I’m saying? It’s like I would go to parties with white people, and they’d walk up to me and say thanks for putting a face on gang members. Thank you for showing me that black people—I call it ghetto heaven. Just because we live in the [ghetto]—there are parents taking care of their kids the way my mom took care of me. We love our children just like everyone else. Gangs … if you understand why they do what they do … When I saw a screening of Boyz N the Hood, when it was over I was standing out in the lobby and this one little boy, who might have been five to eight years old, I don’t know, he was under ten, he was crying. And I said, “Why are you crying?” and he says, “Because I’m going to go home and tell my mother to stop calling me a mother f—.” Joi Carr: Oh my goodness. They saw something [young people]. I didn’t even understand Tyra Ferrell: what I was doing at the time. It was meant for me. But you see my vision was about touching people—you don’t always remember words a lot of the time. You remember how people make you feel. And how we made them feel. It’s like when you said to me about those millennials in your class and there were [responding emotionally]— Joi Carr: Almost 200 of them in class for the screening of Boyz. Tyra Ferrell: —people come up to me … I didn’t know what I was doing [contributing] when I did that film. I didn’t know about gangs and things like that because I was far removed. I had gone to college. I live like you live. My mom—my ghetto wasn’t—or my working class family wasn’t like what it is now in the hood. So I was just acting. And what jumped off the page—let me tell you something. John’s script read like a novel to me. It was very descriptive in what I had to do. I could smell it. I could see it. I understood it. So why does it hang? Because we let people in. It’s what was on the paper and how he directed it. Just like I feel, he felt even more so. Because he lived it. He was 19 when I met him. Either 19 or 22 when he gave me that job. So he understood things I didn’t, because I was how much older than Joi Carr:

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Joi Carr:

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him? So I’m 60. About to be 61 on my birthday. Today’s my husband’s birthday. Is it? I am honored that you gave me some of your time today. That’s why I wanted to meet you, because this is special. Thank you. So that’s why I think it touched. The way for that little kid thinks he must be acting bad, because his mom keeps calling him a mother f—… the negativity that we put on ourselves, the self-hate, brothers looking in the mirror and not loving themselves, so they’re not going to love me. So, for some reason, people think the film is violent, but there’s only really two violent moments in the film, but there’s something about that environment that the film is exploring. The cursing, the negativity, the, you know—yeah, I haven’t seen it in a while. And I’ve only seen it maybe four times. Maybe. I’ve seen it many times [laughter]. Now when I watch it, I appreciate it. I always see something different. I appreciate it. I was going to say I thank God so much I was a part of a film that really touched people and made them understand who we are as a people, where we were, and why we do what we do, and why black lives really matter, and why we do what we do to each other. If we just dig a little deeper—because I was that kid on the street fighting all the time because they were beating me up. And if there hadn’t been that teacher who said something to me, who knows where I would have been. She saw your beauty and your talent and your worth. Plucked you out of it and despite the fact you had a loving mother in the home, what the kids were doing outside mattered— They were the ones that made me— By torturing you— —ugly. Black blueberry Erasmus. Licorice stick, chop off her head, but keep the body. I mean it got to the point I’d walk to church and boys would “go, woo, who’s that?” And I’d keep my head turned so they wouldn’t know it was Tyra [laughter]. Just because you were dark?! We’re mean to each other. We’re mean to each other. Light skin/ dark skin was a reality for me. So beautiful. You know dark is in right now in the industry. Yeah, it is. Got some Lupita [Nyoung’O], and you got some Viola [Davis]. Mm-hmm. But I always knew I was beautiful [laughter]. Of course, absolutely. And even then your skin was flawless and your hair was too—and still is just amazing.

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Figure 5.1:  From left, Tyra Ferrell (as Wanda Jenkins) and Valerie Harper (as Liz Gianni), in the television comedy City. January 1, 1990. Courtesy of Getty Images (CBS via Getty Images). Used by permission. All rights reserved.

On Career Highlights Tyra Ferrell:

Joi Carr: Tyra Ferrell:

Joi Carr: Tyra Ferrell:

Write it down, make a plan, understand, and sit tight, save your money, and do what you have to do, and when you walk in that room, I mean— Book the room. Yeah, but create your environment, you know? Because it’s sterile. You have to be that. It’s just technique. It’s just … auditioning is a class within itself. Because you learn so much—I did a lot of episodic television, and it was deliberate. I knew one day I was not going to do one-liners, I wanted something to do. Everything was methodical about where I went in my career. I love that. You learn so much about who you are when you go in that room and audition and you think you know one thing, and then after you go who was that person? I would eat so much Haagen-Dazs when I’d leave that place, and Fatburger [laughter]—just because I lived in the gym, and I watched my body. I worked out and I watched it, because when I walked in I wanted them to see the beauty—what they thought was beautiful—then I sit down, transform, and start

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Figure 5.2:  Actress Tyra Ferrell attends the VH1 Big in 2015 with Entertainment Weekly Awards at Pacific Design Center on November 15, 2015 in West Hollywood, California. Courtesy of Getty Images (Photo by Jason LaVeris/FilmMagic). Reprint by permission. All rights reserved.

Joi Carr: Tyra Ferrell:

making them see the talent and forget about the body. And just have a good time in it. Class. I mean— Calculated. And then you get the job, conquering [getting] the job was the hard part. That was the fun part, going in and getting the role, but 98% of it is no, but that 2% you get that’s yours, its solid. And I

Principal Cast and Crew | 167

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would see Angela [Bassett] go in, and Halle [Berry] go in, and think what are they doing in the room? They’d get the job and I wouldn’t. So you have to figure out what you have to do in that room. Who are you? So you went up against some of the same people quite a bit? White Men Can’t Jump, almost everybody went in. Halle went in for that, stuff like that. A lot of people, yes, we were all in it together. Same people. Same people. I got married and followed my husband and continued— That’s all right—you’re coming back now. You’re not done. But what my husband’s work [civil rights and social justice activist] is far more important than me signing autographs. I understand. People are dying in the streets and that’s what I’m supporting. Me signing autographs—I’m not into the celebrity. I’m into the work. And what’s important for us as a people, a society. Right. But when you do your work as an actor, you’re bringing a voice and presence that resonates. Because you’re so thoughtful about your work. I want you to know that. It is political, too. Seeing your body and your face in particular roles at the depth with which you play them is a beautiful gift, it really is. Thank you. I want to make us proud in whatever I do. If I’m a homeless lady, I want to be that homeless lady you can identify with … I know I do. If you look at the trajectory of your career, what do you consider a highlight outside of the Boyz experience, and maybe even White Men Can’t Jump, I’m not sure. I love Jungle Fever because Jungle Fever was Orin Goode and I liked her because she was an educated girl, in an all-black— Bensonhurst, … Spike [Lee] wrote it because of the Bensonhurst incident where—and I liked playing that role. And because Stevie Wonder wrote that song, “Queen in the Black.” That touched me tremendously because it was answering prayers I had as a little girl, and representing— Did you ever have a chance to tell him that? No, I never did. I don’t think I’ve ever told Spike. I never never told anybody, really, unless I talked to people one on one. Thank you for sharing with me and well, they’ll know now. Let me tell you another highlight. In White Men Can’t Jump, when we were rehearsing, I went in to meet Ron Shelton [Director]. I loved his movie that he did with Susan Sarandon, Bull Durham. And I loved his work because I’m a fan of Susan Sarandon. I love Susan.

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Me, too. So I thanked him when I went into the auditions because auditioning is about collaborating. A lot of people go in thinking they have to audition and impress, but to me it’s about one on one. Can you relate to me, can we can work together? So anyway to make a long story short I went in and I auditioned for him and we talked about The Content of Our Character [by Shelby Steele]. We talked politics, I love politics. And so he says, “I would be curious, Tyra, to know what you think about Shelby Steele and The Content of Our Character.” I said I’m not familiar with it, but I will check it out. So I got a call back and I read the book really quick before the callback, and I came back and told him “I don’t like this guy,” I said, “I bet he’s married to a white woman, because he’s dogging us out in his book.” And Ron said, ‘What do you mean?” I started talking about passages in the book. I thought you could ruin yourself. You could lose a job by being so— Joi Carr: Blunt. Yeah. So we did the audition and one of the last things I said to him Tyra Ferrell: was “Listen, you may not choose me as his wife, but for all the black women and the sisters out there, we need that dark skinned brother to kiss a sister who has dark, big lips, full nose, and look like a sister. I said because we’re not represented in loving each other out there. So you don’t have to choose me. But just choose somebody that has some sense of us representing sisters out there.” … I got to screen, I got to work with Wesley [Snipes]. We had fun—I threw a chair across the room. I played with him a little bit so the auditioning process went well. But one of my biggest accomplishment on set? When I got White Men Can’t Jump, during the rehearsal process, all the brothers—during that [basketball] game shoots—were using the “n-word” so much. I don’t use that word, never have, don’t like it, want us to get rid of it, you know. There’s a spiritual lineage that keeps us with that word, if we only understood it. It’s not anything nice. So then when Ron Shelton and Wesley and Woody Harrelson went to lunch and left the boys and they’re playing, because that’s the scene where I walk up with the baby, I walked over to them, I said hey you guys, I said listen, this is about to go in the can, it’s going to be etched in stone … and we can’t take it back. And you guys keep using that word so much and it’s offensive to me. And I said if we put this in a movie, kids are going to see this movie and I’m tired of this word. I said look if you guys can really act, if you can really act, then what you need to do is convey what you’re saying with that word in your acting and not use the word. I said it hurts me. Joi Carr: Tyra Ferrell:

Principal Cast and Crew | 169 They were like oh that’s what we say, that’s what we do, whatever. So I just walked away. So the day we had to film on Venice Beach and I was in my trailer I get a knock on my door and they said, “Tyra, we’ve discussed what you said and we’ve decided not to use the word in the film.” Joi Carr: Were you surprised by their choice? Powerful. Tyra Ferrell: I said thank you. So then on the set they start the game, and this is what they started saying, “Your lips so big.” They start dogging out big lips. And then they start saying, “Your momma so black.” They start dogging out the dark skin and some of those brothers were darker than dark. Wesley. And they started saying all these negative things, so they said okay that’s a great rehearsal, so when Ron Shelton left—see I could get fired, I’ve been fired three times on gigs for being too— Joi Carr: Talking too much. Tyra Ferrell: Mm-hmm. So I walked up to the guys, “I go why are you guys dogging out big lips? Big lips are sexy.” See, I used to have—kids used to bother me so much about my lips when I was a kid, but they were big on my little face, and big lips in our neighborhood, you know, big lips, dark skin … jigaboo, whatever, all the negativity. So I said why—I said white women pump to get big lips. I said why y’all talking about dark skin? I said look at you I said your momma’s dark, I said why y’all dogging out dark skinned women? And I said okay, they said Tyra off the set. I said if you guys can really act, come up with some things that don’t dog out the sisters and the color of our skin—get off the set, Tyra. And I’m gone. So when I saw—so here’s what happened. The premier happened. And I’m sitting in there. I had to go see that movie another time because I was looking for the n-word, I never saw it. But one time. And that’s when Wesley said it. And they didn’t dog out sisters when they were playing that basketball. They found other ways to up each other. And so that’s my contribution, that one little ripple made a different for White Men Can’t Jump, for me, and when I see it, I contributed in a way for my people, for us, because I was hurt as a kid being called all those horrible things. I wanted to let them know they were hurting me, and they would hurt every other little sister out there, and hurting their brothers and sisters by saying that. So those were my highlights. The magic that happens is behind the scene. Joi Carr: That’s an interesting dynamic and certainly not a safe route in the set, but they were adlibs. Tyra Ferrell: I did say [make the same thing argument] it again [when working on] Poetic Justice. We had a table read and they were saying that word all the time. Tupac [Shakur] was there and I gave the same

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speech, and he said “No, that’s who we are, that’s what we do, so that’s what I’m going to do,” so I backed off. But I tried. And finally, John Singleton? He’s one of my favorite directors, because he allows me to be. He collaborated with me. He needs authenticity. He requires it. And I think that’s what he sees in you. And he’s political. He is. He made me pretty. He says you’re so gorgeous and sexy, I’m going to write—when he wrote Poetic Justice, he wrote that role for me and told me he wanted me to [look beautiful]—that’s why I wore that red dress. Because people think I’m sexy, but you’d never see it in a film or anything. I just come in. So he made me sexy. And that’s what— Yeah, you do have a way about you in that film. You own the shop, right? Yes, I own the shop. So he gave me—he made me sexy, he made me pretty, because that’s what he felt for me and I appreciate him for that, and to this day I still get that. So I like it. Because I don’t play it up a lot. Who else would you like to work with? I’d like to work with Susan Sarandon. I’d like to work more with Lee Daniels, if he could feel me. I don’t know. I’m open. When you spend a lot of time alone, and you really are in touch with yourself and your—you really make things happen. But when you get a husband, a child, a house, and a lot of responsibilities—you’re not thinking about yourself as much. So God knows what I want. And just like I didn’t know John Singleton was going to come, or the role was going to come, he knows the roles I want to be, or the work I need to do. So I’m going to leave it up to the universe to connect those dots for me. And still give me that which I need, the way I got it before—that will make a difference. … But I’m interested in working. And now I watch TV to see what’s going on. How should I talk, talk real fast—this is how they do it. I’m studying what’s out there now, and how I can fit in. Things are changing. You don’t even get meetings with producers anymore. They put you on tape. You’re sending stuff in. Self-taping. Sending tape in. Even in the room, you sit. They don’t come in and meet you. They see you on tape and then decide. It’s a false sense of intimacy. That’s the one thing about the business I realized. They love you in the moment, when it’s over, you go home. People say

Principal Cast and Crew | 171 are you still friends with Janet Jackson [worked on Poetic Justice together]? That’s work on the set. That’s a job like you go and clock in every day. Joi Carr: And you’re done. Tyra Ferrell: Yeahs, but there are people who know how to schmooze and make things happen, but I’ve never been a schmoozer. So. Joi Carr: It’s a lot of work. What’s next for you? I think I know. Because you’re saying you’re open. Tyra Ferrell: I’m open. I want a job right now. I really want to get back to the work. But because when I did all of that, I wasn’t really paying attention. And I really took it for granted. And now, after looking back, and after understanding what I— Joi Carr: What you actually did. Right, and how people— Tyra Ferrell: Joi Carr: Perceived you—which was quite favorable. … Tyra Ferrell: —appreciated me and what I did, I’m ready to get back in there and start feeling and talking and communicating and collaborating and making that dialogue. Because if you think I did well then, just think what I can bring to the table now, understanding things that I didn’t back then. Know what I mean? So I’m open, and I don’t know what that is, but you know what? You know it when you read it. And I read—I’ve read a couple things I’ve wanted so badly that I can’t get the dialogue out of my system, but they gave it to an Asian, or they went with a white girl, or they decided to give it to the black male. So I’m starting all over again. And it’s not easy. Joi Carr: It’s definitely a journey. I always like to end interviews with this question, how do you define success? Tyra Ferrell: Doing what makes you happy—that which you love to do. And making a living at it and being happy with where you’re at in it. Joi Carr: And you shared with me about acting being your only job. Since acting has been your only job, how—what kind of fulfillment and satisfaction have you had in that regard? Or is it fulfilling? Do you want to do something different? Tyra Ferrell: No, I do want to act. I don’t think I’ve tapped into what I can really do. I mean I marvel at Viola [Davis] and Taraji [P. Henson], because back in the day I would just come in and come out. But I’d always visualize when I read a script that the camera was always following me—that’s how I made my character so complete. I knew her, and what she was doing when the cameras weren’t rolling. But now the camera follows Taraji, the camera follows Kerry [Washington], the camera follows Viola, so they are a full person all the time. That is success. I would like for the camera to follow me in a role, and be complete. So I don’t know if I answered your question. But success to

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Joi Carr: Tyra Ferrell:

Joi Carr:

Tyra Ferrell:

Joi Carr:



me is also getting paid for that which I do, to allow me to be secure, for me and my family. That would be success [continuing to do] what I’ve only done my entire life. My only paychecks have been acting. Unbelievable. Quite rare. Yeah?! Because I knew how to save, and I knew how to sit on it, and I worked real hard. And when you say that’s all I have, then that’s all you have to get. That’s the only job you can get. And to this day I’ve never done anything else. But I’d like to go back to teaching, though. I was so self-indulgent, it was all about me, that’s why I didn’t want to marry an actor. But now I want to share all this, because there are secrets: to know thyself is to be the best self you can be as an actress … who are you as a person? That’s what fun is to me. That’s exciting. Well, thank you so much for this interview. It was really full of depth and I appreciate you being so generous and open—really wonderful reflection. I obviously needed it. Because I’ve been away for so long, and I’m living in the civil rights world with my husband and doing political work. I’ve put myself aside on the shelf and sometimes I need to be reminded of who I am. Tyra, and what I bring to the table, and what more I can do. And I didn’t forget about myself, but I didn’t put myself first, because my husband, my daughter, my family, is far more important than me signing autographs and being in front of the camera. I understand. Thank you so much for sharing these special critical moments in your life. I look forward to what new gifts we will receive from you. [End of Audio]

Spotlight Laurence Fishburne (Furious Styles) Critic Elvis Mitchell has moderated panels and hosted several interviews with John Singleton and other members of the cast. The following interview was featured on “The Treatment,” hosted by Elvis Mitchell, who weekly engages high-profile creatives and innovators in the arts and related industries. In this interview Laurence Fishburne shares his performance transition into the role of a father on screen and his perspective of his experience with Boyz twenty years post its release.

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The Treatment “Laurence Fishburne: 20th Anniversary of ‘Boyz ‘n the Hood’”

An Interview with Fishburne by Elvis Mitchell From KCRW in Santa Monica, this is The Treatment. Welcome to The Treatment, which you can also hear at KCRW.com. Emmy and Tony winner Laurence Fishburne just received his fifth Emmy nomination in Thurgood, the TV version of the one-man show on Thurgood Marshall. Also the 25th anniversary of the film Boyz N the Hood, Mr. Fishburne has generously consented to join me again. It’s always good to have a friend on the show, this 15th year of the show. Thanks for coming back, Fish. Laurence Fishburne: You’re welcome. How you doing, Elvis? I’m well. How are you? Elvis Mitchell: Laurence Fishburne: I’m good, man. Always good to see you. You too. Tell me about your reaction when you heard that you got Elvis Mitchell: the nomination for the show, for Thurgood. Laurence Fishburne: The Emmy nomination is a surprise. I was nominated for the Tony in 2008, when I performed it here on Broadway for Best Actor in a Show. But yeah, I was very pleasantly surprised by the Emmy nomination that just came through. Elvis Mitchell: Thurgood could work for initially as a TV project rather than a stage show. Laurence Fishburne: Well remember, the writer of Thurgood, George Stevens, Jr— Stevens, Jr. Elvis Mitchell: Laurence Fishburne: —wrote a film for television called Separate but Equal first, with Sidney Poitier. Elvis Mitchell: With Sidney—yeah, with Sidney playing Thurgood. Laurence Fishburne: Right. And Burt Lancaster playing John W. Davis. But it’s really kind of true what you’re saying, historical nature; it did work as a piece of historical television first and then he got very obsessed with Thurgood and his legacy and his history and wrote the one-man show, with Poitier in mind actually. Elvis Mitchell: Really? Laurence Fishburne: Yes. Who I’m happy to say decided that it was going to be a little bit too much, and so he walked away from it. James Earl Jones stepped in, he did it as a workshop piece at one of the great theaters in Connecticut, and somehow it kind of got—it found its way to me, so. Elvis Mitchell: It’s interesting too, because that year, ’92, when you went to Tribeca, it was also about the time of Boyz n the Hood, when you’re— Laurence Fishburne: Exactly. Announcer: Elvis Mitchell:

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—when your career was taking a shift, when you said you turned— started moving into your fatherhood phase. Laurence Fishburne: Right. Well, I started using Laurence instead of Larry. I was doing Two Trains Running here in New York in the spring. Elvis Mitchell: When you won the Tony. Laurence Fishburne: I won the Tony. Deep Cover opened a week after Two Trains opened. I did Tribeca, I was cast in What’s Love Got To Do With It? So yeah, I mean it was around that same time that Boyz had—Boyz had already been out. Actually Boyz came out in 1991. Elvis Mitchell: But the beginning of that period where—and you’ve even talked about this here, where you said not only did you play a father, but you started being recognized—you started to see this need from African Americans who came into you, just sort of treated you as a father figure. Laurence Fishburne: Yeah. Yeah. Yeah, I definitely was being responded to—people were responding to me in that way, very much a surrogate father figure. Very much somebody who was an example for young men. Elvis Mitchell: Did you have any sense when you were shooting Boyz what it was going to be? I mean how did the script end up coming to you? Laurence Fishburne: No. It came to me because I was working on Peewee’s Playhouse in 1986 and John Singleton was a production assistant on that job and he was very curious about my work with Spike, because I had done School Daze with Spike Lee. So Spike Lee was somebody he was looking to as an example of a director. So I told him a few stories and blah blah blah, and he eventually sent a script to my agents, which turned out to be Boyz N the Hood. It was about two years after we had worked together. He sent the script, I read it, and I just thought it was beautiful. I mean, it was pretty flawless and he had entered it into a screenwriting contest of some kind out there through USC and it actually—he actually entered it twice. And so he had almost two years where he had been writing on it and writing on it and getting really, really good feedback from a lot of different people. So I think that’s the reason why it was so airtight. I mean it was really an airtight script; it didn’t really need very much. And then of course Steve Nicolaides, Stephanie Allain. Elvis Mitchell: You say Steve Nicolaides was the producer and Stephanie Allain was the studio executive at Columbia. Laurence Fishburne: Exactly. And Paul Hall, who also is one of the producers. They really assembled a great crew around John and we all just kind of dug in and rolled our sleeves up and went to work, knowing that we had a special piece, not necessarily knowing that it was going to have the effect and be received the way that it was. It’s very difficult to know that. I mean I haven’t really been involved in anything Elvis Mitchell:

Principal Cast and Crew | 175 where I was absolutely dead certain that it was going to be commercially a hit. I’ve only been involved in things that I thought, “Oh, these are really strong pieces and they deserve to be hits or they deserve to be— Elvis Mitchell: Noticed. Laurence Fishburne: Noticed, yeah. Elvis Mitchell: I just wonder when you saw that script if it just felt like to you it was something that was missing from the landscape. Laurence Fishburne: Well clearly it was something that was missing from the landscape, which is why, I wanted to be involved in it. As I said, it was really beautiful. And as I’ve said many times, the story could be three guys from South Central LA or three guys in Afghanistan or three guys in Poland or three guys in China. You know, wherever there’s people who are on the bottom rungs of society, who are doing whatever they think they have to do to meet the daily challenges of life, you have this kind of coming-of-age story. It’s universal in that way; it just happened to be specific to the culture in South Central LA at the time. And that was what was really unique about it, because I think John was able to present these characters in such a way that really humanized them for the first time in a long time. If you think back to, the so-called black exploitation days and the kind of characters that were being put on the screen, representations of African American people, by and large, they were kind of superhero images. Elvis Mitchell: And not many family portrayals and those things. Laurence Fishburne: Right. Right. I was in one of the family ones and … there were a couple of family ones, there were a couple, three, four that represented family life and black life as— Elvis Mitchell: And when you were in Cornbread, Earl and Me could almost seem to be like an influence on Boyz n the Hood. Laurence Fishburne: On Boyz N the Hood. I suppose so, yeah. I suppose so. I think maybe that one and Claudine and perhaps A Hero Ain’t Nothing but a Sandwich—those three represented black life in a way I think that was a little more honest. That’s the beauty of it. I mean that was really the beauty of Boyz for me, was that it represented African American people as human beings and not sort of the idea of who we’re supposed to be. ’cause sometimes it’s just—we’re not one thing. We’re not just any one thing or any type of people. We’re as diverse as any group in this country. Elvis Mitchell: I guess I just feel like, though, thinking about that performance, it was one of the first times you played somebody and made him really businesslike. Laurence Fishburne: Mm-hmm. Mm-hmm.

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Elvis Mitchell: I mean he treated fatherhood as almost like discipline. Laurence Fishburne: Mm-hmm. Mm-hmm. Elvis Mitchell: And because he was training a soldier to go out into the streets of South Central. Laurence Fishburne: Yes. Yeah. I think a lot of that had to do with John’s own personal history, ’cause there was a period in his life where he actually as a young man was taken from his mother to live with his dad. So some of that was really personal and autobiographical, I think. Elvis Mitchell: But the portrayal for you, I mean I don’t know how much that was on the page versus the way you played it. Laurence Fishburne: Again, as I say, I mean it wasn’t—the script didn’t need a whole lot of tweaking, it didn’t need a whole lot of work; it was pretty much clear on the page. And I suppose that my approach to it seemed very businesslike, because that’s kind of maybe what I picked up in reading it. The one thing that I was really concerned about more than anything was really the speech in front of the billboard about, “Why is there a liquor store and why is there a gun store almost on every corner in the black community?” That was the speech that I was really worried about, because I knew that we were—the character was talking about a real issue that was really going on, and I didn’t want to be too preachy, I didn’t want to hit it over the head. I wanted to make sure— Elvis Mitchell: So to have success in the … Laurence Fishburne: Exactly. So that was the thing I was concerned about. And in terms of just the way that Furious seemed to be businesslike, it may have been just that I had matured into that kind of individual. It may just have been that me as Laurence may have matured into that kind of individual and was really taking my own responsibilities a lot more seriously, and so I was dealing and I was—and so I was acting more businesslike. I don’t know. But I think if I had to be honest about it, I would say that it’s really what came off the page at me and it just felt like that was the way to play it. I don’t know how, for example, how businesslike my scene with Angela is in the restaurant, when she’s like “You need to sit down before I embarrass the both of us in here.” I’m not sure how businesslike it is when I’m saying things like, “Who dat on the phone?” [laughs] But— Elvis Mitchell: But in the way that—that the way—I mean you say Furious—that’s the character you play, Furious Styles, the way he’s dealing with his son, Tre, he’s basically treating him as if there’s no room for error. Laurence Fishburne: Oh, okay. Elvis Mitchell: In raising a young Black man in South Central. Laurence Fishburne: Sure. Yeah. I think that’s about the stakes. I think that was about recognizing what the stakes are in the community. When you look at the totality of that film and you look at the fact that here’s a kid

Principal Cast and Crew | 177 that lives across the street who’s a gifted athlete, who’s full of promise, really got the world by the tail, and he falls through no fault of his own. Elvis Mitchell: Just the circumstances of the streets. Laurence Fishburne: Right. And so I think that’s what’s coming off of me in terms of like there’s no room for error and it has to be business. And that is what comes off of the page at me, is that these children that are raised in these kind of environments, they’re really precious and they’re at risk, and so somebody’s got to be willing to stand up and be really business about it and say, “No, we’re not going to lose another one. I’m not losing this one.” Elvis Mitchell: ’cause that is the subtext of everything he does. And again, when he’s with his ex-wife, played by Angela, it can’t be that businesslike with her because she’s got his number. Laurence Fishburne: Right. Elvis Mitchell: But with his son, who is still in this transitory period in his life, you’ve got to sort of set the rules. And for me the big speech, the interesting scene is a scene where your son tells you the story—Cuba Gooding, Jr. tells the story about going out with his girl and having unprotected sex, and just the look of please-don’t-let-this-be-the-wrong-thing-to-have-happened. Laurence Fishburne: Right. Right. One of the most important lines is that, and as you know, anybody can—“Anybody can have sex and it takes a real man to be a daddy.” Elvis Mitchell: And that’s interesting too, because on that block, the way you’re talking about it, it feels a little bit like there’s the influence and those scenes on that block from Do the Right Thing, where there’s all kinds of things going on. Laurence Fishburne: Interesting. Elvis Mitchell: You know almost that sort of Our Town kind of feel. Laurence Fishburne: Oh yeah. Elvis Mitchell: But there’s one father—there’s one grown man on the block. Laurence Fishburne: Right. There’s one grown dude on the block and he—and that’s, … that’s really, you know, that’s the filmic representation. Because really there’s more than one grown man on the block in our community. There’s more than one. There’s one guy who’s a little bit grown in this area and there’s another guy who’s really got wisdom in that area and there’s another guy who has wisdom in that area. And one guy might be the mail carrier and the other guy might be the guy at the barbershop and the other guy might be the guy that runs the gas station, and the other guy might be the numbers runner. You know? So— Elvis Mitchell: What about the character you played in King of New York, who is very solicitous of the young children.

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Laurence Fishburne: Right. Exactly. Exactly. So, you get it—you have to get it where you can get it ultimately. Elvis Mitchell: Interesting period, that period, the early 1990s, of which— Laurence Fishburne: Yes. Elvis Mitchell: —in being a part of School Daze you sort of helped to ignite what was a second sort of renaissance in Black film. Laurence Fishburne: Yeah. Elvis Mitchell: I remember even in the early 1990s there was a New York Times magazine Sunday magazine cover with a bunch of young Black filmmakers on it. Laurence Fishburne: Right. Elvis Mitchell: It just makes me wonder what your feeling is now, I mean all those very personal Black films that came out of that period— Laurence Fishburne: Right. Elvis Mitchell: —and we’re not seeing that anymore. Laurence Fishburne: No, we’re not seeing it in the same way. But what is important to remember is that all of those people that were making films largely are still making films. And that’s the difference in terms of that first renaissance. I don’t know if we can call any of the names of the people that were making those films back in the 1970s, if we can call their names like they made a movie in the last five years. Whereas, John Singleton continues to make films, Spike Lee continues to make films and Reggie Bythewood has made films. There have been a number of people— Elvis Mitchell: Mm-hmm. Reggie Hudlin still makes films. Laurence Fishburne: The Hughes Brothers still make films. Elvis Mitchell: But those are films—I mean you’re talking about an interesting period with this period, a rather interesting transition of these people gone from making personal films to being … almost like journeyman filmmakers. Laurence Fishburne: Right. Elvis Mitchell: But that period of that real personal film that came out of a studio. Laurence Fishburne: Yeah. Elvis Mitchell: Because I did recently at the LA Film Festival a panel for Boyz N the Hood and Stephanie was there and John was there and Steve Nicolaides was there and they were all saying now that they couldn’t imagine a film like that could come through a studio. Laurence Fishburne: Probably not. I mean there was no—again, remember 15 years ago hip-hop music was in a very, very different place than it is now. Hip-hop was not mainstream music. Elvis Mitchell: It was still the de facto underground. Laurence Fishburne: Exactly. Hip-hop is the mainstream of popular music right now. And a lot of the stories, a lot of the sensibility, a lot of the ethos and a lot of the pathos and a lot of the aesthetic of those films is driven

Principal Cast and Crew | 179 by hip-hop of the period. When you think about the character that Sam Jackson plays in Do the Right Thing, Senor Love Daddy, I mean it’s— Elvis Mitchell: He’s almost an MC basically. Laurence Fishburne: Yeah. I mean, Radio Raheem, Rosie Perez’s entrance in the movie, and this is like pre-gangster rap, this is like this is nothing about— this is not about thug life or any of this stuff that has become popular, necessarily about making money and being famous. It was still talking about the conditions under which we live that were not satisfactory. Elvis Mitchell: That thing which Chuck D said about— Laurence Fishburne: Still talk about fight the power. [laughs] Elvis Mitchell: Yeah. Yeah. I think Chuck D said—what Chuck D said about basically rap being the black CNN. Laurence Fishburne: Right. Elvis Mitchell: And you feel like because there’s not something in the culture like hip-hop that’s basically kind of a confessional for filmmakers, that might be one of the reasons we’re not seeing that kind of thing? Laurence Fishburne: No, I’m suggesting that those two things were linked. Elvis Mitchell: Okay. Laurence Fishburne: I’m suggesting that they were linked. Because remember, it was still very fresh, it was very new. Again, like you said, it was underground, it was de facto, it was rallying against, … —it was talking about “Look at me. This is my story. I’m authentic.” It was almost like once upon a time Black music was called soul music, hence if you wanted something authentic, something that had soul, something that had meaning, you were listening to that kind of music. And I think hip-hop represented that and was about that during that period. Not that it can’t be about that now, but I think it’s morphed and it’s changed into something else. Elvis Mitchell: Right down to having Ice Cube in Boyz N the Hood. Laurence Fishburne: Right. Boyz N the Hood, this is a title taken from an Ice Cube tune that was talking about this particular life, and it was not a life to be desired. Okay, whereas now it’s all been sort of glamorized. Elvis Mitchell: But by virtue of what Cube was doing, he was romanticizing that. Laurence Fishburne: I don’t think so. I don’t think Cube was romanticizing anything. I think Cube was giving us an honest portrayal of what it was. Elvis Mitchell: But by virtue of doing it the way he did it … I’m not saying it was his intention, but he did—it becomes like a movie. I mean where you don’t expect that Jimmy Jump’s going to be the guy from King of New York who ends up being the hero for a lot of people,— Laurence Fishburne: Right. Elvis Mitchell: —but he is by virtue of the way you played it.

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Laurence Fishburne: Okay, I’ll give you that. But I think the bigger picture suggests that—I mean, the end of that movie he walks across the street, [at] the end of Boyz N the Hood, Ice Cube walks across the street with a beer in his hand and it [his image] disappears and it says two weeks later he was murdered. And there’s nothing glamorous about that. Elvis Mitchell: It’s interesting too, because that, again, was a very personal thing for John— Laurence Fishburne: Right. —in the same way that all those films that Spike did, he made a Elvis Mitchell: movie every year during that period. Laurence Fishburne: Mm-hmm. Mm-hmm. Elvis Mitchell: And there was a kind of excitement— Laurence Fishburne: Oh yeah. Elvis Mitchell: —about that kind of. And the fact that you were getting into movies from Boyz N the Hood to Deep Cover to What’s Love Got To Do With It?, it felt like an exciting time to be a Black actor plying your trade. Laurence Fishburne: Right. Yes, it was an exciting time for all of us. And I also think it came out of a necessity, because remember the Reagan years; in the Reagan years there was—so you have the 1970s and you have that whole sort of wave of movies and you have all those faces that are working, right? And then the 1980s comes along and Reaganomics comes along and then suddenly we’re not really a part of the landscape anymore; we suddenly become very periphery on the landscape with the exception of The Cosby Show, let’s say. Elvis Mitchell: And that’s 1984, that’s basically like deep into it, so— Laurence Fishburne: Right. Right. So you’ve got that presence on The Cosby Show and then you’ve got the presence of the folks on Different World on television, which are two really great things. Elvis Mitchell: Sure. Laurence Fishburne: So we’ve not been completely erased from, the landscape, but in film— Elvis Mitchell: In fact, there’s a portrayal of a Black middle class in those things. Laurence Fishburne: Right. Which is great. But in film not so much. Denzel, his career has got traction in the 1980s and he’s doing the work that he can do, but he can’t do it singlehandedly, but he’s doing great work and he’s representing everybody really well. But other than that there’s not a whole lot, you know? So I think it was out of necessity because I think a lot of people got frustrated and I think the filmmaking community, people like Reginald and Spike and Matty that came out of Brooklyn, and Matt Rich. Elvis Mitchell: Matty Rich, Straight Out of Brooklyn. Laurence Fishburne: All of those folks, I think there was a level of frustration that was really happening and became really palpable and it just kind of

Principal Cast and Crew | 181 exploded once Spike made his first picture, once She’s Gotta Have It kind of got the attention that it got. And I think it fired up everybody and I think it made everybody think, “Okay, it’s possible. What do we have to do? What do we have to do?” And I think we really all had the energy, I think the timing was right, and we had all sort of—I think people were willing to do whatever was necessary to tell those kind of stories, to fight those kind of battles. Elvis Mitchell: And the thing that that period proved, and it seems to go away and come and go away as every once in a while studios go, “Oh, I guess Black people go to the movies to see themselves.” Laurence Fishburne: [laughs] I guess that’s it. [laughs] Elvis Mitchell: It always seems to be shocking, “Oh, I guess they will go.” Laurence Fishburne: Really? Hmm. Right. Yes. Elvis Mitchell: Which has got to be kind of—being where you are and being who you are— Laurence Fishburne: Right. Elvis Mitchell: —has got to be kind of a fascinating thing for you to basically watch this thing work as a cycle instead of it being an accepted fact. Laurence Fishburne: Yeah. Yeah, as just being what it is. Yeah, it’s pretty funny. It’s pretty hilarious, ’cause you can look at the history of entertainment in this country and you can see that there’s always somebody of color who’s at the top of the heap, it doesn’t matter what period of time you’re in. Elvis Mitchell: And by the way, it’s different— Laurence Fishburne: And right now her name is— Elvis Mitchell: You recently left CSI after you two were there. Laurence Fishburne: Yes. Yes, I was there for the better part of three seasons, basically two-and-a-half seasons. And I decided it was time to go. They were very good to me over there and I had a lot of fun, I learned a lot about sort of what network TV is about and I enjoyed it because it was very filmic. You know, we got to make these 48-minute mystery movies every week. And I thought it was some of the best TV that was on network TV. But again, after three seasons I felt it was time for me to move on and try some other things. Elvis Mitchell: But you mentioned President Obama, and I can’t help but think we’re at this point now where there’s certainly there are African American figures of enormous power— Laurence Fishburne: Right. Elvis Mitchell: —and dignity and respect who are part of the culture. And not just part of the culture, part of the world that we live in. Laurence Fishburne: Right. Elvis Mitchell: And yet, we’re in one of those cycles now, we’re not really seeing that represented on television, either in the networks or cable, and that’s got to feel a little peculiar right now too.

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Laurence Fishburne: Well, it’s very interesting, I think that people might have—some people might have a problem dealing with Black people being in charge really. Elvis Mitchell: You think it’s as simple as that? Laurence Fishburne: I think it’s just that simple. Yes, I do. Elvis Mitchell: And where does it come from for you? Laurence Fishburne: I think it comes from an ingrained racism that people in this country have. It’s ingrained, institutionalized conditioning that people have that sometimes people are not even aware that they have. Elvis Mitchell: ’cause it’s that thing too, that this feeling and this—what I end up thinking about, this presumption that only Black people watch things about Black people— Laurence Fishburne: Mm-hmm. —which clearly has been disproven or else White people wouldn’t Elvis Mitchell: have elected a president that happened to be Black. Laurence Fishburne: Sure, right. Nor would White people be listening to hip-hop. Elvis Mitchell: Or to me. Laurence Fishburne: [laughs] Precisely. Elvis Mitchell: But given all those things, and I know we’ve talked about this, it’s—I think we’re both amused by the fact that we’re not really seeing this in television anywhere. Laurence Fishburne: No. I mean, people might’ve thought that my presence as the lead on CSI was an indication that that wasn’t the truth or that wasn’t so, but Dennis Haysbert was a lead on the show at CBS before I became a lead on the show at CBS, and as he exited I came in. And then Forest Whitaker was the lead on a show, and as he exited I exited. So, I mean I don’t really know that it’s one way or another. I just know that my intuitive sense of it is that, and has always been from the moment that President Obama took office was that it was going to bring to rise certain racist attitudes and opinions in various parts of the country from various different people and that it was going to manifest in ways that we have not seen it manifest before. Because we are living in a time where people are not comfortable with being overtly and outwardly racist and prejudiced. People are not ready to do that. They’re not ready to expose their views and say what they feel about somebody based on their cultural or ethnic background and take the heat for it. Nobody’s ready to do that nowadays, ’cause we’ve all learned a lesson from history that that’s not really nice. But that doesn’t mean that everybody can contain themselves and contain this thing that they’re feeling, so they say things like, “I want my country back.” Elvis Mitchell: I know that you’re somebody who’s always kind of shocked by the amount of influence that you’ve had. I’ve always kind of liked the fact that you basically let the public sort of dictate their experience of you rather than trying to force that on them.

Principal Cast and Crew | 183 Laurence Fishburne: Mm-hmm. Elvis Mitchell: But you’re a man who’s recognized, you’re a star, you’re an award-winner, at least a couple of Emmys. Laurence Fishburne: Right. Right. Elvis Mitchell: Tony, Oscar nomination. Laurence Fishburne: Mm-hmm. Elvis Mitchell: What do you see your future as being? I mean how do you want that to manifest? Laurence Fishburne: The future is bright. I can tell you the future is bright. What’s really coming is … anybody’s guess. When one door closes, several doors open. Elvis Mitchell: Wow, that’s a great place to end it, ’cause unfortunately we’re out of time. You know you’re always welcome here anytime you want to come back. Laurence Fishburne: Thank you so much, Elvis. Good to see you. Congratulations on 15 years, man. Elvis Mitchell: Thank you. Laurence Fishburne: [laughs] My guest is Laurence Fishburne; he’s a recent Emmy nominee— Elvis Mitchell: and congratulations on that— Laurence Fishburne: Thank you. Elvis Mitchell: —for his work as Thurgood Marshall in the one-man show, Thurgood. He’s also talking about the 20th anniversary of Boyz N the Hood. Our recording engineer at Argo Studios in New York is Paul Ruest. The show is mixed and edited by JC Swarek. I’m Elvis Mitchell. It’s The Treatment. [End of Audio]

© Copyright. KCRW. The Treatment. Reprint used by permission. All rights reserved.

References Build Series. 2016. “Nia Long Remembers ‘Boyz N the Hood’ | BUILD Series”. Filmed [June 2016]. YouTube video, 01:48. Posted [June 2016]. https://www.youtube.com/ watch?v=Iw_CNHz-KEk. Fishburne, Laurence. 2011. The Treatment. By Elvis Mitchell. KCRW, August 10. Jimmy Kimmel Show. “Morris Chestnut on Boyz N the Hood”. Filmed [January 2017]. YouTube video, 06:30. Posted [January 2017]. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=M3rYc9Ul_Oc. MTV News. 1990. “Ice Cube Interview on ‘Boyz n the Hood’ (1990) | #TBMTV”. Filmed [July 2016]. YouTube video, 02:12. Posted [July 2016]. https://www.youtube.com/ watch?v=1oVkr3xlu-M.

Part II

6

Original Boyz Press Kit

“Everybody who wants to be in show business always has that dream of that one special magic project that really connects to your soul and to your head and to your heart. And [after] reading the script to Boyz N the Hood, I said, okay, we’re there.” —Steve Nicolaides LA Film Fest (2011)

Released/Distributed: Columbia Pictures. Director: John Singleton. Screenplay: John Singleton Producer Steve Nicolaides. Running Time: 1 hour, 47 minutes. This chapter features the original Columbia Picture Press Kit interspersed with comments by film critics after Boys N the Hood’s July 1991 debut. Figures 6.1–6.20: Original Press Kit. Courtesy of Columbia Pictures. Copyright © Columbia Pictures. Reprint by permission. All rights reserved.

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Figure 6.1:  Morris Chestnut as Ricky Baker, Cuba Gooding, Jr. as Tre Styles, and Ice Cube as Darin “Dough Boy” Baker.

Original Boyz Press Kit | 189

Figure 6.2:  Laurence Fishburne as Furious Styles and Desi Arnez Hines II as Tre Styles (10 yrs).

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Figure 6.3:  Baja Jackson as Doughboy (10 yrs).

Original Boyz Press Kit | 191

Figure 6.4:  Desi Arnez Hines II as Tre Styles (10 yrs) with neighborhood friends. “These are the stark choices in John Singleton’s ‘Boyz N the Hood,’ one of the best American films of recent years. The movie is a thoughtful, realistic look at a young man’s coming of age, and also a human drama of rare power—Academy Award material. Singleton is a director who brings together two attributes not always found in the same film: He has a subject, and he has a style. The film is not only important, but also a joy to watch, because his camera is so confident and he wins such natural performances from his actors.” Chicago Sun-Times “Boyz N the Hood” —Roger Ebert July 12, 1991 “‘Boyz ‘N The Hood,’ John Singleton’s terrifically confident first feature, places Mr. Singleton on a footing with Spike Lee as a chronicler of the frustration faced by young black men growing up in urban settings. But Mr. Singleton, who wrote and directed this film set in South Central Los Angeles, has a distinctly Californian point of view. Unlike Mr. Lee’s New York stories, which give their neighborhoods the finiteness and theatricality of stage sets, Mr. Singleton examines a more sprawling form of claustrophobia and a more adolescent angst. If Mr. Lee felt inclined to remake George Lucas’s ‘American Graffiti’ with a more fatalistic outlook and a political agenda, the results might be very much like this.” The New York Times “A Chance to Confound Fate” —Janet Maslin Published: July 12, 1991

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Figure 6.5:  Cuba Gooding, Jr. as Tre Styles and Morris Chestnut as Ricky Baker.

Original Boyz Press Kit | 193

Figure 6.6:  Cuba Gooding, Jr. as Tre Styles, Laurence Fishburne as Furious Styles, and Ice Cube as Darin “Dough Boy” Baker. “In his remarkable debut film, BOYZ N THE HOOD (as in neighborhood), writer-director John Singleton, 23, maps gang-ridden South Central Los Angeles with a cartographer’s cool realism. But what gives powerful resonance to his film.” Time Magazine “A Chill on the Heart” —Richard Schickel July 22, 1991 “If people here feel trapped, despairing of a way out, it is Singleton’s gift to make us empathize with their hopelessness, and make us wonder, along with them, how long this must go on. For the good part about John Singleton being only 23 years old is that he still feels passionate about exposing and changing that world.” Los Angeles Times “A Gritty ‘Boyz N the Hood’ Ushers in a New Phase of Cinema” —Kenneth Turan July 12, 1991

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Figure 6.7:  Ice Cube as Darin “Dough Boy” Baker.

Original Boyz Press Kit | 195

Figure 6.8:  Nia Long as Brandi and Cuba Gooding, Jr. as Tre Styles.

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Figure 6.9:  Cuba Gooding, Jr. as Tre Styles. “Singleton eventually made his own movie, “Boyz N the Hood,” a searing coming-of-age story set in a neighborhood overrun with gangs, drugs and automatic weapons. Originally released 25 years ago, on July 12, 1991, “Boyz N the Hood” received a 20-minute standing ovation at the Cannes Film Festival and eventually yielded $58 million at the box office. In addition to making Singleton, who earned a pair of Oscar nominations, one of the hottest writer-directors in Hollywood, it also helped usher in the black film renaissance that flourished in Hollywood during the 1990s. In 1991, at least 17 black-helmed films opened in theaters, more than in the entire previous decade.” Chicago Tribune “Boyz n the Hood at 25” —Craigh Barboza July 22, 1991

Original Boyz Press Kit | 197

Figure 6.10:  Actors on set: Ice Cube as Darin “Dough Boy” Baker and Regi Green as Chris.

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Figure 6.11:  On set: Actors Regina King, Regi Green, Ice Cube, Dedrick Gobert, Cuba Gooding, Jr. and Director John Singleton.

Figure 6.12:  Ice Cube as Darin “Dough Boy” Baker and Laurence Fishburne as Furious Styles.

Original Boyz Press Kit | 199

Figure 6.13:  Cuba Gooding, Jr. as Tre Styles.

Figure 6.14:  Laurence Fishburne as Furious Styles.

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Figure 6.15:  Morris Chestnut as Ricky Baker and Tyra Ferrell as Brenda Baker.

Figure 6.16:  Actor Lloyd Avery II as neighborhood antagonist.

Original Boyz Press Kit | 201

Figure 6.17:  On set: Actors Whitman Mayo, Morris Chestnut, Cuba Gooding, Jr. and Laurence Fishburne.

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Figure 6.18:  Actor Laurence Fishburne. Boyz Awards and Nominations Academy Award Nominations: 1992 Best Director, John Singleton Best Writing, Screenplay Written Directly for the Screen, John Singleton BMI Film Music Award: 1992 Recipient, Stanley Clarke Chicago Film Critics Association 1992 Most Promising Actor, Recipient, Ice Cube Nominations Best Director, John Singleton Best Picture, Boyz N the Hood Best Supporting Actor, Ice Cube Best Supporting Actor, Laurence Fishburne Best Screenplay, John Singleton Most Promising Actor, Cuba Gooding Jr. Image Award: 1993 Recipient, Outstanding Motion Picture, Boyz n the Hood Los Angeles Film Critics Association Awards 1991 Recipient, New Generation Award, John Singleton

Original Boyz Press Kit | 203 MTV Movie Awards: 1992 Recipient, Best New Filmmaker, John Singleton Nominee, Best Movie, Boyz N the Hood National Film Preservation Board, USA: 2002 National Film Registry, Boyz N the Hood New York Film Critics Circle Awards: 1991 Recipient, Best New Director, John Singleton Political Film Society, USA: 1992 Recipient, PFS Award, Peace Recipient, PFS Award, Human Rights Nominee, PFS Award, Exposé Writers Guild of America Nomination: 1992 WGA Award (Screen), Best Screenplay Written Directly for the Screen, John Singleton Young Artist Awards: 1992 Recipient, Young Artist Award, Outstanding Young Ensemble Cast in a Motion Picture Desi Arnez Hines II, Baha Jackson, Donovan McCrary *List not exhaustive post the initial award cycle.

Figure 6.19:  Actors Baja Jackson as Dough Boy (10 yrs), Tyra Ferrell as Brenda Baker, and Donovan NcCrary as Ricky (10 yrs).

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Figure 6.20:  Director John Singleton. Figures 6.1–6.20: Original Press Kit. Courtesy of Columbia Pictures. Copyright © Columbia Pictures. Reprint by permission. All rights reserved.

References Barboza, Craigh. 2016. “Boyz N the Hood at 25: A Look Back at 1991’s Black Film Renaissance.” July 1. Ebert, Roger. 1991. “Boyz N the Hood.” Chicago Sun Times, July 12. Maslin, Janet. 1991. “A Chance to Confound Fate.” The New York Times, July 12. Nicolaides, Steve. “2011 LA Film Fest: Boyz N the Hood.” Film Independent, June 24, 2011. https:// www.youtube.com/watch?v=VZzom2yh0DQ. Schickel, Richard. 1991. “A Chill on the Heart.” Time Magazine, July 22. Turan, Kenneth. 1991. “A Gritty ‘Boyz N the Hood’ Ushers in a New Phase of Cinema.” Los Angeles Times, July 12.

7

Original Screenplay Boyz N the Hood by John Singleton

I don’t know … I just remember writing the script for Boyz N the Hood crying at the computer and smiling. I was writing about my life, about how I was ornery toward my mother when I was twelve years old and she sent me to live with my father, and how that changed me. My father gave me responsibilities and basically said that I was going to take out the trash, wash dishes, and clean my a—. I was going to be a man. And he said, “I’m teaching you these things because all your little friends across the street don’t have a daddy to teach them and you’re going to see how they end up.” So I basically just poured out my life. —John Singleton, 2003 (Alexander 2009, 158)

BOYZ N THE HOOD an Original Screenplay by John Singleton August 10, 1990 Revised August 31, 1990 (Bl) Revised September 10, 1990 (Pk) Revised September 14, 1990 (Yl) Revised September 24, 1990 (Gr) Revised September 28, 1990 (Gr)

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FADE IN: CREDITS Over the credits, we hear the distant sounds of people shouting loud obscenities, this is followed by automatic gunfire, and then by the piercing noises of police vehicles and surveillance helicopters. A symphony of street noises. BLACK SCREEN A quote appears over these audible images. TITLE CARD: “One out of every twenty-two Black American males will be murdered each year.” DISSOLVE TO: TITLE CARD: “Most will die at the hands of another Black male.” We hear the sound of a steel door slam as we … FLASHCUT TO: 1  INT. TRE’S ROOM—DAY

1

VIEW FROM OVERHEAD We hear birds chirping, dogs barking, car horns, morning ambience. A peaceful image. It is the ordinary living space of a ten-year-old male child. Posters of Spiderman, The X-Men, and the Incredible Hulk adorn the walls. Sleeping in the bed is a small brown boy of about ten years of age. He has close cut hair and brown soulful eyes. This is TRE STYLES. Tre wakes with a slight startle as his mother enters the room. She moves with the speed of a rocket and the grace of a bird. This is REVA, Tre’s mother. REVA (singing) Good morning to you! Good morning to you! Good morning, good morning, good morning to you! Time to get up! She pulls open the blinds sending rays of sunlight on his head.

Original Screenplay | 207 TRE (with closed eyes) I’m already up. REVA Then open your eyes. Tre does so. REVA Good! That’s better. (she stands to leave) I have a class till seven tonight so be in by five. I’ll call to make sure. Don’t forget to brush your teeth, wash your face, and comb your hair. There’s something to eat on the stove for you. Bye. TRE Bye. She leaves. Tre pauses for a moment, closes his eyes, and gets back under the covers. Reva comes back and jerks him out of bed. REVA Get up little boy! DISSOLVE TO: 2 2  EXT. LAWRENCE STREET—INGLEWOOD, CA—DAY There is a montage of different corners. On each is a red and white sign which says ONE WAY. On the last corner we see Tre waiting. He is joined by three other children, a boy and two girls. They are BOBBY, a budding criminal looking ten years old. TRINA, a little girl who acts like she has her own apartment. And KEISHA, who is shy. They begin walking together toward school. A PACK

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OF STRAY DOGS run through the street, some are knocking over trash cans in search of food. BOBBY What up Tre? You do your homework? TRE What homework? Not for real, yeah I did it. BOBBY Can I copy it? TRE Hell no. Too bad you should have done it yourself. TRINA Did y’all hear them shooting last night? TRE Yeah I heard. I got under my bed. BOBBY You a scary cat. TRINA My momma say a bullet don’t have no name on it. BOBBY I ain’t afraid to get shot. Both my brothers been shot and they still alive. TRE They lucky. The kids walk along for a moment in silence. Bobby breaks the ice.

Original Screenplay | 209 BOBBY Y’all wanna see something? TRE What? They all stop. BOBBY I ain’t saying what. Do you want to see it or not? The kids all nod “Yes.” CUT TO: 3  EXT. ALLEY—DAY

3

There is a long row of garages. Among each port there is trash piled up very high. One pile is sectioned off with yellow tape which reads “Do Not Cross!” There are more STRAY DOGS sniffing and licking the ground behind the yellow tape. Tre scares them away while Bobby simply pulls the tape away and leads the others into the pile. TRE What you gonna show us, a bunch of fish heads? (sings a few bars of the fish head song) BOBBY I know who was doing the shooting last night. TRE Yahh! Yahhh! Get outta here! Bobby pulls up the tape.

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Tre kicks over some rubbish to reveal several bloody spots, garbage covered with blood. There are also more than a few pieces of gray matter scattered about. THE GIRLS Gasp in horror. Keisha seems more affected than Trina. TRE Looks at this sight with indifference. It is a familiar sight. TRINA Is that blood? What happened? BOBBY What do you think! Somebody got smoked! Look at the holes in the wall! You stupid! TRINA Least I know my times tables! … Look why is the blood turning yellow? TRE That’s what happens when it separates from the plasma. BOBBY What’s plasma? KEISHA Can we go now? TRINA What’s all that gray stuff? TRE That’s his brains.

Original Screenplay | 211 Keisha begins to cry even louder now. She runs off down the alley. Tre runs after her. KEISHA As she slows down and cringes near a garage door. She is crying up a storm now. Tre goes over to her and holds her. TRE Don’t cry Keisha, don’t cry. KEISHA I … I … They shot my brother. Bobby and Trina join them. BOBBY What’s wrong with her? TRE Her brother got smoked last year. DISSOLVE TO: 4  INT. MRS. OLAF’S FIFTH-GRADE CLASSROOM—DAY

4

The scene opens with a montage of overlapping images of children’s drawings of life in South Central L.A. Some of them are funeral scenes, helicopters, gang writing, fancy cars owned by dope dealers, etc. One drawing says “INCREASE THE PEACE.” We soon PULL BACK from the last drawing to reveal their location on the wall of the classroom and to reveal Tre drawing a picture of a Black superhero named BLACKMAN with a B on his chest. The teacher is conducting a history lesson with a POINTER in hand. This is MRS. OLAF, a skinny frayed haired white lady in her mid-forties. She is upset

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with her position in the world; this is reflected in her condescending attitude toward her students, all of whom are Black and Hispanic. MRS. OLAF And so that’s why we celebrate Thanksgiving, to commemorate the unity between the Indians—oops—I mean the Native Americans and the early English settlers who were called. … ? Class? THE CLASS The Pilgrims! MRS. OLAF Yes, the Pilgrims! TRE (not looking up from his drawing) The Penguins! MRS. OLFAF Who said that? The class laughs and points to Tre. MRS. OLAF Mr. Styles. TRE (he looks up) That’s me. MRS. OLAF Why is it you always have something funny to say? TRE Cause I’m a comedian!

Original Screenplay | 213 The class laughs. MRS. OLAF Would you like to teach the class? The class goes “Oooh!” at this challenge. TRE Yeah, I can do that. Mrs. Olaf is surprised. MRS. OLAF Very well then, come up here … and instruct us. Tre coolly walks up to the map. Nearby Bobby sits. It is evident that he is jealous. Tre has caught the attention of the entire class. TRE (coolly) Can I have that? (indicating the pointer) Tre begins to speak but not before Mrs. Olaf stops him. MRS. OLAF What will be the basis of your lecture? TRE What? MRS. OLAF (enunciating) What are you going to talk about?

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N the Hood: Shifting Hollywood Terrain TRE I’m gonna tell you if you let me talk! Shoot!

The class laughs. TRE Okay. Alright, does anybody know what the name of this place is? The pointer is on the continent of Africa. TRINA That’s Africa, I know that. TRE That’s right, that’s Africa. But did you know that Africa is the place where they found the body of the first man? BOBBY Yeah, I know that. I heard it in a song once. TRE My daddy says that makes it the place where all people originated from, that means everybody is really from Africa. (gestures with pointer) Everybody, all of y’all, everybody. BOBBY I ain’t from Africa, I’m from Crenshaw Mafia! He throws up a gang sign. TRE Like it or not you from Africa.

Original Screenplay | 215 BOBBY I ain’t from Africa. You from Africa! You African booty scratcher! The class laughs. Tre saves face by throwing some of them a nasty look. They quickly become silent. TRE Punk, I’ll kick your ass. MRS. OLAF Now, now boys, breathe in and out and count to ten, remember?! The two boys ignore her. The tension between them is flaring. BOBBY I’ll get my brother to shoot you in the face! TRE Get your punk ass brother bitch I’ll get my daddy! Least I got one muthafucka. BOBBY I ain’t nobody’s bitch, you a bitch, Bitch! You a bitch, your daddy’s a bitch and your momma’s a bitch! Bitch! Suddenly, Tre strikes Bobby in the head with the pointer. They go head-up into a brawl. Mrs. Olaf attempts to pull them apart. The rest of the class is up in arms instigating on one side or another. MRS. OLAF Now, now, now! Calm down! TRE Get your hands offa me, bitch!

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MRS. OLAF Her face turns tomato red. There is also more than enough fear in her eyes. WIPE TO: 5  EXT. LAWRENCE STREET—DAY

5

We see Tre’s small figure at the end of the street. In the foreground several young men are shooting craps. A few of them get into a fight. Tre walks toward us through the whole scene. We hear a phone conversation between his mother and Mrs. Olaf. MRS. OLAF (V.O.) Well it’s not as though he is a lost case, he’s a highly intelligent little boy. REVA (V.O.) And you’re a very perceptive woman. MRS. OLAF Thank you. As I was saying, he’s highly intelligent, and his vocabulary is enormous, it’s just … REVA (V.O.) Yes, go on. MRS. OLAF (V.O.) It’s just he has a very bad temper. It makes it hard for him to interact with the other children. Maybe I can recommend therapy or a child psychologist or something. REVA (V.O.) No thank you, we can manage just well.

Original Screenplay | 217 MRS. OLAF (V.O.) Is there a problem in the home? Are you employed? REVA (V.O.) It really is none of your business, but since you asked, I am employed and I am studying to receive my master’s degree. MRS. OLAF (V.O.) So you are educated? REVA (V.O.) Listen are we gonna talk about me or my son? MRS. OLAF (V.O.) I’m sorry. Well I’ll be happy to see Tre back in class on Tuesday. His suspension is only for three days you know. REVA No, I don’t think you’ll be seeing Tre at all. MRS. OLAF (V.O.) Why not, may I ask? DISSOLVE TO: 6  INT. REVA’S APARTMENT—DAY

6

Tre walks through the front door on the tail end of his mother’s conversation. Reva is in the foreground while Tre listens from the background. REVA Because Tre is going to live with his father. MRS. OLAF (O.S.) His father?

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N the Hood: Shifting Hollywood Terrain REVA Yes, his father. Or did you think we make babies by ourselves?

Reva slams the phone down. TRE Stands there smiling. TRE Did you tell her where to go Momma? REVA What was our agreement? What did we put down in writing? She goes to the mantle to present a piece of paper. REVA I Tre Styles, being of sound mind and body agree not to get into any disputes whether physical or verbal for the rest of the school year. If I do not conform with this agreement I will go to live with my father, Mr. Furious Styles. Signed Tre Styles. (looking closer) You have to work on your handwriting. Tre sighs and lowers his head. DISSOLVE TO: 7  INT. REVA’S CAR—DAY

7

As she and Tre drive down Crenshaw Boulevard. Tre looks in curiosity at the action on the “strip.”

Original Screenplay | 219 REVA I just don’t want to see you end up dead or in jail or drunk in front of some liquor store. Can you understand that? (She looks at him) I’m serious. Look at me. Tre does so. REVA I love you. You are my only son. Tre sheds a tear. They come slowly at first but then heavily. Reva pulls the car over and holds him in her mothering arms. 8  EXT. CRENSHAW BOULEVARD—DAY

8

WIDE SHOT Where we can see Reva’s car stopped. After a few moments it drives out of frame. DISSOLVE TO: 9  EXT. HI POINT AVENUE—DAY

9

We see eight boys playing street football, most Black, some Hispanic. Our attention settles on one of them. He is about ten years of age and has light brown eyes. He is Ricky. In the background several neighbors can be seen in front of their homes watering their lawns or just plain keeping watch on what is going on. 9A  ON THE CURB

9A

We see a group of FOUR BOYS riding skateboards. They are practicing jumping from the curb to the street. One of them is a short porky looking honey toned kid. This is DOUGH BOY. He is the leader of this pack of kids.

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9B  REVA’S CAR

9B

Turns the corner at the end of the block. Tre waves at the kids on the corner. Dough Boy waves back and begins following the car. REVA Who is that? TRE My friend. We call him Dough Boy. 10  EXT. FURIOUS STYLES HOME—DAY

10

THE CAR Stops halfway down the block at a SMALL SPANISH STYLE STUCCO HOME. In the front yard stands a tall handsome Black man of about thirty years of age. He has serious brown eyes, a larger version of Tre’s own. This is Tre’s father, FURIOUS STYLES. Furious stops raking leaves in his yard and goes to greet them. He sticks his head through the car window. FURIOUS How ya doing? REVA Doing fine, yourself? FURIOUS I’m living that’s enough for me. REVA Well here he is. THE CURB Where Dough Boy can be seen in the background. Some other boys soon join him.

Original Screenplay | 221 FURIOUS You can’t say hello? TRE Hi Daddy. FURIOUS Go on and talk with your friends. Tre gets out with his bags and does so. REVA Well there’s your son. You wanted ’em, you got ’em. FURIOUS Why are you trying to make this so easy? REVA Hey, it’s like you told me. I can’t teach him how to be a man; That’s your job. Besides, I can’t deal with him anymore he’s starting to act like you. FURIOUS So what’s wrong with that? Sounds fine to me, it’s better than paying child support, least this way I know where all the money is going. BACK TO THE CURB Where Tre is talking to Dough Boy and the other kids. The shortest of them has a small jerry curl. This is LIL CHRIS. DOUGH BOY So it’s not no weekend thing no more, you staying for good? Chris, you know Tre right? ‘Member that time we played ball out here?

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N the Hood: Shifting Hollywood Terrain LIL CHRIS Yeah, I remember you. You collect all those comic books. You living here now?

Tre nods a yes. He is looking at his mother and father talking in the background. DOUGH BOY You still collect comic books? (to his friends) Boy this fool got more comic books than a muthafucka. Tre looks at Ricky in the street throwing another pass. REVA (O.S.) Tre! Come here. TRE Watch my stuff. TRE Goes to his mother’s side of the car just as Ricky catches the pass in the street. Furious walks back to the curb and begins talking to Dough Boy and the other kids. RICKY What’s up, Tre. TRE What’s up, Rick. REVA Well, it looks like you got your friends here.

Original Screenplay | 223 Tre nods a yes. TRE When you coming to pick me up? REVA Whenever you want me to. Just call. She gives him a kiss. REVA Listen, this is just a temporary thing. When I get outta school I’ll get a better job and a place to stay—maybe a house—then you can come back and things will be better. Okay? TRE Okay Mommy. REVA’S CAR As she pulls away from the curb. In the background Tre stands alone. 10A  THE LAWN

10A

Where Furious is giving the kids a business proposition. Tre joins them. FURIOUS That’s right, five dollars for the whole lawn. With not one leaf on it. LIL CHRIS Five dollars! That ain’t shit. I can make more’n that doing nothing. FURIOUS Doing what?

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N the Hood: Shifting Hollywood Terrain DOUGH BOY He works for his uncle. FURIOUS Well that’s too bad. I can get my son to do it. TRE Do what? FURIOUS Rake these leaves off the lawn.

Tre looks at his father as though he is crazy. FURIOUS Boy don’t you look at me funny when I say do something. Here take this. (he gives him the rake) There’s two trash bags right there on the ground. Furious picks up Tre’s large suitcase with one muscular arm. FURIOUS Later. DOUGH BOY Damn your daddy mean. He worse than the boogey man himself. You gotta do all these leaves. Who he think you is? Kunta Kinte? LIL CHRIS Well, see ya later. (to Dough Boy) What you mean, the boogey man? There ain’t no boogey man.

Original Screenplay | 225 DOUGH BOY Shut up fool, yeah there is. LIL CHRIS If there is I betcha the Hulk could whip his ass. Their voices fade as the two boys ride their skateboards down the street. A truck goes down the street and we hear the deep bass sound of hip-hop from its speakers. TRE (mumbles) Yeah, later. Tre begins raking the leaves. VIEW FROM OVERHEAD As we see the entire yard covered with leaves. Tre labors in one part as we … DISSOLVE TO: 10B  THE YARD

10B

Reveal he has cleared one part. Then another then another. When the yard is cleared it is nighttime. Tre walks out of frame pulling along two full bags of leaves. 11  INT. FURIOUS STYLES HOME—NIGHT

11

THE KITCHEN Is modeled in typical bachelor fashion. It is a pig’s dream. The dishes are piled up high, mighty and dirty. Furious pulls three TV dinners from the oven. One for Tre, the others for himself.

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N the Hood: Shifting Hollywood Terrain FURIOUS Go wash your hands.

12  INT. STYLES BATHROOM—NIGHT

12

Where Tre washes his hands. With curiosity he slowly opens the shower curtain to reveal. A DIRTY BATHTUB With a thick black ring made of old body dirt and dead skin. Tre shakes his head in shame. 12A  BACK TO THE KITCHEN

12A

Where Furious sits at the table. He has almost completed his first TV dinner and is beginning the next. Tre seats himself and bows his head in prayer making Furious conscious of the fact he hasn’t done the same. FURIOUS Ordinarily I cook. But I didn’t have time to clean up before your mother called. (a beat) You know how to cook? Tre nods a Yes. FURIOUS What do you know how to make? TRE (with food in his mouth) Meat Loaf. (he adds) Ala Reva.

Original Screenplay | 227 FURIOUS Ala Reva, huh. She taught you how to make it? TRE Yup. Almost as good as she does it. FURIOUS Hmm that’s good. There’s a long pause where neither say a thing. Furious breaks the ice. FURIOUS Want s’more Kool-Aid? Tre nods his approval and Furious pours him a cup. DISSOLVE TO: 13  INT. LIVING ROOM—NIGHT

13

Furious has a weight lifting bench press in the center of the living room. He lays on the bench pressing what looks to be two hundred pounds up and down. Tre picks up a small wrist weight and tries to emulate his father. FURIOUS (between lifts) Listen … I gotta lay down the rules of the house. Same thing as the weekends, you remember? Tre nods a Yes. FURIOUS What are they?

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N the Hood: Shifting Hollywood Terrain TRE Be in the house by seven o’clock. Which is better’n Momma— she says five. Do my chores wash the dishes. I gotta wash those in there?

Furious nods a Yes. TRE (mumbles) Shit. FURIOUS What did you say? TRE Nuthin’. FURIOUS Watch your language. What’s the rest of it? TRE Clean the bathroom sink, floor, and tub. I gotta clean the tub? FURIOUS Yeah. Furious puts the weight back on its stand and relaxes his arms. TRE (shakes his head) Clean my room and water the lawn. (a beat) Daddy, can I ask you something.

Original Screenplay | 229 FURIOUS (flexing his arms) Yeah what? TRE What do you have to do around here? FURIOUS (stops to look Tre) I don’t have to do nothin’ but pay the bills, bring home the food and put clothes on your back. TRE Glad I don’t have to pay no bills. FURIOUS (stands) Here, this is for the lawn. It is a five dollar bill. Tre smiles as he takes it into his hands. TRE Thanks. FURIOUS It may seem like I’m being hard on you but I’m not, I’m just trying to teach you how to be responsible. Your little friends don’t have nobody to show them that. You’ll see how they end up. He looks closely at Tre. FURIOUS Ya know Tre, you’re a prince. I’m a king you’re the prince … Damn you getting big. That’s my boy!

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They share a smile and Furious gets up and walks away. Tre pauses for a moment then gets up and walks in the direction his father went. He sees Furious lying on his bed in the master bedroom. His father pulls a book off the nightstand and begins reading. Tre walks down the hall toward his room. 14  INT. TRE’S BEDROOM—NIGHT

14

DARKNESS Is lost as Tre hits a switch illuminating his bedroom. It is a virtual carbon copy of the room at his mother’s only in this one there are posters of Black superheroes like Luke Cage—Powerman, the Black Panther, the Falcon, Storm, and Sir Nose with the Bop Gun. There are also a lot of posters of Parliament/Funkadelic and George Clinton. Tre climbs into his bed and begins watching television and reading a comic book as we … DISSOLVE TO: 14A TRE

14A

On the bed, in a dead sleep. There is snow on the television. Our attention is drawn to the open WINDOW where the faint sounds of the street flow through the curtains and into the room. Furious comes in and turns it off. He calmly wakes Tre up and tells him to get in bed. Tre quickly undresses while his father gets an extra blanket. FURIOUS Returns to the room to find Tre back in slumber land. He smiles with pride at his young son. In the background the sounds of helicopters, police sirens and the distant firing of automatic weapons can be heard. TRE’S BED Where he can be seen.

Original Screenplay | 231 THE WINDOW— We slowly PULL INTO the window as the sounds of the street crawl in and build in loudness until … BOOM! Furious comes into frame and closes it. The faint sounds of neighborhood warfare are lost. 15  INT. THE LIVING ROOM—NIGHT

15

Where Furious checks the lock on the door and CLOSES all the windows. On a wall is a LARGE MIRROR which reflects the room, we see his image as he does his task. With the last window we notice the wind blowing, the curtains and the street sounds coming in. Furious CLOSES the window and we PULL IN and HOLD on the window for a second longer than usual. DISSOLVE TO: 16  INT. TRE’S ROOM—LATER Where he is seen tossing and turning in his sleep.

16

CUT TO: 17  INT. FURIOUS’S ROOM—LATER Where he is sleeping the same way as his son.

17

DISSOLVE TO: MONTAGE OF INTERIOR OF THE HOUSE 18  INT. THE KITCHEN—NIGHT

18

With its dirty dishes. The faucet drips. We hear the sound of the dripping water over these images. It should get louder as the tension increases. Between the following images we get closer and closer to the faucet until we are in a drop of water and boom we see the open window. 19  INT. FURIOUS ROOM—NIGHT Where he is in a deep slumber.

19

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20  INT. TRE’S ROOM—NIGHT

20

Who is dead to the world also. 21  INT. THE LIVING ROOM—NIGHT

21

Where our attention is drawn to the WINDOW and its curtains which now blow in the evening wind. We hear the faint sounds of the automatic gunfire, cars with music in the distance. The SOUND invades their home. 21A  BACK TO TRE

21A

Who is still in slumber land. 21B  BACK TO THE LIVING ROOM

21B

Where a thin figure in cheap corduroy pants and Converse sneakers crosses the floor. He accidentally stubs his knee on the coffee table. 21C  BACK TO FURIOUS’S ROOM

21C

Where Furious instinctively reacts to the sounds in the next room. Like a panther he slowly rises and reaches underneath the bed. From his room we can see THE INTRUDER reflected in the large mirror on the wall. From a shoe box Furious pulls his .357 MAGNUM and quietly begins loading it. His hands shake with nervousness. Suddenly Furious notices something. 21D  THE HALLWAY

21D

Where Tre walks in his underwear. He is making a late night bathroom run. When he reaches the bathroom he calmly closes the door. The dripping SOUND is at its loudest now. It immediately stops when the door is closed and we cut to: 21E  THE INTRUDER

21E

Who looks up at the sound of the closing door. He knows someone is awake. 21F  BACK TO FURIOUS Who is in the hallway now. He clicks the barrel of his gun.

21F

Original Screenplay | 233 SLOW MOTION 21G  BACK TO THE INTRUDER

21G

Who reacts to the “Click” of Furious’s barrel and turns to run. FURIOUS Jumps from out of the hallway and fires toward the man. His gun sounds off like a cannon. 21H  THE BATHROOM

21H

Where Tre hurries to finish peeing. He accidentally gets a little bit on himself. 21I FURIOUS

21I

Slowly approaches the door. He has blown TWO LARGE HOLES in the wall next to the doorway. Outside, neighborhood dogs can be heard barking. Furious walks to the front of his house where he sees one of the man’s sneakers. He bends down to pick up the shoe. DISSOLVE TO: 22  EXT. FURIOUS FRONT PORCH—NIGHT/LATER

22

THE SHOE Which is being held up and observed by Furious who hands it to Tre. We pull back to reveal Furious and Tre sitting on THE STEPS of their home. FURIOUS Somebody must have been praying for that fool, ’cause I aimed right for his head. TRE You shoulda blew it off.

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Furious looks at his son. FURIOUS Don’t say that. I’m glad I didn’t get ’em. I woulda just been contributing to killing another brother. (a beat) Where the hell are these fools? We’ve been waiting for almost an hour. With that, an L.A.P.D. squad car comes racing up the street with its red and blue lights flashing. It parks on the street and two cops exit. One is Black the other is white. His name is GRAHAM. The Black one interestingly enough is named COFFEY. He is a pseudo Black man. Black police showing out for da white cop. We notice the sign on the door which reads “To Serve and Protect.” GRAHAM We got a call about a burglary here. FURIOUS That was an hour ago. COFFEY We didn’t ask you that. FURIOUS Well I told you. Besides, I don’t like having my son sitting out here in the cold. GRAHAM What happened sir? FURIOUS Somebody broke into my house, I shot at him with my piece and he ran.

Original Screenplay | 235 COFFEY You didn’t get ‘em? FURIOUS He’d be laid out right here in front of you if I did. GRAHAM Anything stolen? Furious nods in the negative. COFFEY Good. No need to file a report. A voice on the police radio summons Graham to the car leaving Furious, Coffey, and Tre. COFFEY You should have got him. That would have been one less nigga we had to worry about out here. (he offers his hand to Tre to shake) Howya doing little man? Furious waves Tre away from shaking Coffey’s hand and gives him a cold look in the eyes. Coffey returns the glance. Furious just shakes his head in shame for his brother and begins walking up the stairs with Tre. COFFEY Something wrong? Furious stops and turns to look at Coffey for a moment. FURIOUS Yes. Yes there is. Too bad you don’t know it.

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They turn to walk in the house leaving Coffey on the lawn to think about what Furious meant. We hear the voice of Sammy Davis Jr. singing the Candy Man which transcends us into … DISSOLVE TO: 23  EXT. TRE’S STREET—DAY

23

Where an ice-cream truck slowly cruises by. Some SMALL CHILDREN stop the truck to buy some candy. We see the HANDS of the ice-cream man, his fingers are adorned with large ornate jewelry. ICE CREAM (V.O.) (like Sammy Davis) What do you cats want? CUT TO: 24  EXT. BAKER FAMILY HOME—DAY

24

Where Tre enters the gate with some reluctance. Tre walks onto the porch and waits. We can hear the booming voice of Dough Boy’s mother chewing him out. This is MS. BAKER, the mother of Dough Boy and Ricky. The fact that the two boys have different fathers drastically affects her parental outlook. She treats each differently: one with love, the other with contempt. MS. BAKER (O.S.) You ain’t shit, you just like your daddy! … ain’t gonna do shit, ain’t gonna be shit. All you do is eat, sleep, and shit around here! Y’all must think I’m a maid the way you act. DOUGH BOY (O.S.) Is that it? I gotta go.

Original Screenplay | 237 CUT TO: 25  INT. BAKER FAMILY HOME—DAY

25

Where we see Ms. Baker laying on the couch shouting at Dough Boy and Ricky as they go back and forth preparing to leave for a hard day at play. Tre can be seen through the screen door. MS. BAKER Hell naw that ain’t it! It ain’t it til I say it’s it damn it! You trying to get smart with me?! Knock your ass into next week! Is that it? And where you going? You little fat fuck? Your little ass ain’t got no job! (sighting Tre) Who’s this little fucka sitting on my porch? She rises to go to the door. 26  EXT. BAKER FAMILY HOME—DAY

26

Where Ms. Baker comes onto her porch to get a better look at Tre as well as to see anything in the neighborhood that needs seeing. MRS. BAKER Oh, you Furious’s little boy, huh? When your daddy gonna come play some cards? He act like he too good to come around no more. Too busy shooting at people. (a beat) He still got that same girlfriend? Suddenly, Ricky with a football in hand comes from behind his mother, saving Tre from her mouth and her questions. RICKY Excuse me Momma.

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Tre runs off the porch and into the yard to go out for a pass. Ricky throws him one which he gracefully catches. Tre runs toward him as if to fake him out. Ricky catches him and they share a laugh. TRE Why you always be playing football? RICKY Ball in hand, stops as if he almost has to think out his answer, it comes quickly. RICKY Cause that’s what I’m gonna be. THE PORCH Where Dough Boy comes from behind his mother. He doesn’t bother even acknowledging her presence. Dough Boy quickly joins the other two boys who are on the sidewalk. THE SIDEWALK Where Tre, Ricky, and Dough Boy stand. DOUGH BOY Yo, I heard Furious shot at somebody last night. He get ‘em? TRE No. Tre’s attention has strayed across the street at … 27  EXT. BRANDI’S HOME—DAY

27

Where we see a young girl about the same age helping her mother pull groceries out of the back of their car. She has long hair which is bound in one large pigtail

Original Screenplay | 239 and wears what looks to be the uniform of a private school. This is BRANDI, the neighborhood sweetheart. TRE (V.O.) Who’s that? DOUGH BOY (V.O.) That’s my lady homey. Her name’s Brandi. BACK TO SIDEWALK RICKY She ain’t your woman, that’s my woman. DOUGH BOY How can she be your woman when she my lady? TRE Has caught Brandi’s eye from across the street. RICKY (O.S.) She’s my wife. BRANDI Returns his interested glance with a smile. DOUGH BOY (O.S.) She may be your wife but I stick my dinga-ling in her every night so that make her mine. Brandi’s mother pulls her away into the house. BRANDI’S MOTHER (O.S.) Get your fast ass in here and quit looking at them nappy headed boys!

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BACK TO TRE Who turns around to see Dough Boy and Ricky play wrestling in the grass. They stop when they see they have Tre’s attention once more. DOUGH BOY You can’t have her cause we sharing already. (he gets up) C’mon let’s go see Chris. RICKY Where’s my ball? (he sees it) There it is. TRE I can’t stay long cause me and my daddy going fishing. DOUGH BOY We ain’t gonna stay long. TRE Where’s he live? WIPE: 28  EXT. NICKERSON GARDENS HOUSING PROJECT—DAY

28

Nickerson Gardens is one of the most notorious housing projects in South-Central Los Angeles. It is a transient population of people who live in the midst of daily drug peddling and nightly murders. The three boys walk freely through a maze of older boys who are cursing and drinking 40 ounce bottles of malt liquor. Tre is looking at everything out of the

Original Screenplay | 241 corner of his eye. Dough Boy looks as though he is at home. Ricky holds his ball close to him. DOUGH BOY Rick, why’d you haveta bring that ball? I ain’t saying nothing if it get took. They come to a certain door and knock. Little Chris comes out. CHRIS What y’all doing here? DOUGH BOY Came to see you. With that, the three boys enter. 29  INT. LITTLE CHRIS’S PLACE—DAY

29

It is a one-bedroom apartment. There are cracks as old as two grandfathers ingrained into the ceiling. More than a few cockroaches enter in and out of these crevices. On a large couch a woman can be seen. She has very bad permanently pressed hair and a face that looks ten years ahead of its time. This is DONETTA COLES, Chris’s mother. She is watching the Saturday morning cartoons on an old large 25 inch Black and White set. On screen we see one of those old Schoolhouse Rock clips, this one teaches about Verbs. Donetta drops the ashes of her cigarette in an ash tray as two or three cockroaches emerge from it. DONETTA Who’s this? CHRIS These my friends. This is Dough, his brother Ricky, and that’s Tre.

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N the Hood: Shifting Hollywood Terrain DONETTA Why don’t y’all play outside. I just cleaned up.

Chris turns to his friends as if this needs repeating. CHRIS We gotta go outside. 30  EXT. LITTLE CHRIS’S PLACE—DAY

30

Where the four boys exit. The first thing in sight is the group of men getting drunk. CHRIS Somebody got smoked today. DOUGH BOY Where? CHRIS (he points) Around that end. Wanta see? The people still ain’t come to pick it up. He still on the ground dead to the world. They begin walking in the direction Chris pointed toward. DOUGH BOY Tre’s daddy blasted on somebody last night. Chris looks at Tre as if he is a new discovery. CHRIS Really? What kind of gun your daddy got?

Original Screenplay | 243 TRE I think it’s a .357 Magnum. CHRIS Really? I got a Deuce Deuce. My brother gave it to me before he went inna county jail. Got it under my bed. Wanna see it? It’s loaded too. They get to the spot. It is a seventeen-year-old boy. His body is riddled with bullets. The people nearby walk back and forth going about their business. DOUGH BOY Look like Freddy Kruger got ’em. RICKY This ain’t the movies. TRE He stinks. CHRIS That’s how they smell after a while … I wonder why it take them people so long to pick them up? MAN’S VOICE (O.S.) Hey, throw the ball! They turn startled to see an older boy of about seventeen years in age. He is wearing no shirt and old corduroys which are pulled down to reveal the top of his underwear. This is RIC ROCK. CHRIS (whispers to Ricky) You throw that ball you ain’t gonna see it again.

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N the Hood: Shifting Hollywood Terrain TRE Hey you know this a dead body? RIC ROCK Yeah muthafuckas, I know dat, shit! He ain’t bothering you so don’t fuck with him! Yo, throw the ball little man, I ain’t gonna take it. Little Chris, tell this fool I ain’t gonna take his ball. I got enough money to buy me a hundred balls. (he flashes a couple dollars) Shit! DOUGH BOY I told you not to bring that ball.

RICKY Is in indecision. But he cannot resist showing off his arm. He throws the ball. RIC ROCK Catches the ball and throws Ricky a gang sign. RIC ROCK Thanks, Blood. He then turns around to his friends. RIC ROCK Yo Dog, catch. MAD DOG Looks just like his name implies. He is six-two in height and about as wide as two Volkswagens. Mad Dog catches the ball with one hand.

Original Screenplay | 245 THE GROUP OF OLDER MEN Begin throwing the ball back and forth between them. BACK TO RICKY Who looks as though his heart has been taken away. The CAMERA comes slowly toward him as Chris comes into frame from left to single of Tre who leads Ricky away. CHRIS I told you he was gonna take it. DOUGH BOY (who is upset) You stupid, I told you not to bring that ball. Don’t have no sense. Wait till I tell Momma. RICKY Shut up! I don’t care. Tell Momma. TRE C’mon, let’s go home. CHRIS Y’all leaving? DOUGH BOY No! Hey gimme back my brother’s ball! Dough Boy walks toward the older boys. CHRIS Dough, don’t say nothing they might give it back. I know them, they just playing.

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Ric Rock turns back to look at Dough Boy. RIC ROCK What you say fat boy? Nigga looks like the Michelin Man! The older boys laugh. DOUGH BOY I said … give my brother’s ball back before – RIC ROCK Before what? What your fat ass gonna do? Dough Boy charges the older kid trying to pull the ball out of his hands. MAD DOG Yo Rock, give da little nigga da ball back. Ricky and Tre join in trying to get the ball. Dough Boy gets frustrated and kicks Rick Rock. This upsets the older boy who kicks Dough Boy back, only harder in the stomach. Dough Boy goes down holding his stomach. Tre and Ricky are shocked. They come to Dough Boy’s aid. RIC ROCK Stupid muthafucka. I was gonna give it to you too. DISSOLVE TO: 30A  THE SIDEWALK

30A

Where the three boys walk. No one says a word. Dough Boy is holding his stomach, trying to keep his tears from flowing. In the background the group of older boys play with Ricky’s ball.

Original Screenplay | 247 TRE Hey man, I gotta football—I don’t ever use it much though. Tell you what, it’s yours, son’s we get back. DOUGH BOY (holding stomach) He ain’t gonna want it, his daddy gave him that ball. I wish I could kill that muthafucka. RICKY Stares at the older boys playing. Mad Dog catches the ball and the others are beckoning him to throw it back to them. MAD DOG Looks in Ricky’s direction. He pauses for a moment as their eyes meet almost thirty yards away. Suddenly, when it looks as though he will give it back Mad Dog turns to his homies and throws the ball. THE THREE BOYS Turn to walk away. BACK TO MAD DOG Who motions for one of his friends to throw him the ball. They quickly do so. MAD DOG (shouts out) Hey! Hey little man! Catch! He throws the ball. SLOW MOTION

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THE BLUE SKY As the football lingers, flying high and mighty. It stays there for some time. RICKY Runs into a position where he thinks it will come down. There is a look of nirvana on his face. A thirty yard pass is coming down right into his arms. ANOTHER ANGLE Where time speeds back to normal. The ball comes down and hits Ricky square in the chest. He doesn’t catch it. Tre recovers the ball. DOUGH BOY Man, you’re sorry! Ricky looks in Mad Dog’s direction and nods a thank you. DOUGH BOY I’m going to the store. RICKY What you gonna get? You ain’t got no money. DOUGH BOY I’m going anyway. THE STREET As the three boys walk away into the distance. FURIOUS (V.O.) Are you a leader or a follower? A lion or a sheep?

Original Screenplay | 249 IRIS TO: 31  EXT. PALOS VERDES PENINSULA—DAY

31

MONTAGE OF OCEAN ELEMENTS Seagulls, ocean waves, sailboats—dissolve to each image ending on Tre and Furious. THE ROCKY SHORE Where Furious can be seen with his fishing pole in the water. Tre is making sandwiches from a bag of groceries they have purchased. TRE Why you always ask me that? FURIOUS Just answer me. TRE I’m a leader. FURIOUS What have I always told you? TRE (thinks for a moment) Always comb my hair, wipe my nose, and zip my zipper before I leave the house? FURIOUS Besides that. What three things do I always say to you? Think before you answer.

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N the Hood: Shifting Hollywood Terrain TRE (thinks for a moment) Oh, I got it. Always look a person in the eyes. You do that and they’ll respect you better. Two, you told me never be afraid to ask you for anything. Stealing isn’t necessary. And the last one I think was to never respect anybody who doesn’t respect you back. That right? FURIOUS Yeah you got it.

There is a pause where neither says a thing. Tre is playing with some rocks he has found. He is selecting the smoothest ones to keep. FURIOUS What do you know about sex? Tre makes a goofy grin like a kid. TRE I know a little bit. FURIOUS Oh yeah? What little bit is that? TRE I know I take a girl, stick my thing in her and nine months later a baby comes out. FURIOUS You think that’s it? TRE Basically, yeah.

Original Screenplay | 251 FURIOUS Always remember this: any fool with a dick can make a baby but only a real man can take care of his children. Tre nods to agree with his father. FURIOUS When your mother was pregnant with you I was seventeen. All my friends were dropping out of school, hanging out in front of the liquor store getting drunk, or stealing. Some of them were even killing people. You remember my friend Marcus, right? He and I been friends since we were like seven or eight years old. He got into robbing people and he wanted me to do it with him but I was like, naw man, I got a son on the way. I knew you were gonna be a boy. So anyway, I wanted to be somebody you could look up to that’s why I went to Vietnam … Don’t ever go into into the army. A Black Man don’t have any place in there. There is another pause where neither says a thing. Tre takes some of his unwanted rocks and throws them in the ocean far away from where Furious is fishing. TRE I threw them over there so the fish wouldn’t get scared. FURIOUS It’s too late they already are … You know I rarely catch anything out here. I just come out here to think. WIPE: 32  INT. FURIOUS CAR—DAY

32

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Where Furious and Tre ride. Tre is blowing his breath on the window and watching it fog up. He makes one big fog spot and writes his name in the moisture. FURIOUS The reason I tell you all I do is because when I was coming up I didn’t have my father around to tell me things. Your grandmomma couldn’t teach me how to be a man. I had to learn a lot of things on my own. Tre nods in agreement. A song comes over the radio. It’s that song that goes “Ooh child, things are gonna be easier.” Furious starts bopping to the tune from his time as they turn the corner of their street to notice … 33  EXT. BAKER FAMILY HOME—DAY

33

Where we see a police car parked at the curb, the red and blue flashes of light from the overhead pierce the cool evening air. There is a large crowd of people standing nearby observing. THE YARD Where Dough Boy and Chris are being led by two officers toward the squad car, handcuffed behind their backs. Ricky stands in the yard while his mother is on the porch. A kid comes up to Ricky. KID What’d they do? RICKY They was stealing. 33A  THE CAR WINDOW

33A

Where Tre can be seen. The red and blue light illuminates the frosted image of his name that is written on the window.

Original Screenplay | 253 THE CURB Where Tre and Furious get out of their car. Down the street the police have loaded the boys in the squad car and turn their siren on to remind the neighborhood of their existence. The car comes down the street in Tre’s direction. TRE As he looks toward the car. TRE’S POV As he sees Dough Boy and Little Chris with bowed heads in the back of the car. Dough Boy looks up from the seat just in time to see. REVERSE ANGLE/DOUGH BOY’S POV As the car slowly goes past Tre and leaves him in the distance. Dough looks back down as the sounds of siren get louder and transcend us into … DISSOLVE TO: BURN IN TITLE: Seven years later. The sounds of a police siren are mixed into the sound of child making a police siren sound. 34  INT. BAKER FAMILY HOME—DAY

34

THE KITCHEN Where we see a little boy of about two years of age playing with a toy POLICE CAR. He has a big rounded head and large round almond colored eyes. This is LIL RICKY. The socializing voices of several people can be heard nearby. Little Ricky moves the car around and then stops to pound on it. We see a few pair of adult legs walking past the small child. One feminine pair of legs stops. WOMAN You better go outside. Your daddy wants you.

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Little Ricky looks up in curiosity at the woman. He gracefully lifts himself from the floor and walks in the direction of the backyard accidentally or intentionally stepping on the police car. Fuck da police wit symbolism boyeee!! We follow the small boy until he comes to the door of the yard and we see … 34A  THE BACKYARD

34A

Which is filled to the brim with people. There is a BARBECUE PARTY going on. Music plays on a speaker and there is a group of people dancing on the pavement. We see a large PAPER SIGN which reads WELCOME BACK DOUGH BOY. In a corner several young men are playing a loud game of dominoes. In another section, laboring over a sizzling BARBECUE PIT stands a large young man of seventeen. He is wearing a Washington High School football jersey. He shouts at the small boy. RICKY Come here! Little Ricky walks reluctantly toward his father. RICKY Tenderly picks up his young son and continues to poke and turn the cooking meat. RICKY C’mere. What you doing, huh? You want to learn how to barbecue? Suddenly, Mrs. Baker comes up. She looks almost unchanged. The years have treated her well. MRS. BAKER Ricky you not watching this meat. All you doing is poking at it. With that, a young woman of about seventeen comes in their crowd. Her hair is neat but cheaply permed and the biker shorts that she wears more than show off

Original Screenplay | 255 her young firm figure. This is SHANICE, Ricky’s girlfriend and the mother of their child. She offers to take Ricky into her arms. SHANICE I’ll take him. RICKY (lightly shrugging her off) Naw Shanice I got him. Go on back to talking to your friends. Mrs. Baker is observing this conservation out of the side of her eyes and with one ear. We should get the feeling that the limited space behind the Barbecue pit is making her uncomfortable. SHANICE Ricky, I got to check his diaper. Ricky turns his son over to smell his pants. RICKY He ain’t wet. So go on. Go on I got ’em. Wait a minute, C’mere. (she comes back and he gives her a real delicious kiss) MRS. BAKER That’s how y’all got that one! Make sure she taking them pills I don’t want a whole stack o’ babies running around here. I’ll be the only one taking care of ’em. 34B  A TABLE

34B

Where four gangstas are seated. They are playing a ruthless game of dominoes. By the way they play you’d think money is involved. They smack their pieces onto the table making a sharp sound with every move. Our attention is drawn to the

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largest of these brothers. It is Dough Boy, who is now a gangsta. His face looks hardened with the years. We also recognize Little Chris, a jeri curl still in his head. There is now only a blank cold stare in his eyes, the gleam of youth is lost. Also at the table are MONSTER, who looks just like his name implies. And DOOKY, who is called this because he wears his hair in big Dooky-shaped gangsta style braids. DOUGH BOY (slamming a piece down) Domino muthafucka, what you say to that nigga? What you say to that? MONSTER Fool that ain’t shit. I still beat your ass three times already. That’s just one time, nigga. Let’s play again. DOUGH BOY Naw, I don’t want to play again. Let’s bust some spades. He opens a deck of cards and begins dealing them. DOOKY I want to get with one of the hootchies over there. 34C  ACROSS THE BACKYARD

34C

Sit a group of females about ten of them in a cluster. All wear Truk jewelry and have nice nails. They are talking among themselves. Among them is a striking drop dead fine babe who is trying to avoid the stares of the other guys at the party. This is Brandi, seven years later. 34D  IN ANOTHER CORNER Are some obviously athletic looking brothers, friends of Ricky’s.

34D

Original Screenplay | 257 34E  BACK TO TABLE

34E DOUGH BOY

Dooky, you fulla shit! Nigga ain’t no bitch gonna give yo ugly ass no pussy. DOOKY Nigga I bet I get more pussy than you. DOUGH BOY Yeah, muthafucka you be getting that Dopehead pussy. I get more pussy than you get air. Wit yo wannabee Mack Daddy Ass. DOOKY Who you calling Wannabee Mack Daddy? DOUGH BOY You nigga! No pussy getting muthafucka! Be fucking them dopeheads, stupid nigga. DOOKY Nigga you don’t know what I be getting. I don’t be fucking no dopeheads. I might let them suck my dick but I don’t be fucking ’em. Shit … they got AIDS and shit. MONSTER Stupid mothafucka, don’t you know you can get that shit from letting them suck your dick too? DOUGH BOY Thank you. CHRIS Yeah, right.

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N the Hood: Shifting Hollywood Terrain DOUGH BOY You a mark.

Dooky thinks for a moment. DOOKY Well I ain’t sick. I ain’t all skinny and shit. CHRIS Whatch you mean, you ain’t skinny?! You so skinny you can hula hoop thru a cheerio! And fool, you don’t have to be sick. You could die five years from now from that shit. Dooky is taken aback. DOOKY Y’all trying to scare me. (a beat) Can you really get it from letting them suck your dick? DOUGH BOY (takes a drink outta his bottle) Just keep your ass back. And don’t be asking to drink out the same bottle. Dough looks up to notice. THE PATIO DOORWAY Where we see a young man dressed in smooth black slacks and a nice fashionable black shirt. His head is smoothly cut with more than a few mosaic lines going through it. We recognize the eyes. This is Tre, seven years later. THE BARBECUE PIT Where Ricky nods a hello to his best friend. Little Ricky waves also. Rick’s eyes tell Tre to guide his attention in a certain direction.

Original Screenplay | 259 THE GROUP OF GIRLS Are all whispering among each other. BRANDI Seems most affected by Tre’s presence. TRE Looks at Brandi from across the lawn. He smiles as their eyes meet. Suddenly, from behind comes Mrs. Baker who gives him a hug. MRS. BAKER Tre! How you doing, sugar? TRE Just fine ma’am. MRS. BAKER That’s good. The food will be ready in a moment. I’m going inside to bring out the rest of the stuff. Potato salad and things like that. Go on, everybody’s here. Go talk to Darin … talk to him seriously. Maybe something you got will rub off on him. 34F  THE TABLE

34F

Where Dough Boy and company acknowledge Tre’s entrance. Tre walks toward the table to greet Dough Boy, he gives him a grip and a hug. TRE What’s up, Dough. DOUGH BOY What’s up Mack Daddy, I heard you was like Mister G. Q. smooth now. You working over at the Fox Hills Mall?

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N the Hood: Shifting Hollywood Terrain TRE Yeah, I get a discount on clothes and shit. You like? DOUGH BOY You look like you sell rocks. CHRIS Tre, you be pumping that rock? TRE Hell naw, I don’t be doing that shit. DOUGH BOY You can’t anyway, your daddy’d kick your ass. How’s he doing? TRE He’s alright.

There is a pause. Tre is still nodding “Hi” to several people. Dough Boy keeps the air moving by continuing conversation. DOUGH BOY I guess you heard I’m outta the pen now. I’ma try to stay out this time though. TRE That’s what we’re here to celebrate, right man? (looking at Dough) How’d you get so big?

Original Screenplay | 261 DOUGH BOY Working out nigga. What else you think there is to do in there? I was pumping that iron at least three times a day. Rest of the time I spent reading or writing to one of my girls. MONSTER Reading? DOUGH BOY Yeah muthafucka! I ain’t no criminal. I know how to read, shit. TRE Yo, what’s Brandi doing here? Her mother letting her out the house now or what? DOUGH BOY She your bitch, you know more’n I know. CHRIS Mmmm, mmm, Lord help me. You still on that Tre? With that all of them look in the direction the girls are sitting. 34G  THE GIRLS

34G

Where Shanice sits with her friends, they are RENE and SHALIKA. Brandi is on the sidelines of the conversation she is quiet. Only observing … SHALIKA Mmmm, mmm. Who is that Shanice? SHANICE That’s Tre, Ricky’s best friend. He used to be best friends with Dough Boy when they were little. They all be trying to act like they brothers and all.

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N the Hood: Shifting Hollywood Terrain SHALIKA Girl, he’s fine. I’d like to rush that. He go to Washington?

Shanice nods in the positive and looks over at Brandi as if to see her reaction. RENE Oh, I seen him before. He works at the Fox Hills Mall. SHALIKA Does he have a girlfriend? BRANDI (with attitude) Yes. The other two girls look over at her as if she appeared in a puff of smoke. SHALIKA Oooh Jamica I was scoping on her man. He’s cute anyway, you better keep his ass somebody might steal him. 34H  THE SERVING TABLE

34H

Where Mrs. Baker and Ricky unload a pile of ribs into a pan. MRS. BAKER Come—and—get—it! Everybody comes in force to the table. Tre, Dough Boy, and the other guys move swiftly toward the table. When Chris leaves the table, it becomes apparent that the chair he was sitting in is actually a wheelchair, a casualty of neighborhood warfare. He has lost the use of his legs. The group of men surround the table and it looks as though the women will be left out. Tre does a double-take, taps Dough Boy on the shoulder, and gives him a look.

Original Screenplay | 263 TRE (to the guys) Hey, why don’t y’all act like gentlemen and let these ladies eat first?! Dough Boy, who already has his plate in hand, catches on to Tre’s game. Playing it off, he gives his tray to the nearest female face. DOUGH BOY Yeah, y’all act like y’all ain’t never had no barbecue before. Let these ladies eat. Hoes gotta eat too. SHALIKA Wait minute now! Who you calling a hoe?! I ain’t no hoe! DOUGH BOY Ooops, Oh that’s right. I’m sorry bitch. The men part to let the ladies pass and begin fixing their plates. TRE Is looking in the opposite direction when he is caught off guard from behind. He turns to see. BRANDI Who has a full plate. TRE Hi. BRANDI Hello. Why you ain’t called me in five days?

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There is uneasy space between them. Tre decides to let it wait. In the background the guys rush the food. TRE Just a second. Brandi is left hanging. She just nods it off and walks to find a place to eat her food. 34I TRE

34I

Joins Ricky at the table, both begin filling their plates. RICKY Yo man, what’s up? Looks like she wants to talk with you. TRE I know. I’m taking my time. Brandi is sitting down in a corner. She tried to begin eating her food but cannot stomach it. Instead she covers her plate and gets up. RICKY Oh, so you trying run that game huh? TRE (looking down at the food) Yeah … How am I doing? Ricky looks over to see Brandi saying goodbye to his mother. She is leaving. RICKY Uhh, you’re doing fine but just one thing.

Original Screenplay | 265 TRE What? RICKY She left. TRE What? Tre looks up to view the entire backyard. Brandi is nowhere to be seen. TRE Damn. Ricky takes a forkful of the potato salad. RICKY Yo this some good tata salad. You on some of this. Tre gives him a crazy look. WIPE TO: 35  EXT. THE SIDEWALK—DAY

35

Where Tre walks with a PLATE in hand. He sees something. THE STREET Where two-year-old baby walks in the street. Cars have slowed down and honk loudly. BACK TO TRE Who goes out and picks the baby up. He walks toward a home.

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36  EXT. HOME—DAY

36

Where Tre knocks on the door. The woman that answers is thin and emaciated, a crack addict, pipe in hand and all. This is SHERYL, a strawberry. TRE Why don’t you watch your baby, she gonna get hit one of these days. Sheryl takes the baby with a dazed look on her face. She looks at Tre with interest. SHERYL You got some blow? I’ll suck it … Tre looks at her with disgust. TRE Just keep her out the street. And change her diaper, girl almost smell worse than you. Tre walks away. 37  EXT. THE STREET—DAY

37

Where Tre enters without looking, still shaking his head in shame. CAR P.O.V. As Tre’s figure in the street comes up fast. TRE As he is startled by the car that has stopped in front of him. It is a 1991 red Hyundai with dark tinted windows. The car stops and then slowly cruises past Tre. THE CAR’S WINDOW Revealing an older dude with a large Jeri curl and a face like a clenched fist. This is FERRIS. He appears for a moment and reveals the barrel of a twelve gage shotgun and points it at Tre.

Original Screenplay | 267 TRE’S EYES As they widen. He hopes they will not shoot him. (Dolly-Zoom here) BACK TO WINDOW As a hand comes out and makes a gang sign. FERRIS Whatup Blood?!! The car then screeches down the street and out of sight. Tre coolly regains his composure and walks toward his house. CUT TO: 38  INT. FURIOUS STYLES HOME—THE KITCHEN—DAY

38

Where Tre enters. Furious is at the table writing checks for bills. Tre puts both plates down for his father to see. FURIOUS What’s this? Barbecue? You didn’t bring me no swine did you? TRE Naw Pop, Mrs. Baker told me to bring you a plate. FURIOUS (tasting some of the food) Tell her thanks. TRE Say, pop, can I get on one of those stamps? FURIOUS If you mean can you have one, yes. What do you need it for?

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N the Hood: Shifting Hollywood Terrain TRE I gotta send out my SAT application. I’m taking it again remember?

Furious pulls one stamp off and hands it to his son. TRE (touching the sides of his head) Yo could you fix my fade? CUT TO: 38A  MONTAGE OF TRE’S HEAD

38A

We start to close on the back of Tre’s head as a razor closely shaves off some hair. A dissolve and we are on the side of his head with razor and move toward his eyes. Then we cut to Tre’s P.O.V. as Furious looks into camera with scissors in hands putting the finishing touches on his head. Furious’s eyeline is just the finishing touches on his head. Also between cuts on this scene we see clumps of kinky hair float to the floor. FURIOUS (O.S.) Almost finished. You want one ah them Gumby tops again? TRE Naw, Pop—that shit is weak. FURIOUS Something wrong? TRE No, I’m just looking at you … You getting old. FURIOUS You the one getting old.

Original Screenplay | 269 TRE You old. You older than dirt. FURIOUS I’m older than dirt, huh? You know I’m only seventeen years older than you. Some of your friends got daddies in their forties and fifties big old sloppy cats with pot bellies. TRE You’ll be like that someday. Big, old, fat juicy rolling belly, sitting in a rocking chair, and reading the funny papers and stuff. Then my kids, your grandchildren, they’ll be running all around you talking about granddaddy, granddaddy gimme a dollar, gimme a dollar. FURIOUS You think so huh? (he does a double take) Wait, wait, wait what’s all this talk about grandchildren? He is finished with Tre’s head. TRE Whatcha you mean? FURIOUS What’s all this shit about grandchildren? You using those rubbers I gave you? I ain’t ready to be no granddaddy yet. Tre walks away. TRE Aw Pops, why you sweating me? Don’t worry I can take care of myself.

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N the Hood: Shifting Hollywood Terrain FURIOUS Tre. Tre come here. Come here. Sit down.

Tre does so. Furious looks his son up and down. TRE Something wrong, I got something on me? FURIOUS (a beat) Have you had pussy yet? TRE What? … Yeah I have. FURIOUS When? TRE What? FURIOUS You heard me. Look me in the eye, you know what I told you about that. TRE Last summer. FURIOUS With who? Brandi? You been tapping them legs? TRE Naw somebody else. Tre sits back and thinks. CUT TO:

Original Screenplay | 271 39  EXT. CRENSHAW BOULEVARD—DAY

39

We see a row of customized Volkswagens. Our attention settles on one of these where Tre is leaning against his blue V.W. talking with Ricky and some other brothers. They turn around to see a group of FIVE GIRLS, cruising by in a V.W. Rabbit convertible. The girls stop and the group of guys standing at the curb move in a throng to talk to them. TRE (V.O.) It was a Sunday. Rick and I were kicking it up on Crenshaw. All these females rolled up in a Rabbit. Everybody started to bum rush them, trying to get their numbers and all. Our attention settles on one of these girls. She has light brown eyes and a body right out of a Jet centerfold. This is TISHA. Tisha is playing off the advances of the guys to attract the attention of Tre. TRE (V.O.) There was this girl, everybody was trying to rush. Baby was fine, body was “boomin”, like right outta Jet centerfold o somethin. Tisha gets out of the car and walks straight toward Tre. The crowd of guys part to let her gracefully advance. TRE (V.O.) So I’m like eyeing at her right? ... and baby gets out of the car and walks right up on me. The she breaks out with. We see Tisha talk with Tre’s voice. She does so every time she speaks. TRE (V.O.) “Is this your ride?” I say, “Yeah, you wanna ride with me?” She says, “No I wanna drive it.” I ask, “Can you drive a stick?” She says, “I can learn, if you teach me.” So then I go into my Mack Daddy mode cause I’m getting a woodie in my sweats y’know and I say, “Give me your number and I’ll call you for a lesson.”

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We PULL INTO Tisha as she smiles. WIPE TO: 40  EXT. TISHA’S HOUSE—DAY

40

Where we see TWO ELDERLY WOMEN leaving dressed in immaculate white dresses. We pull back to reveal Tre sitting in his car waiting for them to leave. When they do he sneaks toward the front door. TRE (V.O.) Next week, I’m over her house. Her mother and grandmother are leaving for church. I say hello to them before they leave. TRE As he knocks on the door. TISHA As she answers. She puts her arms around him and they begin kissing. Tre hastily closes the door behind him. TRE (V.O.) As soon as I hit the doorway we began kissing. And we were going at it, no stopping. I picked her up and carried her into her room. 41  INT. TISHA’S ROOM—DAY

41

Where Tre enters carrying Tish in his arms. They hit the bed and are at it. DISSOLVE TO: 41A  THE BED

41A

Where Tre and Tisha are doing da wild thang. They react to something in the next room. (NOTE We start to see them from across the room then MOVE across room into a reaction from Tre.)

Original Screenplay | 273 TRE (V.O.) We were only twenty minutes into it when her mother and grandmother came back. 42  INT. LIVING ROOM—DAY

42

We see Tisha’s grandmother looking around the living room. She finds the object and she was looking for, her purse. She then begins to sniff the air. TRE (V.O.) It seems that her grandmother forgot her purse and wanted to make sure she had something to put in the collection plate. She started toward Tisha’s room, I guess you could smell the sex in the air. Tisha’s grandmother opens the door only to see Tisha apparently asleep in her bed. The window curtains blow in the wind. Tisha’s grandmother looks out the window to see Tre walking away pulling his pants up. She turns and begins beating her granddaughter in bed. TRE (V.O.) By that time I was on my way back to my car. CUT TO: 43  INT. FURIOUS’S KITCHEN—DAY

43

Where Tre finishes his story. TRE And that’s the last I ever saw of Tisha. I call but every time I do her grandmother answers the phone and says she can’t talk right now. FURIOUS As we see his face, covered with concern.

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N the Hood: Shifting Hollywood Terrain FURIOUS What did you use? TRE I used the same number she gave me. FURIOUS No, I mean what did you use? TRE (thinks for a moment) Aw man why you sweating me? I didn’t have to use nuthin’. She said she was on the pill.

Furious bows his head. FURIOUS Didn’t I tell you even if a girl says she’s on the pill to use something anyway?! A pill won’t keep your dick from falling off! Oh shit, what the hell you’ll learn. Why do you always like learning shit the hard way? Furious gets up to walk away and then turns back around. FURIOUS I ain’t ready to be no granddaddy! … and clean up this hair. Tre sits back and thinks to himself. DISSOLVE TO: 44  INT. TRE’S CAR—DAY

44

Where he is still in a thought mode. Ricky gets in on the passenger side. There is a long pause between them.

Original Screenplay | 275 RICKY What’s wrong with you? TRE Nothing. With that, Tre starts up his car and begins driving toward school. He drives for a while in silence. Ricky is eating a bacon and egg sandwich. He offers Tre some. RICKY Wanna bite? Tre nods in the negative. RICKY Guess what? Recruiter from SC’s coming tonight. TRE That’s good. You know I have never lied to my father? RICKY Never? TRE Well almost never. RICKY Where’s this come from? TRE (a beat) I lied to Pops yesterday, told him I weren’t no virgin. RICKY But you ain’t. Is you?

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Tre nods a yes. TRE Well, technically speaking I haven’t. I mean I’ve sucked some titties and finger banged a couple of hunnies but I never stuck it in. Ricky looks long at his friend. A piece of egg hanging off of his lip. He licks it up. RICKY Why not? Tre looks at Ricky out of the corner of his eye. TRE You really wanna know? RICKY I asked didn’t I? TRE (a beat) I was afraid. Ricky bursts into laughter. RICKY What you afraid of? TRE Of being a daddy. Ricky stops laughing.

Original Screenplay | 277 RICKY Oh. TRE But I’m getting old, shit, now that I wanna flap some skins Brandi ain’t down for it even if I wear a jimmy. Tre turns on the radio and King News from KDAY comes on. His monologue plays over the following montage and then we hear a song. KING NEWS It’s 78 degrees in the city at 7:45 and I’m King News with ‘The Truth.’ Well, you gangbangers have done it again. There was another driveby shooting yesterday afternoon. Now five children are dead. They were killed as they left the schoolyard. Well, gangbangers how do you feel? You feel tough? I suppose none of you have little brother or sisters. How would you feel if someone shot your small sister or brother in cold blood? You wouldn’t feel good. You’d probably feel the same way the families of those five children feel. Something to think about … and that’s the truth. WIPE TO: 45  EXT. BAKER HOUSE—DAY

45

Where we see Dough Boy and his boys sit on the porch drinking their lunch and covertly selling rock cocaine to early arriving customers. Sheryl the strawberry is one of them. DOUGH BOY Yo, yo, what you need? DISSOLVE TO: 46  INT. CRENSHAW HIGH LOCKER ROOM—DAY Where we see a large black ankle being taped up.

46

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N the Hood: Shifting Hollywood Terrain DISSOLVE TO:

46A  BACK TO DOUGH BOY

46A

Who is having a good time with his friends. He is making a deal on a CELLULAR PHONE. Some of the other homies are playing dice. A Police car drives by and Dough Boy coolly drops a piece of rock cocaine on the ground and steps on it until it is a white smear. CHRIS Yo Five-O. DOUGH BOY Fuck the police. DISSOLVE TO: 47  EXT. CRENSHAW HIGH SCHOOL—DAY

47

The front of the school where a few girls walk as Ferris and the two knuckleheads from the Hyundai club are attempting to pick up on them. CUT TO: 48  INT. CLASSROOM—DAY

48

We see Tre immersed within a novel. On closer observation we see it is the Autobiography of Malcom X. He turns each page in anticipation of the next. DISSOLVE TO: 48A  BACK TO LOCKER ROOM

48A

Where we see the back and large muscular shoulders of Ricky. He puts on his shoulder pads.

Original Screenplay | 279 DISSOLVE TO: 49  EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD STREET—DAY

49

THE STREET Where we see a CRACK ADDICT as he snatches Dooky’s chain. He runs past Dough Boy and Monster, who subsequently chase and beat him down to a pulp and recover the chain. Chris watches from the side in his wheelchair as the other Dough Boy and friends kick the addict on the ground. DISSOLVE TO: 50  INT. CRENSHAW HIGH SCHOOL HALLWAY—DAY

50

Where Tre walks past the lockers and a myriad of other students. A FEMALE is having trouble with her locker. Tre opens it with ease and begins a conversation. FLASHCUT TO: 51  EXT. FOOTBALL FIELD—DAY

51

Where Ricky and three other players run with speed toward a barrier with four cushions. As they hit we hear a loud boom and we … CUT TO: 51A  BACK TO WALL

51A

Where Dough Boy sits with his friends. A few Mexican girls on the way home from school pass in front of them. One of them has deep black flashy eyes and beautiful jet black hair. This is ROSA. Some brothers are shooting craps. DOUGH BOY (to Rosa) Pssst, hey you, hey you, psst, hey, you bonita, oooh you muy bonita chica. You chica bonita. Come to my casa, do the loco thing.

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Rosa walks off frame as Dough Boy chants in his best broken Spanish. As he turns back toward his friends and she comes back into the frame and advances toward him. She smiles. Her friends giggle behind her. They talk. CUT TO: 52  INT. LOCKER ROOM—DAY

52

VIEW FROM OVERHEAD Where Ricky takes off his jersey. A look of fatigue is all over his face and body. He lays parallel on the bench as the other players leave. WIPE: 53  INT. TRE’S CAR—DAY

53

Where Tre is driving home. As he cruises down his street, he sees Brandi and her mother taking groceries into their home. Brandi is wearing her private school uniform. Tre waves at them. 54  EXT. BRANDI’S HOME—DAY

54

Where she picks up a bag out of the trunk and goes into the house. 54 A  TRE

54A

In his car as he stops to think. 54B  BACK TO BRANDI’S

54B

Where she exits her house to see Tre talking to her mother. Her mom loads Tre with two armfuls of groceries—the last bags. He begins to walk toward Brandi. BRANDI Need some help? TRE Naw I got it. Tre goes into the house leaving both women standing there.

Original Screenplay | 281 BRANDI’S MOTHER You didn’t tell me Tre’s going to Morehouse next year. How come you two don’t talk anymore? You used to be such good friends. BRANDI I dunno … you should ask him. Tre comes back out into the doorway. TRE Is that it, Ma’am? BRANDI’S MOTHER Ma’am? You hear this boy? Ma’am. You so polite, nice young man, not like the rest of these fools ‘round here. Yes, that’s all. Thank you. I better go inside and put that stuff in the refrigerator. Just bought it, don’t want nothing to go bad. You take care Tre. Say “Hi” to your daddy for me. Tell him I said he cute, see what he say. She goes inside the house leaving the two of them standing there. There is a long pause where neither says a thing. Tre sees Dough Boy walking across the street into his house. They wave to each other. There are little kids riding their bikes on the sidewalk and in the street. TRE (not looking at her) Well I guess I’ll be going now. BRANDI What’s wrong with you? TRE (looking in another direction) Did somebody say something to me?

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N the Hood: Shifting Hollywood Terrain BRANDI You heard me. Stop acting stupid and look at me.

She grabs him and begins hitting him. Look at me! TRE Ow shit! Girl, what’s your problem? ACROSS THE STREET Dough Boy and friends sit drinking and watching Tre and Brandi argue. DOUGH BOY Yo watch this shit. BACK TO BRANDI’S HOUSE BRANDI You’re my problem. And for your information I ain’t no girl. I’m a woman. TRE Yeah, I can see that. BRANDI Why the silent treatment? You haven’t talked to me in a week. I call and you tell your daddy to say you’re not home. I call again you take the phone off the hook. TRE I’ve been busy.

Original Screenplay | 283 BRANDI Oh don’t give me no bald ass excuse for a lie like that. What did I do? What was so bad that you just stop talking to me? TRE You know what it was. You gotta get with the program. Tre throws his best seductive grin. BRANDI I told you about that. I’m Catholic, it goes against my morals. Tre goes over to the porch and sits down. TRE (sarcastically) I know you did and Catholic girls supposed to be the biggest hootchies! What’s wrong with you! What do I gotta do, earn it!? BRANDI I want to wait till I get married … But you can’t live with that, huh? Tre nods his head. BRANDI Well forget you then! I guess you need to find some less than cheap tramp to open her thighs for you. She gets up to go into the house. Just as she opens the door. Tre stops her. TRE Wait a minute … Come here. Sit down. She does so reluctantly. Anger fuses the light in her eyes.

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N the Hood: Shifting Hollywood Terrain TRE Now, let me get this straight. You say you want to wait until you get married … I said I was gonna to be the one who married you, so technically it don’t make no difference whether we do it now or later, we’re still gonna to get married. BRANDI I want to go to college before I get married and there is no guarantee that I’m gonna marry you. Shoot, I don’t even want no babies. You haven’t even given me a ring. TRE I’m not ready for all that yet. BRANDI But you’re ready to act like we’re married though, right?

Tre dazes off into the distance. He turns to Brandi with a soulful look. TRE I missed you. BRANDI Me too. They come closer and kiss. It is a long juicy kiss. BACK TO DOUGH BOY’S PORCH Where Dooky applauds at Tre and Brandi’s reunion. Dough Boy looks at him as though he is crazy. He just shakes his head and takes a drink of his forty-ounce. BACK TO TRE AND BRANDI They are interrupted by the sounds of laughter. When they look up again they see.

Original Screenplay | 285 THE SIDEWALK Where a group of kids about eight years each on BMX bikes are looking at them giggling and making faces. The smallest of them is the boldest. LITTLE KID Y’all gonna do the hootchie-coo? Tre playfully throws some small rocks at them and they run. CUT TO: 55  INT. BAKER FAMILY HOME—NIGHT

55

THE LIVING ROOM Where Dough Boy, Monster, Chris, and Dooky sit playing a Nintendo Video Game, Duck Hunt. The game requires them to use a toy gun and shoot ducks on the screen. MONSTER Watch me shoot this mothafucka, look! THE SCREEN Where the figure on the screen is blown away. MONSTER Blam! Taken off the set! DOUGH BOY Yo monster, don’t be cussing so muthafuckin loud, my momma don’t like that shit. MRS. BAKER (O.S.) Darin! DOUGH BOY See, now I gotta hear all this shit.

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Dough Boy gets up and leaves the room. CHRIS Man, moms be fucking with his ass without fail. She ain’t like that with Rick though. DOOKY They got different daddies that’s why. DOORWAY Where Dough Boy comes back in. DOUGH BOY Y’all gotta get the fuck out. My brother’s having company in a little bit. 56  INT. FURIOUS HOUSE—NIGHT

 56

Where Tre is on the PHONE with Brandi. Furious in the bathroom shaving. There is shaving cream on his face every time he pokes his head in this scene. TRE Yeah … yeah that’d be nice. Uh, huh, uh, huh. So you gonna give me the skins or what? No that’s not all I think about. Yeah, yeah, Okay I’ll tell him. (to Furious) Hey pop, Brandi’s momma say you cute. Furious comes out of the bathroom smiling. FURIOUS Ask why she don’t speak when I say hi.

Original Screenplay | 287 TRE He says why she don’t speak when he says Hi. Yeah, yeah, hey I’m supposed by talking to you not passing messages. If my daddy mess with yo momma we might end up being brother and sister then we be doing incest … What? I’m just kidding. Just a sec a gotta another call. (he clicks over) Who dis?! Hi momma. Just a sec I got Brandi on the other line. (he clicks over, voice turns romantic again) So baby you gonna give me the skins or what? REVA Tre, this is your mother. TRE Oops I’m sorry Momma. Just a sec. (he clicks over) Brandi I gotta go. 56A  EXT. REVA’S HOUSE—NIGHT

56A

Establishing shot of Reva’s home as we hear her voice on the phone. 57  INT. REVA’S HOME—THE LIVING ROOM—NIGHT Where Reva sits on her leather couch in her posh View Park Home. REVA Who this?! What kinda way is that to answer the phone? Intercut between both houses in conversation. TRE Sorry Momma.

57

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N the Hood: Shifting Hollywood Terrain REVA Why didn’t you come over this weekend? TRE I was coolin with Rick. REVA Well you can cool with your friends anytime. The weekends are supposed to be our time together. Have you thought about what we talked about? TRE Yeah, I dunno yet. REVA Let me speak to your father. TRE Pop! Telephone!

Tre walks past the phone over to Furious. FURIOUS Who this? (he takes the phone) Oh, howya doing? We talked about that. Uh, huh, well that’s his decision personally I don’t think it’s necessary. Tre walks past Furious and into his room. FURIOUS (V.O.) You know this is some bullshit. There’s no reason why Tre should stay with you now. He ain’t no little boy anymore. No, no, no, why you gotta an attitude? Because what? I don’t have no attitude, you got the attitude …

Original Screenplay | 289 THE DOORWAY Where we see Tre. He closes it. 58  INT. TRE’S ROOM—NIGHT

58

Where he sits on his bed. We notice the OPEN WINDOW with the SOUNDS of street emanating into Tre’s room. The flash of a helicopter spotlight goes past. THE WINDOW Where Tre closes it shutting off the SOUND. CUT TO: 59  EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD STREET—NIGHT

59

Where a 1989 Nissan Sentra turns at the corner and begins slowly cruising down the street. CUT TO: 60  EXT. THE BAKER FAMILY HOME—NIGHT

60

Where Dough Boy and his homeboys come out of his house. All are talking, drinking, and chilling. They are quick to notice the strange vehicle passing. BACK TO CAR Where the window slowly rolls down. The DRIVER still cannot be seen clearly in the night. DRIVER (shouts out window) Anybody know where Ricky Baker lives? There is a pause for a moment, no one says anything.

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N the Hood: Shifting Hollywood Terrain DOUGH BOY That’s my brother! He lives here! (into doorway) Yo Rick, the man is here to see you!

61  INT. BATHROOM—NIGHT

  61

Where Ricky is hastily trying to tie his tie. Shanice is helping him. SHANICE Stay still. Just stay still I got it. DOUGH BOY (O.S.) Rick! Get your ass out of the bathroom! MRS. BAKER (O.S) Ricky come on out of the bathroom! Shanice finishes his tie. RICKY I’m coming right now. 62  INT. LIVING ROOM—NIGHT

62

Where Mrs. Baker stands near the doorway waiting for the man to come into the house. 63  EXT. BAKER FAMILY HOME—NIGHT

63

THE WALKWAY Where a black man of his mid-forties with horn-rimmed glasses stands dressed in business attire. He carries a briefcase with him. This is CRUMP, the recruiter. Crump glances upward as we hear the sound of a passing helicopter.

Original Screenplay | 291 63A  THE PORCH

63A

Where Dough Boy, Chris, Monster, Dooky, and three other boys are sitting. They are an intimidating sight to Crump’s bourgeois eyes. DOOKY What college you from? CRUMP I’m from USC. MONSTER You gotta have a scholarship to go to USC? CRUMP No, but it helps. MONSTER Hey you can you get me a scholarship? I used to play baseball. DOUGH BOY (interrupting) Why don’t y’all move out the man’s way? You see he’s about the business. Move out da way, nigga. They do so. 63B  BACK TO LIVING ROOM

63B

Where Crump enters, followed by Dough Boy. Crump introduces himself to Mrs. Baker. CRUMP Hello I’m Lewis Crump. You must be Ricky’s mother?

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N the Hood: Shifting Hollywood Terrain MRS. BAKER Hi, my name’s Brenda. This is my other son Darin. Would you like something? Coffee? Water? CRUMP No, no thank you.

Ricky enters closely followed by Shanice. RICKY How ya doing? We met at the game against Washington, right? CRUMP Yes I remember that. That was a good game. You picked up a two-hundred and seventy-six yards that game, huh. Ricky nods with pride. CRUMP That’s pretty impressive. MRS. BAKER Why don’t y’all sit down and talk? They do so. Mrs. Baker hints to Dough Boy and Shanice to exit so they may talk in private. CRUMP Now. I just want you to know that we’re interested in you coming to the campus. Get a good look around, ya’know a feel for the school as a whole. Ricky picks up a remote control off the coffee table and flips a switch. RICKY Here’s my tape.

Original Screenplay | 293 THE TELEVISION Lights up and begins showing recorded highlights of Ricky’s best games, over this a song with a cool bass like rap beat plays. CRUMP Who feigns being impressed. Ricky points out his figure on the screen running across the field. RICKY That was against Banning, my junior year. We lost but I did pretty well in yardage. They had the best defense in the city last year. Crump nods his head in agreement. CRUMP What are you interested in besides playing ball? Ricky has to think for a moment. RICKY What do you mean by that? CRUMP I mean what would you want to major in? What kind of degree would you like to pursue? I’m just asking, because you know there’s a strong possibility that you won’t go into the NFL right after college. Just a fact, it happens. Ricky thinks for a moment. RICKY Yeah, I heard that before. Yeah well, I think I’d be interested in majoring in business. I got this friend named Tre who’s always talking about going into business and all. Plus, I like computers, maybe I can do that. What you think?

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N the Hood: Shifting Hollywood Terrain CRUMP I think you can do anything you put your mind to.

Rick nods unassuredly. 63C  BACK TO PORCH

     63C

MONSTER So I went up there right? Cause my cousin had a class at this certain time he said he’d show me around and ‘duce me to people ya know? So ya know, I get up there and there ain’t nothing but women, hunnies far as the eye can see. And all of them fine. Those that wasn’t fine they had crazy boomin body! Big country booties, big country titties! From eating all that cornbread and shit I guess. DOOKY Yeah, I’d go to college just to talk to them fine hunnies. DOUGH BOY Fool, you don’t go to college to be talking to no bitches. You supposed to be learning something. You can’t learn nothing talking to no stupid bitch. CHRIS You know where you need to go, where they got more women than anywhere? Fines ones too? MONSTER Crenshaw on Sunday nights? CHRIS No. DOUGH BOY The Street Races in Florence?

Original Screenplay | 295 CHRIS Naw. Y’all way off, I give you a hint. Everybody’s been there. DOOKY Where? DOUGH BOY Where muthafucka? Where?! Shit just come with it! Everybody looks at Chris in anticipation of the time of this miraculous place where women abound. CHRIS Da. church. DOUGH BOY Aww shit, nigga please. Ain’t nobody going to no church to catch bitches. CHRIS Naw serious listen I went to church last Sunday, wasn’t nothing but babes, full on biscuits straight, and I was one of the only men like around my age. And all these hunnies kept looking at me staring and shit. DOUGH BOY They probably was saying to demselves, where’s this stupid muthafucka come from? 63D  BACK TO LIVING ROOM

63D

Where Crump now has his briefcase open and is reviewing some paperwork. CRUMP So basically you have a 2.3 overall GPA according to the classes we require. All you have to do is take the SAT test.

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Ricky looks flustered. RICKY Yeah I heard about that test. CRUMP The next one’s being given in early October. Are you going to take it? RICKY Yeah I guess so. Can’t get into college without it, right? CRUMP Just remember all you need to get is over a 700. RICKY Okay. Suddenly, Little Ricky runs in the room only wearing a towel. He crosses in front of Crump and Ricky laughing and talking in baby native tongue. Shanice follows closely behind trying to chase her young son down and conceal her embarrassment. SHANICE I’m trying to give him a bath. C’mere! CRUMP (to Ricky) Your little brother? RICKY Naw, that’s my son. CRUMP Oh.

Original Screenplay | 297 Crump closes his briefcase and rises in one smooth professional motion. CRUMP Well, I’ll be looking forward to talking with you soon. We’ll arrange that tour for you also. Ricky sees him to the door and Crump exits. MONSTER (O.S.) Yo man you gonna kick me down with a scholarship or what? I wanna go to college too. DOUGH BOY Yo man, could you please shut the fuck up! Ricky turns around to see his mother standing in the doorway dividing the kitchen from the living room. MRS. BAKER My baby’s going to a university. I always knew you would be about something. When you were a little boy you used to run around all the time with that football under your arm … I’m proud of you. RICKY Thank you, Momma. They hug each other. Ricky turns to walk past his mother. We follow him as he goes through the kitchen grabbing a scrap of meat off the stove into his room. 64  INT. BATHROOM—NIGHT

64

Where we see Shanice giving Little Ricky a bath. Ricky enters and comes close to the tub. Little Ricky splashes soap in his father’s face.

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N the Hood: Shifting Hollywood Terrain CRUMP I think you can do anything you put your mind to … All you need is a 700.

This is heard as we transcend into … 65  INT. A CLASSROOM—DAY

65

We see many black students, all high schoolers. Our attention is drawn to Tre, Ricky, Brandi, and Shanice all of which are sitting in different sections of the room. At the front of the room, a man is dictating the rules of the test. Another woman, his assistant, is passing out the test booklets. MAN Please keep your test booklet closed. You will have thirty minutes in which to complete each section of the test. Please stop when you are told to do so. You cannot go back to a previous section after completing another. Tre looks over at Brandi with dreamy eyes to wish her good luck, he then turns in Rick’s direction to do the same. Shanice and Brandi wish each other luck also. MAN You may now begin section one. THE CLASSROOM Where the entire class open their booklets and begin the test. TRE Calmly but steadily, does some scratch work before circling a bubble. BRANDI Whisks away answers with ease. Doing calculations in her head. She marks correct answers at a rate of one every ten seconds.

Original Screenplay | 299 SHANICE Is erasing the paper, leaving a large amount of eraser bits on the paper which she blows away with her breath and then looks around to see if anyone is watching her embarrassment. RICKY Is having big time problems. He holds his hand to his head as though this is giving him a headache. He looks up from the test and out at the window. TRE Looks over at his friend. BACK TO RICKY Who senses he is being observed. BACK TO TRE Who looks down at his test indicating Rick should do the same. RICKY Goes back to work on the test. We can still see the frustration in his eyes. CUT TO: 66  INT. TRE’S CAR—DAY

      66

Where Tre, Brandi, Ricky, and Shanice are driving home. Ricky is sitting in the backseat looking out of the window much like he was in the previous scene. No one says a word. Tre starts it up. TRE (to Brandi) How do you think you did? BRANDI It was easy. I had a book to study by.

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Tre looks in the rear-view mirror at Ricky’s face. RICKY Man don’t even ask me about that stupid test. All I want is a 700 I don’t care about nothing else. SHANICE I got a 700 the last time I took it in the eleventh grade. Ricky throws her a funny look which she throws back at him. They get to Brandi’s house and she prepares to get out. TRE Here we are. BRANDI I’m gonna see you tonight right? TRE Yeah, around ten. BRANDI Okay. She gives him a long goodbye kiss. Ricky rolls his eyes in the background. Shanice looks at Tre and Brandi real close almost breaking up their kiss then she turns to look at Ricky. In the background Tre and Brandi kiss through their dialogue. SHANICE How come you don’t kiss me no more? RICKY I kiss you.

Original Screenplay | 301 SHANICE Yeah you kiss me when you want some pussy. You act like an old married man. He takes her in his arms in a dip and kisses her. RICKY See, and I don’t even want no pussy right now. SHANICE Yeah, but you will. BRANDI (to Tre as they stop kissing) See you tonight. Bye y’all. Brandi gets out. There is a pause Shanice is still sitting in the car. RICKY You can’t walk across the street?! Shanice gets out of the car. SHANICE What time you gonna be home? RICKY When I feel like it! (as he gets in the front seat and slams the door.) Shanice walks across the street. Mrs. Baker stands on the porch holding Little Ricky. Shanice takes her baby in her arms as she walks in the house.

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N the Hood: Shifting Hollywood Terrain RICKY So what we gonna do now? TRE I thought I’d go by pops business, see if he’ll buy me some food. RICKY I thought you hadda to go to work today? TRE Naw I took the day off to take the test.

Ricky looks out of the window. RICKY Man, I can’t believe you ain’t flap skins yet with Brandi. TRE She don’t wanna do nothing till we get married. RICKY That’s bullshit, they all wanna bone, it’s human, they just don’t like admitting it to nobody except they girlfriends and all. You think you gaming on ‘em and they the ones that gaming you. That’s cool though at least you know you ain’t got no hootchie-momma on your hands. CUT TO: 67  EXT. ALONDRA BOULEVARD—DAY

67

Where we see Tre’s car driving along. They pass a sign which reads “Welcome to Compton.” RICKY (V.O.) Goddamn. Mary, Jesus Christ, we in muthafuckin Compton. My brother was seeing this biscuit out here and she almost got him shot.

Original Screenplay | 303 68  EXT. FURIOUS FINANCIAL SERVICES—DAY

68

Is Furious Styles’s business. He specializes in mortgage loans and insurance. Tre pulls his car outside the office. 69  INT. FURIOUS FINANCIAL SERVICES—DAY

69

Where Furious is on the phone. He notices their arrival. Furious ends his conversation and sits back into his chair like a king on a throne. FURIOUS How did you think you did on the test? TRE AND RICKY (both mumble at once) Alright I guess. FURIOUS Most of those tests are culturally biased. The only part that is pretty much universal is the math part … So what brings you knuckleheads out here? TRE Came to see you. How’s it going? Any business today? FURIOUS There’s always business, only it’s not in here. RICKY So Furious, what do you do, you help people get money for their homes, or what? FURIOUS There is no “or what.” That’s exactly what I do. You want to see something? TRE Do we have a choice?

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N the Hood: Shifting Hollywood Terrain FURIOUS No. TRE So I guess we’re going to see something. CUT TO:

70  EXT. COMPTON NEIGHBORHOOD STREET—DAY

70

Where Furious, Tre, and Ricky get out of Furious’s car. They are being viewed by more than a few gangstas sitting on the porch of a home. RICKY I don’t know about this Furious, got us walking in muthafucking Compton and all. They walk into a vacant lot. FURIOUS Look up there. See that sign? The two boys do. THE SIGN: Is a large billboard which reads in tall black letters “CASH FOR YOUR HOME” FURIOUS You know what that is? You know what that is called? Tre and Ricky look at each other at the same time and look back at Furious. TRE AND RICKY A billboard.

Original Screenplay | 305 FURIOUS No. What are y’all two Amos n Andy? Are you Step and he Fetch? I mean what that message stands for. It’s called gentrification. In the background people from the neighborhood are walking by. Some of them stop to look up at the sign and hear Furious talk. Tre and Ricky are amazed at the small crowd that begins to form. FURIOUS It happens when the property values of a certain area are brought down so that land can be bought at a lower price. Then they buy the land move the people out, raise the property value, and sell it at a profit. We need to keep everything in our neighborhood Black! Black owned, with Black money, just like the Italians, the Koreans, the Mexicans, and the Jews do. An OLD MAN from the crowd speaks up. OLD MAN Ain’t nobody outside bringing property value down, its these people around here shooting each other, selling that crack rock and shit. FURIOUS How do you think crack comes here?! We don’t own any ships, we don’t own no planes! It’s not us that are flying and floating that shit into this country! But all you see on the TV is black people selling crack! Pushing da rock! Pushing da rock! It didn’t even become a problem until it started showing up in places like Iowa and Wall Street where there ain’t no black people. And if you wanna talk about guns … (with fire in his voice) why is it that there is a gun shop on every corner in this part of town. You don’t see gun stores in no muthafuckin Beverly-a-fuck Hills. (more)

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N the Hood: Shifting Hollywood Terrain FURIOUS (Cont’d) You don’t see no liquor stored on every corner out there. I’ll tell you why—because they want us to kill each other off. What they couldn’t do in slavery they are making us do to ourselves. The best way you destroy a people is you take away their ability to reproduce. Lemme ask you this, who is getting killed out here every night? The men! Nothing but brothers.

A CROWD Has formed around Furious and the two boys. It is composed of people throughout the neighborhood. There are more than a few gangstas in the crowd. GANGSTER #1 He sounds like Minister Farrakhan (he shouts) So what I’m supposed to do some fool roll up and try to smoke me? I’m gonna shoot that fool back if he don’t kill me first! FURIOUS Can’t you see?! That’s exactly what they want you to do! You gotta think about the future my brother! Do you know in twenty years people are estimating that the population of black people in this country will decline?! Not move up! But down! What you gotta do is think about what are you doing to prevent that from happening?! 71  INT. TRE’s CAR—AT BLUE LINE CROSSING—DAY Where Tre’s Car stops to let the train pass. RICKY Damn, Furious is deep. He used to be a preacher or something? TRE No, he never was a preacher—he just reads a lot. RICKY My brother shoulda heard that. Woulda done him some good.

71

Original Screenplay | 307 TRE Where is he now? RICKY Where else? Up on Crenshaw with the rest of those fools and their cars. 72  EXT. CRENSHAW BOULEVARD—NIGHT

72

Where many rows of cars can be seen along both sides of the boulevard. Each row is composed of a distinct make and model of car. These are known as the Crenshaw Car Clubs. We see the Suzuki Samurai club, the Mustang 5.0 club, the V-Dub club, the BMWs and the ‘64 Impala club. Outside the cars the owners can be seen hanging out talking to the ladies who drive by in their own cars. Our attention is drawn to Dough Boy who sits up high and mighty in his ‘64 Impala. Shalika is at his side. Chris and Dooky are in the backseat. CHRIS (to Dooky) You believe in God? DOUGH BOY (turns around in seat) Why in the fuck are you getting so damn religified lately? CHRIS Fool, I wasn’t even talking to you! This is an A and B conversation you can see your way out! DOUGH BOY Yeah, you can see your way out my ride too, and we’ll see your cripple ass walking all the way home. CHRIS Oh, you wanta get real? Fuck you, nigga!

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N the Hood: Shifting Hollywood Terrain DOOKY Do I believe in God? Yeah I guess I do. How else could we have things like stars and the moon and shit like that? DOUGH BOY Sun, moon, stars, quasars, nigga sound like Elroy Jetson. There ain’t no God. If there was a God how come he lets muthafuckas get smoked every night? Babies and little kids and shit? Tell me that. SHALIKA Well tell me this, how do you know God is a he? He could be a she, you don’t know that. DOUGH BOY You don’t know what the fuck I muthafuckin know. I read about that shit when I was in da pen. It was this book that was trying to take life and shit from the perspective of if God was a bitch. And it said if God was a bitch then we wouldn’t have no nuclear bombs and shit, and there wouldn’t be no wars and all because that ain’t a bitch’s nature. SHALIKA Why every time you talk about a female you gotta say bitch, or hoe, or hootchie? DOUGH BOY Cause that’s what most females are. CHRIS Yeah, and how come you say muthafucka all the time. Every other word you say got muthafucka in it. I know I say it too but I started thinking about what that means I when I say that. DOUGH BOY It don’t mean shit, I’m just trying to get my point across.

Original Screenplay | 309 DOOKY Still you shouldn’t say it. DOUGH BOY Who are you now Rev. Ike? Shut up muthafucka before all y’all asses be walking home. Tre and Ricky drive up. They get out and walk toward Dough Boy’s car. DOUGH BOY Where y’all coming from? TRE Compton. RICKY What y’all doing? DOUGH BOY We just sitting up here getting drunk, philosophizing about God, church and bitches and all. Just then a group of about ten brothers all dressed in black pants and black satin jackets walk up the street in a drove. As they pass, one of them brushes up against Ricky. He is about the same size as Rick with a pugged face and a long out of date Jerri curl. This is FERRIS, a gangsta and member of the Hyundai club. Ferris turn around to look at Ricky. FERRIS What you looking at nigga? RICKY I’m still trying to find out. Ferris moves toward Rick with aggression. Some female members of the club immediately try to intervene. All the members of the Impala club jump out of their cars. Including Monster who is parked in front of Dough Boy.

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N the Hood: Shifting Hollywood Terrain FEMALE CLUB MEMBER Now come on we all just out here having fun. Can’t was have one night where there ain’t no fight and nobody get shot? MONSTER Whatup Cuzz?! What up fool? Y’all know you don’t want none!

73  INT. DOUGH BOY’S CAR—NIGHT

73

THE SIDEBOARD Where Dough Boy’s hand tenses on his gun. RICKY’S EYES Are stone cold attuned toward. … FERRIS’S EYES Which are equally firm in their power. He casually glances up at … DOUGH BOY Who is staring straight at him with murderous intent. The staring contest soon ends as Ferris is pulled back into the crowd and they go along their own way. SHLIKA Ferris always trying to start some shit. Nigga can’t fight so he always trying to find some excuse to shoot somebody. TRE As he stops looking in the direction the crowd went, lets his guard down and loosens up a bit. DOUGH BOY You see that’s why fools be getting shot alla time. People trying show how hard they is and shit. Ignorant.

Original Screenplay | 311 CHRIS Shut up fool you be doing that shit too. DOUGH BOY I know. (he laughs) Suddenly, the rapid fire of an automatic weapon can be heard. THE STREET Where people scatter everywhere running for cover. Tre and Ricky run toward Tre’s car. DOUGH BOY Pulls out his gun. And starts his car up. He drives off. What follows is a mélange of panicked people running in a thousand directions, shouting, cursing, and cussing out loud. 74  EXT. CRENSHAW BOULEVARD—NIGHT

74

Where a hand holds up a gun into the air. It is quickly pulled down to reveal it is Ferris. Ferris quickly jumps into his Hyundai and drives off into the night. CUT TO: 74  PANIC MONTAGE

74

Where we see image of people running to their cars and for cover. In the distance we see and hear police sirens. Inserts of the Crenshaw Wall where the various messages of Increase the Peace, and We are not Killers can be seen. VIEW FROM OVERHEAD: HELICOPTER P.O.V. (Done with crane motion and light.) Moving quickly where we see Tre and Ricky running toward Tre’s V.W. A spotlight shines on Tre as he reaches his door and we go over his head. A real quick intense shot.

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N the Hood: Shifting Hollywood Terrain CUT TO:

75  INT. TRE’S CAR—NIGHT

75

Where Tre and Ricky drive along in silence. They are both evidently upset. TRE (hitting the steering wheel) I’m getting the fuck outta L.A.! Fuck this shit, can’t go nowhere without it getting shot up and shit. Damn. Ricky says nothing, there is a blank almost worried stare on his face. In the background we see red and blue flashing lights and hear the sharp WHURR! of a police siren. COFFEY’S VOICE (O.S.) (from loud speaker) Don’t move! Driver! Put your hands on the steering wheel! Passenger! Put your hands on the dashboard! Driver! Open the door with your right hand! Tre opens the door as we travel back to reveal Coffey and Graham both older holding their guns on the two innocent boys. COFFEY VOICE (O.S.) Keep your hands where I can see them! THE STREET Where more cars roll up. THE SIDE OF TRE’S CAR Where Tre and Ricky are pushed against the car. They are being frisked. INSERT Where Tre’s legs are kicked apart. Also on Ricky.

Original Screenplay | 313 COFFEY (with shotgun in hand) Got any drugs or weapons on you?! Tre looks at him out of the corner of his eyes. He is scared. COFFEY You think you tough huh?! You think you tough?! Scared now, huh? I like that! That’s why I took this job! You ain’t shit! I hate little muthafuckas like you! Little Niggas think you tough huh?! How you feel now huh? I could blow your insides out with this Browning you couldn’t do you shit! What “set” you from?! You like one of them Crenshaw Mafia muthafuckas, naw you probably a Rolling Sixty huh?! The other cops finish searching the car. They indicate with their hands that they’ve found nothing. RADIO (O.S.) Car 54, aah found that V.W., 48 has them on Vermont and Florence need backup, officers are seeing resistance. In the background we see Ferris and crew cruise by. Ferris smiles. COFFEY (loosens up on Tre) Well you gentlemen have a nice evening. He backs off Tre and we see Tre has a tear in his eye. Coffey notices this but ignores it. DISSOLVE TO: 76  INT. BRANDI’S HOUSE—NIGHT

76

THE BEDROOM Where Brandi sits at her desk. She is studying calculus. On the paper she writes a couple of equations with ease. In the background, the distant sounds of automatic

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gunfire can be heard. The SOUNDS cause her to drop her pencil. With frustration, she drops her pencil and looks at the contents of her decorated desk. Her eyes fall on a picture of herself and Tre. We hear Greg Mack doing the KDAY Love Connection on the radio. A guy and girl are getting matched up. Suddenly there is a KNOCK at the door. BRANDI Slowly rises as we follow her into the living room toward the front door. We hear a knock once more. TRE (O.S.) Open the door. It’s me, Tre! 76A  THE DOOR

76A

Where Brandi begins opening no more than four deadbolt locks. She then opens the door to reveal a steel guard door. We see Tre through the bars. TRE Boo. C’mon open up, it ain’t July out here y’know. She opens the steel door. Tre enters. BRANDI You’re late. I thought something might have happened to you. They share a warm embrace. TRE I’m alright. Nothing’s gonna happen to me. BRANDI I’m tired of hearing them shooting alla time. (more)

Original Screenplay | 315 BRANDI (Cont’d) I want to get out of L.A. (she looks at his face) What’s wrong? TRE Nuthin. (then with furious intense violent anger) I’m tired of this shit! Fuck this shit! I wish I could kill all these muthafuckas … ! (starts swinging at the air, walls) Ooooh Damn! I’m tired of this shit!! Kill ’em all!!! Brandi sits on the couch. She’s scared, this is a side of Tre she’s never seen. TRE Stupid muthafuckas! All of them!! Need to all die! … All die! (he starts crying slowly at first then heavily.) Brandi slowly approaches Tre. She puts her arms around him. He violently pushes her back. Tre is ashamed to let her see him like this. Brandi is crying also. TRE (sniffing) I’m sorry baby. Brandi approaches him once more and they embrace each other with arms and tears. After some time they begin to laugh.

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N the Hood: Shifting Hollywood Terrain BRANDI What’s so funny? TRE I never thought I’d cry in front of a female before. BRANDI You can cry in front of me.

Brandi rubs his eyes, he rubs hers. They laugh some more and stand. BRANDI In Tre’s arms, she puts her hand on his ass. BRANDI You need a booty. I gotta have something to hold onto. TRE I don’t need no big ole butt. That’s supposed to be your job. Is your mother home? BRANDI No. She woulda heard all that noise you made if she was. TRE Oh. FLASHCUT TO: 77  INT. BRANDI’S BEDROOM—NIGHT

77

THE BED Where Tre and Brandi fall, kissing each other passionately. In the background the distant noises of police sirens and surveillance helicopters can be heard. TRE What do you think about people getting married while they still in college?

Original Screenplay | 317 BRANDI What … are you trying to ask me something? TRE No, I just wanted to know what you thought about that kind of situation. BRANDI I think it could be good … if two people really love each other. TRE Really? You sure you down for this? BRANDI Yeah. Are you?! TRE (enthusiastic) Yeah! (then cooler) I mean yeah, I am. Could you move this? HER BREASTS As we see her pull her cross necklace away from her front. Overhead we hear the sound of a passing helicopter. TRE (looking up) L.A. They continue to kiss and caress each other’s bodies. In the background window the flashing spotlight of the helicopter periodically comes through the window illuminating their tender moment. Each part is seen in flashes of light.

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TRE Quickly takes off his shirt. BRANDI Does the same. TRE’S HANDS Caress Brandi’s back and smoothly make their way toward loosening her bra. BRANDI’S BACK As it arches. The bra is loosened and Tre begins gently kissing her breasts. BRANDI’S FACE As she moans in ecstasy. BRANDI (moaning) I don’t wanna get pregnant. TRE’S FACE As it comes down to kiss her face, first on the cheek, then the nose and then he whispers in her ear. TRE You won’t. Tre then kisses her neck and gradually goes down to her breasts. We follow his hand as it wanders down toward the middle of her legs. BRANDI’S BACK As it arches, back and forth in rhythm. We see Tre pull out a condom. The helicopter sounds fade and so does the light as we …

Original Screenplay | 319 DISSOLVE TO: WIDER SHOT BRANDI’S ROOM We see the image of her and Tre silhouetted in the night with the helicopter lights flashing in the background. We just hear their voices. TRE You ready to put it in? BRANDI Yes. TRE Okay just a second. We hear Tre attempting to find her opening. BRANDI Do you know what you’re doing? TRE Yeah, I know what I’m doing. BRANDI No, you don’t. (a beat) Here, let me do it. We see Tre rise up as she puts him in position, then he lowers himself and sighs in pleasure.

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78  INT. TRE’S ROOM—NIGHT

78

Where Tre lays on his bed in his underwear. A bored look covers his face. He looks at the clock which reads 2:30 am. His eyes wander around the room his world. They fall on * * * THE WALL Where there is a GROWTH CHART. We see Tre’s height over the years. The last number is seventeen which corresponds to his current height. Tre does a handstand against the chart. CUT TO: 78A  THE CLOSET

78A

Where Tre is rustling through a fold box. He finds an old projector. FLASHCUT TO: THE PROJECTOR LIGHT Which is blinding. THE SCREEN IMAGE Is one of TRE as a baby and his mother. She is holding him up for the camera. Reva kisses her young child. She even opens his mouth and smiles herself trying to indicate that the baby has teeth. FURIOUS (O.S.) Go to bed. TRE Why didn’t you two ever get married? THE DOORWAY Where Furious can be seen in the shadow. He comes forward into the light.

Original Screenplay | 321 FURIOUS Cause we loved each other too much. TRE But when you love somebody you supposed to marry them. FURIOUS Not always. There are people who think, act, and live different. They love each other but they can’t live together. Now go to sleep. You know how she is about being on time. THE SCREEN Where we pull into the smiling image of Reva with Tre in hand. DISSOLVE TO: 79  EXT. REVA’S HOME—DAY

79

Reva who is smiling. Much as she was in the previous scene. CUT TO: 80 OMITTED

80

81  EXT. REVA’S HOME—DAY

81

It is a big magnificent home in the heart of View Park. There are large plate glass windows and a sprawling green front yard. We see Reva on the porch smiling as Tre’s car pulls up the Driveway. He gets out and meets his mother on the stairs. REVA How was your week?

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82  INT. REVA’S LIVING ROOM—DAY

82

Where Tre sits on a stylish leather couch. Flipping the TV channels with a complex looking remote control. ONSCREEN There is a typical on the street interview with an old fat dude. REPORTER (O.S.) What do you think of the Black media? FATS I think these kids need some positive messages! Tre turns off the T.V. TRE Same ole shit. REVA comes in with something for him to drink and a bowl of grapes. REVA Why don’t you ever talk to me anymore? We were such good friends when you were little. TRE I’m older now. REVA That doesn’t mean you can’t talk to your mother. You make me feel so distant, like a parent. I don’t wanna feel that way. Talk. How’s your girlfriend doing? She still planning on going to Spelman? TRE Yep, she’s going to Spelman. I’m gonna be across the way at Morehouse.

Original Screenplay | 323 REVA Are you gonna come live here over the summer before you go? … You think I worked my ass through college to see you still living down there?! Tre pauses for a moment. TRE I was kind of thinking it would be better if Brandi and I drove down there soon as school let out. We’re gonna stay with her family get jobs and maybe find an apartment. … Together. REVA You gonna live together? I don’t think you should do that your first year. You should be married before you live together TRE I was thinking about that too. REVA Tre. Once you get down there there’s gonna be so many dirty panty girls around that school you ain’t gonna know what to do with yourself. You’re only seventeen you don’t even need to be thinking about getting married. You need to see the world first. TRE What’s wrong with me and her seeing the world together? REVA Do what you wanna do, I just don’t want to see you end up dropping out of school having to take care of a baby and all. TRE You mean like you and Daddy?

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There is a pause. Reva is affected by this comment. REVA Yeah like me and your father. Things change when a baby comes into the picture. You call yourself loving this girl you better let her get her education. Yours also. Tre thinks about what his mother says. DISSOLVE TO: 83  INT. CHIC CAFÉ—DAY

83

Where Reva sits patiently at a table. THE DOORWAY Where Furious walks in. He takes in the atmosphere of the place before sighting Reva. THE TABLE Where Furious joins Reva. FURIOUS This is you, this is definitely you. REVA What is that supposed to mean? FURIOUS I thought we were gonna talk about Tre? A waiter comes up. REVA Expresso please.

Original Screenplay | 325 FURIOUS Café Au Lait … please. REVA I bought him some shoes yesterday. FURIOUS Why are you always buying him shit? REVA Can’t I do nice things for my son? Do I have that right? FURIOUS Yeah quit buying him shit. He’s got a job. REVA Did he tell you he wants to move in with Brandi when they go to school? FURIOUS So? REVA So? Don’t you think it’s a bad idea? The waiter comes back with their coffee. FURIOUS Tre makes his own decisions. REVA You’re his father, that means you’re supposed to guide his decisions.

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N the Hood: Shifting Hollywood Terrain FURIOUS (just about to take a drink) What the hell you think I been doing all these years? … listen Reva, it’s time to let go, I know you wanna play the mommy and all but Tre’s a man now. He’s not a little boy anymore, that time has passed, you missed it. Just a sec, I wanna get some smokes. (he stands) REVA You’re not getting off that easily. Sit your ass down. FURIOUS (coolly) What? REVA I said sit your ass down before I raise my voice and make a fool outta the both of us.

Furious coolly sits back down. REVA (Cont’d) Wow … this is my time to talk. … Of course you took in your son, my son, our son, when I was trying to make something of myself, trying to better my life. You taught him what he needed to be a man. I’ll give you that because most men aren’t man enough to do what you did. But that gives you no reason (grits her teeth) You hear me?! No reason to tell me I can’t be a mother to my son! (gets cool again) What you did is no different from what mothers have been doing since the beginning of time. It’s just too bad more brothers won’t do the same. Don’t think you’re special.

Original Screenplay | 327 Furious has a frown on his face, he lets it slowly turn into a smile. CUT TO: 84  EXT. BAKER FAMILY HOME—DAY

84

Where Dough Boy and the homies sit on the porch. Talking and laughing and having a ball. THE STREET Where a red 1991 Hyundai cruises by. THE TINTED WINDOW Is cracked just enough to reveal the image of four men in the car. We recognize one of them as Ferris. THE PORCH Where Dough Boy and his friends tense up. Anything can happen now. BACK TO CAR As Ferris slams on the gas making a screeching sound up the street. BACK TO THE PORCH Where the Boys ease up and begin drinking and laughing again. DOUGH BOY That punk motherfucka ain’t got nothing better to do. Twenty-seven years old and still trying to hang out with niggas our age, with his old ass. CHRIS Yeah, I heard that fool been in da pen so many times he had a nightmare and woke up with his arms behind his back like this. (he puts his arms behind his back) And the fool couldn’t move his arms and shit.

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THE YARD GATE Where Tre walks up. We follow him to the porch. TRE What up? DOUGH BOY Nuthin’ much. The other night I saw yo ass rolling outta Brandi’s crib about two in the muthafuckin morning. What’s up with dat?! Tre smiles a little grin. TRE That’s my business. DOUGH BOY Uh huh. Handle yo shit, man, handle yo shit. Don’t end up like this fool in here. He got a baby, and in house pussy. If I do that shit moms be like … I ain’t havin it. CUT TO: 85  INT. BAKER FAMILY HOME—DAY THE COUCH Where Ricky sits controller in hand. Little Ricky sits in his lap. SHANICE (O.S.) Ricky! RICKY Seems lost in his own world.

85

Original Screenplay | 329 LITTLE RICKY Momma, calling you, Daddy. Ricky looks at his son. RICKY I heard here. What?!! THE DOORWAY Where Shanice stands. SHANICE I need you to go to the store to get me some cornmeal. I can’t fry the fish without … RICKY Yeah, yeah, I’ll go in a little while. ON THE SCREEN We see one of those Army commercials which make the armed forces look so attractive to people, mostly brothers. T.V. Be all that you can be! Keep on living, keep on growing, find your future, in the army! Paid for by the U.S. Army. And now back to Video Soul with Donnie Simpson. RICKY’S FACE As he looks down at his son. SHANICE (O.S.) Ricky, I need some cornmeal! BACK TO DOORWAY Where Ricky’s mother stands. MRS. BAKER Boy! Go get this girl some cornmeal. You should be happy somebody’s cooking for your ass. I ain’t.

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N the Hood: Shifting Hollywood Terrain RICKY Alright! Alright! I’m going I’m going.

86  EXT. BAKER FAMILY—DAY

86

THE FRONT DOORWAY Where Ricky emerges. RICKY “D” go to the store man get some cornmeal. DOUGH BOY Nigga I ain’t the one she asked to go get it. That’s your wife—you go get the shit. RICKY She ain’t my wife. DOUGH BOY Shit … she might as well be your wife—you got a family and shit. RICKY (yawning) Fuck you. DOUGH BOY (stands up and gets in Ricky’s face) Don’t fuck me. Fuck your wife. That’s why you gotta baby now. RICKY You better get outta my face! TRE (getting ready to intervene)

Original Screenplay | 331 (Continued ) Hey wait a minute y’all. DOUGH BOY (pushing Ricky) You a punk! You been a punk since day one! Mommas boy! Ricky’s eyes flash and he pushes Dough Boy back and charges him. And they start fighting. The fight falls back on the grass where we see the both of them throwing punches and wrestling. Tre tries to break it up. TRE What’s wrong with y’all?! Y’all brothers you ain’t supposed to be fighting each other! CHRIS Stay outta this Tre, this family business, this family business, let ’em fight! Suddenly, Shanice comes out the house with Little Ricky. She starts screaming. SHANICE Brenda! Ricky and Dough Boy out here fighting! Mrs. Baker runs out of the house straight toward the two young men. DOUGH BOY Just as he brings his fist back to punch Ricky. Mrs. Baker comes into frame and hits him hard on the face. DOUGH BOY Shit! The gate where we see THE MAILMAN walk up into this intense scene.

332 | Boyz

N the Hood: Shifting Hollywood Terrain MRS. BAKER Ricky come here let me see your face! RICKY (frustrated and angry) Naw, I’m going to the store!

The mailman walks up to Mrs. Baker and gives her three envelopes: one of them is a letter from the SAT Testing Bureau. MRS. BAKER (turning back to call Ricky) Ricky! Ricky the test scores! The test scores. THE SIDEWALK Where he continues to walk away with Tre at his side. BACK TO SCENE Where we see Dough Boy holding the side of his face. Mrs. Baker walks past him and doesn’t say a word. DOUGH BOY What you hit me for?! What you hit me for?! THE DOORWAY Where Mrs. Baker reenters her house without ever acknowledging Dough Boy’s question. CHRIS (rolls up in his chair) Hey man, what she hit you for? DOUGH BOY Shut up nigga.

Original Screenplay | 333 CUT TO: 87  EXT. SIDEWALK—DAY

87

Where Tre and Ricky walk. Ricky is still pissed. TRE You thinking about what?! You gotta be a damn fool! RICKY (holding his face) They say I can learn how to work computers and all that and they give me money for college. TRE Look at ya sound like the damn commercial. But they don’t tell you that you don’t belong to yourself no more. You join them you belong to the government. Like a slave, do what they say. Pops always told me Black man don’t have no place in the army. RICKY See I gotta think about my little boy and all. I don’t wanna be like my brother and shit, hanging out not doing shit, end up dealing cane just like him. I want to do something be somebody. TRE Man I’m telling you, you go in there you ain’t gonna be nobody, not unless you get a college degree then at least you can be an officer. 88  EXT. CORNER STORE—DAY

88

Where Tre and Ricky arrive. On the side of the store is a large mural of a Korean dragon and a painted sign which reads “Seoul to Seoul Liquor.” In front of the store we see several people standing outside talking, laughing, and getting drunk. We dissolve to the same scene minutes later where Tre and Ricky leave.

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89  EXT. SIDEWALK—DAY

89

Where the two boys walk on the way back home. Ricky is scratching off three lottery tickets. TRE You win anything? RICKY Wait a minit, I’m trying to see. They stop while he scratches one off. RICKY Shit, nothing. TRE You gotta be Mexican to win that shit. They continue to walk on. RICKY I win the lottery I won’t have to worry about a goddamn thing. Don’t haveta worry ’bout college, don’t haveta worry ’bout no muthafucking 700 on the SAT. Don’t haveta worry about shit. Something catches Tre’s eye. TRE Wait a minit. Look. THE CORNER Where Ferris’s Red Hyundai turns the corner.

Original Screenplay | 335 90  INT. FERRIS’S CAR—DAY

90

Where Ferris sits in the driver’s seat. We hear rap music playing from his speakers, with extra heavy bass. Also, in the car are two other gangsters. Ferris’s Knuckleheaded buddies. KNUCKLEHEAD #1 & #2 (SAME TIME) There’s that muthafucka. KNUCKLEHEAD #1 … that was talking shit the other night. KNUCKLEHEAD #2 ‘Yeah, I heard he was talking about your momma, your grandmomma and called your sister a hoe-bitch. Ferris puts his hand under his seat and pulls out a sawed off SHOTGUN. OUT THE WINDOW And down the street. Where we see Tre and Ricky turn to begin walking again. BACK TO SIDEWALK Where Tre and Ricky are walking faster looking straight ahead. BACK TO FERRIS’S CAR Where he begins cruising down the street. BACK TO TRE TRE When I say cut, let’s cut through these houses … Cut!! They break out into a run.

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THE STREET Where Ferris’s car picks up speed. OUT THE WINDOW Where Tre and Ricky can be seen running to opposite sides of a house. 91  INT. FERRIS CAR—DAY

91

KNUCKLEHEAD #1 Punk ass niggas. CUT TO: 92  EXT. BACKYARD WALL—DAY

92

Where Tre walks balancing himself. On both sides of the wall TWO LARGE PIT BULLS. Both dogs are barking and flashing their sharp fangs. ANOTHER WALL Where Ricky is walking along trying to balance himself also. A dog runs over to his side of the wall and barks at him also. RICKY Shut up! Stupid ass mutt. CUT TO: 93  EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD STREET—DAY

93

Where Ferris’s car screeches at a fast pace speed. He passes Ricky’s house where Dough Boy and his friends sit drinking and just plain kicking it. Dough Boy is still holding his neck from the blow his mother gave him. The car turns at the corner and goes into the alley. MONSTER That nigga roll up on the set one more time I swear I’m gonna fuck him up.

Original Screenplay | 337 DOUGH BOY As his eyes widen. He puts down the bottle of beer he was drinking. And walks out into the yard. BACK TO PORCH Where the homeboys look at Dough Boy strange. CHRIS What’s wrong? BACK TO DOUGH BOY Who looks as though he is having a premonition. DOUGH BOY Rick. CUT TO: 94  EXT. ALLEY—DAY

94

Where Tre and Ricky jump from the walls into an alley. There is much gang writing on all of the garages and walls in this alley. Both boys try to catch their breath. Ricky turns to urinate on a fence. RICKY I gotta drain da weasel. Wanna see me write my name? TRE What … No … I don’t wanna see you write your name. Hurry up, last thing I want to do is get shot waiting for your ass to piss. Ricky finishes. TRE … Let’s go this way.

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N the Hood: Shifting Hollywood Terrain RICKY No, let’s split up. TRE Naw man, we shouldn’t do that, if we gotta throw some heads it be better to be together. RICKY Them fools ain’t gonna squabble. They just trying to show out and shit. Besides we can run faster separately. TRE I’ll meet you at your house. RICKY Okay.

The two boys go up opposite sides of the alley. 95  INT. FERRIS’S CAR—DAY

95

Where Ferris passes the shotgun to Knucklehead #1, who checks the barrel. 95A  BACK TO ALLEY

95A

TRE Is walking along in caution. CUT TO: 95B RICKY

95B

Who is carefree. He even stops to pull out another lottery ticket and begins scratching it.

Original Screenplay | 339 CUT TO: 96  EXT. BAKER HOME—DAY

96

Where Dough Boy runs into the house. DOUGH BOY Get the fuck out da way! 97  EXT. ALLEY—DAY

97

Where Tre turns around to see Ricky down the alley. Stopping to scratch the ticket. At the edge of the alley Ferris’s car cruises into view. Tre’s eyes widen. RICKY Is so into the ticket that he doesn’t notice that Ferris’s car is right in front of him. 97A  BACK TO BAKER HOME

97A

Where Dough Boy runs out of the house with his gun. CHRIS Oh shit somebody gonna get gatted! DOUGH BOY I gotta find Rick! MONSTER Yeah, let’s take these niggas out. Dooky and Monster run with Dough Boy toward his Impala. Chris is left behind as they screech out of the driveway but he quickly begins to wheel his chair down the street in the same direction. CUT TO: 98  EXT. FERRIS CAR—DAY

98

Where the black tinted window slowly rolls down. Knucklehead #1 can be seen taking aim.

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SLOW MOTION TRE Begins running back down the alley. TRE R..r.r.r.Ricky! Ricky RICKY Looks up from the Lottery Card just in time to see … FERRIS CAR With Knucklehead #1 hanging out the window taking aim at Rick. BACK TO RICK Who turns around to run. Behind him the shotgun blasts like a canon. BACK TO TRE Who is in horror. ANOTHER ANGLE Ricky is staggering trying to continue to run. THE CAR WINDOW Where Knuckledead #1 fires once more. BACK TO RICKY Who goes down slowly with his arms flailing in the air. TRE Is still running toward his wounded friend. Down the alley, in the background, Dough Boy’s Impala can be seen rolling with force. END SLOW MOTION

Original Screenplay | 341 BACK TO FERRIS CAR Which zooms away 99  INT. DOUGH BOY’S CAR—DAY

99

Where he slowly rolls past Tre who is holding a dead Ricky in his arms. Dough Boy stops the car and calmly gets out. All are quiet. Dough Boy gets on his knees and looks at his brother. He pulls Rick’s dead body close to him. There are tears in both his and Tre’s eyes. ANGLE On Chris in his wheelchair as he turns into the alley OVERHEAD VIEW Of the alley. Where several people from the neighborhood enter their backyards and the alley to see what has happened. DISSOLVE TO: 100  EXT. BAKER FAMILY HOME—DAY

100

WIDE ANGLE Where Dough Boy pulls up in his car. Slowly and carefully he and Tre pull Ricky’s body out of the passenger door. Soon enough Dough Boy indicates to Tre that he can carry the whole load. THE WALKWAY Of the house where Dough Boy can be seen carrying Ricky’s limp bloodied body. Tre is at his side and the rest of the boys follow from behind. In the background many people from the neighborhood are watching. Chris rolls back in his wheelchair. 101  INT. BAKER HOME—DAY

101

DOORWAY Where Shanice enters with Little Ricky in her arms. At the sight of blood she immediately begins screaming at the top of her lungs. The baby begins to cry. Tre tries to hold her back.

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N the Hood: Shifting Hollywood Terrain SHANICE Noooo! Noo God! Not Rick! Please God! Let me the fuck go!!

BACK TO DOORWAY Where Mrs. Baker enters also. MRS. BAKER Girl, what the hell’s gotten into your ass? She sees the blood on Rick, on Dough Boy, and Tre. MRS. BAKER Tries to remain calm in the face of what will evidently lead to hysteria. She looks at Dough Boy. MRS. BAKER What happened? What did you do to my son? She goes over to Ricky’s bloodied body and then picks up the phone and dials three digits. PHONE (V.O.) 911?! Mrs. Baker is shivering with a mixture of fear, shock, and depression. She puts the phone down. MRS. BAKER (to Dough Boy) What did you do to my son?! DOUGH BOY It wasn’t my fault!

Original Screenplay | 343 TRE Puts his head down. In the background Monster and Dooky can be seen backing out of the doorway. MRS. BAKER Sits down and joins Shanice in holding Rick’s limp body. Little Ricky is still crying at the top of his lungs. Dough Boy goes over to pick up his brother’s little boy. SHANICE Don’t touch him! Don’t you ever touch him! DOUGH BOY He don’t need to be seeing this. THE LIVING ROOM Where Mrs. Baker, Shanice, and Little Ricky can be seen clustered around Ricky’s body. Tre and Dough Boy look at each other. Tre pulls Dough Boy close. TRE My house in five minutes. Mrs. Baker begins to throw blows at Dough Boy while he tries to hold her back. It looks as though she is trying to kill him. Tre goes out of the door. CUT TO: 102  EXT. BAKER FAMILY HOME—DAY

102

Where by now there is a large crowd outside the house. Among these people is Brandi. When she sees Tre she walks along with him. THE STREET Where Tre and Brandi walk across toward his house. Tre has a blank stare on his face and a few tears in his eyes.

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N the Hood: Shifting Hollywood Terrain BRANDI Tre. Tre what happened. Did something happen to Rick? Did he get shot?!

Tre keeps walking. THE CURB Where Furious can be seen getting out of his car with groceries in his hand. FURIOUS Tre help me with these bags. Tre! Tre!! Tre keeps on walking into the house. Brandi runs over to Furious. BRANDI Talk to him. Rick just got shot. Furious closes the door to his car and walks toward his house. 103  INT. FURIOUS BEDROOM—DAY

103

Where Tre looks under the bed and pulls out THE SHOEBOX he opens it to reveal his father’s .357 Magnum. Picking up a few bullets he gets up and walks into … 104  INT. FURIOUS LIVING ROOM—DAY

104

Where Furious enters the doorway. He and Tre face off. In the background Brandi can be seen peeking through. FURIOUS What are you doing? If you are gonna to do this you are gonna to have to shoot me first. He turns to look at Brandi behind him. FURIOUS (Cont’d) He’s alright go home. He’ll call later.

Original Screenplay | 345 Furious closes the door on Brandi. FURIOUS Tre listen to me I understand about your friend and all, my heart goes out to his mother but that is their problem. You are my son, my problem! Now give me the gun! Give me the muthafuckin gun! Tre does not look at his father in the eye. He gives Furious the gun. FURIOUS Unloads the gun and throws it harmlessly on the couch. He then goes over to his son and hugs him with fatherly force. Tre begins to cry heavily. FURIOUS You are my only son … I love you and I’ll be damned if I’m gonna lose your ass to this bullshit. There is a KNOCK at the door. THE DOORWAY Where Furious opens it to reveal Brandi. He indicated that she can come in. BRANDI Runs into Tre’s arms and they both cry together. Tre tries to wipe his tears away. He leads Brandi away into his room. While in his room Tre and Brandi sit on the bed. BRANDI I gotta go to the bathroom. Tre sits up and begins to pace the room. He stops at his CLOSED window. 104A  THE PORCH Where Furious stands

104A

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THE CURB Where Dough Boy has pulled his car up. He gets out and walks up to Furious on the porch. DOUGH BOY Where’s Tre? FURIOUS I heard about Rick. I’m sorry. DOUGH BOY Yeah. Where’s Tre? FURIOUS He can’t come out right now … What you gonna do? DOUGH BOY What do you think I’m gonna do? FURIOUS I guess you gonna do what you feel you have to do … You think it’ll make you feel better? DOUGH BOY Yeah. Yeah it will. Dough turns around to walk away. FURIOUS Darin! DOUGH BOY What?! FURIOUS Just remember this! That’s what they want you to do!

Original Screenplay | 347 DOUGH BOY Who is they?! Dough Boy turns back down the walkway toward his car. CUT TO: 105  INT. BATHROOM—DAY

105

Where Brandi is exiting. She goes back into Tre’s room where he’s nowhere to be seen. The window is open. She comes closer and she can see Tre jumping into Dough Boy’s Impala. Brandi runs out of Tre’s room and into the living room. CUT TO: 106  EXT. FURIOUS HOME—DAY

106

Where Furious closes his front door and turns to face Brandi. Their eyes meet and he knows something is wrong. CUT TO: 107  EXT. BAKER FAMILY HOME—NIGHT

107

SLOW MOTION Where Mrs. Baker and Shanice stand on the porch as covered Ricky’s body is being rolled away. The lights of a coroner’s wagon wash against the house. Furious’s voice can be overheard. FURIOUS (V.O.) What they couldn’t do to us in slavery they are making us do to ourselves … The best way you destroy a people is to take away their ability to reproduce. CUT TO:

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108  EXT. BURGER STAND—NIGHT

108

SLOW MOTION When Ferris’s car is parked. He and the two knuckleheads can be seen talking laughing and having a good time. They get out and walk toward the stand. Celebration of murder. FURIOUS (V.O.) Who is it we see getting killed out here every night?! The men! Nothing but brothers! 109  INT. DOUGH BOY’S CAR—DAY

109

Where Dough Boy, Tre, Monster, and Dooky ride along in silence. Monster is preparing the hardware. Loading up an AK-47 assault rifle. Our attention is drawn toward Tre. He looks at Dough Boy, who doesn’t look back. FURIOUS (V.O.) Can’t you see?! That’s exactly what they want you to do! You have to think about the future my brother. 110  INT. BAKER FAMILY HOME—NIGHT

110

Where Shanice holds Little Ricky in her arms. She rocks him back and forth. Mrs. Baker walks by with a letter in her hand. We see that it is from the Testing Bureau. CUT TO: 110A  BACK TO CAR

110A

Where Tre looks in deep thought. He looks at Dough Boy. TRE Stop. Let me out. Everybody looks at Tre. His eyes and Dough Boy’s meet.

Original Screenplay | 349 DOUGH BOY Let him out. 111  EXT. CITY STREET—NIGHT

111

Where Tre gets out of the car and runs over to the bus stop. CUT TO: 112  INT. BAKER FAMILY KITCHEN—NIGHT

112

Where Mrs. Baker sits at the table with the letter in hand. She decides to open it. Inside are the test results from Ricky’s SAT. It indicates that he received a 710 total. Mrs. Baker puts the letter down. CUT TO: 113  EXT. BURGER STAND—NIGHT

113

SLOW MOTION A TABLE Where Ferris and his friends sit eating their food. In the background, Dough Boy’s car looms. FURIOUS (V.O.) Do you realize that in twenty years the population of black people in this country is expected to decline?!! Not move up! But down! What you have to do is think about what you’re doing to prevent that from happening! DOUGH BOY As he looks over at Monster indicating Ferris and his friends. BACK TO TABLE As they look up and begin to run.

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THE CAR Cruises past. Monster sprays them with gunfire from the car window. KNUCKLEHEAD #1 Goes down with several bullets in the back KNUCKLEHEAD #2 Gets it in the legs. FERRIS Gets it in the side and legs. DOUGH BOY Gets out of the car with a .45 and walks into the PARKING LOT where we see the Ferris and the knuckleheads grouping with their arms trying to get away. He shoots each of the Knuckleheads as he passes them by. THE ASPHALT Where Ferris crawls with his arms and shot up legs. Dough Boy begins kicking him in the ass. DOUGH BOY (halfway crying) Get up muthafucka! Turn your ass over! FERRIS Please! Please! Please! DOUGH BOY Shoots him at point blank range. He unloads the entire clip. Then he turns and runs back to the car. 114  INT. DOUGH BOY’S CAR

114

Where we see his face. He has a blank almost dead look in his eyes. Monster now at the wheel.

Original Screenplay | 351 MONSTER (almost comically) Let’s roll. CUT TO: 115  EXT. FURIOUS STYLES HOME—NIGHT

115

Where we see Tre walking along. We follow him until he comes to the outside of Brandi’s house and pauses. We see his POV of her house as some lights go off inside. Tre then keeps walking down to his own house. He is almost reluctant to enter his own yard. He musters up some energy and goes into his house. 116  INT. FURIOUS STYLES HOME—NIGHT

116

THE LIVING ROOM Where Tre enters. He looks around the house as though he has been gone for a million years. THE HALLWAY Where Furious enters to see Tre. He catches himself and turns back and goes into his room. 117  INT. TRE’S BEDROOM—NIGHT

117

Where he enters. He goes to sit on his bed. Looking around his room his eyes settle on the growth chart on the wall. Tre gets up and walks to the chart. He measures himself and makes a NOTCH on the wall for his current height. DISSOLVE TO: 118  INT. FURIOUS STYLES KITCHEN—NIGHT

118

THE TABLE Where Tre is sitting eating a hamburger he has prepared. Furious comes in and looks into the refrigerator. He says nothing to Tre. The silent treatment. Pouring a glass of chocolate milk Furious settles down and sits opposite his son. They look each other in the eye. Furious takes a drink of chocolate milk and points toward Tre.

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N the Hood: Shifting Hollywood Terrain FURIOUS I thought I taught you better.

Furious then gets up and walks away. TRE (mumbles) You did. DISSOLVE TO: 119  EXT. FURIOUS STYLES HOME—DAY

119

THE PORCH Where Tre sits. He’s eating a pomegranate fruit. The seeds make his hands blood red. 120  EXT. BAKER FAMILY HOME—DAY

120

THE PORCH Where Dough Boy comes out to sit on his porch a forty ounce bottle of beer in hand, his breakfast. Sighting Tre he gets up and walks across the street. THE STREET Where a skinny DOPEHEAD MAN, asks Dough Boy if he has any crack to sell. Dough Boy makes a quick business transaction and comes into Tre’s yard. He joins him on the porch. 121  EXT. FURIOUS STYLES—HOME DAY

121

THE PORCH Where Tre and Dough Boy sit. For some time neither of them speaks. Dough Boy breaks the ice.

Original Screenplay | 353 DOUGH BOY Ya know he used ta run that ball up the street all day. Twenty-four seven, three-hundred and sixty … We gonna have the funeral tomorrow … My momma want you say some words since y’all was so tight … Y’know this is the first time I been up this early in a long time. Turned on the T.V. this morning, news was on, they had this thing on living in a violent world y’know? Showed all these pictures y’know where foreigners live and all? TRE You mean like Lebanon and Israel? DOUGH BOY Yeah shit like that … and I started thinking y’know … they either don’t know, don’t show, don’t care what be going on in the hood. They had all that foreign shit instead … They didn’t show nothing about my brother. Dough Boy starts to cry. All of the pent up emotion and aggression flows through his eyes. Tre hands him a napkin. The red juice from the fruit is on it. Dough Boy rubs his eyes. DOUGH BOY (Cont’d) … I don’t even have a brother no more. Don’t have no momma either—she loved that fool more’n me anyways … Shit. THE SIDEWALK Where Sheryl, the crack addict mother looks toward Dough Boy on the porch. Indicating she wants some crack. SHERYL Got some blow? DOUGH BOY (through his tears)

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(Continued ) No bitch!! Get the fuck outta my face!! And keep that baby out the motherfuckin street … shit! TRE I was crying all last night. Cried so much, it’s almost like I ain’t no more tears left. Ya know? DOUGH BOY You … you … ya know cuzz I understand why you got out da ride last night. You didn’t even need to be there in the first place. You gonna be moving up and all. Don’t want that shit to come back to haunt your ass. TRE Y’all got ‘em? Tre looks at his friend. DOUGH BOY’S EYES Tell Tre the answer to his question. DOUGH BOY I don’t even know how to feel about that now either … It just goes on. Next thing you know somebody might try to smoke me. It don’t matter though, cause we all gotta go some time. Seem like somebody punched the wrong clock on Rick though … I gotta go cuzz. TRE Yeah. He gets up, gives Tre a grip and turns to walk away. Tre catches him before he does. TRE Yo man.

Original Screenplay | 355 DOUGH BOY (rubbing his eyes) What? TRE You still got one brother left. DOUGH BOY (smiles) I’ll remember dat. THE SIDEWALK As Dough Boy walks away. As he walks we see a message under this image. MESSAGE: Dough Boy lived to see his brother buried the next day, two weeks later he was murdered. The image of Dough Boy dissolves away. We see an empty sidewalk. THE PORCH Where we see Tre. A message appears under this image also. MESSAGE: Tre went to Morehouse, where he is majoring in communications. FADE TO BLACK: TITLE CARD: BOYZ N THE HOOD INCREASE THE PEACE!!!

Reference Alexander, George. 2009. “Why We Make Movies: Black Filmmakers Talk about the Magic of Cinema.” In John Singleton Interviews, edited by Craigh Barboza, 147–62. Jackson, MS: University Press of Mississippi.

Part III

Figure P.3:  One sheet movie poster, Boyz N the Hood. Columbia Pictures. Courtesy of Getty Images (Photo by John D. Kisch/Separate Cinema Archive/Getty Images).

8

Critical Perspectives on Boyz N the Hood

There are only a few academic articles in existence that focus the entire length of the text on Boyz exclusively. Since the film was released during a fertile time period for black cinema, most scholars tend to discuss Boyz in context with similar subsequent releases that focus on urban locations and themes. This chapter includes five of the most cited critical articles to date that shape and contextualize a critical understanding of the film’s contributions to scholarly discourse: “Between Apocalypse and Redemption: John Singleton’s Boyz N the Hood ” by Michael Eric Dyson, “Mapping the Hood: The Genealogy of City Space in ‘Boyz N the Hood’ and ‘Menace II Society’” by Paula J. Massood, “Boyz N the Hood: A Colonial Analysis” by James Nadell” (an extended excerpt), and “Two Takes on Boyz N the Hood” by Thomas Doherty and Jacquie Jones. This chapter also features four original movie reviews by film critics, Kenneth Turan (Los Angeles Times), Janet Maslin (The New York Times), Desson Howe (The Washington Post) and Rita Kempley (The Washington Post) and the end of the chapter provides an extensive reading list for an opportunity for further exploration of the film.

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N the Hood: Shifting Hollywood Terrain

Critical Articles Between Apocalypse and Redemption: John Singleton’s Boyz N the Hood by Michael Eric Dyson By now the dramatic decline in black male life has become an unmistakable feature of our cultural landscape, though, of course, the causes behind the desperate condition of black men date much further back than its recent popular discovery. Every few months, new reports and conferences attempt to explain the poverty, disease, despair, and death that shove black men toward social apocalypse. If these words appear too severe or hyperbolic, the statistics testify to the trauma. For black men between the ages of 18 and 29, suicide is the leading cause of death. Between 1950 and 1984, the life expectancy for white males increased from 63 to 74.6 years, but only from 59 to 65 years for black males. Between 1973 and 1986, the real earnings of black males between the ages of 18 and 29 fell 31% as the percentage of young black males in the workforce plummeted 20%. The number of black men who dropped out of the workforce altogether doubled from 13 to 25%. By 1989, almost 32% of black men between 16 and 19 were unemployed, compared to 16% of white men. And while blacks compose only 12% of the nation’s population, they make up 48% of the prison population, with men accounting for 89% of the black prison population. Only 14% of the white males who live in large metropolitan areas have been arrested, but the percentage for black males is 51%. And while 3% of white men have served time in prison, 18% of black men have been behind bars.1 Most chillingly, black on black homicide is the leading cause of death for black males between the ages of 15 and 34. Or to put it another way: “One out of every 21 black American males will be murdered in their lifetime. Most will die at the hands of another black male.” These words appear in stark white print on the dark screen that opens John Singleton’s masterful film, Boyz N the Hood. These words are both summary and opening salvo in Singleton’s battle to reinterpret and redeem the black male experience. With Boyz N the Hood, we have the most brilliantly executed and fully realized portrait of the coming-of-age odyssey that black boys must undertake in the suffocating conditions of urban decay and civic chaos.

Critical Perspectives on Boyz N the Hood  |  361 Singleton adds color and depth to Michael Schultz’s groundbreaking Cooley High, extends the narrative scope of the Hudlin brothers’ important and humorous House Party, and creates a stunning complement to Gordon Parks’s pioneering Learning Tree, which traced the painful pilgrimage to maturity of a rural black male. Singleton’s treatment of the various elements of contemporary black urban experience—gang violence, drug addiction, black male–female relationships, domestic joys and pains, and friendships—is subtle and complex. He layers narrative textures over gritty and compelling visual slices of black culture that show us what it means to come to maturity, or to die trying, as a black male. We have only begun to understand the pitfalls that attend the path of the black male. Social theory has only recently fixed its gaze on the specific predicament of black men in relation to the crisis of American capital, positing how their lives are shaped by structural changes in the political economy, for instance, rather than viewing them as the latest examples of black cultural pathology.2 And social psychology has barely explored the deeply ingrained and culturally reinforced self-loathing and chronic lack of self-esteem that characterize black males across age group, income bracket, and social location. Even less have we understood the crisis of black males as rooted in childhood and adolescent obstacles to socioeconomic stability, and in moral, psychological, and emotional development. We have just begun to pay attention to specific rites of passage, stages of personality growth, and milestones of psycho­emotional evolution that measure personal response to racial injustice, social disintegration, and class oppression. James P. Comer and Alvin F. Poussaint’s Black Child Care, Marian Wright Edelman’s Families in Peril, and Darlene and Derek Hopson’s foundational Different and Wonderful are among the exceptions which address the specific needs of black childhood and adolescence. Young, Black and Male in America: An Endangered Species, edited by Jewelle Taylor Gibbs, has recently begun to fill a gaping void in social scientific research on the crisis of the black male. In the last decade, however, alternative presses have vigorously probed the crisis of the black male. Like their black independent film peers, authors of volumes published by black independent presses often rely on lower budgets for advertising, marketing, and distribution. Nevertheless, word-of-mouth discussion of several books has sparked intense debate. Nathan and Julia Hare’s Bringing the Black Boy to Manhood: The Passage, Jawanza Kunjufu’s trilogy The Conspiracy to Destroy Black Boys, Amos N. Wilson’s The Developmental Psychology of the Black Child, Baba Zak A. Kondo’s For Homeboys Only: Arming and Strengthening Young Brothers for Black Manhood, and Haki Madhubuti’s Black Men: Obsolete, Single,

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Dangerous? have had an important impact on significant subsections of literate black culture, most of whom share an Afrocentric perspective. Such works remind us that we have too infrequently understood the black male crisis through coming-of-age narratives, and a set of shared social values that ritualize the process of the black adolescent’s passage into adulthood. Such narratives and rites serve a dual function: they lend meaning to childhood experience, and they preserve and transmit black cultural values across the generations. Yet such narratives evoke a state of maturity rooted in a vital community that young black men are finding elusive or, all too often, impossible to reach. The conditions of extreme social neglect that besiege urban black communities—in every realm from health care to education to poverty and joblessness—make the black male’s passage into adulthood treacherous at best. One of the most tragic symptoms of the young black man’s troubled path to maturity is the skewed and strained state of gender relations within the black community. With alarming frequency, black men turn to black women as scapegoats for their oppression, lashing out often with physical violence at those closest to them. It is the singular achievement of Singleton’s film to redeem the power of the coming-of-age narrative while also adapting it to probe many of the very tensions that evade the foundations of the coming-of-age experience in the black community. While mainstream American culture has only barely begun to register awareness of the true proportions of the crisis, young black males have responded in the last decade primarily in a rapidly flourishing independent popular culture, dominated by two genres: rap music and black film. The rap music of Run D.M.C., Public Enemy, Boogie Down Productions, Kool Moe Dee, N.W.A. (Niggers with Attitude), Ice Cube, and Ice T., and the films of Spike Lee, Robert Townsend, and now Matty Rich and Mario Van Peebles, have afforded young black males a medium to visualize and verbalize their perspectives on a range of social, personal, and cultural issues, to tell their stories about themselves and each other while the rest of America consumes and eavesdrops. John Singleton’s film makes a powerful contribution to this enterprise. Singleton filters his brilliant insights, critical comments, and compelling portraits of young black male culture through a film that reflects the sensibilities, styles, and attitudes of rap culture.3 Singleton’s shrewd casting of rapper Ice Cube as a central character allows him to seize symbolic capital from a real-life rap icon, while tailoring the violent excesses of Ice Cube’s rap persona into a jarring visual reminder of the cost paid by black males for survival in American society. Singleton skillfully integrates the suggestive fragments of critical reflections on the black male

Critical Perspectives on Boyz N the Hood  |  363 predicament in several media and presents a stunning vision of black male pain and possibility in a catastrophic environment: South Central Los Angeles. Of course, South Central Los Angeles is an already storied geography in the American social imagination. It has been given cursory, though melodramatic, treatment by news anchor Tom Brokaw’s glimpse of gangs in a highly publicized 1988 TV special, and was mythologized in Dennis Hopper’s film about gang warfare, Colors. Hopper, who perceptively and provocatively helped probe the rough edges of anomie and rebellion for a whole generation of outsiders in 1969s Easy Rider, less successfully traces the genealogy of social despair, postmodern urban absurdity, and longing for belonging that provides the context for understanding gang violence. Singleton’s task in part, therefore, is a filmic demythologization of the reigning tropes, images, and metaphors that have expressed the experience of life in South Central Los Angeles. While gangs are a central part of the urban landscape, they are not its exclusive reality. And though gang warfare occupies a looming periphery in Singleton’s film, it is not its defining center. Boyz N the Hood is a painful and powerful look at the lives of black people, mostly male, who live in a lower-middle-class neighborhood in South Central Los Angeles. It is a story of relationships of kin, friendship, community of love, rejection, contempt, and fear. At the story’s heart are three important relationships: a triangular relationship between three boys, whose lives we track to mature adolescence; the relationship between one of the boys and his father; and the relationship between the other two boys and their mother. Tre (Cuba Gooding, Jr.) is a young boy whose mother Reva Devereaux (Angela Bassett), in an effort to impose discipline upon him, sends him to live with his father across town. Tre has run afoul of his elementary school teacher for challenging both her authority and her Eurocentric curriculum. And Tre’s life in his mother’s neighborhood makes it clear why he is not accommodating well to school discipline. By the age of ten, he has already witnessed the yellow police tags that mark the scenes of crimes and viewed the blood of a murder victim. Fortunately for Tre, his mother and father love him more than they couldn’t love each other. Doughboy (former N.W.A. rapper Ice Cube, in a brilliant cinematic debut) and Ricky (Morris Chestnut) are half-brothers who live with their mother Brenda (Tyra Ferrell) across the street from Tre and his father. Brenda is a single black mother, a member of a much-maligned group that, depending on the amateurish social theory of the day, is vilified with charges of promiscuity, judged to be the source of all that is evil in the lives of black children, or, at best, is stereotyped as the helpless beneficiaries of the state. Singleton artfully avoids these caricatures by

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giving a complex portrait of Brenda, a woman plagued by her own set of demons, but who tries to provide the best living she can for her sons. Even so, Brenda clearly favors Ricky over Doughboy and this favoritism will bear fatal consequences for both boys. Indeed, in Singleton’s cinematic worldview, both Ricky and Doughboy seem doomed to violent deaths because—unlike Tre—they have no male role models to guide them. This premise embodies one of the film’s central tensions and one of its central limitations. For even as he assigns black men a pivotal role of responsibility for the fate of black boys, Singleton also gives rather uncritical “precedence” to the impact of black men, even in their absence, over the efforts of present and loyal black women who more often prove to be at the head of strong black families. While this foreshortened view of gender relations within the black community arguably distorts Singleton’s cinematic vision, he is nonetheless remarkably perceptive in examining the subtle dynamics of the black family and neighborhood, tracking the differing effects that the boys’ siblings, friends, and environment have on them. There is no bland nature-versus-nurture dichotomy here: Singleton is too smart to render life in terms of a Kierkegaardian either/or. His is an Afrocentric world of both/and. This complex set of interactions—between mother and sons, between father and son, between boys who benefit from paternal wisdom or maternal ambitions, between brothers whose relationship is riven by primordial passions of envy and contempt, between environment and autonomy, between the larger social structure and the smaller but more immediate tensions of domestic life—defines the central shape of Hood. We see a vision of black life that transcends insular preoccupations with “positive” or “negative” images and instead presents at once the limitations and virtues of black culture. As a result, Singleton’s film offers a plausible perspective on how people make the choices they do, and on how choice itself is not a property of autonomous moral agents acting in an existential vacuum, but rather something that is created and exercised within the interaction of social, psychic, political, and economic forces of everyday experience. Personal temperament, domestic discipline, parental guidance (or its absence), all help shape our understanding of our past and future, help define how we respond to challenge and crisis, and help mold how we embrace success or seem destined for failure. Tre’s developing relationship with his father, Furious Styles (Larry Fishburne), is by turns troubled and disciplined, sympathetic and compassionate, finely displaying Singleton’s open-ended evocation of the meaning of social choice as well as his strong sensitivity to cultural detail. Furious Styles’s moniker vibrates with

Critical Perspectives on Boyz N the Hood  |  365 double meaning, a semiotic pairing that allows Singleton to signify in speech what Furious accomplishes in action: a wonderful amalgam of old-school black consciousness, elegance, style, and wit, linked to the hip-hop fetish of “dropping science” (spreading knowledge) and staying well informed about social issues. Only seventeen years Tre’s senior, Furious understands Tre’s painful boyhood growth and identifies with his teen aspirations. But more than that, he possesses a sincere desire to shape Tre’s life according to his own best lights. Furious is the strong presence and wise counselor who will guide Tre through the pitfalls of reaching personal maturity in the chaos of urban childhood—the very sort of presence denied to so many in Hood, and in countless black communities throughout the country. Furious, in other words, embodies the promise of a different conception of black manhood. As a father, he is disciplining but loving, firm but humorous, demanding but sympathetic. In him, the black male voice speaks with an authority so confidently possessed and equitably wielded that one might think it is strongly supported and valued in American culture, but of course that is not so. The black male voice is rarely heard without the inflections of race and class domination that distort its power in the home and community, mute its call for basic respect and common dignity, or amplify its ironic denial of the very principles of democracy and equality that it has publicly championed in pulpits and political organizations. Among the most impressive achievements of Singleton’s film is its portrayal of the neighborhood as a “community.” In this vein, Singleton implicitly sides with the communitarian critique of liberal moral autonomy and atomistic individualism.4 In Hood, people love and worry over one another, even if they express such sentiments roughly. For instance, when the older Tre crosses the street and sees a baby in the path of an oncoming car, he swoops her up, and takes her to her crack-addicted mother. Tre gruffly reproves her for neglecting her child and insists that she change the baby’s diapers before the baby smells as bad as her mother. And when Tre goes to a barbecue for Doughboy, who is fresh from a jail sentence, Brenda beseeches him to talk to Doughboy, hoping that Tre’s intangible magic will “rub off on him.” But Singleton understands that communities, besides embodying resistance to the anonymity of liberal society as conceived in Aristotle via Macintyre, also reflect the despotic will of their fringe citizens who threaten the civic pieties by which communities are sustained. Hood’s community is fraught with mortal danger, its cords of love and friendship under the siege of gang violence, and by what sociologists Mike Davis and Sue Riddick call the political economy of crack.5

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Many inner-city communities live under what may be called a “juvenocracy”: the economic rule and illegal tyranny exercised by young black men over significant territory in the black urban center. In the social geography of South Central L.A., neighborhoods are reconceived as spheres of expansion where urban space is carved up according to implicit agreements, explicit arrangements, or lethal conflicts between warring factions. Thus, in addition to being isolated from the recognition and rewards of the dominant culture, inner-city communities are cut off from sources of moral authority and legitimate work, as underground political economies reward consenting children and teens with quick cash, faster cars, and, sometimes, still more rapid death.6 Along with the reterritorialization of black communal space through gentrification, the hegemony of the suburban mall over the inner city and downtown shopping complex, and white flight and black track to the suburbs and exurbs, the inner city is continually devastated. Such conditions rob the neighborhood of one of its basic social functions and defining characteristics: the cultivation of a self-determined privacy in which residents can establish and preserve their identities. Police helicopters constantly zoom overhead in Hood’s community, a mobile metaphor of the ominous surveillance and scrutiny to which so much of poor black life is increasingly subjected. The helicopter also signals another tragedy that Hood alludes to throughout its narrative: ghetto residents must often flip a coin to distinguish Los Angeles’s police from its criminals. After all, this is Daryl Gates’s LAPD, and the Rodney King incident only underscores a long tradition of extreme measures that police have used to control crime and patrol neighborhoods.7 This insight is poignantly featured in a scene just after Tre comes to live with his father. One night, Furious hears a strange noise. As an unsuspecting young Tre rises to use the toilet, Furious eases his gun from the side of his bed, spies an intruder in the living room, and blasts away, leaving two holes in the front door. After they investigate the holes and call the police, Furious and Tre sit on the front porch, waiting an hour for the police to arrive. Furious remarks that “somebody musta been prayin” for that fool “cause I swear I aimed right for his head.” When Tre says that Furious “shoulda blew it off,” Furious censors his sentiment, saying that it would have simply been the senseless death of another black man. After the interracial police team arrive, the black policeman expresses Tre’s censored sentiment with considerably more venom. “[It would be] one less nigger out here in the streets we’d have to worry about.” As they part, the policeman views Furious’s scornful facial expression, and asks if something is wrong. “Yeah,”

Critical Perspectives on Boyz N the Hood  |  367 Furious disdainfully responds, “but it’s just too bad you don’t know what it is brother.” The black policeman has internalized the myth of the black male animal, and has indiscriminately demonized young black males as thugs and dirt. As fate would have it, this same police team accosts seventeen-year-old Tre and Ricky after they have departed from a local hangout that was dispersed by a spray of bullets. The policeman puts a gun to Tre’s neck, uttering vicious epithets and spewing words which mark his hatred of black males and, by reflection, a piteous self-hatred. It recalls the lyrics from an Ice Cube rap, F—tha Police: “And don’t let it be a black and a white one / Cause they’ll slam ya down to the street top / Black police showin’ out for the white cop.” Furious’s efforts to raise his son in these conditions of closely surveilled social anarchy reveal the galaxy of ambivalence that surrounds a conscientious, community-minded brother who wants the best for his family, but who also understands the social realities that shape the lives of black men. Furious’s urban cosmology is three-tiered: at the immediate level, the brute problems of survival are refracted through the lens of black manhood; at the abstract level, large social forces such as gentrification and the military’s recruitment of black male talent undermine the black man’s role in the community; at the intermediate level, police brutality contends with the ongoing terror of gang violence. Amid these hostile conditions, Furious is still able to instruct Tre in the rules of personal conduct and to teach him respect for his community, even as he schools him in how to survive. Furious says to Tre, “I know you think I’m hard on you. I’m trying to teach you how to be responsible. Your friends across the street don’t have anybody to show them how to do that. You gon’ see how they end up, too.” His comment, despite its implicit self-satisfaction and sexism (Ricky and Doughboy, after all, do have their mother Brenda), is meant to reveal the privilege of a young boy learning to face life under the shadow of fatherly love and discipline. While Tre is being instructed by Furious, Ricky and Doughboy receive varying degrees of support and affirmation from Brenda. Ricky and Doughboy have different fathers, both of whom are conspicuously absent. In Doughboy’s case, however, his father is symbolically present in that peculiar way that damns the offspring for their resemblance in spirit or body to the despised, departed father. The child becomes the vicarious sacrifice for the absent father, though he can never atone for the father’s sins. Doughboy learns to see himself through his mother’s eyes, her words ironically re-creating Doughboy in the image of his invisible father. “You ain’t shit,” she says. “You just like yo’ Daddy. You don’t do shit, and you never gonna amount to shit.”

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Brenda is caught in a paradox of parenthood, made dizzy and stunned by a vicious cycle of parental love reinforcing attractive qualities in the “good” and obedient child, while the frustration with the “bad” child reinforces his behavior. Brenda chooses to save one child by sacrificing the other, lending her action a Styronian tenor, Sophie’s choice in the ghetto. She fusses over Ricky; she fusses at Doughboy. When a scout for USC’s football team visits Ricky, Brenda can barely conceal her pride. When the scout leaves, she tells Ricky, “I always knew you would amount to something.” In light of Doughboy’s later disposition toward women, we see the developing deformations of misogyny. Here Singleton is on tough and touchy ground, linking the origins of Doughboy’s misogyny to maternal mistreatment and neglect. Doughboy’s misogyny is clearly the elaboration of a brooding and extended resentment, a deeply festering wound to his pride that infects his relationships with every woman he encounters. For instance, at the party to celebrate his homecoming from his recent incarceration, Brenda announces that the food is ready. All of the males rush to the table, but immediately before they begin to eat, Tre, sensing that it will be to his advantage, reproves the guys for not acting gentlemanly and allowing the women first place in line. Doughboy chimes in, saying, “Let the ladies eat; ‘ho’s gotta eat too,” which draws laughter, both from the audience with which I viewed the film, and the backyard male crowd. The last line is a sly sample of Robert Townsend’s classic comedic send up of fast-food establishments in Hollywood Shuffle. When his girlfriend (Meta King) protests, saying she isn’t a “ho,” Doughboy responds, “Oops, I’m sorry, bitch,” which draws even more laughter. In another revealing exchange with his girlfriend, Doughboy is challenged to explain why he refers to women exclusively as “bitch, or ‘ho’, or hootchie.” In trying to reply, Doughboy is reduced to the inarticulate hostility (feebly masquerading as humor) that characterizes misogyny in general: “‘cause that’s what you are.” “Bitch” and “ho,” along with “skeezer” and “slut,” have by now become the standard linguistic currency that young black males often use to demonstrate their authentic machismo. “Bitch” and equally offensive epithets compress womanhood into one indistinguishable whole, so that all women are the negative female, the seductress, temptress, and femme fatale all rolled into one. Hawthorne’s scarlet A is demoted one letter and darkened; now an imaginary black B is emblazoned on the forehead of every female. Though Singleton’s female characters do not have center stage, by no means do they suffer male effrontery in silent complicity. When Furious and Reva meet at a trendy restaurant to discuss the possibility

Critical Perspectives on Boyz N the Hood  |  369 of Tre returning to live with his mother, Furious says, “I know you wanna play the mommy and all that, but it’s time to let go.” He reminds her that Tre is old enough to make his own decisions, that he is no longer a little boy because “that time has passed, sweetheart, you missed it.” Furious then gets up to fetch a pack of cigarettes as if to punctuate his self-satisfied and triumphant speech, but Tre’s mother demands that he sit down. As the camera draws close to her face, she subtly choreographs a black woman’s grab-you-by-the-collar-and-set-you-straight demeanor with just the right facial gestures, and completes one of the most honest, mature, and poignant exchanges between black men and women in film history. It’s my turn to talk. Of course you took in your son, my son, our son and you taught him what he needed to be a man, I’ll give you that, because most men ain’t man enough to do what you did. But that gives you no reason, do you hear me, no reason to tell me that I can’t be a mother to my son. What you did is no different from what mothers have been doing from the beginning of time. It’s just too bad more brothers won’t do the same. But don’t think you’re special. Maybe cute, but not special. Drink your café au lait. It’s on me.

Singleton says that his next film will be about black women coming of age, a subject left virtually unexplored in film. In the meantime, within its self-limited scope, Hood displays a diverse array of black women, taking care not to render them as either mawkish or cartoonish: a crack addict who sacrifices home, dignity, and children for her habit; a single mother struggling to raise her sons; black girlfriends hanging with the homeboys but demanding as much respect as they can get; Brandi (Nia Long), Tre’s girlfriend, a Catholic who wants to hold on to her virginity until she’s sure it’s the right time; Tre’s mother, who strikes a Solomonic compromise and gives her son up rather than see him sacrificed to the brutal conditions of his surroundings. But while Singleton ably avoids flat stereotypical portraits of his female characters, he is less successful in challenging the logic that at least implicitly blames single black women for the plight of black children.8 In Singleton’s film vision, it is not institutions like the church that save Tre, but a heroic individual—his father Furious. But this leaves out far too much of the picture. What about the high rates of black female joblessness, the sexist job market which continues to pay women at a rate that is seventy percent of the male wage for comparable work, the further devaluation of the “pink collar” by lower rates of medical insurance and other work-related benefits, all of which severely compromise the ability of single black mothers to effectively rear their children?9 It is

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the absence of much more than a male role model and the strength he symbolizes that makes the life of a growing boy difficult and treacherous in communities such as South Central L.A. The film’s focus on Furious’s heroic individualism fails, moreover, to fully account for the social and cultural forces that prevent more black men from being present in the home in the first place. Singleton’s powerful message, that more black men must be responsible and present in the home to teach their sons how to become men, must not be reduced to the notion that those families devoid of black men are necessarily deficient and ineffective. Neither should Singleton’s critical insights into the way that many black men are denied the privilege to rear their sons be collapsed into the idea that all black men who are present in their families will necessarily produce healthy, well-adjusted black males. So many clarifications and conditions must be added to the premise that only black men can rear healthy black males that it dies the death of a thousand qualifications. In reality, Singleton’s film works off the propulsive energies that fuel deep, and often insufficiently understood, tensions between black men and black women. A good deal of pain infuses relations between black men and women, recently dramatized with the publication of Shahrazad Ali’s infamous and controversial underground best-seller, The Blackman’s Guide to Understanding the Blackwoman. The book, which counseled black women to be submissive to black men, and which endorsed black male violence toward women under specific circumstances, touched off a furious debate that drew forth the many unresolved personal, social, and domestic tensions between black men and women.10 This pain follows a weary pattern of gender relations that has privileged concerns defined by black men over feminist or womanist issues. Thus, during the civil rights movement, feminist and womanist questions were perennially deferred, so that precious attention would not be diverted from racial oppression and the achievement of liberation.11 But this deference to issues of racial freedom is a permanent pattern in black male–female relations; womanist and feminist movements continue to exist on the fringe of black communities.12 And even in the Afrocentric worldview that Singleton advocates, the role of black women is often subordinate to the black patriarch. Equally as unfortunate, many contemporary approaches to the black male crisis have established a rank hierarchy that suggests that· the plight of black men is infinitely more lethal, and hence more important, than the conditions of black women. The necessary and urgent focus on the plight of black men, however, must not come at the expense of understanding its relationship to the circumstances of black women.

Critical Perspectives on Boyz N the Hood  |  371 At times, Singleton is able to subtly embody a healthy and redemptive vision of black male–female relations. For instance, after Tre has been verbally abused and physically threatened by police brutality, he seeks sanctuary at Brandi’s house, choreographing his rage at life in South Central by angrily swinging at empty space. As Tre breaks down in tears, he and Brandi finally achieve an authentic moment of spiritual and physical consummation previously denied to them by the complications of peer pressure and religious restraint. After Tre is assured that Brandi is really ready, they make love, achieving a fugitive moment of true erotic and spiritual union. Brandi is able to express an unfettered and spontaneous affection that is not a simplistic “sex-as-proof-of-love” that reigns in the thinking of many teen world­ views. Brandi’s mature intimacy is both the expression of her evolving womanhood and a vindication of the wisdom of her previous restraint. Tre is able at once to act out his male rage and demonstrate his vulnerability to Brandi, thereby arguably achieving a synthesis of male and female responses, and humanizing the crisis of the black male in a way that none of his other relationships—even his relationship with his father—are able to do. It is a pivotal moment in the development of a politics of alternative black masculinity that prizes the strength of surrender and cherishes the embrace of a healing tenderness. As the boys mature into young men, their respective strengths are enhanced, and their weaknesses are exposed. The deepening tensions between Ricky and Doughboy break out into violence when a petty argument over who will run an errand for Ricky’s girlfriend provokes a fistfight. After Tre tries unsuccessfully to stop the fight, Brenda runs out of the house, divides the two boys, slaps Doughboy in the face, and checks Ricky’s condition. “What you slap me for?” Doughboy repeatedly asks her after Ricky and Tre go off to the store. She doesn’t answer, but her choice, again, is clear. Its effect on Doughboy is clearer still. Such everyday variations on the question of choice are, again, central to the world Singleton depicts in Hood. Singleton obviously understands that people are lodged between social structure and personal fortune, between luck and ambition. He brings a nuanced understanding of choice to each character’s large and small acts of valor, courage, and integrity that reveal what contemporary moral philosophers call virtue.13 But they often miss what Singleton understands: character is not only structured by the choices we make, but by the range of choices we have to choose from—choices for which individuals alone are not responsible. Singleton focuses his lens on the devastating results of the choices made by Hood’s characters, for themselves and for others. Hood presents a chain of choices,

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a community defined in part by the labyrinthine array of choices made and the consequences borne, to which others must then choose to respond. But Singleton does not portray a blind fatalism or a mechanistic determinism; instead, he displays a sturdy realism that shows how communities affect their own lives, and how their lives are shaped by personal and impersonal forces. Brenda’s choice to favor Ricky may not have been completely her own—all the messages of society say that the good, obedient child, especially in the ghetto, is the one to nurture and help but it resulted in Doughboy’s envy of Ricky, and contributed to Doughboy’s anger, alienation, and gradual drift into gang violence. Ironically and tragically, this constellation of choices may have contributed to Ricky’s violent death when he is shot by members of a rival gang as he and Tre return from the neighborhood store. Ricky’s death, in turn, sets in motion a chain of choices and consequences. Doughboy feels he has no choice but to pursue his brother’s killers, becoming a more vigilant keeper to his brother in Ricky’s death than he could be while Ricky lived. Tre, too, chooses to join Doughboy, thereby repudiating everything his father has taught, and forswearing every virtue he has been trained to observe. When he grabs his father’s gun, but is met at the door by Furious, the collision between training and instinct is dramatized on Tre’s face, wrenched in anguish and tears. Though Furious convinces him to relinquish the gun, Furious’s victory is only temporary. The meaning of Tre’s manhood is at stake; it is the most severe test he has faced, and he chooses to sneak out of the house to join Doughboy. All Furious can do is tensely exercise his hands with two silver Ben Wa balls, which in this context are an unavoidable metaphor for how black men view their fate through their testicles—they are constantly up for grabs, attack, or destruction. Then sometime during the night, Tre’s impassioned choice finally rings false, a product of the logic of vengeance he has desperately avoided all these years; he insists that he be let out of Doughboy’s car before they find Ricky’s killers. Following the code of male honor, Doughboy kills his brother’s killers. But the next morning, in a conversation with Tre, he is not so sure of violence’s mastering logic anymore, and says that he understands Tre’s choice to forsake Doughboy’s vigilante mission, even as he silently understands that he is in too deep to be able to learn any other language of survival. Across this chasm of violence and anguish, the two surviving friends are able to extend a final gesture of understanding. As Doughboy laments the loss of his brother, Tre offers him the bittersweet consolation that “you got one more brother

Critical Perspectives on Boyz N the Hood  |  373 left.” Their final embrace in the film’s closing moment is a sign of a deep love that binds brothers—a love that, however, too often will not save brothers. The film’s epilogue tells us that Doughboy is murdered two weeks later, presumably to avenge the deaths of Ricky’s killers. The epilogue also tells us that Tre and Brandi manage to escape South Central as Tre pursues an education at Morehouse College, with Brandi at neighboring Spelman College. It is testimony to the power of Singleton’s vision that Tre’s escape is no callow Hollywood paean to the triumph of the human spirit (or, as some reviewers have somewhat perversely described the film, “life-affirming”). The viewer is not permitted to forget for a moment the absurd and vicious predictability of the loss of life in South Central Los Angeles, a hurt so colossal that even Doughboy must ask: “If there was a God, why he let motherfuckers get smoked every night?” Theodicy in gang face. Singleton is not about to provide a slick or easy answer. But he does powerfully juxtapose such questions alongside the sources of hope, sustained in the heroic sacrifice of everyday people who want their children’s lives to be better. The work of John Singleton embodies such hope by reminding us that South Central Los Angeles, by the sheer power of discipline and love, sends children to college, even as its self-destructive rage sends them to the grave.

Notes 1. These statistics, as well as an examination of the social, economic, political, medical, and educational conditions of young black men, and public policy recommendations for the social amelioration of their desperate circumstances, are found in a collection of essays edited by Jewelle Taylor Gibbs, Young, Black, and Male in America. 2. In The Truly Disadvantaged, William Julius Wilson has detailed the shift in the American political economy from manufacturing to service employment, and its impact upon the inner city and the ghetto poor, particularly upon black males who suffer high rates of joblessness (which he sees as the source of many problems in the black family). For an analysis of the specific problems of black males in relation to labor force participation, see Gerald David Jaynes and Robin M. Williams, Jr., eds., A Common Destiny, 301, 308–12. 3. I have explored the cultural expressions, material conditions, creative limits, and social problems associated with rap in “Rap, Race and Reality,” “The Culture of HipHop,” “2 Live Crew’s Rap: Sex, Race and Class,” “As Complex as They WannaBe: 2 Live Crew,” “Tapping Into Rap,” “Performance, Protest and Prophecy in the Culture of Hip-Hop,” and “Taking Rap Seriously.”

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4. I have in mind here the criticism of liberal society, and the forms of moral agency it both affords and prevents, that has been gathered under the rubric of communitarianism, ranging from Macintyre’s After Virtue to Bellah et al.’s Habits of the Heart. 5. See Mike Davis and Sue Riddick’s brilliant analysis of the drug culture in “Los Angeles: Civil Liberties between the Hammer and the Rock.” 6. For an insightful discussion of the relationship between the underground or illegitimate economy and people exercising agency in resisting the worse injustices and effects of the legitimate economy, see Don Nonini, “Everyday Forms of Popular Resistance.” 7. For a recent exploration of the dynamics of social interaction between police as agents and symbols of mainstream communal efforts to regulate the behavior and social place of black men, and black men in a local community, see Elijah Anderson, Streetwise. 8. According to this logic, as expressed in a familiar saying in many black communities, black women “love their sons and raise their daughters.” For a valiant, though flawed, attempt to get beyond a theoretical framework that implicitly blames black women for the condition of black men, see Clement Cottingham, “Gender Shift in Black Communities.” Cottingham attempts to distance himself from arguments about a black matriarchy that stifles black male social initiative and moral responsibility. Instead, he examines the gender shifts in black communities fueled by black female educational mobility and the marginalization of lower-class black males. But his attempt is weakened, ironically, by a prominently placed quotation by James Baldwin, which serves as a backdrop to his subsequent discussions of mother–son relationships, black male–female relationships, and black female assertiveness. Cottingham writes: Drawing on Southern black folk culture, James Baldwin, in his last published work, alluded to black lower-class social patterns which, when set against the urban upheaval among the black poor from the 1960s onward, seem to encourage this gender shift. He characterizes these lower-class social patterns as “a disease peculiar to the Black community called ‘sorriness.’ It is,” Baldwin observes, “a disease that attacks black males. It is transmitted by Mama, whose instinct is to protect the Black male from the devastation that threatens him from the moment he declares himself a man.” Apart from its protectiveness toward male children, Baldwin notes another dimension of “sorriness.” “Mama,” he writes, “lays this burden on Sister from whom she expects (or indicates she expects) far more than she expects from Brother; but one of the results of this all too comprehensible dynamic is that Brother may never grow up in which case the community has become an accomplice to the Republic.” Perceptively, Baldwin concludes that the differences in the socialization of boys and girls eventually erode the father’s commitment to family life. (p. 522)

Critical Perspectives on Boyz N the Hood  |  375 When such allusive but isolated ethnographic comments are not placed in an analytical framework that tracks the social, political, economic, religious, and historical forces that shape black (female) rearing practices and circumscribe black male–female relations, they are more often than not employed to blame black women for the social failure of black children, especially boys. The point here is not to suggest that black women have no responsibility for the plight of black families. But most social theory has failed to grapple with the complex set of forces that define and delimit black female existence by too easily relying upon anecdotal tales of black female behavior that prevents black males from flourishing, and by not examining the shifts in the political economy, the demise of low-skilled, high-waged work, the deterioration of the general moral infrastructure of many poor black communities, the ravaging of black communities by legal forces of gentrification and illegal forces associated with crime and drugs, etc. These forces, and not black women, are the real villains. 9. For a perceptive analysis of the economic conditions which shape the lives of black women, see Julianne Malveaux, “The Political Economy of Black Women.” 10. The peculiar pain that plagues the relationships between black men and black women across age, income, and communal strata was on bold and menacing display in the confrontation between Clarence Thomas and Anita Hill during Senate hearings to explore claims by Hill that Thomas sexually harassed her while she worked for him at two governmental agencies. Their confrontation was facilitated and constructed by the televisual medium, a ready metaphor for the technological intervention into contemporary relations between significant segments of the citizenry. Television also serves as the major mediator between various bodies of public officials and the increasingly narrow publics at whose behest they perform, thus blurring the distinctions between public good and private interest. The Hill Thomas hearings also helped expose the wide degree to which the relations between black men and black women are shaped by a powerful white male gaze. In this case, the relevant criteria for assessing the truth of claims about sexual harassment and gender oppression were determined by white senatorial surveillance. 11. Thus, it was unexceptional during the civil rights movement for strong, articulate black women to be marginalized, or excluded altogether, from the intellectual work of the struggle. Furthermore, concerns about feminist liberation were generally overlooked, and many talented, courageous women were often denied a strong or distinct institutional voice about women’s liberation in the racial liberation movement. For a typical instance of such sexism within civil rights organizations, see Clayborne Carson’s discussion of black female dissent within SNCC (In Struggle 147–48). 12. For insightful claims and descriptions of the marginal status of black feminist and womanist concerns in black communities, and for helpful explorations of the complex problems faced by black feminists and womanists, see bell hooks’s Ain’t I a Woman, Michele Wallace’s Invisibility Blues, Audre Lorde’s Sister/Outsider, and Alice Walker’s In Search of Our Mother’s Garden.

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13. Of course, many traditional conceptions of virtue display a theoretical blindness to structural factors that circumscribe and influence the acquisition of traditional moral skills, habits, and dispositions, and the development of alternative and nonmainstream moral skills. What I mean here is that the development of virtues, and the attendant skills that must be deployed in order to practice them effectively, are contingent upon several factors: where and when one is born, the conditions under which one must live, the social and communal forces that limit and define one’s life, etc. These factors color the character of moral skills that will be acquired, shape the way in which these skills will be appropriated, and even determine the list of skills required to live the good life in different communities. Furthermore, these virtues reflect the radically different norms, obligations, commitments, and socio-ethical visions of particular communities. For a compelling critique of Macintyre’s contextualist universalist claim for the prevalence of the virtues of justice, truthfulness, and courage in all cultures, and the implications of such a critique for moral theory, see Alessandro Ferrara’s essay “Universalisms.” For an eloquent argument that calls for the authors of the communitarian social vision articulated in Habits of the Heart to pay attention to the life, thought, and contributions of people of color, see Vincent Harding, “Toward a Darkly Radiant Vision of America’s Truth: A Letter of Concern, an Invitation to Re-Creation.”

Works Cited Ali, Shahrazad. The Blackman’s Guide to Understanding the Black woman. Philadelphia: Civilized Pubns., 1990. Anderson, Elijah. Streetwise. Chicago: U of Chicago P, 1991. Bellah, Robert N., Richard Madsen, William N. Sullivan, Ann Swirlier, and Steven M. Tipton. Habits of the Heart: Individualism and Commitment in American Life. Berkeley: U of California P, 1985. Carson, Clayborne. In Struggle: SNCC and the Black Awakening of the 1960s. Cambridge: Harvard UP, 1981. Comer, James P., and Alvin F. Poussaint. Black Child Care: How to Bring up a Healthy Black Child in America. New York: Simon and Schuster, 1975. Cottingham, Clement. “Gender Shift in Black Communities.” Dissent, (Fall 1989), pp. 521–25. Davis, Mike, and Sue Riddick. “Los Angeles: Civil Liberties between the Hammer and the Rock.” New Left Review, July-August 1988, pp. 37–60. Dyson, Michael Eric. “As Complex as They WannaBe: 2 Live Crew.” Z Magazine, January 1991, pp. 76–78. ——. “The Culture of Hip-Hop.” Zeta Magazine, June 1989, pp. 44–50. ——. “Performance, Protest and Prophecy in the Culture of Hip-Hop.” The Emergency of Black and the Emergence of Rap. Ed. Jon Michael Spencer. Durham: Duke UP, 1991. 12–24. ——. “Rap, Race and Reality.” Christianity and Crisis, 16 March 1987, pp. 98–100.

Critical Perspectives on Boyz N the Hood  |  377 ——. “Taking Rap Seriously: Theomusicologist Michael Eric Dyson on the New Urban Griots and Peripathetic Preachers (An Interview).” By Jim Gardner. Artvu, Spring 1991, pp. 20–23. ——. “Tapping Into Rap.” New World Outlook, May-June 1991, pp. 32–35. ——. “2 Live Crew’s Rap: Sex, Race and Class.” Christian Century, 2–9 January 1991, pp. 7–8. Edelman, Marian Wright. Families in Peril: An Agenda for Social Change. Cambridge: Harvard UP, 1987. Ferrara, Alessandro. “Universalisms: Procedural, Contextual and Prudential.” Universalism vs. Communitarianism: Contemporary Debates in Ethics, edited by David Rasmussen. Cambridge: MITP, 1990, pp. 11–38. Gibbs, Jewelle Taylor, editor. Young, Black, Male in America: An Endangered Species. Dover: Auburn, 1988. Harding, Vincent. “Toward a Darkly Radiant Vision of America’s Truth: A Letter of Concern, an Invitation to Re-Creation.” Community in America: The Challenge of Habits of the Heart, edited by Charles H. Reynolds and Ralph V. Norman. Berkeley: U of California P, 1988, pp. 67–83. Hare, Nathan, and Julia Hare. Bringing the Black Boy to Manhood: The Passage. San Francisco: Black Think Tank, 1987. hooks, bell. Ain’t I a Woman: Black Women and Feminism. Boston: South End, 1981. Hopson, Darlene Powell, and Derek S. Hopson. Different and Wonderful: Raising Black Children in a Race-Conscious Society. New York: Prentice Hall, 1990. Jaynes, Gerald David, and Robin M. Williams, Jr., editors. A Common Destiny: Blacks and American Society. Washington: Nat. Acad., 1989. Kondo, Baba Zak A. For Homeboys Only: Arming and Strengthening Young Brothers for Black Manhood. Washington, DC: Nubia Press, 1991. Kunjufu, Jawanza. Countering the Conspiracy to Destroy Black Boys. 3 vols. Chicago: African American Images, 1985–1990. Lorde, Audre. Sister/Outsider. Freedom: Crossing, 1984. Macintyre, Alisdair. After Virtue. Notre Dame: U of Notre Dame P, 1981. Madhubuti, Haki R. Black Men: Obsolete, Single, Dangerous?: Afrikan American Families in Transition: Essays in Discovery, Solution, and Hope. Chicago: Third World P, 1990. Malveaux, Julianne. “The Political Economy of Black Women.” The Year Left 2-Toward a Rainbow Socialism: Essays on Race, Ethnicity, Class and Gender, edited by Mike Davis, Manning Marable, Fred Pfeil, and Michael Sprinker. London: Verso, 1987, pp. 52–72. Nonini, Don. “Everyday Forms of Popular Resistance.” Monthly Review, November 1988, pp. 25–36. Walker, Alice. In Search of Our Mother’s Garden. New York: Harcourt, 1983. Wallace, Michele. Invisibility Blues: From Pop to Theory. London: Verso, 1990. Wilson, Amos N. The Developmental Psychology of the Black Boy. New York: Africana Research Publications, 1978. Wilson, William Julius. The Truly Disadvantaged: The Inner City, the Underclass, and Public Policy. Chicago: U of Chicago P, 1987. Michael Eric Dyson, from Cultural Critique, No. 21 (Spring, 1992), pp. 121–141. Copyright © University of Minnesota Press. All rights reserved. Reprinted by permission.

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Mapping the Hood: The Genealogy of City Space in “Boyz N the Hood” and “Menace II Society” by Paula J. Massood Images of the city in the two films reveal it as both utopia and dystopia and as a primary metaphor for the African American experience. The forms of the invisible city are joined at key points: The invisibility of Afro-Americans in this culture, their reduction to stereotype, is closely related to the phenomena of the mass media and the world of consumer desire, part of an economics of mass consumption. —Charles Scruggs, Sweet Home: Invisible Cities in the Afro-American Novel

Do the Right Thing, New Jack City, Boyz N the Hood, Straight Out of Brooklyn, Juice, Menace II Society, Just Another Girl on the IRT. These films share a number of similarities: all represent the artistic output of a group of young, film-literate African American directors; all, with the exception of New Jack City and possibly Do the Right Thing, detail the hardships of coming of age for their young protagonists; and all place their narratives within the specific geographic boundaries of the hood. Within this context, the hood inhabits precise coordinates: South Central Los Angeles, Watts, Brooklyn, and Harlem. At the same time, it also encompasses a range of possible metaphorical meanings as an urbanscape, meanings which extend beyond the domain of the contemporary hood-film genre and are informed by a rich history of African American urban representation. It can be argued that the recent increase in the production of hood films, coupled with the growing popularity of gangsta’ rap to crossover audiences, has resulted in a concurrent rise in mainstream media interest devoted to the problems of the “inner city.” But the practice and use of urban spaces such as the hood or the ghetto as a metaphor for African American experience is not a new phenomenon in African American cultural production, nor does it point to the emergence of “new” problems existing in these areas. Rather, the hood’s roots are deeply planted within a tradition of African American writing dating from the turn of the century and marking a shift from earlier writing in which the rural played a primary metaphorical role.1

Critical Perspectives on Boyz N the Hood  |  379 The City in Literature The shift in focus of African American literary output from country to city reflected a larger social and economic change that was taking place in the United States. Dating from the late 1800s and spanning the years following World War I, there occurred a large migration of rural southern blacks to the northern industrial cities of New York, Philadelphia, Washington, D.C., Chicago, and Detroit, as well as a migration to western cities. It was this migration which contributed to the emergence of the city as a central literary metaphor, and it can be traced to such early publications as W.E.B. Du Bois’s The Philadelphia Negro (1899). Early African American city writing reached its apex during the 1920s and was primarily centered within the artistic, social, and political environment of the Harlem Renaissance. At this time, the city, precisely the Harlem section of New York City, took on the role of cultural center: as a black city within a city. The argument for Harlem as cultural and social mecca was made most explicit by the appearance of Alain Locke’s The New Negro (1925), an anthology of short stories, poetry, drama, essays, and art which sought to explicate black aesthetics as well as to argue for the central role of Harlem within this cultural production. Essayists such as James Weldon Johnson echoed this point of view in Black Manhattan (1930), his history of Harlem, and also in “Harlem: The Culture Capital,” which appeared as part of Locke’s anthology.2 After the Depression, Harlem descended into the state of poverty and decay with which it is still associated. With this economic decline came a subsequent reevaluation of the city, its mythology, and its real conditions. While once promising freedom from the Jim Crow laws and rural poverty of the South, the city began to show the wear and tear of economic depression, segregation, and racial prejudice, and the mecca soon became a ghetto. This was reflected in the literary output of writers of the post-Renaissance period such as Richard Wright, Ralph Ellison, and James Baldwin, and has continued to be examined throughout the following decades by more contemporary writers (for example, Donald Goines, Paule Marshall, Louise Meriwether, and Walter Mosley). Some novelists, such as Rosa Guy and Toni Morrison, have even chosen to go back to the particular historical situation of the Renaissance in order to reevaluate the historical and cultural legacy of the city myth through their narratives.3 The City in Film The city has also been a central metaphor in African American film production, and it can be argued that the appearance of the city in film was occasioned

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by the same set of enabling historical factors as those in literature: the Great Migration and the Harlem Renaissance. During the early years of American film production, there existed a small sector of independent African American film companies. Initially, these companies, such as the Lincoln Motion Picture Company and the Frederick Douglass Film Company, produced films influenced by the melodramas or Sennett comedies popular at the time. Also, the films’ settings were predominantly rural.4 However, with the establishment of Oscar Micheaux’s Book and Film Company in 1918, both subject matter and setting were to shift. Whereas earlier film companies were primarily concerned with filling “the screen with strong black success images,” Micheaux’s films took as their focus more controversial subject matter: miscegenation, lynching, the caste system, gangsters, and religious charlatans and their relationship to the family.5 Within Micheaux’s chosen themes and mise-en-scène, there are suggestions of the presence of a dual identity that also are apparent in a number of literary texts produced during the Harlem Renaissance and engendered by the Great Migration. These were often split between rural and urban, southern and northern identifications. In Micheaux’s particular case, southern rural was enriched by his own personal history and experience as a homesteader in the Midwest. This duality often appears in Micheaux’s films, primarily in the border-crossings which take place within them. For example, Body and Soul (1924) and Girl from Chicago (1932) contain movement between country and city, while other films, like The Brute (1920), are situated within the urban underworld of gangsters and prostitution. Furthermore, Micheaux’s themes are distinctly related to those at the core of the Harlem Renaissance, as has been noted by Mark Reid: “[Micheaux’s] portrayal of black urban life, which included gangsters, sexually liberated women, and self-assertive blacks reflected a community of cosmopolitan blacks.”6 Thus, within Micheaux’s films there exists a thematic link with the narrative concerns of the Harlem Renaissance writers as well as an examination of the positive and negative aspects of city life. Micheaux’s project of representing the issues that were central to black urban life serves as a historical link to two later movements within African American film production: black action films (blaxploitation) and the L.A. school of black filmmakers. The black action film genre of the early 1970s, like Micheaux’ s films, incorporated subject matter and thematic concerns in which inner-city impoverishment and crime acted as primary conditions for the narratives. Situated in the historical climate following another surge of migration

Critical Perspectives on Boyz N the Hood  |  381 after World War II, the Civil Rights movement, and the wave of inner-city rebellions of the 1960s in Watts, Chicago, and Detroit, black action films came at a crucial time. Black action films articulated a discourse of black empowerment which was directed toward a specific black urban audience.7 Through their portrayal of both sexually and politically empowered African American male protagonists, black action films offered an alternative to decades of films featuring black characters as toms, coons, pimps, petty thieves, or rapists. They also explicitly responded to more contemporary portrayals of emasculated and deracinated, “safe” middle-class characters: those most often played by Sidney Poitier. The black action films’ response can be seen in films like Melvin Van Peebles’s Sweet Sweetback’s Baadasssss Song (1971), which featured a strong and sexualized black protagonist. Films like Sweetback and Shaft (Gordon Parks, 1972) placed urban living conditions, in Los Angeles and New York, respectively, at the core of their thematic concerns. In doing so, they presented narratives structured around crime, drugs, prostitution, and the effects of poverty on urban lives to an urban audience who read these images as closer to their own situations. The L.A. school of black filmmakers emerged from within a similar set of social, political, and economic conditions, with the difference being that the L.A. school’s political emphasis was often more Pan-African in scope and that its members were attempting to theorize and produce a revolutionary cinema outside of the representational confines of Hollywood. In this manner, their goals were similar to Micheaux’s, and, in fact, they used Micheaux as a model when trying to define their own filmic strategies. As Ntongela Masilela remembers, the L.A. school’s search for an oppositional film form “led them to the family dramas of Oscar Micheaux from the 1920s and 1930s. The revolutionary breakthrough of the UCLA school was to draw on Micheaux’s work, yet shift its social subject matter from a middle-class to a working-class milieu in which Black labor struggled against White capital.”8 In many of the group members’ films, the city remained as a central trope but with emphasis on a specific political analysis of the inter­connections of economic and spiritual impoverishment and the hardships of inner­city family life. These concerns are exemplified in two particular films, Bush Mama (Haile Gerima, 1974) and Killer of Sheep (Charles Burnett, 1977), which focus on the family and its attempts to maintain its integrity and empowerment amid the reality of poverty, crime, and racism. In both films, the structuring absence—both there and not there but always central to the narrative—is the city of Los Angeles.

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Los Angeles … a city at once endlessly familiar to us through its representation in television and cinematic images and yet endlessly strange and distant. —Graham Clarke, “The Great Wrong Place: Los Angeles as Urban Milieu,” in The American City: Literary and Cultural Perspectives

The Hood as Utopia/Dystopia The cityscape of the hood film is largely determined by and firmly entrenched in this multilayered historical and cultural legacy. It is a legacy in which the city has been mythologized as both a utopia—as a space promising freedom and economic mobility—and a dystopia—the ghetto’s economic impoverishment and segregation. In this manner, the city as a signifying space has performed a dual function, both real and imaginary. This duality is one which Charles Scruggs has explained, with regard to African American literature, as an ongoing dialogue, “a dialogue that sets a city of the imagination, the city that one wants, against the empirical reality of the city that one has.”9 Hood films, firmly placed within this tradition, self-consciously examine this duality by making complex their representation of the cityscape. In doing so, they also combine particular tendencies from preceding African American literature and film movements: a concern with the representation of African American life, an examination of the socioeconomic environment of the inner city, and an examination of the family situated in an urban milieu. The process by which this duality is examined is by placing on the screen those fragments of the city which have been previously made invisible or erased and by “focus[ing] on space not defined by American urban maps.”10 In the process, the films work toward a re-representation in which the specificity of South Central L.A., Watts, Bed-Stuy, Red Hook, and Harlem undergo a process of rearticulation, a making visible—from invisible city to the hood. With regard to the two films at the center of this discussion, Boyz N the Hood and Menace II Society, the act that they are set in Los Angeles further complicates the dual function of city space in African American cultural production. What better city with which to begin an analysis of the tension between the real and the imaginary of city signification than L.A., a city that was founded upon and has prospered because of the manufacture of reality through the imaginary, both in its own particular selfimage and those images produced in Hollywood? If one were to believe the plethora of images produced by mainstream Hollywood releases, Los Angeles is composed of Hollywood, Beverly Hills, and Bel Air, with a little Malibu and Venice Beach thrown in for a coastal touch. What this illustrates is the fact that Los Angeles, as the source of much of the film and

Critical Perspectives on Boyz N the Hood  |  383 television production for the United States and the world, is also at the heart of producing its own very particular images. Edward Soja states, “Los Angeles broad­ casts its self-imagery so widely that probably more people have seen this place—or at least fragments of it—than any other on the planet.”11 Both Soja and Mike Davis, through different methodological approaches, center their discussions of the city on the means by which Los Angeles is defined by this manufacture of images. They concentrate on analyzing what is at stake in terms of power relations when entire neighborhoods are excluded in order to promote a partial but seemingly whole self-image. That these “other” spaces are becoming increasingly hard to contain can be seen in the production of hood films, and, much to the L.A. boosters’ disdain, in the images of Rodney King’s beating and the footage from the rebellion following the verdicts for the LAPD officers involved. The places in L.A. allowed to be seen and screened are crucial to my discussion. It is through the process of inclusion and exclusion that Hollywood has helped L.A. to nurture and reify a particular set of urban signs—palm trees, sun, abundance, paradise. Yet the manufacture of one particular group of images has as its mirror the exclusion of the areas which do not meet the criteria for this imagined city. It is through their insistence on the insertion of the other spaces— South Central, Compton, Watts—that hood films located in L.A. make visible the dynamics of power inherent in the city’s self-imagery.12 It is also through these means that hood films indicate the split identifications, or “two-ness,” which result from the mainstream practice of using fragments to produce a unified experience. In other words, within their self-reflexive discourses on the exclusions of representation and image manufacture, the films expose African American identification as being at once inside the “American” experience and, at the same time, outside that experience.13 As Manthia Diawara has observed, “space is related to power and powerlessness, insofar as those who occupy the center of the screen are usually more powerful than those situated in the background or completely absent from the screen.”14 This is a basic tenet of film theory and one which has become a crucial focus for African American filmmakers in the late 1980s and early 1990s. It is also a central question for this discussion, for in a cityscape such as L.A., in which “residential specialization and enclosure keep[s] everyone in their place,” the signifying system of hood films works on multiple levels.15 The fact that hood films even exist indicates a move out of the Hollywood ghetto for black filmmakers and points to an initial and important shift of African American film onto the commercial screen. Furthermore, by choosing to place in the center of the screen narratives based on and about a disenfranchised portion of the African American diaspora (namely,

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young males), filmmakers such as John Singleton and Allen and Albert Hughes deliberately link representation to power by questioning the images which have been reified by mainstream Hollywood cultural production. The Hood in Film: Two Examples While Spike Lee’s early films, especially Do the Right Thing, marked the beginning of a new wave of African American filmmaking, it was John Singleton’s Boyz N the Hood which first mapped the hood onto the terrain and into the vocabulary of the popular imagination.16 On its most fundamental level, the film’s narrative is a traditional coming-of-age tale which details the rites of passage for Tre, its young protagonist. However, the main focus of the film is centered upon the power relations inherent in space and geography. The film’s mise-en-scène makes plain this fact, most obviously through its figuring of enclosed and defined spaces. That the film’s South Central neighborhood is a contained community is made quite explicit—a fact discussed by Diawara, who has noted in a related context that “signs … play an important role in limiting the movement of people in South Central Los Angeles.”17 This is also evident in the system of signifiers encoded in the terrain which both signify the film’s urban milieu and the characters’ limited movement within and outside of its parameters. The film is an urban text and is filled with signs—real street signs and more figurative signs—from the very first frame, in which a stop sign with a plane flying overhead fills the screen. This moment has two possible readings: as the desire for mobility both inside and outside of the ghetto—another main theme of hood films—and as the system of institutional limits put in place to stop this movement. Similar signification is repeated throughout the film (“One Way” and “Do Not Enter” appear often) to convey the message that free passage is not allowed.18 Scruggs has also argued that urban mobility is very often more illusory than real. In an urban environment in which various and differentiated social sectors are geographically segregated, “the transition from one to the other is abrupt,” and movement is discouraged.19 More subtle than the street signage but much more controlling is the presence of the LAPD. This presence is initially introduced in a similar manner as the street signs with the use of a police tape reading “Police Line-Do Not Cross,” preventing movement through a murder scene. After this introduction, police occupation is oppressive and constant in the recurring appearance of a pair of patrol men who menace Tre, his family, and his friends at various times during the course of the film. A proliferation of aural and visual cues also signifies the ubiquity of the police, most notably through the repeated searchlights and offscreen sounds of police surveillance helicopters. It is these helicopters which ostensibly serve as the

Critical Perspectives on Boyz N the Hood  |  385 invisible, though central and constant, signification for the limitation of movement and the power relations inherent in that delimitation. Their pervasiveness marks the boundaries of the hood and, as Diawara has explained, “define[s] the hood as a ghetto by using surveillance from above and outside to take agency away from people in the community.”20 As with Foucault’s panopticon, this method of control, dispersed over the urban landscape, works to keep the community in its place through the awareness and internalization of surveillance and perceived criminality. The success of these controls is evident when Tre and his friend Ricky are caught driving in the wrong place at the wrong time—that the patrol men see this as a suspicious act and as a cause to terrorize the pair underscores the forces at work to keep the residents of the hood isolated. This scene, in combination with the sounds of gunshots which puncture what little means of escape Tre and his girlfriend, Brandi, have when doing their schoolwork, as well as the death of Ricky during a drive-by shooting, create the central dilemma of the film. This dilemma is based upon a paradigm of geography which “recognizes spatiality as simultaneously … a social product (or outcome) and a shaping force (or medium) in social life.”21 For Tre, this paradox becomes his rite of passage—should he forgo his future by taking part in a drive—to avenge Ricky’s death, thus fulfilling the path laid for him by those forces trying to define and limit him as an African American man living in the hood, or should he resist being defined in such a way and continue on the path to college? It is no surprise that Tre chooses the latter of these options, for the narrative structure of the film prevents him from crossing the boundaries set up for his character in this melodrama. This fact is made most evident in the film’s privileging of the father. While the core of the narrative is structured around the challenges Tre faces growing up in the hood, these challenges are mitigated and channeled through the presence of Furious Styles, his father. The film stresses the importance of strong father figures as enabling factors in the survival of young African American men in the hood. Nowhere is this made more apparent than in the fates of Tre’s two friends, Ricky and Doughboy, half-brothers with different but equally absent fathers. That the two men die and Tre survives to leave the hood is the film’s not-so-subtle message of the healing power of the father to the virtual exclusion of the mother. The final paradox and tragedy of the film lies in the fact that even though Furious works to instill a sense of responsibility and community in Tre, this influence ultimately equips Tre with the mobility he needs to leave the hood for college in Atlanta, a space defined and verbally signified within the film as a utopia in comparison to L.A.’s dystopia.22 The film thus

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explores the limits placed on the hood’s residents and allows for the possibility of increased movement, but does so only within the strictly defined parameters of South Central Los Angeles and/or Atlanta. Menace II Society is similar to Boyz N the Hood in two primary ways: it locates its narrative in the specificity of the hood and it is also a coming-of-age story. However, whereas Boyz ends on a “positive” note, Menace refuses to give its audience the satisfaction of a happy ending for Caine, the film’s protagonist. Reportedly “outraged by the Hollywood sentimentality” of the Singleton film, Allen and Albert Hughes set out to capture on film what they felt was the “real” situation in the hood.23 The result is a text with both marked similarities to and differences from the earlier film. As with Boyz, Menace is centrally concerned with the representation of the hood and is replete with literal and figurative signs connoting its geography. This project is introduced from the beginning with a bird’s-eye view of Watts, the neighborhood where the film’s events take place. As opposed to Boyz, in which the theme of mobility is conveyed in its first frames, this opening shot suggests that the film will delve into the neighborhood rather than look beyond it. This opening is also in keeping with the Hugheses’ project of showing the hood “as it really is,” for it introduces the film in an almost ethnographic manner, with an invasive camera looking down on and documenting the neighborhood. This particular choice for an establishing shot is further enhanced by the inclusion of pixilated footage of the 1965 Watts Rebellion coupled with a voiceover by Caine explaining the transformation of the neighborhood following these events. As with the opening frames, this footage works both to signify and map out the specific boundaries of the hood. This technique, in combination with the use of titles to designate two different times and places (Watts 1965 and Watts 1993), also defines the spatiotemporal parameters of the film’s discourse and gives a historical background to the area.24 In a similar manner as the Singleton film, the narrative of Menace is produced by the tension between the realities of life in the hood and the illusions of and desire for mobility and escape. For Caine, the realities of the hood consist of poverty, life in the projects, drugs, the economic lure of crime, the threat of death, and the police. As opposed to Tre, who with his father’s influence stays away from crime, Caine, with his father’s influence, sees no other option, and the film exposes the psychological dynamics intrinsic to his choices, primarily through the use of voice-over. In addition, Caine’s sometimes unreliable voice-over and brutal activities problematize conventional narrative identification by refusing to give the audience a sympathetic protagonist.

Critical Perspectives on Boyz N the Hood  |  387 Significantly, the film also highlights the means by which Caine’s actions are, in some part, a result of his internalization of the institutional boundaries placed on his very existence. Again, these are most literally signified by the presence of the LAPD. While there is an absence of surveillance helicopters in this film, the police still are ubiquitous as they patrol the neighborhood, making Caine’s friends scatter on sight. In a scene similar to one in Boyz, Caine and his friend 0-Dog are stopped and questioned by the LAPD for driving the wrong car in the wrong place. However, the result of this encounter is much more brutal, as the two are beaten and taken out of the hood to be dropped in a neighboring Mexican American barrio. What this scene exposes is the concomitant and perceived criminality of young African American men based on geography—they become criminals by virtue of being outside the hood. Furthermore, the police play a major part in enforcing boundaries between separate hoods and expect violence to break out when they dump the pair outside of their hood, all of which points to the means by which boundaries can be used to maintain interracial antagonisms. In a related manner, the scene also illustrates how imaginary or invisible boundaries can become internalized and made real through outside measures of control. Caine and Dog fear the worst when left outside of their definable experiential parameters. Similarly, Tre and Ricky in Boyz express unease when taken to Compton by Furious. What this also points to is the real segregation that exists within the seemingly homogeneous city of Los Angeles. The city can no longer be viewed as a unified cityscape but rather as an area crisscrossed by both visible and invisible boundaries marking smaller, sometimes violently heterogeneous areas, isolating the residents of these areas within their respective communities. In addition to the opening shots, titles, and voice-over, Menace contains a number of textual references to the hood’s cartography which map specific areas and suggest particular criteria of containment within those areas. As in Boyz, Menace uses street signs as signifiers and does so in order to problematize movement in the context of specific locations within the hood. One particular instance of this is the use of signs for Crenshaw Boulevard which appear prior to and above a streetlight turning red. This light suggests a similar signification as the stop sign in Boyz—travel is not permitted beyond a certain point. By juxtaposing the two signs prior to a scene in which Caine is shot and his cousin fatally wounded, the film suggests not only the limitations of movement outside the hood but also within the hood. It also underscores the paradox inherent in the automobile: while it promises freedom and mobility, it also signifies death as figured through drive-by shootings and car-jackings.

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It is this particular set of signs which foreshadows the events to come. Because the Hughes brothers set out with a specific agenda (to problematize the sentimentality of Boyz), there is no happy ending, as Caine’s hopes for escape are dashed by a fatal gunshot wound, and he never reaches Atlanta. Even the utopian vision of Atlanta is revealed to be a mirage through Caine’s suggestion that it is yet another ghetto with a similar system of institutionalized racism. In this sense, Caine’s death is similar to Doughboy’s and, to a lesser extent, Ricky’s, for he becomes another statistic of black on black crime and the institutions which promote and propagate the violence. Yet whereas the earlier film stresses the importance of strong father figures as enabling influences on young African American men, Menace questions this conclusion by suggesting that this is not enough. Caine, while not having his biological father, did have a number of paternal figures (including his grandfather) who sought, at different times, to advise him. It is, finally, around the figure of the father that the Hugheses succeed in breaking away from Singleton’s sentimentality, for where Boyz suggests that individual will and human emotions can triumph over social conditions and economic realities, Menace makes no such claims.25 Finally, while it can be argued that with Menace II Society the Hughes brothers succeeded in making complex the narrative issues and signifying practices introduced in Boyz N the Hood, it can also be argued that Menace would not have been the film it was without relying on the very significations which it seeks to redefine more realistically. In this manner, Boyz lays the groundwork and maps the route for the narrative and signifying systems which the Hugheses then use in a shorthand manner. For the Hugheses, the hood already existed in film as a recognizable space and thus a mapping of its general terrain was not necessary. Instead, Menace takes the hood as a given signifying system and begins to trace and rearticulate its images. If considered in this manner, Menace becomes most interesting not for the reality which it seeks to represent but for the dialogue in which it engages with issues of representation and how they affect its images. Epilogue What the signifying systems of Boyz N the Hood and Menace II Society point to is the continuation of the central place the city occupies in African American cultural production. What I have attempted to accomplish throughout this essay is to trace the means by which the cityscape has appeared as a recurring trope in African American literature and film. In pre-Renaissance and Renaissance writings,

Critical Perspectives on Boyz N the Hood  |  389 the city often occupied a dual role: to signify the differences and utopian possibilities that distinguished the urban from the rural. Following the Depression, the city’s role in literature and film became dystopic, and urban cartography signified the living conditions endured by the residents of the segregated and impoverished ghettos in places such as New York and, to a lesser extent, Los Angeles. These concerns were continued in the work of Oscar Micheaux, the black action genre, and the L.A. school of filmmakers. The dual roles of the city also inform the hood films of the 1980s and 1990s. The hood as figured in these films is utopian in that its presence celebrates the continued existence and the possibilities of African American communities and African American cultural production. On the other hand, the films are still battling with the social and economic conditions within these spaces. Unlike earlier African American films, hood films are much more concerned with blurring the boundaries between utopia and dystopia. In concentrating on the problems of the containment of the community and movement within and between communities, these recent films focus on crossing the borders of both the real and imaginary city areas. While films like Boyz N the Hood and Menace II Society have continued to explore the cityscape as a metaphor for African American experience, they are also markedly different from their literary and filmic predecessors in that they have explicitly created a space and discourse concerned with representation and the power structure of Hollywood. In doing so, the films and filmmakers have succeeded in making visible previously unscreened spaces of the contemporary hood, South Central Los Angeles in particular, and have done so by targeting both black and white audiences.26 In a sense, therefore, they also cross boundaries within filmic discourse by drawing on both the history of African American film production and the history of Hollywood film production. Finally, it is important to stress the success which films like Boyz N the Hood and Menace II Society have had in both continuing the legacy of the cityscape and placing the hood in contemporary public imagination. In doing so, these films, in combination with an increasing body of “nonhood” African American films such as To Sleep with Anger, A Rage in Harlem, Malcolm X, Crooklyn, and The Inkwell, have rearticulated the hood as a primary metaphor for the African American experience.27 It will be interesting to watch the methods by which the city continues as a metaphor in future films. It has already taken on figurative proportions in Poetic Justice, Posse, and Gunmen, which, while not specifically located in the hood, utilize it as a primary intertextual reference.

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Notes Thanks to my two readers for their comments and suggestions. Also, I would like to express my gratitude to my colleagues in the Cinema Studies Department at New York University without whose support this paper would not have been written. 1. This is not to suggest that the city did not exist in African American literature prior to the tum of the century. Traces of the city appear as early as slave narratives. The city also appears in works not precisely centered upon urban life, such as in Frank Webb’s The Caries and Their Friends (1857), a novel primarily concerned with another major African American literary trope: color caste. 2. The work of many writers during this period exhibited the split identities that migration had helped to form between the country (rural) and the city. Namely, writers such as Nella Larsen, Zora Neale Hurston, and Jean Toomer straddle both worlds and do so by either shifting their stories from one location to another or by having their characters figuratively inhabit different locations. 3. See Rosa Guy’s, A Measure of Time (New York: Holt, Rinehart, and Winston, 1983) and Toni Morrison’s, Jazz (New York: Knopf, 1992). Guy’s novel spans the years between 1928 and 1954, acting as a social history of both Harlem and Montgomery, Alabama. In a similar manner as E. L. Doctorow’s, Ragtime (originally published 1974; New York: Ballantine, 1991), the novel combines real and fictional personalities in its examination of the rise and fall of Harlem. Morrison’s novel is set in Harlem in 1926, but it also travels back in time and, in doing so, shifts its setting to the rural South. 4. Mark Reid, Redefining Black Film (Berkeley, CA: University of California Press, 1993), 10. 5. Thomas Cripps, Slow Fade to Black: The Negro in American Film, 1900–1942 (New York: Oxford University Press, 1977), 173. This is not to suggest that Micheaux’s films did not contain success images. Nor is it to suggest that the Lincoln and Douglass productions are less historically interesting because of their subject matter. It is only to suggest that Micheaux took a chance when moving away from less controversial themes and by raising questions that seemed to be “negative” in comparison. This split, which both Cripps and Mark Reid discuss, points to a continuing debate within the African American community regarding positive/negative stereotypes and the power of images. This has not only been raised as an issue in the critical responses to Spike Lee’s films, but it is also a central debate regarding representation in hood films, especially with regard to their depictions of misogyny, criminality, drug use, poverty, and black-on­black violence. 6. Reid, Redefining Black Film, 14. 7. While the films of both Micheaux and the black action genre were specifically targeted to an urban African American audience, there exist important historical differences

Critical Perspectives on Boyz N the Hood  |  391 in their marketing and distribution. As Thomas Cripps suggests, Micheaux, until his bankruptcy in 1928, was situated outside the studio system and worked only with black-owned exhibition sites. He independently produced, directed, and distributed his films, often carrying the prints with him from city to city. Cripps, Slow Fade to Black, 170–202. Black action films, with the exception of Sweetback, were produced with studio money and shown only in those urban theaters targeted as drawing a young black audience. Sweetback, while made independently, was also distributed in a similar manner as other films belonging to the genre. The intervention of studio (white) cash and influence resulted in a group of films that did speak the language of black empowerment but which did so from within very “safe” parameters; that is, the majority of the films’ protagonists were police officers or working with the law, firmly entrenched in the classic Hollywood paradigm of the rebel whose outsider status is a slight deviation from the status quo. For a more in-depth analysis of the blaxploitation genre, see Ed Guerrero, Framing Blackness: The African American Image in Film (Philadelphia: Temple University Press, 1993), 69–111. 8. Ntongela Masilela, “The Los Angeles School of Black Filmmakers,” in Black American Cinema, ed. Manthia Diawara (New York: Routledge, 1993), 108. 9. Charles Scruggs, Sweet Home: Invisible Cities in the Afro-American Novel (Baltimore, MD: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1993), 5. It should be mentioned that the literary trope of the city as utopiw’dystopia is not confined to African American literature. For more on this subject, see Joyce Carol Oates, “Imaginary Cities: America” and Leslie Fiedler, “Mythicizing the City,” in Literature and the Urban Experience, ed. Michael C. Jaye and Ann Chalmers Watts (New Brunswick, NJ: Rutgers University Press, 1981). In the present discussion it is important to emphasize the specific racial, social, and economic conditions which inform an African American reading of this dichotomy. Scruggs, in Sweet Home, and Toni Morrison in “City Limits, Village Values: Concepts of the Neighborhood in Black Fiction,” in Literature and the Urban Experience, offer insights into these particular configurations. 10. Scruggs, Sweet Home, 18. 11. Edward Soja, Postmodern Geographies: The Reassertion of Space in Critical Social Theory (New York: Verso, 1993), 223. 12. It can be argued that South Central did make an appearance prior to Boyz N the Hood—in Dennis Hopper’s Colors (1988). As has been noted in reference to the film, “South Central Los Angeles is an already storied geography in the American social imagination.” Michael Eric Dyson, “Out of the Ghetto,” Sight & Sound 2, 6 (October 1992): 93. But it must also be emphasized that Colors is quite a different film from those being discussed. This is primarily due to the fact that its narrative is solely concerned with the point of view and experiences of two white LAPD officers who patrol the neighborhood. 13. While there exists a large amount of contemporary writing on this particular subject, it is also interesting to trace its existence in earlier African American fiction and

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nonfiction. See James Baldwin, The Devil Finds Work (New York: Dial Press, 1976), for a more in-depth discussion on the inside/outside dichotomy with respect to film. See also W. E. B. Du Bois, The Souls of Black Folk (originally published 1903; New York: Penguin, 1990), and James Weldon Johnson, The Autobiography of an Ex-Coloured Man (originally published 1912; New York: Vintage, 1989). 14. Manthia Diawara, “Black American Cinema: The New Realism,” in Black American Cinema, ed. Manthia Diawara (New York: Routledge, 1993), 11. 15. Soja, Postmodern Geographies, 21.5. 16. At New York University’s Pan African Film Conference (1994), Lee spoke disdainfully about hood films by referring to them as “crack films.” What I would like to suggest is that Lee’s films have acted as a particular enabling force in the emergence of urban black films while at the same time maintaining an uneasy relationship with them. While there are similarities, especially with respect to the centrality of the city, Lee has tended toward different themes and focal points from which to explore and suggest the fragmentation of African American urban communities. This approach often takes into account the different subject positions that make up and affect the African American community. However, when Lee has examined urban crime, poverty, and drug abuse, as in Jungle Fever (1991), they have acted as a subtext rather than a central concern of the film. 17. Diawara, “Black American Cinema,” 22. 18. This use of signs also counters the mythological associations of freedom and movement promised by L.A.’s car culture with the reality of the limits set on that movement. 19. Louis Wirth as quoted in Scruggs, Sweet Home, 54. 20. Diawara, “Black American Cinema,” 22. 21. Soja, Postmodern Geographies, 7. 22. Atlanta has developed its own history as an urban utopia, appearing as such in the writings of W. E. B. Du Bois, in the films of Micheaux, Lee, Singleton, and the Hughes brothers, and also on television’s The Cosby Show and A Different World. In the latter two examples, Atlanta functions in a similar utopian manner as Locke’s Harlem during the Harlem Renaissance. 23. Amy Taubin, “Girl N the Hood,” Sight & Sound 3, no. 8 (August 1993): 17. 24. The use of the Watts Rebellion as intertext also references the history of African American social unrest in urban areas, unrest which can be traced as appearing as early as the 1700s in New York. Cf. James Weldon Johnson’s, Black Manhattan (originally published 1930; New York: Amo Press, 1968). 25. The theme of individualism can be traced back to the earliest African American films, such as those made by the Douglass and Lincoln Companies. I would like to suggest that the ideal figure of the individual maintains the status quo. This is so because while the individual, through hard work and perseverance, overcomes the social inequities contained within a particular social hierarchy, this is done, in part, to secure a

Critical Perspectives on Boyz N the Hood  |  393 place within that hierarchy. If viewed in this manner, Boyz remains firmly entrenched in the ideology of the American Dream. 26. It cannot be ignored that hood films are primarily, if not solely, concerned with representing the struggle for the survival of young African American men in the inner city. While this is an enabling project, its masculinist agenda can displace and render invisible the condition of African American women, unless it is in the roles of bitches or “ho”s. Even Menace II Society’s portrayal of Ronnie, which promises to be a three-dimensional role for a woman, ultimately falters because of her unbelievable virtue in the reality-based narrative. This lack is most problematic in Boyz’s narrative assertion that in the exclusive figure of the father resides the sole hope for the survival of young African American men. Only Leslie Harris’s Just Another Girl on the IRT succeeds in moving away from these parameters. The fact that her film, in comparison to other hood films, did not fare well in the box office may be an indication of the greater commercial appeal of male-centered stories. Cf. Robyn Wiegman’s discussion of Boyz’s shifting and complex masculine representation in “Feminism, ‘The Boyz,’ and Other Matters Regarding the Male,” in Screening the Male: Exploring Masculinities in Hollywood Cinema, ed. Steven Cohan and Ina Rae Hark (New York: Routledge, 1993). 27. Charles Burnett’s To Sleep with Anger (1992) is an interesting continuation of the influence of split identifications between rural and urban. Its narrative is propelled by the tensions surrounding the visit of an old country friend to a family living in Los Angeles. With his appearance, the family is forced to face, in different ways, many facets of their history which had become repressed in the course of their transition from country to city.

“ Obviously, no one film can or should exhaustively grapple with every relevant issue. However, seldom has one attempted to make us think and feel about them to the extent of Boyz N’ The Hood. Let us transform this thought and these feelings into a holistic analysis aimed at constructing an alternative mode of existence to the colonial reality presently facing African Americans. So let it be done!” Paula J. Massood, from Cinema Journal, Vol. 35, No. 2 (Winter, 1996), pp. 85–97. Copyright © University of Texas Press. All rights reserved. Reprinted by permission.

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Boyz N The Hood: A Colonial Analysis by James Nadell Although several issues of consequence are addressed by John Singleton’s Boyz N the Hood (1991), mainstream, capitalist media inquiry has emphasized the peripheral, sensational events surrounding the film, failing to provide the necessary structural and contextual analyses that Boyz merits. The raw human tragedy and triumph depicted by Singleton sears and energizes the consciousness of the viewer. In order that this energy not be squandered, it must be channeled into a holistic understanding of the psychological/political/economic/cultural matrix within which the phenomenology portrayed in the film is played out. This article will attempt to provide the structural and contextual analyses that have heretofore been lacking, further enhancing the didactic value of Boyz long after its run in the theaters has drawn to a close. Three interwoven factors lay at the roots of the crises treated in the film: 1. The demoralizing effects of Euro-American racist capitalism on the material and psychosocial existence of the African American masses; 2. The low intensity warfare waged by the Euro-American state apparatus against the Black liberation struggle; and 3. Drugs in African American communities. Let us consider these factors in isolation as well as examine the process linking them, thereby contextualizing the historical moment treated so powerfully by Singleton’s film.

African Americans and the Colonial Dialectic For every sand castle, there is the same size hole in the ground. —Sedition Ensemble (1981, Numbered Blues)

European and Euro-American capitalist expansion has in greatest part been fueled by the oppression and exploitation of African and Third World labor and resources (Asian, Latino, Native, and African colonies in the United States included). This dialectic has meant the enrichment of Euro-American and European elites and the corresponding under enrichment of Africans and other Third World peoples. To a lesser, though still significant, degree, White working people, many of whom live in equal material despair, have also served as a source of this capitalist expansion,

Critical Perspectives on Boyz N the Hood  |  395 paying a heavy price in the process. As this article examines the ramifications of this process for African Americans, the impact on other exploited populations will not be dealt with, though such a pursuit is no less valid. Writing on the nature of the European attack on African and Third World people, Fanon captures the essence of this dialectical reality in The Wretched of the Earth (1963, p. 163): “The wealth of the Europeans is our wealth too … Europe is literally the creation of the Third World. The wealth which smothers her is that which was stolen from underdeveloped peoples.” Ample quantitative analysis is available to document this statement, notably Davidson (1961, 1969) and Williams (1944). Reviewing the relevant literature, Rodney concludes as follows: “From an African viewpoint, that [colonial dialectic] amounted to consistent expatriation of surplus produced by African labor out of African resources. It meant the development of Europe as part of the same dialectical process in which Africa was underdeveloped” (1981, p. 149). Rodney, throughout this same work, establishes further that the various industries, financial institutions, and mechanisms of European and American commerce were capitalized with the profits derived from slave trade and colonialism. Through the twin systems of slavery and internal colonialism, the EuroAmerican state apparatus, its casuists, and its many blind followers have created a similar (but distinct) material reality insofar as African Americans are concerned. Although individual differences, gender, and class must be factored into any analysis of African American people, the modal experience of Africans in America has been one of an oppressed, colonized population: Like the people of the underdeveloped countries, the Negro suffers in varying degrees from hunger, illiteracy, diseases, ties to the land, urban and semi-urban slums, cultural starvation, and the psychological reactions of being ruled over by those not of his [her] kind. … From the beginning, the American Negro has existed as a colonial being. His [her] enslavement coincided with the colonial expansion of European powers and was nothing more or less than a condition of domestic colonialism. … The only factor which differentiates the Negro’s status from that of a pure colonial status is that his [her] position is maintained in the home country in close proximity to the dominant racial group. (Cruse, 1968, pp. 75–77)

The quantitative evidence supports Cruse’s assertion. In areas such as life expectancy, infant mortality, median income, poverty levels, unemployment rates, and quality of education, the African American masses represent an internal Third World relative to Euro-Americans (Farley & Allen, 1987; Marable, 1983).

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An African American infant is twice as likely to die as his or her White counterpart. African American adult death rates are 150% those of Whites (Farley & Allen, 1987, pp. 42–49). According to the Centers for Disease Control, in certain areas, Black males between the ages of 15 and 25 are more likely to die from homicide than a U.S. soldier was likely to be killed in Vietnam (Young Blacks, 1990). Whereas 20% of all American children live in poverty (an outrage in itself ), 50% of African American children exist below the poverty level (One-fifth, 1989). Blacks spend less than 7% of their consumer dollars within the race, the wealth being externalized in traditional colonial fashion (Marable, 1983, p. 165). It is estimated that 45% of Black men do not have jobs (Gresham & Wilkerson, 1989, p. 116). Mere numbers can never capture the human suffering endured, but this limited glance at the material status of African Americans reveals the colonial nature of their existence: an “externalized cost” of Euro-American capitalist superexploitation, or “collateral damage” in present-day Gulfspeak. As the impulse for freedom is no less intense in African people than in any other people, the pacification of the population has required an attack on psychological and cognitive fronts, in addition to traditional Euro-American methods of violence. A self-perpetuating cultural dialectic was thus erected as a tactic in this pacification program, exalting European and Euro-American excellence to the degree that it degrades African and African American modes of existence. An insidious mechanism manipulated by ruling elites to psychologically colonize African American minds, so as to better control and prevent resistance, this cultural dialectic is best summed up by Fanon: It is not enough for the settler to delimit physically, that is to say with the help of the army and the police force, the place of the native. As if to show the totalitarian character of colonial exploitation the settler paints the native as a sort of quintessence of evil. … The native is declared insensible to ethics; he represents not only the absence of values, but also the negation of values. He is, let us dare to admit, the enemy of values, and in this sense he is the absolute evil. He is the corrosive element, destroying all that comes near him; he is the deforming element, destroying all that has to do with beauty or morality … (1963, p. 41)

Echoing Fanon’s analysis with reference to the American setting, Akbar (1985) characterizes this cultural dialectic: There are few, if any monuments, statues, or reminders of Black accomplishment. Even the walls of our own homes pay tribute to the accomplishments of European Americans and often prominently display even a Caucasian symbol of God. … Beauty is

Critical Perspectives on Boyz N the Hood  |  397 always the opposite of our most usual features. Power, in combination with “Black” is an obscene and militant declaration of war. This is the message of the culture from the parks of our major cities to the constant parade of European-American excellence on television. (p. 30)

Marable (1983) provides a similar analysis of the American racial cultural dialectic: “The aesthetics and popular culture of racist societies constantly reinforce the Anglo-Saxon ideal in the minds of Blacks, creating the tragic and destructive phenomenon of self-hatred and cultural genocide” (p. 9). Even this malevolent device, in combination with the extreme violence of the colonizer, has not been able to eradicate African American self-love and the correlated quest for freedom. The empirical and phenomenological data reflect the fact that although many African Americans experience various levels of selfalienation around the issue of race, many more do not, as Poussaint (1972), Grier and Cobbs (1968), and Akbar (1984, 1987) theorize. Fanon’s observations (1963, pp. 138–39) that colonized Africans are inoculated against racial self-alienation to the degree that they are able to insulate themselves within a protective African national culture lends itself well to the American scene. Through the creation of an African American national culture, African Americans become immersed in a social substance that filters the toxic elements from the racist American indoctrination system, preserving the basic human impulse toward self-love and self-creation, individually and collectively, as a review of the related literature indicates (Akbar, 1987; Cross, 1985, 1987; Semaj, 1985; Spencer, 1987). Although it would run counter to the laws of human psychological development to suggest that slavery and internal colonialism have not had a profoundly damaging effect on the psychobehavioral states of African Americans, resistance was and remains strong, also consistent with human tendency. Far from being vanquished (in psychological or material terms), African Americans have fought and sacrificed for freedom since their enslavement in North America, as Aptheker’s carefully documented study (1969) of slave guerrilla warfare and militant Black resistance details. This impulse toward freedom was no less evident as chattel slavery gave way to internal colonialism, evidenced by a rich and manifold history of struggle (Allen, 1969; Forsythe, 1977; Malcolm X 1965; Marable, 1983; Newton, 1972; White, 1984). This resistance has challenged the capacity of the American state apparatus and its competing elites to rob and exploit oppressed people, at home and abroad. As such, the state has responded to this challenge (the threat of democracy) with utmost hostility, attempting to neutralize it with extreme prejudice, by any means

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necessary. The rapid demise of the Garvey movement, the assassination of Malcolm X, the meteoric rise and fall of the Black Panther Party, and the destabilization of the Black liberation struggle in general are all directly and causally related to this state policy, as the very internal record of the national political police, the FBI, unequivocally documents (Vander Wall & Churchill, 1990). The reverberations of this low intensity warfare program and the American racist capitalist system that gave rise to it are felt to this very day and are inextricably linked to the very phenomenology dealt with by Boyz N the Hood.

The Real Criminal All of us agree that the gravest domestic threat facing our nation today is drugs. … Our most serious problem today is cocaine, and in particular crack. Who’s responsible? —George Bush (September 5, 1989) The real criminal is in the White House in Washington, D.C. —Malcolm X (1963) The rollers only arrest us, the young niggahs, they don’t f-k with the rich mugs that sell dope. My brother went to Vietnam and he said the government let Vietnam dudes bring big dope from Nam —Larry, age 15, Detroit gang member, in Taylor (1989) Either they don’t know, don’t show, or don’t care about what’s goin’ on in the ‘hood. (Doughboy in Boyz N the Hood)

A driving force of the within-group violence depicted in Boyz N the Hood is the illicit narcotics trade. Laying it down to the folk, Furious recognizes a crucial point that remains willfully and scandalously ignored by mainstream capitalist media and the vast majority of its lawmakers: African Americans do not control the means of narcotics production, refinement, or international transshipment, and only marginally control the retail, low-end domestic distribution networks. Despite this fact, the American masses are fed a steady diet of a drug-crazed or drug-dealing Black Lumpen proletariat, taking the onus off the very structures of power most deeply involved in the flood of narcotics into African American communities. [ … ] In addition to the contextual framework in which the film is immersed, many of the film’s nuances merit attention. Let us briefly highlight a few of them, as they serve as vehicles by which the viewer is made to process the truths illuminated by Boyz.

Critical Perspectives on Boyz N the Hood  |  399

What’s in a Name? Names and labels can have a profound effect on the cognitive appraisal of the entity so labeled. Consider the imagery and emotions that accompany the terms Negro, Black, and African American. Although Negro is merely an Anglo variant of the Latin term meaning Black, in American society it is a term used by the dominant culture to strip people of African descent of their cultural identity, their connection to the African motherland. As such, Negro was eventually rejected when those so labeled recognized the racial bond that connected them in America and defined themselves as Black, rejecting the classification of the oppressor. Black soon gave way to African American, as the self and social awareness of the people blossomed to such a degree that the African cultural imperative had to be fulfilled, as the refusal to be defined by the colonizer naturally spiraled into self-definition. African American speaks to a past, something as important to a people as memory is to the individual, particularly when the collective memory has been ruthlessly assaulted by the colonizer. At the level of the individual, the power of naming is exemplified by two warrior spirits. Malcolm Little was a vice Lord; Malcolm X was a Black Nationalist freedom fighter, a follower of and chief spokesman for the Nation of Islam (NOI), abandoning his false consciousness and criminal vocation, enabling others to do likewise; El-Hajj Malik El-Shabazz was an independent thinker, elevating the struggle to another level, leaving the protective environs of the NOI to become a truly international pan-African revolutionary. Cassius Clay was a championship boxer of rarely equaled grace and style; Muhammad Ali was/is a figure beloved all over the globe, a man who risked his class interest by refusing to give his seal of approval to a racist, genocidal neocolonial war in Southeast Asia. Clearly, thought and action influence and are influenced by the naming process. Boyz N the Hood is most instructive in this regard. Throughout the film, two labels dominate the discourse. The young men refer to themselves as niggers and to the women as bitches or whores. Nicknames and jargon are often healthy expressions of humor, affection, and creativity, enabling a group or subculture to carve out a small domain of linguistic autonomy in defiance of authority. The terms nigger, bitch, and whore go far beyond this type of expression. Nigger is a term that has been applied by the Euro-American colonizers to the inhabitants of the internal African colony. On one level of consciousness, when used among the oppressed in casual banter, the term nigger is more or less

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equivalent to such slang expressions of camaraderie as dude, homeboy, brother, cousin, and blood, lacking in any pejorative significance. At a deeper level of analysis, the frequent use of the word nigger in the discourse of Boyz speaks to an internalization of the colonizers’ label on the part of the colonized. This internalization and subsequent verbalization is a reflection of racial self-alienation on the part of those who consciously or unconsciously make use of the word when referring to self or others. The dynamic is similar with regard to the use of the terms bitch and whore with reference to Black women. Again, there is a process of some Black men, particularly those represented in the film, internalizing the traditional EuroAmerican definitions and devaluations of African American women. As Black women are Black people, the use of these terms also reflects a degree of racial selfalienation that exists within some African Americans, specifically those who use these descriptive labels and those women who accept their use without objection. As stated above, the idea that African Americans suffer self-alienation around the issue of race is a gross oversimplification, running counter to the diverse phenomenology and empirical findings concerning this matter. Nonetheless, the labels that circulate in the subculture portrayed by John Singleton call attention to the condition of racial self-alienation in some of this population, a dynamic initiated and perpetuated by Euro-American colonial structures.

Black on Black Violence: Instrumental and Auto-Destruction Evil men make me kill you, evil men make you kill me, even though we’re only families apart.1 —Jimi Hendrix (1969, “Machine Gun”)

The cycle of violence and homicide is arguably the most dangerous by-product that internal colonialism has created for African Americans. As the graphic that opens the film indicates, 5% of young Black men will die by homicide, almost exclusively at the hands of other Black men. Two factors appear to lie at the heart of this cycle of violence: instrumental demand and racial self-alienation. Instrumental demand refers to the use of violence on the part of the perpetrator to secure material or strategic benefits. When the American state apparatus and its agents carry out genocide against the indigenous population to take control of their resources and territory for the purpose of capitalist expansion, the violence is instrumental. The same is true of the American state with reference to

Critical Perspectives on Boyz N the Hood  |  401 its aggression against African people in solidifying the chattel slave system, and its aggression or sponsorship of aggression by local elites against Third World peoples, such as in El Salvador, Guatemala, Nicaragua, Chile, Indonesia, Vietnam, South Africa, Zaire, Iran, Cuba, the Philippines, Palestine, the Dominican Republic, and Haiti, to name but a few (Chomsky, 1985, 1988, 1989). In such cases, the violence enhances the material gain of the aggressors. At a different level, as Fanon (1963) has pointed out, the within-group violence of the colonized African is in part the result of a scramble for the limited resources available to the suffering masses, and thus serves an instrumental function: Exposed to the temptations to commit murder every day … the native comes to see his neighbor as his relentless enemy. … For during the colonial period in Algeria and elsewhere many things may be done for a couple of pounds of semolina. Several people may be killed over it. … Every colony tends to tum into a huge farmyard, where the only law is that of the knife. (pp. 307–308)

In addition to this type of instrumental violence, and also rooted in the capitalist underdevelopment of Black America, the illegitimate opportunity structure of the narcotics trade creates intense competition for turf and market share and thus the resultant violence, as more legitimate means of economic advancement are lacking in postindustrial capitalist society. The role of the American security state in this illicit trade has been discussed earlier and need not be repeated. This type of instrumental criminal violence is similar in nature to that carried out by segments of other ethnic groups who for a time were locked out of the legitimate opportunity structure, including Jewish, Italian, Irish, and Cuban immigrants. This violence was largely abandoned when a wider range of opportunities for advancement became available. Fanon (1963) observes another source of within-group violence in the colony, reflecting the racial self-alienation of some colonized Africans: “Here we discover the kernel of that hatred of self which is characteristic of [intrapsychic] racial conflicts in segregated societies … in reality each man committed suicide when he went for his neighbor” (p. 307). In view of the extended sense of self that is characteristic of African culture (“I am because we are, because we are I am”), and not entirely destroyed by Euro-American oppression (Azibo, 1989; Meyers, 1988; Nobles, 1972), Fanon’s analysis is that much more valid. In acting violently toward another Black person, the individual may be aggressing against a hated aspect of self, Blackness, as Poussaint (1983) confirms: “A homicide can, for some Blacks, be viewed as saving their own egos from disintegration by displacing their aggressive discharge on

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other Blacks, on whom they project their own racial self-hatred” (p. 164). Grier and Cobbs (1968) and Akbar (1984) mirror this assessment. The film’s most extreme example of this process is the brutal, racially self-hating Black police officer, a man whose hatred of and violence against the very Black people he is supposed to serve and protect is primarily an expression of his own internal conflict with his Blackness. Considering the role of P. J. “Gloves” Davis in the Hampton and Clark assassinations (Churchill, 1990, p. 358), the officer portrayed represents a slice (not the whole pie) of reality, as does the film in general. In light of the evidence, Black on Black violence in the American colonial setting tends to result from a combination of variables: 1. Instrumental and strategic motives, mostly connected to the narcotics trade (not to mention the activities of those addicts who act violently in order to get funds to procure drugs); 2. Competition for limited resources; and 3. Racially based self-alienation, the source of which is the racist colonial cultural dialectic, highlighted above. Additionally, the frustration and correlated anger produced by the material deprivation suffered by the colonized African American synergistically interacts with the aforementioned factors to create the spiral of violence to which Singleton calls attention.

Diagnostic Analysis and Treatment Having outlined and analyzed the context within which the phenomenology under consideration unfolds, what is to be one? Space does not allow for an adequate delineation of solutions. There is, however, one overriding principle that must be adhered to: Although Euro-American colonialism is the genesis and perpetuation of the ailments depicted in the film and discussed here, the bulk of the responsibility to remedy these maladies lies with the African American people themselves. An accurate reading of the history of African American people would reveal that Black Nationalism (the cultural, economic, and political self-determination of African Americans) is the most effective means for uplifting the material and metaphysical conditions of the masses. With the institutionalization of a healthy Black Nationalist movement, free of sexism, homophobia, and doctrinaire isms,

Critical Perspectives on Boyz N the Hood  |  403 will come a great reduction in the pathology and suffering endured by African Americans as a result of their status as subjects of a racist internal colony. Progressive Whites, who recognize that African and African American people historically and currently make the greatest contributions to a universal humanity when they are self-defining and self-creating, must help the White masses understand this. Though this will be most difficult and perhaps even impossible given the highly indoctrinated and racist nature of most of this population, the stakes are too high to forsake the effort. John Singleton is to be commended for tackling such a meaty issue in such a skillful way. Unlike the vast majority of films dealing with African Americans and related subject matter, Singleton is able to capture a diverse range of characters. Positive, healthy, and realistic role models of both sexes are presented, although the very real problems and unsavory elements that exist in Black society are not ignored. Singleton very subtly confronts issues such as AIDS and sexual responsibility, parenting, and gentrification, all of which greatly affect African Americans. Obviously, no one film can or should exhaustively grapple with every relevant issue. However, seldom has one attempted to make us think and feel about them to the extent of Boyz N’ The Hood. Let us transform this thought and these feelings into a holistic analysis aimed at constructing an alternative mode of existence to the colonial reality presently facing African Americans. So let it be done!

Note 1. “Machine Gun,” written by Jimi Hendrix. Copyright 1970, Bella Godiva Music, Inc. Administered worldwide by Don Williams Music Group, Inc.

References Akbar, N. (1984). Chains and images of psychological slavery. Jersey City, NJ: New Mind Productions. Akbar, N. (1985). The community of self. Tallahassee, FL: Mind Productions. Akbar, N. (1987). Interview with Tony Brown (Cassette Recording). New York, NY: Tony Brown’s Journal. Allen, R. (1969). Black awakening in capitalist America. New York, NY: Doubleday. Aptheker, H. (1969). To be free. New York, NY: International Publishers. (Original work published in 1948). Azibo, D. A. (1989). African-centered thesis on mental health and a nosology of Black/ African personality disorder. Journal of Black Psychology, 15, 173–214. Bush, G. (1989, September 5). Nationally televised speech.

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Chomsky, N. (1985). Turning the tide. Boston, MA: South End Press. Chomsky, N. (1988). The culture of terrorism. Boston, MA: South End Press. Chomsky, N. (1989). Necessary illusions. Boston, MA: South End Press. Churchill, W. (1990, November 13). Agents of repression (Cassette Recording). Boulder, CO: Alternative Radio. Cockburn, L., & Cockburn, A. (Producers). (1988). Drugs, guns and the CIA [Documentary]. Boston: WGBH. Cockburn, L. (1987). Out of control. New York, NY: Atlantic Monthly Press. Cross, W. (1985). Black identity: Rediscovering the distinction between personal identity and reference group orientation. In M. Spencer, G. K. Brookens, & W. R. Allen (Eds.), Beginnings: Social and affective development of Black children (pp. 155–171). Hillsdale, NJ: Lawrence Earlbaum. Cross, W. (1987). A two factor theory of Black identity: Implications for the study of identity development in minority children. In J. Phinney & M. J. Rotherman (Eds.), Children’s ethnic socialization. Beverly Hills, CA: Sage. Cruse, H. (1968). Rebellion or revolution. New York, NY: William Morrow. Davidson, B. (1961). The years of the African slave trade. New York, NY: Atlantic Monthly Press. Davidson, B. (1969). The Africans. London: Longman’s, Green. Fanon, F. (1963). The wretched of the earth (C. Farrington, Trans.). New York, NY: Grove. (Original work published 1961). Farley, R., & Allen, W. R. (1987). The color line and the quality of life in America. New York, NY: Russell Sage Foundation. Forsythe, D. (1977). The dialectics of Black separatism. In R. L. Jones (Ed.), Black nationalism and social reality: Rhetoric and reality (pp. 195–207). New York, NY: Pergamon. Gresham, J. H., & Wilkerson, M. B. (1989, July 24/31). The burden of history. Nation, pp. 115–116. Grier, W. E., & Cobbs, P. (1968). Black rage. New York, NY: Basic Books. Hitchins, C. (1989, May 8). Minority report. Nation, p. 619. Kruger, H. (1980). The great heroin coup. Boston, MA: South End Press. Lifschultz, L. (1988, November 14). Inside the kingdom of heroin. Nation, pp. 476, 492–496. Marable, M. (1983). How capitalism underdeveloped Black America. Boston, MA: South End Press. McCoy, A. (1972). The politics of heroin in Southeast Asia. New York, NY: Harper & Row. McCoy, A. (1991, January). The politics of drugs. Z Magazine, pp. 64–74. Meyers, L. J. (1988). Understanding an Afrocentric worldview: Introduction to an optimal psychology. Dubuque, LA: Kendall/Hunt. Newton, H. P. (1972). To die for the people. New York, NY: Random House. Nobles, W. (1972). African philosophy: Foundations for Black psychology. In R. L. Jones (Ed.), Block psychology. New York, NY: Harper & Row. One-fifth of children in poverty. (1990, October 2). Miami Herald, p. la. Poussaint, A. (1972). Why blocks kill blacks. New York, NY: Emerson Hall. Poussaint, A. (1983). Black on black homicide: A psychological-political perspective. Victimology, 8, 161–169.

Critical Perspectives on Boyz N the Hood  |  405 Rodney, W. (1981). How Europe underdeveloped Africa. Washington, DC: Howard University Press. Sedition Ensemble. (1981). Numbered blues [album]. Sernaj, L. T. (1985). Africanity cognition and extended self-identity. In M. B. Spencer, G. K. Brookens, & W. R. Allen (Eds.), Beginnings: Social and affective development of Block children (pp. 173–183). Hillsdale, NJ: Lawrence Earlbaum. Sheehan, D. (1987). Midnight soldiers (Cassette Recording). Boulder, CO: Alternative Radio. Sheehan, D. (1990). U.S. government role in the drug trade (Cassette Recording). Boulder, CO: Alternative Radio. Singleton, J. (Director). (1991). Boyz N ‘The Hood [Film]. Columbia Pictures. Spencer, M. B. (1987). Black children’s ethnic identity formation: Risk and resilience of caste like minorities. In J. S. Phinney & M. J. Rothman (Eds.), Children’s ethnic socialization. Beverly Hills, CA: Sage. Stockwell, J. (1988, April). [Radio Interview]. Miami: WIOD. Taylor, C. S. (1989). Dangerous society. East Lansing, MI: Michigan State University Press. Vander Wall, J., & Churchill, W. (1990). The cointelpro papers. Boston, MA: South End Press. White, I. (1984). The psychology of Blocks: An Afro-American perspective. New York, NY: Bruner/ Maze! Williams, E. (1944). Capitalism and slavery. Chapel Hill, NC: University of North Carolina Press. Young Blacks victims of soaring homicides. (1990, December 8). Miami Herald, p. 21a. X, Malcolm. (1963). [Speech]. In The wisdom of Malcolm X (Recording). (1983). New York, NY: Autofidelity Enterprises. X, Malcolm. (1965). The autobiography of Malcolm X. New York, NY: Grove.

James Nadell is a practicing clinical psychologist in Miami, Florida, where he treats inpatients and outpatients recovering from traumatic brain injury, CVA, and a range of orthopedic injuries and conditions. His research interests include multicultural issues in psychotherapy, African American musical phenomenology, and application of the Fanonist psychosocial model to the African American population. Due for publication in 1995 is his Bob Marley, Jimi Hendrix and Black Music: Profiles in Fanonist National Culture (Winston Derek Publishers). He is presently teaching at the Miami Institute of Psychology in the area of multicultural psychology and at Florida International University, teaching the Psychology of the Block Experience. He also has a radio program in the Ft. Lauderdale/Miami area on WFTL, where he is known as the “Cognitive Dissident.” James Nadell, from Journal of Black Studies, Vol. 25, No. 4 (March 1995), pp. 447–464 © 1995 Sage Publications, Inc. All rights reserved. Reprinted by permission.

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Two Takes on Boyz N the Hood by Thomas Doherty and Jacquie Jones Boyz N the Hood is this season’s Do the Right Thing: an occasion for clucking conversations and talking head commentary on the American Dilemma. Intrinsic virtue aside, three hooks helped reel in nationwide attention and box office fortune ($50 million and counting for a film whose negative costs, as Arnold Schwarzenegger might say, wouldn’t have financed the catering on Terminator 2). First, the Hollywood Cinderella story—twenty-three-year-old writer-director John Singleton rescued from USC toil by fresh princes at Creative Artists Agency and Columbia Pictures—was irresistible. Second, for white-bread spectators whose main access to urban black culture is Yo! MTV Raps, the dynamic originality of the geography and ethnography was a compelling education and voyeuristic lure. Finally, in-theater violence of a kind more serious than torn cushions accompanied the film’s first weekend run. Though the onscreen bloodshed is mild by the standards of urban action adventure and nonseductive by the terms of cinematic grammar, the front page coverage inspired an elaborate media tango on Violence and the Cinema. With so much to live up to, and down, Boyz N the Hood loomed to calcify as cultural artifact rather than jam as vibrant art. Although Singleton’s debut telegraphs more messages than a Stanley Kramer film festival, it also gives face and valence to people unseen, unheeded, and undone. The central image and main theme is waste. Litter-strewn alleys soaked in coagulated blood are backdrop for disposable humans, street trash amid street trash. As screen metaphor, as social reality, the wasted lives are nothing less than heartbreaking. The narrative follows three kids—alert and ambitious Tre (Cuba Gooding, Jr.), good-natured athlete Ricky (Morris Chestnut), and smoldering cocaine merchant Doughboy (Ice Cube)—as they navigate late adolescence through the obstacle course of South Central Los Angeles. Tre alone is blessed with a patriarchal presence, his stern but loving father Furious (Larry Fishburne). As the moral center and ostensible point of audience identification, the kid who will either get out or get killed, the very unload Tre is an antihero for the inner city: a virginal teenager who holds down a sucker job and is himself held well in line by Furious. He also cries a whole lot. Across the street and a nuclear-unit world away, Ricky and Doughboy live with their single-mother difference. Backstory informants reveal that the boys have been sired by different fathers, both nowhere to be seen. Though both sons

Critical Perspectives on Boyz N the Hood  |  407 are good to Mom, would-be Trojan running back Ricky is doted on and favored. In the family affair, Doughboy grows up to be somebody who just loves to burn. Ice Cube—formerly the anchor for Compton’s N.W.A., presently the platinum selling auteur of AmeriKKKa’s Most Wanted—has the pent-up intensity of a caged panther. Where actors Gooding and Chestnut look and sound as if they’ve been bussed in from the ‘burbs, Ice Cube is to the manner born. Playing a role so close to home, he has the stance, the style, the slang, and the gaze that means business and the girth to back it up. It is he, and not Tre or Ricky, whom audiences embrace. Ice Cube is Singleton’s ace in the hood, the authentic human presence without whom the melodrama would play as travelog. For all the films shot in and around the streets of L.A., a clover-leafed vista locked in the deep medulla of the televisual spectator, none has adopted the streetlevel perspective of South Central Los Angeles—certainly not Dennis Hopper’s cop’s-eye-view of the streets Colors. The most exotic of location shoots was a twentyminute drive away. Singleton’s is a hazy environ—well, the film is badly lit— where helicopter searchlights sweep bedrooms at night and automatic weapons fire disrupts homework concentration. Yet the neighborhood is not poor in an economic baseline sense—no one talks about making ends meet, the homes are not high-rise projects and, if not privately owned, they are at least private, and Ricky’s gridiron exploits are cued up on the VCR. The poverty is cultural. Quarts of St. Ides Malt Liquor are glued to the wrist, babies wander into roads, crack is sold at curbside, and vicious pummelings clutter backframe space. The sociological designation for the up against the wall life is “urban underclass,” a dead zone having not even the solidarity of segregation or the warmth of the ghetto, much less expectations of escape into the mainstream. Though L.S.’s horizontal plane has traditionally promised mobility and fun-fun-fun on palm-shaded boulevards, Singleton keeps his camera close to the ground and no freedom beckons on these open roads. Homicide is merely more vehicular. As public policy, Boyz is an ideological mélange—at once anti-Reagan and anti-liberal, free of cant and cluttered with semaphore signals. Singleton’s core allegiance is to a resurgent black activism whose monochromatic roots reach back to the self-help ethos of Booker T. Washington, the black separatism of Marcus Garvey, and the “talented tenth” obligations of W.E.B. Du Bois. The overarching presence from the more recent past is Malcolm X; the modern prophet, Louis Farrakhan. “Doughboy underscores the link in an offhand remark about Furious as ‘Malcolm/Farrakhan’”). The conspicuous absences from the Black Studies curriculum—Martin Luther King and the church—reflects the frustration

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with the paradigm of civil rights activism. For Singleton and his generation, the assimilationist rhetoric of the old guard civil rights groups in the NAACP/ SCLC mold is a worn grove, the promised land Reverend King saw from the mountaintop no longer visible from Crenshaw Street. The back-to-black protest movement is more apt to be found in politically charged culture than in the pure politics of legislative action—notably in the incendiary rap music of Public Enemy, Easy-E, Ice T., and N.W.A. When John Singleton met Ice Cube at a Farrakhan rally, the new political/culture nexus came full circle. With eyes on another prize, pledged to a different kind of affirmative action, the missionary work is for the souls of black folks, moving inward at self-reformation, not outward at institutional reform. The film then is not about black and white relationships, not about color at all in an interracial dimension. In an instructive early sequence, a pair of L.A. cops—one black, one white—get out of a squad car to answer a burglary call at Furious’s house. The shot invited expectations of a pat biracial confrontation. But it is the black cop who is the seething bigot, the white cop who hangs back, silent and ill at ease with his partner’s breach of procedure. (Inevitably if inadvertently, the appearance of these L.A. cops conjures up the video footage of Rodney King. The screen image of the L.A. police department no longer bears the Mark VI imprint of Jack Webb.) Later the black cop puts a gun to Tre’s throat, mainly because it feels good. But if rogue police can be every bit as life-threatening as drive-by shooters, they are not the community’s most destructive force. Sanctioned authority figures are more often hapless or benign. Tre’s elementary school teacher is a well-meaning bubble and the athletic recruiter from USC who drops into the hood like a UFO to abduct a lucky groundling is treated as kindly savior, not a sinister talent vulture (in fidelity to the old school tie?). The malady is not police brutality, racism, drugs, or any other social problem, although all are depicted. Like a sample punched up for an endless loop, Singleton’s single-minded rap punches away at the black man’s burden. And it is man’s. Heeding actuarial charts that compare unfavorably with chattel slavery and casualty counts whose frequency and character resemble a combat zone body count, Singleton brandishes an all-male club. Sex-specific and exclusive, his is a desperate effort to infuse the Good Father into Bad Muthas. Nothing comes through with more painful clarity—not the violence, the wasted talent, the dead-end dreams—than the yearning for that messianic figure. The Strong Black Male Role Model. “My film has a lot of messages in it,” understates Singleton in the film’s press kit, “but my main message is that African American men have to

Critical Perspectives on Boyz N the Hood  |  409 take responsibility for raising their children. Especially their boys. Fathers have to teach their boys to be men. The audience will be able to see the directions that the characters take when there is an absence or a presence of fathers in their lives.” One of the unacknowledged undertows of rap music is the anger at the absent father—compare the Temptations’ 1972 elegiac version of “Papa Was a Rollin’ Stone” to the recent Was Not Was cover containing a rap break from G. Love E. that simmers with oedipal rage (sample lyric: “I remember when I used to tell lies / When people would ask, I’d fantasize / Thinkin’ of stories to make you look good / But the real truth was you were never no good.”) Singleton takes a more positive groove, dramatizing a black male who doesn’t hang out, smoke crack, or stalk women, a black father who is strong, supportive, open, and intense—who is, above all, there. Thus when Tre acts up at school, his upwardly mobile mother, Reva (Angela Bassett), has the sense to realize the boy needs a father’s reins and promptly drops him on Dad’s doorstep. No sooner is Mom out of the picture than Furious lays down the law with character-building chores and heart-to-heart talks, a calculated blend of that old time patriarchal religion (rake the leaves) and new age progressive practice (use a condom) which, prophylactics excepted, was handed out nightly in the black-and-white worlds of Ward Cleaver, Jim Anderson, and Alex Stone. Lowkey and unexcitable, quietly authoritative, the misnamed Furious (the moniker hints at a Black Panther past) devotes himself to the business of son-rearing with more conscious devotion and less natural ease than his sweater-clad forebears: for him, this is a serious job of work, no labor of love. Singleton hammers home the difference between quality time and just plain time by lavishing attention on the father/son bond. Gratifyingly enough though, the soundtrack pulsates to the scratch and jump tempo of rap, the musical and parental highlight is as smooth as the silk sound of soul, a moment of magical transport Furious shares with his son when the car radio lands on the Five Stairsteps’s “Ooh Child.” (On the strength of Singleton’s Boyz and Spike Lee’s School Daze, Larry Fishburne, once relegated to support status as a medical orderly or law clerk, is developing into the righteous role model of choice in the new black cinema.) If the law of primogenitor comes down with testosterone finality, Singleton is sensitive enough—or sly enough—to get in touch with his female side. Tre’s sophistic attempts to break down girlfriend Brandi’s resistance are transparently self-interested and Doughboy’s two-dimensional view of women (“bitches” and “‘ho’es”) is a flaw, not a virtue (though a big laugh-getter in the theaters). The insertion of one male–female face-off is pretty clearly a preemptive strike against

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feminist ire. In a tony café, Reva claims her mother’s rights and tells off a posturing Furious. Doing what was right, she informs him, does not make him special. Singleton’s unapologetic message mongering—a STOP sign fills the first frames and the director has a symbolic cameo in the film as a postman—has a dramatic downside. For all its touted realism, Boyz is beset by labored symbolism, instructional monologs, and unlikely behaviors. A ten-year-old Tre takes over his elementary classroom to deliver a lecture on African roots; AIDS transmission is discussed and preventive treatment prescribed. Even if 911 is a joke, dragging Ricky’s shotgunned body back home to violate the plastic seat covers of the living room sofa is a strained, bloodstained tableau. In an already notorious soapbox scene, Furious delivers a paranoiac jeremiad under a “Seoul to Seoul” billboard in Compton, a passage from Farrakhan on Asian-American gentrification and crack conspiracy. Why are there liquor stores and gun shops on every street corner? “They want us to kill ourselves,” he answers and no one needs the antecedent uttered. In interviews Singleton has tried to distance himself from the character’s lines but nothing in the film disassociates the writer from the speaker. (At least the turf orientation remains levelheaded: you know Compton’s fierce because the boyz from South Central are very nervous about being there). Purely as motion picture narrative, too, few of the dramatic moves are not telegraphed miles in advance. Behind the streetwise verisimilitude is the soundstage sensibility of a very traditional Hollywood melodrama, complete with a hearttugging kicker delivered—literally by the postman—with tortuous irony in the last reel. Almost grateful for the chance to vent murderous rage at the hand life has dealt him, Doughboy exacts coldblooded retribution on the drive-by shooters who’ve cut down his half-brother. Still playing against type, however, the good son Tre relinquishes revenge and breaks the cycle of violence, if only for himself. The coda, a linear denouement straight out of Compton via American Graffiti, wraps up Doughboy’s ordained doom and Tre’s redemption, the one a victim of gang retribution, the other an undergraduate at Morehouse, the historically black college and alma mater of Larry Fishburne in School Daze (despite the fact that Tre wears Georgetown colors throughout the film). Two-thirds of Boyz n the Hood are thus casualties of war. What comfort there is—cold—must be taken from the fraternal fidelity of Singleton and Ice Cube, sole survivors who not only beat the odds but also seem committed to evening the score. Thomas Doherty and Jacquie Jones, from Cineaste, Vol. 18, Issue 4 (December 1991), pp. 16–19, 4p. Copyright © Cineaste. All rights reserved. Reprinted by permission.

Critical Perspectives on Boyz N the Hood  |  411

Movie Reviews “A Gritty ‘Boyz N the Hood’ Ushers in a New Phase of Cinema” by Kenneth Turan Los Angeles Times (July 12, 1991) It’s an oddly disturbing sound, a persistent noise rattling around in the mind’s back pages, the buzz of a nightmare that won’t quite go away. Almost no one in “Boyz N the Hood,” the strong and striking debut film of 23-year-old writer-director John Singleton, comments directly on it, but we know they hear it and we know what it signifies. It’s the sound of police helicopters on perpetual prowl, insistently searching South-Central Los Angeles for the violence and crime that hang over that part of the city like a debilitating, pestilent haze. John Singleton grew up next door to poor in South-Central Los Angeles, but moved on to a stint at USC’s prestigious film school, where his talent was such that he was signed while still a student by the formidable agents at CAA. Not surprisingly, “Boyz N the Hood” (citywide) is curiously balanced between these two extremes, between Singleton’s passionate desire to depict with gritty accuracy the life he left behind and the fact that, perhaps inevitably, he has poured this heady brew into traditional Hollywood forms that tend to feel shopworn at times.

Figure 8.1:  Promotional image: Director John Singleton, actors Cuba Gooding, Jr., Ice Cube, and Morris Chestnut. Courtesy of John Singleton.

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Consequently, like the penetrating noise of the helicopter, it is often the peripheral sensations of “Boyz N the Hood” rather than its plot that stay with us longest and make the strongest impression. The story “Boyz” tells focuses on Tre Styles, his relationship with his father Furious (Larry Fishburne) and his two best friends, the brothers Ricky and Doughboy. The picture’s first half hour focuses on the boys as preteens, getting to know each other and their blighted neighborhood after Tre’s divorced mother, reluctantly agreeing with Furious’ contention that only a father can teach him “how to be a man,” decides her son would be better off living with his dad. Furious, it soon develops, is a Role Model with a vengeance. A low-key AfricanAmerican nationalist, he teaches Tre not only personal responsibility but also cultural pride. Yet far from being a bore, he is the most charismatic figure in the film. In part this is because Fishburne manages to be both virile and sensible, kind of what it would be like if Mel Gibson played the lead in “Father Knows Best.” But if Furious is appealing, it is also because Singleton, unlike his mentor, Spike Lee, is interested in human as well as political drama and clearly cares for his characters as people as well as symbols. Most of “Boyz” takes place with its trio of protagonists as teen-agers. Tre (Cuba Gooding Jr.), with his job at the Fox Hills Mall and a steady girlfriend, has clearly benefited by his father’s tutelage. But Ricky and Doughboy, living across the street with their overburdened mother (a fine, edgy performance by Tyra Ferrell), are less secure. Ricky (Morris Chestnut), with enough football skill to interest college recruiters, is burdened with a wife and child. And Doughboy, in an unexpectedly affecting performance by rapper Ice Cube, late of the Comptonbased N.W.A, is just out of prison and angry at the world at large. If “Boyz” has a flaw, it is that what happens to these three boys, though possibly news to younger audiences, is more predictable than it needs to be to anyone familiar with an earlier generation of up-from-the-underclass, socially conscious melodramas, everything from “The Roaring Twenties” to “Golden Boy.” Yes, the denouement is disturbing, but it is rather too calculatedly so, and too insistently underlined by an overly sentimental Stanley Clarke score. Singleton’s take on black life is more commercial but not as textured as the one Charles Burnett showed in “To Sleep With Anger,” but, on the other hand, this writer-director is only 23 years old. When looked on from that perspective, the film’s considerable virtues are that much more impressive. What “Boyz N the Hood” (rated R for language, violence, and sensuality) does best is present a convincing panoply of life as it is lived in South-Central

Critical Perspectives on Boyz N the Hood  |  413 L.A. Like a jazz ensemble, Singleton and his actors slowly involve us in an almost sensual mélange of moods, images, and situations that take us inside the ghetto in a way mainstream films almost never do. Though it is often in the background and rarely emphasized, we see the endless hanging out on street corners, the substance abuse and, most of all, the frighteningly casual, ever-present violence of a world where college recruiters are mistaken for drive-by shooters and guns are pulled almost without a hint of provocation. If people here feel trapped, despairing of a way out, it is Singleton’s gift to make us empathize with their hopelessness, and make us wonder, along with them, how long this must go on. For the good part about John Singleton being only 23 years old is that he still feels passionate about exposing and changing that world. His film, which opens with the on-screen statement that “One out of every 21 black American males will be murdered in their lifetime,” closes with the much more upbeat words, “Increase the Peace.” It is Singleton’s insistence on doing just that that lifts his film out of the muddle it sometimes sinks into and makes it very much a debut to remember. ‘Boyz N the Hood’ Morris Chestnut: Ricky Baker Ice Cube: Doughboy Tyra Ferrell: Mrs. Baker Larry Fishburne: Furious Styles Cuba Gooding Jr.: Tre Styles Nia Long: Brandi Released by Columbia Pictures. Director John Singleton. Producer Steve Nicolaides. Screenplay Singleton. Cinematographer Charles Mills. Editor Bruce Cannon. Costumes Darryle Johnson, Shirlene Williams. Music Stanley Clarke. Art director Bruce Bellamy. Set decorator Kathryn Peters. Running time: 1 hour, 47 minutes. MPAA-rated R (language, violence, sensuality). Kenneth Turan, from The Los Angeles Times, July 12, 1991. © The Los Angeles Times. All rights reserved. Reprinted with Permission.

***

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“A Chance to Confound Fate” by Janet Maslin The New York Times (July 12, 1991) “Boyz ‘n the Hood,” John Singleton’s terrifically confident first feature, places Mr. Singleton on a footing with Spike Lee as a chronicler of the frustration faced by young black men growing up in urban settings. But Mr. Singleton, who wrote and directed this film set in south central Los Angeles, has a distinctly Californian point of view. Unlike Mr. Lee’s New York stories, which give their neighborhoods the finiteness and theatricality of stage sets, Mr. Singleton examines a more sprawling form of claustrophobia and a more adolescent angst. If Mr. Lee felt inclined to remake George Lucas’s “American Graffiti” with a more fatalistic outlook and a political agenda, the results might be very much like this. “Boyz ‘n the Hood” spans seven years in the life of Tre Styles (Cuba Gooding Jr.), who in the film’s first episode is seen idly discussing street crimes, and in its last is caught up in one such crime himself. Beginning with some sobering statistics detailing the homicide rate among black men in America, the film builds toward a deadly climax even while depicting its characters’ best efforts to keep violence at bay. Mr. Singleton may not be saying anything new about the combined effects of poverty, drugs and aimlessness on black teen-agers. But he is saying something familiar with new dramatic force, and in ways that a wide and varied audience will understand. His film proceeds almost casually until it reaches a gut-wrenching finale, one that is all the more disturbing for the ease with which it envelops the film’s principals. In the end, “Boyz ‘n the Hood” asks the all-important question of whether there is such a thing as changing one’s fate. If there is—and Mr. Singleton holds out a powerful glimmer of hope in the story’s closing moments—then for this film’s young characters it hinges on the attitudes of their fathers. Tre is a child of divorce, but he has two parents who are devoted to him, and in particular a father who takes over his son’s upbringing at a critical age. At the start of the story, when Tre is 10 years old, Furious Styles (Larry Fishburne) assumes custody of his only son, announcing that it is his responsibility to teach Tre to be a man. Tre’s mother, Reva (Angela Bassett), apparently independent and relatively successful, agrees to the change, perhaps because of the unsatisfactory way in which Tre is being reared. In his elementary school, a condescending white teacher delivers an irrelevant lecture on Pilgrims and Indians—“excuse me, the

Critical Perspectives on Boyz N the Hood  |  415 Native Americans,” she wearily corrects herself—to her bored and restless black students. On the streets, Tre has learned to walk past skirmishes without even noticing them. He and his friends talk idly about street shootings, and about how bloodstains turn plasma-colored on pavement over time. But from Tre’s first day on the cozy, communal block of small houses where Tre’s father lives, Furious does what he can to keep his son in line. Tre is assigned a chore when he first sets foot on his father’s front lawn: “You the prince, I’m the king” is his father’s joking credo. And later, even in times of crisis, Furious does a lot to sustain order. One especially gripping sequence shows Furious foiling a prowler in the house, as the camera pulls back abruptly through bullet holes in the front door. Much of the conversation in “Boyz ‘n the Hood” has to do with sex, and a lot of that talk is fearful. Mr. Singleton makes the connection between sex and reproduction foremost on everyone’s mind, and a major factor in the destruction of these young characters’ independence. Anyone can have sex, Furious tells Tre during a lecture on the facts of life, “but only a real man can raise his children.” By the time Tre and his friends are high school seniors, the football hero Ricky Baker (Morris Chestnut) is already a father, and can feel the walls closing in. Ricky’s brother, Doughboy (the rapper Ice Cube), filled with scowling contempt for the neighborhood and its foibles, has opted not for early fatherhood but for a life of crime. “Boyz ‘n the Hood”—the title, about these young men and their neighborhood, comes from one of Ice Cube’s records—watches Tre, Ricky and Doughboy navigate these perilous waters to the accompaniment of violent background sound. Police helicopters are such a constant presence that Brandi (Nia Long), Tre’s girlfriend, who hopes to go to college, can barely get her homework done. Drive-by shootings between gang members are also part of the landscape. “Can’t we have one night where there ain’t no fight and nobody gets shot?” somebody finally says in frustration. In this setting, the actors could easily disappear into speeches or stereotypes, but they don’t; the film’s strength is that it sustains an intimate and realistic tone. Mr. Fishburne, who is called upon to deliver several lectures, manages to do so with enormous dignity and grace, and makes Furious a compelling role model, someone on whom the whole film easily pivots. Mr. Gooding gives Tre a gentle, impressionable quality that is most affecting. Ice Cube, who sometimes mutters too gruffly to be heard, nonetheless has a humorous delivery and a street swagger that effectively brings the neighborhood to life. The women in the film,

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particularly Tyra Ferrell as the exasperated mother of Doughboy and Ricky, are often feisty and vibrant but play only minor roles. As the title indicates, the climate of violence, raunch, raw nerves and and adolescent longing in which this story unfolds is very much a man’s world. Boyz ‘n the Hood is rated R (Under 17 requires accompanying parent or adult guardian). It has graphic sexual references, brief nudity and violence. Boyz ‘n the Hood Directed and written by John Singleton; director of photography, Charles Mills; edited by Bruce Cannon; music by Stanley Clarke; produced by Steve Nicolaides; released by Columbia Pictures. Running time: 107 minutes. This film is rated R. Doughboy … Ice Cube Tre Styles … Cuba Gooding Jr. Ricky Baker … Morris Chestnut Furious Styles … Larry Fishburne Reva Styles [Devereaux] … Angela Bassett Brandi … Nia Long Mrs. Baker … Tyra Ferrell Janet Maslin, from The New York Times, July 12, 1991. © The New York Time. All rights reserved. Reprinted with Permission.

***

“Boyz N the Hood” (R) by Desson Howe The Washington Post (July 12, 1991) “Boyz in the Hood” is torn straight from the city section of any major metropolitan newspaper. A warning about neglected black men, it will often tear at the heart too—at least, when it doesn’t feel like the rap equivalent of a classroom lecture. At the beginning, cold statistics slapped on screen tell it all: One out of every 21 black males will die of murder. Most of them will perish at each other’s hands. In an emotional coming-of-age story, 23-year-old director John Singleton takes this set of facts and runs with it.

Critical Perspectives on Boyz N the Hood  |  417 Ten-year-old Tre Styles (Desi Arnez Hines II) and his friends Doughboy and Ricky (Baha Jackson and Donovan McCrary) already know the score in their L.A. neighborhood. Helicopters rumble constantly overhead. A crack-addicted mother offers herself to anyone for another fix. Adolescents hang rowdily on street corners. Reagan-Bush reelection posters stare at alleys full of trash and bloodstains from the latest murder. If anyone gets out of this neighborhood, there’s nothing for them anyway. Singleton watches violence work on the three friends like a hidden cancer. The kids look at those bloodstains with jaded eyes. They play football near a body (“Look like Freddy Krueger got him,” says one). They don’t converse with so much as insult each other. Tre has the significant advantage of a father (Larry Fishburne) who cares about bringing him up. That’s why he stays home while his friends are run off to the police station for stealing once again. Singleton jumps forward seven years. The three friends are now young men. Thanks to his father, Tre (now played by Cuba Gooding Jr.) is still on the straight and narrow. Ricky (Morris Chestnut), whose girlfriend already has a baby, is applying for an athletic scholarship. But Doughboy (rap singer Ice Cube), who owns a gun, has learned the doomed ways of the street. The friends are about to experience a gangland tragedy that will test the aforementioned murder stats. It’s an undeniably powerful finale. The best performances come from Fishburne and Ice Cube. In terms of the movie’s uplift-the-race purposes, Fishburne is the finest element (although it doesn’t help matters that he owns an enormous Magnum). Ice Cube as the kid who never had, nor even contemplated, a future, is tremendously believable. But “Boyz,” one in a groundswell of rap-culture movies, betrays Singleton’s artistic youthfulness. A subplot, in which Tre’s postgraduate-student mother (Angela Bassett) leaves her kid with his father, is superficially outlined. When things get suspenseful, Singleton gets decidedly corny about the editing. His finger-wagging isn’t as clumsily intrusive as Robert Townsend’s, but it’s there. The agenda in this film includes the evils of Eurocentric education, the cultural bias of SAT exams, the importance of condoms, white gentrification of black neighborhoods, black male mistreatment of their women, and so on. These points, however, touch some raw nerve endings in black America; they need to be made. Singleton adroitly lets the emotions wash over the didacticism, his feet placed squarely on direct experience and timeliness. If you

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don’t live in or near one of these neighborhoods, just turn to the news at 11 to see. Desson Howe, from The Washington Post, July 12, 1991. © The Washington Post. All rights reserved. Reprinted with Permission.

***

“Boyz N the Hood” (R) by Rita Kempley The Washington Post (July 12, 1991) “Boyz N the Hood” is a rude, insistent rap, an unflinching, often funny, always compassionate look at coming of age in South Central Los Angeles. Written and directed by homeboy John Singleton, the film is as ethnocentric as dreadlocks, but its theme is eternal: Maturity doesn’t come easy anywhere. But too often it doesn’t come at all in the black neighborhoods of urban America. Singleton emphasizes both the colorblind commonalities and the colorspecific differences in his opening flashback, an obvious quote from the white, rural memoir “Stand by Me.” Like the kids in that Rob Reiner film, a gang of curious 10-year-old playmates sets out to see a body—only this will be the first of many forgotten corpses, an omen of things to come. The foundation laid, the innocence shattered, the story catches up with the Boyz again in the even more violent present, where macabre meets commonplace. Only seven years have gone by, but life has swiftly overtaken the teens in this disintegrating neighborhood, so deceptively paradisiacal with its neat lawns, palm trees, and California skies. Rap artist Ice Cube, whose song “AmeriKKKa’s Most Wanted” partially inspired the story, makes an impressive acting debut as Doughboy, the fat, philosophical kid who’s already an ex-con at 17. Morris Chestnut plays his model-handsome brother Ricky, their mother’s coddled favorite. Ricky himself is already the father of a toddler, but he leaves the child’s care to his young girlfriend—which is the issue at the core of the film. Cuba Gooding Jr. plays Tre, the only boy with a future—because his mother throws up her hands and sends him to live with his stern father, Furious. Larry Fishburne portrays Furious as an authoritarian self-starter who finds it easier to

Critical Perspectives on Boyz N the Hood  |  419 respect his son than to warm to him—“You’re the prince,” says Furious. “I’m the king.” He’s distant and preachy, but his tough love makes all the difference. While the boy’s friends fall by the wayside, victims of temper, neglect and indigence, Tre perseveres. Singleton is not one for subtleties. As a 23-year-old black man who grew up in the ‘hood himself, he knows only too well that life can be short. So he scrawls his message across the screen with the urgent insolence of a graffiti artist: “Any fool … can make a baby, but only a real man can raise his children.” Women, referred to for the most part as “bitches” and “hos,” apparently make lousy parents on their own. Mostly “Boyz N the Hood” focuses on epidemic problems in the African American community: the drug users, the overzealous black cops out to impress their white partners, the awful chasm between black men and women. It doesn’t blame “the man” for everything—culturally biased aptitude tests and deceptive Army recruiting methods aside—but it is inclined to preach to its audience. With its energetic cast and insistent street score, it still manages to be poignant without becoming bathetic, and violent without being exploitative. The movie ends as happily as it can, while being true to the statistics: “One out of every 21 black males will be murdered before he is 25—most will die at the hands of other black men.” Of course, realities hide behind statistics. And these Boyz are real. Rita Kempley, from The Washington Post, July 12, 1991. © The Washington Post. All rights reserved. Reprinted with Permission.

***

Further Reading Antonio, Sheril D. 2002. Contemporary African American Cinema. New York: Peter Lang. Barboza, Craigh. 2009. John Singleton: Interviews. Jackson, MI: University Press of Mississippi. Berry, Torriano, and Venise T. Berry. 2001. The 50 Most Influential Black Films: A Celebration of African American Talent, Determination, and Creativity. New York: Citadel Press/Kensington. Bodnar, John E. 2003. Blue-collar Hollywood: Liberalism, Democracy, and Working People in American Film. Baltimore, MD: Johns Hopkins University Press. Bogle, Donald. 2016. Toms, Coons, Mulattoes, Mammies, and Bucks. New York: Continuum. Brunette, Peter. 1991. “Singleton’s Street Noises.” Sight & Sound 1(4):13. Bruzzi, Stella. 1997. Undressing Cinema: Clothing and Identity in the Movies. London: Routledge.

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Chan, Kenneth. 1998. “The Construction of Black Male Identity in Black Action Films of the Nineties.” Cinema Journal 37(2): 35–48. Dent, Gina, and Michele Wallace. 1992. Black Popular Culture. Seattle, WA: Bay Press. Diawara, Manthia. 2004. Black American Cinema. New York: Routledge, 1993. Print. Du Bois, W. E. B. 1994. The Souls of Black Folks. New York: Dover. Dyson, Michael. 1991. “Growing Up Under Fire: Boyz N The Hood and The Agony of the Black Man in America.” Tikkun 6(5): 74–78. Dyson, Michael E. 2004. The Michael Eric Dyson Reader. New York: Basic Civitas Books. Ellison, Ralph. 1995. Invisible Man. New York: Vintage Books. Fisher, Celeste A. 2006. Black on Black: Urban Youth Films and the Multicultural Audience. Lanham, MD: Scarecrow Press. Forman, Murray. 2002. The ‘hood Comes First: Race, Space, and Place in Rap and Hip-Hop. Middletown, CT: Wesleyan University Press. Fuller, Jennifer. 2004. “Black City Cinema: African American Urban Experiences in Film by Paula J. Massood.” Film Quarterly 57(4): 48–49. Gates, Henry L. 2004. America Behind the Color Line: Dialogues with African Americans. New York: Warner Books. George, Nelson. 1994. Blackface: Reflections on African-Americans and the Movies. New York: Harper Collins. Gormley, Paul. 2005. The New-Brutality Film: Race and Affect in Contemporary Hollywood Culture. Bristol: Intellect. Grant, W. R. 2004. Post-soul Black Cinema: Discontinuities, Innovations, and Breakpoints, 1970– 1995. New York: Routledge. Guerrero, Ed. 1993. Framing Blackness: The African American Image on Film. Philadelphia, PA: Temple University Press Philadelphia. Ramsey, Guthrie P. Jr. 2002. “Muzing New Hoods, Making New Identities: Film, Hip Hop Culture, and Jazz Music.” Callaloo 25(1): 309–20. Jazz Poetics: A Special Issue. Harris, Keith M. 2006. Boys, Boyz, Bois: An Ethics of Black Masculinity in Film and Popular Media. New York: Routledge. Hooks, Bell. 2009. Reel to Real: Race, Class and Sex at the Movies. New York: Routledge. Hughes, Langston. 1926. “The Negro Artist and the Racial Mountain.” The Nation, June. Hutchinson, Earl O. 1996. The Assassination of the Black Male Image. New York: Simon & Schuster. Keough, Peter. 1995. Flesh and Blood: The National Society of Film Critics on Sex, Violence, and Censorship. San Francisco, CA: Mercury House. King, Lovalerie. 2003. “Black City Cinema: African American Urban Experiences in Film.” African American Review 37(2/3): 445–47. Amri Baraka Issue. Lehman, Peter, and William Luhr. 2003. Thinking About Movies: Watching, Questioning, Enjoying. Malden, MA: Blackwell. Madison, Ronald J., and Corey Schmidt. 2002. Talking Pictures: A Parents’ Guide to Using Movies To Discuss Ethics, Values, and Everyday Problems with Children. Philadelphia, PA: Running Press. Light, A., and D. Winters. 1991. “Not Just One of The Boyz.” Rolling Stone, 73(612). Kashner, Sam. 2016. “How Boyz N the Hood Beat the Odds to Get Made—and Why It Matters.” Vanity Fair, August 4.

Critical Perspectives on Boyz N the Hood  |  421 Malloy, Denise S. 1995. Film As “Interpretive Biography”: A Reading of Boyz N the Hood. Jackson, MI: University of Mississippi. Mapp, Edward. 2008. African Americans and the Oscar: Decades of Struggle and Achievement. Lanham, MD: Scarecrow Press. Massood, Paula J. 2003. Black City Cinema: African American Urban Experiences in Film. Philadelphia, PA: Temple UP. Matloff, Jason. 2011. “20 Years Later The Making Of A Classic Boyz N The Hood.” Ebony 66(9): 112–17. McNulty, Edward N. 1998. Films and Faith: Forty Discussion Guides. Topeka, KS: Viaticum Press. Moon, Spencer. 1997. Reel Black Talk: A Sourcebook of 50 American Filmmakers. Westport, CT: Greenwood Press. Phillips, Mike. 1991. Boyz In The Hood: Film Tie In. New York: Signet. Pomerance, Murray, and Frances K. Gateward. 2005. Where the Boys Are: Cinemas of Masculinity and Youth. Detroit, MI: Wayne State University Press. Quart, Leonard, and Albert Auster. 2002. American Film and Society since 1945. Westport, CT: Praeger. Rhines, Jesse Algeron. 1996. Black Film, White Money. New Brunswick, NJ: Rutgers UP. Rose, Tricia. 1994. Black Noise: Rap Music and Black Culture in Contemporary America. Hanover: Wesleyan University Press. Ross, Karen. 1996. Black and White Media: Black Images in Popular Film and Television. Cambridge, MA: Polity. Song, Sora. 2005. “Q & A: John Singleton.” Time 165(6): 85. Stam, Robert, and Alessandra Raengo. 2005. Literature and Film: A Guide to the Theory and Practice of Film Adaptation. Malden, MA: Blackwell. Voytilla, Stuart. 1999. Myth and the Movies: Discovering the Mythic Structure of 50 Unforgettable Films. Studio City, CA: Michael Wiese Productions. Walker, Robin L. 1995. The Benevolent Violence of Flannery O’Conner, Oliver Stone, Richard Wright, and John Singleton: A Good Man Is Hard to Find, Natural Born Killers, Native Son, and Boyz N the Hood. Watkins, S. Craig. 1998. Representing: Hip Hop Culture and the Production of Black Cinema. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. West, Cornel. 1993. Race Matter. New York: Vintage Books. Yearwood, Gladstone. 2000. Black Film as a Signifying Practice: Cinema, Narration, and the African American Aesthetic Tradition. Trenton, NJ: Africa World Press, Inc.

References Doherty, Thomas, and Jacquie Jones. 1991. “Two Takes on Boyz N the Hood.” Cineaste 18(4):16–19, 4p. Dyson, Michael Eric. 1992. “Between Apocalypse and Redemption: John Singleton’s Boyz N the Hood.” Cultural Critique 21:121–41.

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Howe, Desson. 1991. “‘Boyz N the Hood’ (R).” The Washington Post, July 12. Kempley, Rita. 1991. “‘Boyz N the Hood’ (R).” The Washington Post, July 12. Massood, Paula J. 1996. “Mapping the Hood: The Genealogy of City Space in ‘Boyz N the Hood’ and ‘Menace II Society’.” Cinema Journal 35(2):85–97. Nadell, James. 1995. “Boyz N the Hood: A Colonial Analysis.” Journal of Black Studies 25(4):447–64. Turan, Kenneth. 1991. “A Gritty ‘Boyz N the Hood’ Ushers in a New Phase of Cinema.” Los Angeles Times, July 12.

Epilogue Boyz and the Blues: A Legacy of Resistance and Hope

Figure E.1:  “Untiled,” Harlem, New York, 1952. Courtesy of The Gordon Parks Foundation. Copyright © The Gordon Parks Foundation. Reprint by permission. All rights reserved.

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“Nothing, storm or flood, must get in the way of our light, and ever more and brighter light. The truth is light and light is the truth” —Ralph Ellison Invisible Man (1995, 7) “Life without meaning, hope, and love breeds a coldhearted, mean-spirited outlook that destroys both the individual and others” —Cornel West Race Matters (1993, 23)

“Thump, thump, thump, went his foot on the floor. / He played a few chords then he sang some more— / While the Weary Blues echoed through his head. / He slept like a rock or a man that’s dead,” “The Weary Blues,” Hughes (1995) writes, at the age of twenty-four. As a young man, Hughes had a deep understanding of the complex bitter journey for African Americans. The closing sentiment of this poem “The Weary Blues,” stings. The speaker of the poem is managing to survive death each day through voicing his reality through song—though the Weary Blues takes up residence in his home and in his heart. Like a social scientist, Singleton too delves deep into this reality. Singleton’s blues is as effective and his blues is affective. Boyz, its blues, resonates a faith, toward hopefulness and a call to action. Singleton is responding to a cataclysmic effect of a long history of institutional malaise. This historic accumulation of pain and multigenerational wartime weariness is felt in the subtext of this story. The palpable confluence of this blues history underneath this narrative is stunning and makes one breathless. Michele Wallace (1992), African American literature and film scholar, in “Boyz N the Hood and Jungle Fever,” shares her first experience with the film. She writes, “The first time I saw John Singleton’s Boyz N the Hood, I was completely swept away by the drama and the tragedy. It was like watching the last act of Hamlet or Titus Andronicus for the first time. When I left the theater, I was crying for all the dead black men in my family” (123). By the end of the film, we are all weeping. In response to his lived experience, Singleton speaks—through cinematic language. He asks us to liberate our minds from the cultural imperialisms that functions with such ferociousness. The opening sequence and sound montage of the film evokes a question: Who are these young black men (and women) immersed in this cacophony of violence and sorrow? The absence of a visual referent asks the spectator to participate in uncovering his social identity. Singleton asks, “Who is this invisible man? Who is Dough Boy? Tre? Ricky?” What follows after the opening sequence feels more like a documentary exploring a real subject in the world. Singleton’s democratizing voice feels more like personal footage. Orson Welles’s Citizen Kane evokes a similar question through a similar opening narrative style.

Epilogue | 425 The narrative uses a media package sequence that posits a sanitized public persona of a business tycoon, Foster Kane, who recently died. The rest of the film, through a series of interviews conducted by a journalist with people from his past, strives to provide a more detailed picture of the man. The journalist’s task is to pursue the answer to one question, “Who is Charles Foster Kane?” Unlike Charles Foster Kane, who still remains a bit of a mystery at the end of the story, Singleton explicates his invisible figure. The immersive emotional resonance that accumulates in this fictive landscape speaks with precision and clarity. By the end of this film we know who he is and care deeply about him—on every level. Singleton wraps this invisible man in cinematic flesh and as subject, rather than object, makes him legible. It is movie magic! Whenever I screen Boyz, Tre, Ricky, and Dough Boy reminds me of several black male fictive characters in cinema: black men depicted as trying to find their way in and through the socio-psychic trauma that daily chips away at— fragments—their potential. This kind of black man has become a cinematic trope. I think of several variations of this same black man: Trip in Glory, Cullen in The Defiant Ones, Duff in Nothing But a Man, David Lee and Nathan Lee in Sounder, Cornbread in Cornbread, Earl and Me, and Cochise and his high school buddies in Cooley High. However, millennials are discovering this man and this film too. They seem to have a desire to make sense of the radical paradoxical nature of our nation and world, especially in relation to his dark body. The iterative way in which they have experienced who he is—his presence perhaps in their personal lives or in art, the entertainment medias—and the way he is pathologized, creates dissonance for them. Millennials know “him” to be creative, articulate, and radically open to the diversity of the world. Their generation knows “his” voice has range, that is from a Will Smith, LeBron James, Kanye West, Pharrell Williams, Tyrese Gibson, Kevin Hart, Kevin Durant, Chancelor Bennett (Chance the Rapper) to Jaden Smith. They also know “him” as the center of a national conversation on victimization and profiling. As a result, they are asking questions and getting critically engaged. They are not your typical ideological consumers. I know this since I experience them in the teaching and learning process each week. Recently in a class of 194 students— primarily privileged 18- to 20-year olds—voted to screen the film. As the credits rolled, I stood in the back as they filed out. I could hear a pin drop and as they passed by me, several thanked me one by one. There was not a dry eye in the place. I wondered what they were feeling. Why Boyz? Singleton? Now? His voice is prophetic and speaks of a peculiarity in our time, capturing a zeitgeist of a generation.

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I am decidedly interdisciplinary and I hope this journey through this particular intellectual past has opened up meaning for you to enter Singleton’s text for encounter. I hope that this text will catalyze more dialogue on Boyz N the Hood and John Singleton’s work and as such begin to fill the dearth of scholarship on his voice across his filmography. I am most grateful for the wisdom and willfulness each distinctive voice that I evoked contributed to this rich heritage. In a 2008 documentary by Astra Taylor, Examined Life, Cornel West speaks to the grace gift of critical self-reflection and dialogical encounter: “Yate’s used to say it takes more courage to examine the dark corners of your soul than it does to be a soldier on the battlefield … courage to think, courage to love, courage to hope.” With John Singleton at the center, this book explores the extant gifts of several artists on this challenging journey. In conclusion, this unassuming young man from South Central Los Angeles made history speaking out of his own reality. His tenacity and will to speak himself into existence benefits us all. Like Ellison’s Invisible protagonist with infinite possibilities, Singleton’s work embodies the hope that still remains. The nine-year-old rocked by Star Wars at the Grauman’s Chinese Theater now has his name immortalized in concrete near this same theater. Singleton has worked deliberately over the years to maintain a sense of wholeness and perspective on his career and sense of self. In 1995, he described his desire to stay in touch with himself: Hollywood is very much a machine that thrives on creativity. It’s a big machine that thrives and grows and sustains itself on young, new blood. But at the same time, it can be very … how can I say it? It can be very debilitating, because it steals your soul. And part of the challenge for me is how to keep my soul. How to stay successful but at the same time not play myself and keep my soul. (Silverman 2009, 77)

Singleton beat the odds. The young man who himself could have been “a statistic” beat the odds through being authentic and passionate about his community and the world. His journey makes me think about this same young black male demographic today. They are still in the fray and there is work still yet ahead of us and this nation. In 2000, Singleton reflects on his journey thus far and speaks of it with pride and satisfaction stating, “I still have my soul” (Harris 2009, 117). Indeed, he does have a vibrancy, creative impulse, and focus that feels as fresh as the young man we met in 1991. “Thump, thump, thump, went his foot on the floor. / He played a few chords then” Singleton, “he sang some more—” (Hughes, 1995). “Increase the peace.”

Epilogue | 427

References Ellison, Ralph. 1995. Invisible Man. New York: Vintage Books. Harris, Erich Leon. 2009. “The Shafting of Shaft.” In John Singleton Interviews, edited by Craigh Barboza, 112–20. Jackson, Mississippi: University Press of Mississippi. Hughes, Langston. 1995. The Collected Poems of Langston Hughes. New York: Vintage. Taylor, Astra. 2008. Examined Life. Zeitgeist Films. Silverman, Ron. 2009. “American Film Institute Harold Loyd Master Seminar with director John Singleton.” In John Singleton Interviews, edited by Craigh Barboza, 58–78. Jackson, Mississippi: University Press of Mississippi. Wallace, Michelle. 1992. “Boyz N the Hood and Jungle Fever.” In Black Popular Culture, edited by Gina Dent, 123–32. New York: Dia Art Foundation and Bay Press, Seattle. West, Cornel. 1993. Race Matter. New York: Vintage Books.

Index

A Academy Awards, xix, 92–93, 202 Academy of Motion Pictures and Arts, 77, 78 105, 126, 140 action films, black, 381 Addams Family, 109, 139 African Americans black identity, 11–13 black masculinity, 23–24, 30, 34, 37, 360–362, 408–409 city in film, 379–382 city in literature, 379 colonial dialectic and, 394–398 cultural identity, 14 diagnostic analysis and treatment, 402–403 diaspora, 383–384 double consciousness, 11 Harlem Renaissance and, 379–380 and the hood as utopia/dystopia, 382–384 invisibility of, 8–12

socialization in the home and on the streets, 63–66 terminology and labels, 399–400 trauma experienced by, 360, 395–396 women, 369–371, 409–410

Ain’t Misbehaving, 150 Akbar, N., 396–397, 402 Alexander, Michelle, 33 Ali, Muhammad, 399 Allain, Stephanie, xix, xxiii, 49, 52–53, 113, 114–115, 129, 174 Allen, Woody, 96 All in the Family, 139 American Exceptionalism, 38 “American Negro Writing-A Problem of Identity,” 10 American notions of freedom, 19–20 Angelou, Maya, xx, 135 Annapolis, 141 Annual Directors Guild of America Awards, 87

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Apocalypse Now, 95, 117 Arsenio Hall Show, The, 48 Austin Film Festival, 50 Avery, Lloyd, II, 200 awards and honors for Boyz N the Hood, xix–xxx, 202–203

B Babenco, Hector, 77 Baby Boy, 42, 55 Singleton on, 103

Baldwin, James, 379 “Ballad of the Landlord,” 3, 6 Barboza, Craigh, 196 Barthé, Richmond, 9 Bassett, Angela, 72, 73, 75–76, 93, 118, 363 Bellamy, Bruce, 119 Belly, Lead, xxii Bennett, Chancelor, 425 Berlin Tunnel 21, 143 “Between Apocalypse and Redemption: John Singleton’s Boyz N the Hood,” 360–373 Beverly Hillbillies, 109–110 Beverly Hills Chihuahua, 111, 141 Birth of a Nation, The, 10, 34–35 Black, Jack, 141 Blackberry Woman, 9 Black Child Care, 361 black cinema the city in, 379–382 exploitation format, 175 new phase ushered in by Boyz N the Hood, 411–413 1991 as inaugural breakthrough year for, 43–45 1991 releases, 45–46 shifting Hollywood terrain, 60–63

Sweet Sweetback’s Baadasssss Song, 12, 21–30

blackface fixation, 44, 127 black identity, 11–13 male, 23–24, 30, 37

Black liberation struggle, 398 Black Lives Matter, 34, 126, 163 Black Manhattan, 379 Blackman’s Guide to Understanding the Blackwoman, The, 370 black masculinity, 23–24, 30, 37, 360–362, 408–409 1980’s artistic zeitgeist and, 33–35

Black Men: Obsolete, Single, Dangerous?, 361–362 Black Nationalism, 402–403 blackness, 15–19, 401–402 black male identity and, 23–24 and critiquing American notions of freedom, 19–20 “wakeful living” and, 20–21

Black Panther Party, 398 blindness, 17–19 blues, the, xvii, xx, xxii, 5–10, 14, 18, 29, 85, 423–424 Bluest Eye, The, 34 BMI Film Music Awards, 202 Body and Soul, 380 Bogle, Donald, 24, 44, 127 Boogie Down Productions, 362 Boy Called Hate, A, 142 Boyz N the Hood, 46 audience positioned in counter narrative perspective, 61–62 awards and honors, xix–xx, xix–xxx, 202–203 black masculine trope in, 30 Brenda Baker (character), 75 characterization in, 71–72 closing sequence, 7 colonial analysis of, 394–403 commercial success of, 85, 196

Index | 431 context of, 30–39 critical perspectives on (See critical perspectives on Boyz N the Hood) Darin “Dough Boy” Baker (character), 74 dispelling myth through landscape and dialogue, 70–71 function of score in, 66–68 Furious Styles (character), 72–73 genealogy of city space in, 378–389 getting behind language, 8–12 the hood portrayed in, 382, 384–389 movie poster, 69, 357 on nihilism and the paraphernalia of suffering, 35–39 note on female depictions in, 76–77 opening black screen and title cards, 61 original press kit, 187–204 original screenplay, 205–356 postproduction, 131–135 preproduction process, 116–120 principle cast and crew, 78, 145–146 production cycle, 77–79 production schedule, 120–127 as reality-based, 84 Reva Devereaux (character), 75–76 reviews of (See reviews of Boyz N the Hood) Ricky Baker (character), 75 as semiautobiographical, 78–79 setting in South Central Los Angeles, 60 significance of, xx Singleton’s specificity of voice and, 50–53 socialization in, 63–66 sonic landscape, 70 Steve Nicolaides on, 113–116 subtextual examination of disinheritance, 60 Tre Styles (character), 74 truths illuminated by, 398 Tyra Ferrell on, 157–164

“Boyz N the Hood: A Colonial Analysis,” 394–403 “Boyz N the Hood (R)” (movie review by Desson Howe), 416–417 “Boyz N the Hood (R)” (movie review by Rita Kempley), 418–419

Brandi (character), 76, 147–148, 371, 373 Brenda Baker (character), 75, 363–364, 367–368, 371–372 Bridges, Beau, 143 Bringing the Black Boy to Manhood: The Passage, 361 Brokaw, Tom, 363 Brooks, Mel, 96 Broun, Hale, 24 Brown, Jaki, 117, 120 Brown, James, 57, 84, 96, 99 Buddy, 139, 142 Bull Durham, 167 Buñuel, Luis, 77 Burnett, Charles, 43, 412 Bush, George H. W., 398 Bush, George W., 111 Bush Mama, 381 Bythewood, Reggie, 178

C Cannes Film Festival, xix–xx, 51, 127–128, 196 Carew, Topper, 46 Cartwright, Nancy, 143 Cassavetes, John, 55, 57, 62, 118 Castle Rock, 122 “Chance to Confound Fate, A,” 72, 414–416 character centric narratives, 55–56, 425 characterization in Boyz N the Hood, 71–72 Chestnut, Morris, 74, 82, 117, 147, 188, 200–201, 411 Chicago Film Critics Association, 202 Chicago Sun Times, 100, 191 Chicago Tribune, 196 Chuck D, 179

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cinematic style of Singleton, xxi–xxii, 53–57 Citizen Kane, xix, 89, 424–425 City in Fear, 143 City of Quartz, 32 City Slickers, 114 city space, 378–389 city in film and, 379–382 city in literature and, 379 the hood as utopia/dystopia, 382–384

civil rights movement, 407–408 Clark, Claude, 9 Clarke, Graham, 382 Clarke, Stanley, 132, 412 classical Hollywood narrative, 53–54, 62 sonic landscape in, 70

Clay, Cassius, 399 Clinton, Bill, 134 Clockers, 60 Cobbs, P., 397, 402 colonial dialectic and African Americans, 394–398 Colors, 115, 363, 407 Columbia Pictures, 49–50, 105, 114, 118 Comer, James P., 361 commercial success of Boyz N the Hood, 85, 196 Conrad, Joseph, 117 Conspiracy to Destroy Black Boys, The, 361 Content of Our Character, The, 168 Cooley High, 361, 425 Cool Hand Luke, 92 Coppola, Francis Ford, 48, 57, 95 Cornbread, Earl and Me, 95, 117, 127, 175, 425 Corpse Bride, 139 counternarrative perspective, 61–62 Creative Artist Agency (CAA), 49 critical consciousness, 12–13 critical perspectives on Boyz N the Hood, 359–373 “A Chance to Confound Fate,” 414–416

“A Gritty ‘Boyz N the Hood ’ Ushers in a New Phase of Cinema,” 411–413 “Between Apocalypse and Redemption: John Singleton’s Boyz N the Hood,” 360–373 “Boyz N the Hood: A Colonial Analysis,” 394–403 “Boyz N the Hood (R)” (movie review by Desson Howe), 416–417 “Boyz N the Hood (R)” (movie review by Rita Kempley), 418–419 “Mapping the Hood: The Geneaology of City Space in ‘Boyz N the Hood ’ and ‘Menace II Society’,” 378–389 “Two Takes on Boyz N the Hood,” 406–410

critical reflections on Singleton and Boyz N the Hood, 100–101 critical self-reflection, xx, 5, 13, 15, 426 critical theory on decolonialization, 12 Cruise, Tom, 138 Cruse, 395 Crystal, Billy, 114 Cunningham, Vinson, 5

D Daniels, Lee, 170 Darkman, 112 Darin “Dough Boy” Baker (character), 74, 363–373 Dash, Julie, xxi, 46 Daughters of the Dust, xxi, 46, 118 Davidson, 395 Davis, Mike, 32, 365, 383 Davis, Ossie, 43 Davis, P. J., 402 death, 16–17 to the colonized mind, 20–21 decolonization, 7 critical theory on, 12 and death to the colonized mind, 20–21

Deep Cover, 174, 180

Index | 433 Deep End of the Queen, The, 142 Defiant Ones, The, 425 Demme, Jonathan, 92 Developmental Psychology of the Black Child, The, 361 dialogue, 70–71 diaspora, African American, 383–384 Diawara, Manthia, xxii, 383–385 Different and Wonderful, 361 Directors Guild of America, 131–132 disinheritance, 60 Dixon, Ivan, 43 Doherty, Thomas, 406 Do the Right Thing, xxi, 33–34, 43, 50, 66, 83, 177, 179, 378, 406 double consciousness, 8, 10–11, 54 Du Bois, W. E. B., 7–8, 10–11, 379, 407 Duke, Bill, 46 Durant, Kevin, 425 Duvall, Robert, 115 DuVernay, Ava, 33 Dyson, Michael Eric, 8, 360

E Earl and Me, 425 Easy E., 34 Easy Rider, 363 Ebert, Roger, 89, 100, 128, 191 Edelman, Marian Wright, 361 Edward Scissorhands, 139 Ellison, Ralph, 3–4–6, 379, 424, 426 on blindness as condition of the mind, 17–19 critiquing American notions of freedom, 19–20 on death, 16–17 on exploring existential questions through writing, 50 on identity, voice, and history, 15–17 Invisible Man, 8, 10–21, 22–23

mediating self-knowledge through Messianic language, 12–21 on “wakeful living,” 20–21 on Wright, 10

“Emerging Man,” 1, 4–5 Ephron, Norah, 138 E.T.: The Extra-Terrestrial, 33 Examined Life, 426 Eyes on the Sky, 139–141

F Families in Peril, 361 Fanon, Franz, 7, 10, 12, 395, 396–397, 401 Fellini, Federico, 57 female depictions in Boyz N the Hood, 76–77 Ferrell, Tyra, 74–75, 117, 135, 165–166, 200–203 on Boyz N the Hood, 157–164 on career highlights, 165–172 on childhood and getting into the business, 149–157 interview with, 148–172

fetishization of objects, 36–37 Few Good Men, A, 122, 137, 138, 139, 142 Fields, Dorothy, 151 filmography of Singleton, 102 First Blood, 33 Fishburne, Laurence, 48, 52, 57, 72–73, 85, 93, 95, 117–118, 189, 193, 198, 198–199, 201–202 interview with, 172–183 Tyra Ferrell on, 162

Five Heart Beats, The, 46 Folsom, Linda, 118 Forgotten, The, 141 For Homeboys Only: Arming and Strengthening Young Brothers for Black Manhood, 361

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Foucault, Michel, 385 Framing Blackness: The African American Image on Film, 45, 60 Franco, James, 141 Franklin, Aretha, 57, 84, 96 Frederick Douglass Film Company, 380 Furious Styles (character), 72–73, 364–370

G Garvey movement, 398 Gates, Daryl, 31–32, 35, 366 Gates, Henry, 13 Gaye, Marvin, 57, 84, 96, 99 “Ghetto Aesthetics, The,” 77 Gibbs, Jewelle Taylor, 361 Gibson, Tyrese, 82, 100, 425 Girl from Chicago, 380 Glory, 36, 425 Gobert, Dedrick, 123–124, 198 Goines, Donald, 379 Goldstein, Patrick, 42 Goode, Orin, 167 Good Hair, 36–37 Gooding, Cuba, Jr., 38, 74, 82, 107, 113, 117, 120, 177, 188, 192–193, 195–196, 198–199, 201, 363, 411 “Gordon Parks and Ralph Ellison: How a Man ‘Becomes Invisible’”, 4–5 Graduate, The, 26 Grandmaster Flash and the Furious Five, 9 “Great Wrong Place: Los Angeles as Urban Milieu, The,” 382 Green, Al, 57, 84 Green, Regi, 197–198 Green Acres, 109–110 Grier, W. E., 397, 402 Griffith, D. W., 10, 34

Grigsby Bates, Karen, 43, 45 “A Gritty ‘Boyz N the Hood’ Ushers in a New Phase of Cinema,” 411–413 Gronniosaw, James, 36 Guerrero, Ed, 45, 60, 76 Guest, Chris, 138 Guy, Rosa, 379

H Hall, Paul, 174 Hangin’ with the Homeboys, 46 Hansberry, Lorraine, 9 Hare, Julia, 361 Hare, Nathan, 361 “Harlem,” 6 Harlem Renaissance, 379–380 Harper, Valerie, 165 Harrelson, Woody, 168 Harris, Erich Leon, 55 Hart, Kevin, 425 Hayes, Isaac, 43 Heart of Darkness, 117 Heart of Dixie, 44 Hendrix, Jimi, 400 Henson, Tarji P., 82, 100 Herbie Goes to Monte Carlo, 47 Hero Ain’t Nothing but a Sandwich, A, 175 Higher Learning, 92 Hill, Walter, 117 Hines, Desi Arnaz, II, 72, 120, 189, 191 Hip Hop, xvii, 33, 49, 57, 60, 66–67, 161, 178–179, 182, 225 Hitchcock, Alfred, 57, 96 Hollywood Shuffle, 44, 368 Hollywood Walk of Fame, 81–82, 85–86 hood, the in film, examples of, 384–388 as utopia/dystopia, 382–384

Index | 435 Hoodlum, 60 Hooks, Kevin, 46 Hopper, Dennis, 115, 363, 407 Hopson, Darlene, 361 Hopson, Derek, 361 Horne, Lena, 157 House Party, 361 House Party 2, 46 Howe, Desson, 416 “How to survive in South Central,” 68 Hudlin, Reggie, 178 Hughes, Langston, 3, 6–7, 41, 424 Huston, John, 57, 96

I “I, Too,” 6 Ice Cube, 34, 66–68, 74, 82, 88, 90, 93, 188, 193–194, 197–198, 411 interview with, 146–147 Laurence Fishburne on, 179–180 music career, 362 Steve Nicolaides on, 120, 123, 126, 128–130 Tyra Ferrell on, 161

identity, black, 11–13 identity politics, 12 “If We Must Die,” 36 Image Awards, 202 I’m Gonn Git You Sucka, 44 Incidents in the Life of a Slave Girl, 9 Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom, 33 Interesting Narrative of the Life of Olaudah Equiano, or Gustavus Vassa, the African by Olaudah Equiano, The, 36 interview with John Singleton, 82–100 Invisible Man, 3, 4–5, 11, 424 as cinematic test case, 22–23 emerges as Sweetback, 23–24 mediating self-knowledge through Messianic language, 12–21

“Invisible Man,” 4, 4–5, 8, 10–11 It Takes Two, 142

J Jackson, Baja, 190, 203 Jackson, G., 46 Jackson, Janet, 93–94, 98–99, 135, 171 Jackson, Mahalia, xxii Jackson, Michael, 98 Jackson, Samuel L., 33, 51, 179 Jacobs, Harriet, 9 James, LeBron, 425 Jim Crow laws, 379 Jimmy Kimmel Show, 147 Joanou, Phil, 89 Johnson, John, 31–32 Jones, Jacquie, 77, 406 Jones, Quincy, 88, 125, 128–129 Juice, 60 Juneteenth, 14 Jungle Fever, 46, 51, 151, 167 Just Another Girls on the IRT, 378 “juvenocracy,” 366

K Kazan, Elia, 154 Kempley, Rita, 418 Kid from Nowhere, The, 143 Killer of Sheep, 381 King, Martin Luther, Jr., 407 King, Meta, 368 King, Regina, 198 King, Rodney, 383 King of New York, 177, 179 Knight, Suge, 122 Knives in My Throat, 141 Kondo, Baba Zak A., 361

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N the Hood: Shifting Hollywood Terrain

Kool Moe Dee, 362 Kunjufu, Jawanza, 361 Kurosawa, Akira, 57, 95

Los Olividados, 77 Lucas, George, 57

L

M

Lady and Her Music, A, 151, 157 Lane, Charles, 46 Learning Tree, 361 Lee, Kun Jong, 13 Lee, Spike, xxi, 57, 95, 128, 167, 362, 409

Madhubuti, Haki, 361 Malcolm X, 398, 399 Manhattan Theater Club, 151 “Mapping the Hood: The Geneaology of City Space in ‘Boyz N the Hood ’ and ‘Menace II Society’,” 378–389 Marable, M., 397 Marci X, 141 Marion Rose White, 142 Marshall, Paule, 379 Martin, Gary, 116, 118 masculinity, black, 23–24, 30, 37, 360–362, 408–409

Do the Right Thing, 43, 46, 50–51, 83 Laurence Fishburne on, 174, 178

Library of Congress National Film Registry, xx, 84, 134 Life, 4–5 Lincoln Motion Picture Company, 380 literary and cinematic imagination and invisibility, 8–12 “Literature of the Negro in the United States, The,” 8 Lithgow, John, 142 Little, Malcolm, 399 Little Big League, 111, 142 Livin’ Large!, 46 Locke, Alain, 379 Long, Nia, 76, 82, 101, 147–148, 195 Los Angeles, 31–38, 121–123, 381–382 dystopia, 385–386 and the hood as utopia/dystopia, 382–384 landscape, 70–71 1980’s artistic zeitgeist in, 33–35 Operation Hammer in, 31–33 Singleton’s films capturing, 60–63

Los Angeles Film Critics Association Awards, 202 Los Angeles Film Festival, 113, 178 Los Angeles Police Department, 31–33, 366, 383, 387 Los Angeles Times, 31–33, 42, 100, 124, 193

criminalized, 33, 34 1980’s artistic zeitgeist and, 33–35

Masilela, Ntongela, 381 Maslin, Janet, 72, 191 Mason, Edward Edwin, 5 Massood, Paula J., 378 Mayo, Whitman, 201 McHenry, D., 46 McKay, Claude, 36 McKay, Nellie, 13 melancholic tales, 11 Menace II Society, 60, 378, 382 genealogy of city space in, 384–389

Menthol, 141 Merchant of Venice, The, 155 Meriwether, Louise, 379 “Message, The,” 9 Messianic language, mediating self-knowledge through, 12–21 Micheaux, Oscar, 9, 43, 380–381 Mifune, Toshiro, 90 Misery, 114, 137, 142

Index | 437 Mitchell, Elvis, 113, 172–183 Montgomery, Elizabeth, 154 Moore, Demi, 138 Morgan-Ward, Shelia, 48, 79 Morrison, Toni, 34, 379 Mosley, Walter, 379 Movie Makers, 55 movie poster, Boyz N the Hood, 69, 357 MTV, 146–147 MTV Movie Awards, 203 “Mulatto, The”/ “Le Mulâtre,” 9–10 Murphy, Eddie, 88, 128 “Muzing New Hoods, Making New Identities: Film, Hip-Hop Culture, and Jazz Music” 66

N Nacho Libre, 111, 141 Nadell, James, 394 Narrative of the Most Remarkable Particulars in the Life of James Albert Ukawsaw Gronniosaw, 36 Nathanson, Michael, 49 National Film Preservation Board, xx, 203 Nation of Islam (NOI), 399 NcCrary, Donovan, 203 Negro (terminology), 399–400 “Negro Artist and The Racial Mountain, The,” 41 “Negro Speaks of Rivers, The,” 6 New Deal Productions, 49 New Jack City, 46, 378 New Jim Crow: Mass Incarceration in the Age of Colorblindness, The, 33 Newman, Paul, 92 New Negro, The, 379 New Yorker, The, 5 New York Film Critics Circle Awards, 203 New York Times, 24, 72, 191

New York Times Magazine, 43 Nicholson, Jack, 138 Nicolaides, Steve, 106, 113, 174 on childhood and getting into show business, 107–113 on his collaborations over the years, 137–143 interview with, 107–143 on Poetic Justice, 135–137 on postproduction, 131–135 on preproduction process, 116–120 as producer of Boyz N the Hood, 77–78, 105, 187 on production schedule, 120–127 on working on Boyz N the Hood, 113–116

Nightmare Before Christmas, 139 1980’s artistic zeitgeist, 33–35 Nothing but a Man, 73, 425 Not in Front of the Children, 142 Numbered Blues, 394 NWA, 34, 93, 140, 362

O “On Becoming a Writer,” 50 On the Waterfront, 154 Operation Hammer, 31–33 original press kit for Boyz N the Hood, 187–204 original screenplay for Boyz N the Hood, 205–356 Ozzie and Harriet, 109

P paraphernalia of suffering, 36–37 Parks, Gordon, 1, 4, 4–6, 43, 57, 361 Pasadena College, 48 Patinkin, Mandy, 138 PeeWee’s Playhouse, 48, 95 Penn, Sean, 115

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Perez, Rosie, 179 Petticoat Junction, 109 Philadelphia Negro, The, 379 Phoenix, River, 143 Pixote, 77 Poetic Justice, 93, 94, 97, 135–137, 140, 169, 171 Poitier, Sidney, 23, 381 Political Film Society, USA, 203 Porter, Edwin S., 10 Posse, 60 postproduction of Boyz N the Hood, 131–135 posttraumatic stress disorder (PTSD), 5 Poussaint, Alvin F., 361, 397, 401 Premiere, 53 preproduction process, Boyz N the Hood, 116–120 press kit for Boyz N the Hood, 187–204 Price, Frank, 49, 100, 128 Princess Bride, 111, 137–138 principle cast and crew interviews, 78, 145–146 Ice Cube, 146–147 Laurence Fishburne, 172–183 Morris Chestnut, 147 Nia Long, 147–148 Tyra Ferrell, 148–172

Producers Guild of America, 53 production cycle of Boyz N the Hood, 77–79 production schedule of Boyz N the Hood, 120–127 Public Enemy, 362

R Race Matters, 10, 38, 424 Rage in Harlem, A, 46 Raiders of the Lost Ark, 33 “Raisin in the Sun, A,” 9

“Ralph Ellison and Gordon Parks’s Joint Harlem Vision,” 5 Rampersad, Arnold, 10 Rampsey, Guthrie, Jr., 66–67 Reagan, Ronald, 91–92 realism, fictive and documentary, 55 Recycling Black Dollars program, 34 Red Dawn, 117 Reeves, Christopher, 134, 156 Reid, Mark, 380 Reiner, Rob, 77, 114, 137 Representing: Hip Hop Culture and the Production of Black Cinema, 54, 62 Resting, 9 Reva Devereaux (character), 75–76, 363, 368–369 reviews of Boyz N the Hood, 100–101, 191, 193, 196 “A Chance to Confound Fate,” 414–416 “A Gritty ‘Boyz N the Hood ’ Ushers in a New Phase of Cinema,” 411–413 “Boyz N the Hood  (R)” (movie review by Desson Howe), 416–417 “Boyz N the Hood (R)” (movie review by Rita Kempley), 418–419

Rich, Matty, 46, 180, 362 Richardson, Bob, 142 Ricky Baker (character), 75, 363–373 Riddick, Sue, 365 Rocky, 33 Rodney, W., 395 Rolling Stone, 41, 56, 66 Rosewood, 82 Rourke, Mickey, 143 Run D.M.C., 362

S Sarandon, Chris, 138 Sarandon, Susan, 167, 170

Index | 439 Savoy, 100 Schickel, Richard, 193 School Daze, 43, 117, 174, 178, 409 School of Rock, 141 Schwarzenegger, Arnold, 33 Scorsese, Martin, 33, 57 Scruggs, Charles, 378, 382, 384 “Secular Riffs on the Sacred: Ralph Ellison’s Mock-Messianic,” 14 Sedition Ensemble, 394 Séjour, Victor, 9 self-knowledge mediated through Messianic language, 12–21 self-reflexivity, 55, 61 semiautobiographical nature of Boyz N the Hood, 78–79 sexuality, 24–26, 381 Shadow and The Act, The, 30 Shaft, 141, 381 Shakur, Tupac, 34, 135–136, 142, 169–170 Shelton, Ron, 167, 168 She’s Got To Have It, 43, 181 Shifting Hollywood Terrain, 38 Shmuger, Marc, 100 Shultz, Michael, 46 Silence of the Lambs, 92 Singleton, Danny, 47–48, 79 Singleton, John, xix, 46, 51–52, 59, 101, 106–107, 198, 204, 411 as actor, 56–57 Annual Directors Guild of America Awards, 87 on Baby Boy, 103 childhood of, 47 cinematic style, xxi–xxii, 53–57, 424 college experience, 48–50 critical reflections on, 100–101 cultural specificity of stories by, xx–xxi directorial debut, 44–45 early jobs in Hollywood, 48–49 establishing his voice as a filmmaker, 46–53

on faith and God, 97 filmmakers who influenced, 57, 95 filmography, 102 finding specificity in his voice, 50–53 on his growth as a man, 96–97 Hollywood Walk of Fame star, 81, 82, 85–86 on intention, 90 interview with, 82–100 on intuition, 95 legacies of Ellison and Hughes and, 7 on longevity of Boyz N the Hood, 83–84 Los Angeles and, 34–38 Millennials discovering, 425 on nihilism and the paraphernalia of suffering, 35–39 portrait of, 41 as producer, 102 on Ronald Reagan, 91–92 as screenwriter, 102 on staying in touch with himself, 426 on Steve Nicolaides, 105 storytelling by, 42, 55

slavery, 395 Sleepwalking, 141 Smith, Bradford W., 49 Smith, Jaden, 425 Smith, Will, 425 Snipes, Wesley, 128, 168 socialization in the home and on the streets, 63–66 Soja, Edward, 383 sonic landscape, 70 Souls of Black Folks, The, 8 Soul Music, 56–57, 84, 179 Sounder, 73, 425 soundtracks/scores, 29–30, 56, 66–68, 412 Southgate, Martha, 53 Spears, Aaron, 47 specificity of voice, Singleton’s, 50–53 Spielberg, Steven, 49, 57, 95 Stand by Me, 33, 77, 92, 111, 115, 137, 141, 143

440 | Boyz

N the Hood: Shifting Hollywood Terrain

Star Wars, 47, 50, 61, 84, 86, 426 Steele, Shelby, 168 Stein, George, 32 Stevens, George, Jr., 173 storytelling, 42, 55 Straight Out of Brooklyn, 46, 180, 378 Straight Out of Compton, 33, 122 Strictly Business, 46 suffering, 35–39 Sure Thing, The, 137 Sweet Home: Invisible Cities in the Afro-American Novel, 378 Sweet Sweetback’s Baadasssss Song, 12, 21–30, 381 Ellison’s Invisible Man as cinematic test case in, 22–23 function of extended montages and soundtrack in, 29–30 function of violence in, 28–29 Invisible Man emerges as, 23–24 Sweetback getting behind language in, 27 Sweetback having body in motion in, 24–26

T Talkin’ Dirty After Dark, 46 Tayler, Clyde, 29 Taylor, Astra, 426 Teicher, Karen, 49 Terminator 2, 78 Terminator, The, 33 13th, 33 This is Spinal Tap, 137 Thompson, Caroline, 139 Three O’Clock High, 89 Thurgood, 173 Time, 46, 48, 100, 193 Today Show, 48 Townsend, Robert, 44, 46, 362, 368

Treatment, The, 172–173 Tre Styles (character), 74, 363–373 True Identity, 46 Truffaut, François, 57, 95 Trump, Donald, 111 Turan, Kenneth, 193, 411 Tuskegee Airmen, 36 Twilight Time, 49 2 Fast 2 Furious, 82 “Two Takes on Boyz N the Hood,” 406–410

U Uncle Tom’s Cabin, 10 University of Southern California, 48–49, 53, 83, 119 “Untitled,” 423 utopia/dystopia, the hood as, 382–384

V Valkeakari, Tuire, 14 Van Peebles, Melvin, 7, 12, 43, 46, 362, 381 Sweet Sweetback’s Baadasssss Song, 12, 21–30 use of extended montages and soundtrack in Sweet Sweetback’s Baadasssss Song, 29–30 use of violence in Sweet Sweetback’s Baadasssss Song, 28–29

Vasquez, Joseph B., 46 violence forms of violence, 36 in Sweet Sweetback’s Baadasssss Song, 28–29 narrative structure: function of violence, 28 physical, 18 psychic, 33 sites of violence, 63 systemic, 10

Index | 441

W

Z

“wakeful living,” 20–21 “Wake Up!”, 33 Wallace, Michele, 424 Washington, Booker T., 407 Watkins, S. Craig, 54, 62 Wayans, Keenen Ivory, 44 Welles, Orson, xix, 57, 424 West, Cornel, 10, 38, 424, 426 West, Kanye, 425 West, Nathanael, 36 What’s Love Got To Do With It?, 174, 180 When Harry Met Sally, 114, 137, 138, 142 White Men Can’t Jump, 167–168 whore (terminology), 399–400 William Morris agency, 49 Williams, E., 425 Williams, Pharrell, 395 Will There Really Be a Morning?, 142 Wilson, Amos N., 361 Wilson, August, 42, 57, 127 Winters, Michael, 79 women, African American, 369–371, 409–410 Wretched of the Earth, The, 12, 395 Wright, Richard, xx, 8–10, 379

zeitgeist leitmotif, 56

melancholic tales, 11

Writers Guild of America, 203

Y Yearwood, Gladstone, xxi, 21–22 Young, Black and Male in America: An Endangered Species, 361 Young Artist Awards, 203

FRAMING FILM The History & Art of Cinema Frank Beaver, General Editor

Framing Film is committed to serious, high-quality film studies on topics of national and international interest. The series is open to a full range of scholarly methodologies and analytical approaches in the examination of cinema art and history, including topics on film theory, film and society, gender and race, politics. Cutting-edge studies and diverse points of view are particularly encouraged. For additional information about the series or for the submission of manuscripts, please contact: Peter Lang Publishing, Inc. Acquisitions Department 29 Broadway, 18th floor New York, NY 10006 To order other books in this series, please contact our Customer Service Department at: (800) 770-LANG (within the U.S.) (212) 647-7706 (outside the U.S.) (212) 647-7707 FAX Or browse online by series at: WWW.PETERLANG.COM

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FRAMING FILM T H E H I S T O RY & A RT O F C I N E M A

In 1991, Boyz N the Hood made history as an important film text and the impetus for a critical national conversation about American urban life in African American communities, especially for young urban black males. Boyz N the Hood: Shifting Hollywood Terrain is an interdisciplinary examination of this iconic film and its impact in cinematic history and American culture. This interdisciplinary approach provides an in-depth critical perspective of Boyz N the Hood as the embodiment of the blues: how Boyz intimates a world beyond the symbolic world Singleton posits, how its fictive stance pivots to a constituent truth in the real world. Boyz speaks from the first person perspective on the state of being “invisible.” Through a subjective narrative point of view, Singleton interrogates the veracity of this claim regarding invisibility and provides deep insight into this social reality. This book is as much about the filmmaker as it is about the film. It explores John Singleton’s cinematic voice and helps explicate his propensity for a type of folk element in his work (the oral tradition and lore). In addition, this text features critical perspectives from the filmmaker himself and other central figures attached to the production, including a first-hand account of production behind the scenes by Steve Nicolaides, Boyz’s producer. The text includes Singleton’s original screenplay and a range of critical articles and initial movie reviews.

BOYZ N THE HOOD

“At long last comes a book we have all been waiting for: Joi Carr’s masterful examination of John Singleton’s classic Boyz N the Hood…This book is an accomplished, enlightening piece of work, a great companion to Singleton’s film. Highly recommended!” —Donald Bogle. Film Historian/Author; University of Pennsylvania; New York University’s Tisch School of the Arts

CARR

BOYZ N THE HOOD Shifting Hollywood Terrain

“This wise and pioneering book is the first serious and substantive treatment of John Singleton’s classic film! This film and book speak with great courage and insight into the plight and predicament of young black men. Don’t miss this book!!” —Cornel West, Professor of the Practice of Public Philosophy, Harvard University; Professor Emeritus, Princeton University

PETER LANG

Joi Carr is a Professor of English and Film Studies at Pepperdine University, Seaver College, currently serving as the Director of Film Studies and Creative/Program Director of the Multicultural Theatre Project (an interdisciplinary art-based critical pedagogy). She received her PhD from Claremont Graduate University

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JOI

CARR