I Recommend You Watch The Tearjerker ‘Till’ With Kleenex And A Clear Head

 

Till film poster.

I remember walking into the Whitney Museum and purposely ignoring the Biennial’s Dana Schultz’s Open Casket on several visits. I remember social media muting white professors and former white classmates on their defensive views of why this controversial artwork deserved to be made, that anyone could use history as the basis of creativity. I remember seething with rage when the artist in question made the excuse that she painted this through the eyes of a mother. Yet, let us be perfectly clear that Schultz’s work does not have the same moral, let alone emotional and psychological impact as Mamie Till-Mobley’s historic decision to showcase what racist hatred performed in 1955. 

Till, Chinonye Chukwu’s beautifully riveting biopic, reveals just what a Black mother is forced to endure in a prejudiced America. This ordeal is unlike any other struggle for the average parent. It is our history— the history of loss from the times of Africans being sold to various countries including America to slavery auction blocks permanently separating families to violent killings post Civil War and beyond. Trauma unfortunately weaves into Black generational legacy and no amount of joy can change that fact. There is no rewriting history to make one feel comfortable. We were not meant to have that luxury, that feeling that you can choose to ignore a story as chilling as Mamie and Emmett Till’s. This drama film packs a heavy emotional punch, something more visceral and powerful than any painting hung in an elite gallery space. 

Emmett (Jalyn Hall) gives his mother Mamie (Danielle Deadwyler) his watch at the train station. After his murder, the ring on his finger would be the one identifying factor. DP: Bobby Bukowski.

It opens softly on Mamie Till driving with Emmett on the passenger side. Her eyes are watering, seeming elsewhere as though this whole sequence is a frozen, suspenseful dream. Perhaps she is a clairvoyant already knowing what will happen to her precious son soon. Their sweet camaraderie as mother and child evokes pleasant relationship vibes: protective, nurturing, and so much care. Sweet, affectionate Emmett has a minor speech impediment, but singing songs helps him smooth over his stuttering. Mamie looks on Emmett with elevated pride and happiness, reserving certain motherly glances for him alone. He too adores her immensely as though no other woman in the world could ever replace his compassionate, resilient, beautiful mother. Like Mamie, however, we all wish that Emmett would not be so excited to leave the love and safety nest Chicago, Illinois provides. A cruel fate awaits in Money, Mississippi. When they have their final moments at the train station, Mamie takes as much extra time as possible before Emmett departs. It becomes emotional devastation. The exchanged “I love you” and the crushing embrace between them sets up a heartbreaking foreshadowing. 

Down South, Emmett is introduced to backward conditioning. While racism exists in Chicago through other discrete tactics, Money blatantly displays segregation. From his family cotton picking in the field to the Bryant’s store mishap to the kidnapping— each sequence has key importance to the tragic consequences befallen to Emmett. Slavery may have ended nearly ninety years prior, but cotton remains a commodity and only certain folks are out in the hot sun plucking its worth. Naturally, Emmett finds no pleasure in the humiliating task, joking around to the annoyance of his serious cousins. In Money, Black boys are already seen as laborious adults, having little recess or game play until the day’s work is completed. At the Bryant’s store, presenting a stiff calm before the volatile storm, Emmett’s charm backfires tremendously, turning into a colossal fabrication by a white woman named Carolyn Bryant. One innocent act would later become the catalyst to his kidnapping and eventual murder.  

Emmett’s cousins hanging out in front of Bryant’s store. DP: Bobby Bukowski.

The next sequences are a trigger warning that will have your blood running cold. The very sensitive material is a reality stronger than any painting that unsuccessfully tries to depict a mother’s grief from a place that is not genuine, let alone realistic. Mamie Till’s grief is not a fodder vehicle, not a plot device for spectacle. It is beyond maternal instinct, beyond maternal despair. Her reactions to the kidnapping, the found body, the pine box arrival, and her son’s bloated, mutilated body are especially unsettling. The depth of her endless sorrow knows no amount of medicinal aide or therapeutic elements could ever relieve the vicious claw racism stole from her heart. Although the audience is spared witnessing Emmett’s perverse murder, hearing only his cries on a dark night, his body is shown in horrendously graphic detail, perfectly mirroring the nightmarish pictures in the Jet Magazine. Thus, there was keen commitment in orchestrating the truth of what Mamie saw and lived through— what she bravely showed the world. Also, while grieving, she must deal with the NAACP and their sexist dynamics and pleas that she uses her son’s death for political gain (that remains a campaign promise today until politicians get in office and forget about Black people). Even in the midst of experiencing great despair and shock, we are expected to work, to perform. 

On top of the mourning mother, Mamie decides to push the envelope further by going down to Money and testifying at the murder trial. However, this is a place where racism thrives and ugly white feminism is proudly steeped. In court, Mamie’s responses are tremulous, agonizing moments of vulnerability. The white men refuse to acknowledge her humanity, let alone Emmett’s. When Mamie says, “they’re killing him all over again,” the extent of her words could not be any clearer or wiser. Carolyn is allowed on the stand, lying up a storm, entertaining the men who idolize what she represents— their innocent, unblemished salvation/damsel/victim. Of course, Mamie leaves in the middle of this performative show, intuitively knowing which side the jury is on. 

Mamie (Danielle Deadwyler) and her mother Alma (Whoopi Goldberg). DP: Bobby Bukowski. 

Chukwu’s raw, gut-wrenching first feature Clemency also comes to mind, delivering the candid message that America remains undeniably separated. The law is a complex system, but not so complex that you cannot see that class discrepancies can keep the innocent behind bars and the guilty living their best lives among us. Anthony Woods, a contemporary Black man is found guilty and on death roll for a crime he did not commit. Yet, in Till, the white men who tortured and killed a Black boy are allowed a free existence to live a long life— a pattern still existing today. The murderers can be dirty cops or proclaimed neighborhood watch citizens, brandishing their powers, weaponizing their inferior positions. Rarely, will these real-life villains be subjected to imprisonment, much less having to beg for appeals and mercy like Anthony. In the eyes of the all-white male jury, they saw themselves dulling out the punishment— killing Emmett in order to “protect” Carolyn. That collective “not guilty” meant no crime was committed, it was justice served. 

With a commendable cast led by the visceral force of Danielle Deadwyler’s memorable performance as the icon that sparked a nation, Till is by far one of the most moving biopics ever seen about a Black woman— authentic in every single part of its crafted vision. Honestly, haven’t we had enough of biopics/race films helmed by mostly white men? Aren’t we ready for new, authentic visual experiences seen through a gentle, caring lens? It must be lauded that a commendable Black woman was involved in both Till’s story and direction, a story that never veers away from the heart of the matter— Mamie and Emmett. They are not weighed down by Martin Luther King Jr. (who is a constant fixture in almost every civil rights era drama). Co-written with Keith Beauchamp (mentored in real-life by Mamie Till-Mobley) and Michael Reilly, Chukwu’s incredibly powerful piece demonstrates a Black woman’s plight to honoring her son who deserved to live, who deserved justice in a country denying him that. In addition to Bobby Bukowski’s brilliant cinematography, Abel Korzeniowski’s music comes through scenes with meaningful intentions while others are purely silent, allowing us only the offering of an actor’s pivotal words and breaths. Marci Rodgers, the Black woman costume designer behind High Flying Bird, Passing and episodes of She’s Gotta Have It and Paper Girls, created flawless styles that truly set the tone— Mamie’s wardrobe going from bright yellows to pitch black by the end. 

Mamie Till-Mobley’s path to publicly advocating for her son reflects on our current climate— Samaria Rice, Sybrina Fulton, and other Black women mothers speaking on the injustice of their slain children. DP: Bobby Bukowski. 

My knowledge of Emmett Till started as a teenager watching the late Henry Hampton’s award-winning Eyes On the Prize and later appreciating Ava DuVernay’s August 28th short film which features two Black men working on Emmett’s pine casket box to be shipped from Money to Chicago. As Hannah Black, creator of the open letter to the Whitney Museum, told us, we do not need a white woman to broadcast Emmett Till from her tone-deaf platform. Schultz knows nothing of Black pain and struggle, can never begin to imagine what grieving Black mothers’ are experiencing. They are still hurting yesterday, tomorrow, right now. Better yet, generations later, we are still sequestered in the embittered aftermath that never fades away. Emmett Till never fades away. Thankfully, Till finally exists, allowing a broader chapter revealed from Mamie Till-Mobley’s anguished perspective. She is the reason we know her son. That’s why we must elevate them both. One heartbeat cannot pound hard without the other. 

‘Livin For Love: The Natalie Cole Story’ Shadowed With Repressed Grief

Livin’ For Love: The Natalie Cole Story film poster. 

On this day, nine time Grammy winner and three time American Music Awards recipient Natalie Cole would have been turning seventy-two years old. Thus, why not celebrate by revisiting Livin’ For Love— her autobiographical film based on her memoirs? Often left off lists of actors/actresses playing themselves in biopics, this Robert Townsend directed work should definitely be included because Cole narrates and co-stars. She is a heartbreaking example of the Hollywood philosophy of lifting a celebrity up and bringing them down hard when they show flaws, human error. 

It begins with a house fire (occurring four days after her 31st birthday). A very high Cole wants to save her drugs above anything else. A privileged upbringing set her apart and should have been the means to growing up with a good head on her shoulders. Daughter of famed jazz singer and pianist Nat King Cole, her younger self lived in a predominantly white neighborhood and attended an affluent private school in New England. She mostly made friends due to her father’s status. Yet she was the apple of her father’s eye; so much a pride and joy that he puts her onto music too. Although he was in big demand—tours, record studios, television— he loved being the family man, especially for the daughter who idolized him. Once the tragedy struck of losing her father, she would later unleash her pent up sadness in a devastating delayed reaction. After all, Maria Cole continued sending her daughter to school, offering limited time to properly grieve, let alone lending an attentive shoulder to cry on. 

College introduced the impressionable, isolated Natalie Cole to darker, obscene pleasures; an ugly underground that took her years to escape. With her natural curiosity to try everything and letting peer pressure guide her into unfamiliar territory, she experiments more and more with hardcore drugs including heroin and crack cocaine. In the meantime, she finds the inclination to sing and sounds impressive, charming. Her mother forbids it, having still not completely recovered over her own grief. On campus, Cole becomes nervous— everyone has discovered she’s music royalty. Her nepotism is expected, exaggerated. Drugs lure her deeper. It becomes easier to use than to be clean. This sends her life in a serious uproar with detrimental consequences. 

Livin’ For Love lets Cole tell her perspective. The failure with a majority of biopics nowadays is an embellished story here or there going too far; made up facts as opposed to revealing the cold hard truth. Sure, the lives of celebrities are wilder than most, but audiences want to be satisfied with some measure of accuracy, especially those of us who research afterward. “Based on a true story” doesn’t cut it if the information is pure fabrication. Cole is very involved in this film as co-writer, star, and producer. 

Diahann Carroll (Maria), Natalie Cole, and Theresa Randle (teen/young adult Natalie). 

Robert Townsend—well-known for films showcasing Black excellence, music in particular— crafts Cole’s story in an engaging way, putting us into her need for love and comfort, seeking solace in addiction, and finding recovery through channeling her father’s music. Diahann Carroll was the perfect choice to portray Cole’s mother Maria, a retired singer who prioritized her husband’s career over her own. A great scene features Maria visiting a strung out Natalie at college; appalled and dismissive of her natural hair and braless attire. Beneath the insult, Carroll combines her trademark diva attitude with a soft sincerity that assures a mother’s heart— buried deep within— exists. Theresa Randle, from Townsend’s earlier classic The Five Heartbeats, stands out as the Natalie Cole in her teen and young adult years, cleverly switching between Black power radicalism to messy drug addict wife. However, Randle could have been pushed more— makeup wise— into portraying the sickness that is drug abuse. The eighties were such a bad time— crack cocaine and heroin killing great artists like Jean-Michel Basquiat. Natalie Cole herself would have been next. In her film, she was a marvelous, apologetic soul expressing regret, pain, sorrow, and joy. Endless tragedy almost killed her spirit, but she was able to turn around and triumph, especially that beautiful voice in a challenging, unforgiving industry. For playing herself, Cole won the NAACP Image Award for Outstanding Actress in a Miniseries or Special. 

Livin’ For Love may be an understated television movie that seems made for Lifetime. It is a humble cinematic treasure that adds an unforgettable piece of Natalie Cole history alongside her impressive musical catalog. When she left us on a cold New Year’s Eve, a remarkable legacy stayed behind and not because of her famous father. 

Natalie Cole was a talent, a star in her own right too. 

‘A Love Song For Latasha’ Is Gentle Prose That Transcends Black Girl Tragedy

A Love Song For Latasha film poster. 

These days are full of fire and rage fueled by the pain of tragic loss. Black bodies are robbed of living and their murderers often receive no punishment. 

Latasha once saved another Black girl from drowning and that girl became her best friend— one of the film’s narrators. 

Art is one remedy that temporarily soothes the affects worldwide racism has historically created over centuries. And that racism is not always black and white. Back in the 1990’s such a turmoil boiled hotly in South Central part of Los Angeles, California between Black people and the Koreans— majority business owners. A Black girl was heinously murdered by a temperamental Korean grocer. 

That Black girl’s name was Latasha Harlins. 

Latasha’s yearbook photo. 

A Love Song For Latasha honors her memory, often lost in the continued escalating violence of today. History allots a paltry paragraph on her death and not a full bodied in-depth look at her short life. Among images of Black girls swimming and Black girls immersed in dreamy flowers, this hybrid short film humanizes Harlins, sculpting a figure beyond the teenager executed for buying an orange juice. Her story is carefully constructed by her best friend and cousin, the narrating women celebrating their lost youth, sharing the innocent desires of building community centers, becoming lawyers. Although surviving to only the tender age of fifteen-years-old, Harlins was a known heroine in her neighborhood, having valiantly protected the most vulnerable from bullies. A loving, caring girl wanted to give back to her community, save it from harm. She lost so much already in her young life including her mother at age ten, but Harlins still reimagined a greater world, an unfulfilled hope of Black utopia. 

When Black girls hang out, it’s a moment of celebrating each other, of simply being and enjoying each other’s light. Latasha brought so much light to everyone she loved, her friends, her family. 

Black girl with flower crowns dressed in white, tall sunflowers surrounding her. 

Between Adebukola Bodunrin’s dark, haunting animation and depicting the value of Black girl friendships through fictional scenes, writer/director/cinematographer Sophia Nahli Allison brings new information to light about Harlins, breaking away from standard documentary format. The long-awaited justice is found here through the scope of Allison’s caring, tender lens, in visually stunning pictures showcasing a rich, insightful look at burgeoning Black womanhood, at something taken for granted, stolen. Latasha Harlins is more than her death date of March 16, 1991. She was a Black girl who mattered, who had some real poignant dreams. 

Black girl friendships are special. 

A Love Song for Latasha is a piece of our past, our present. A valid resource for future generations, demonstrating the worth of a Black life, a Black girl’s life, Allison reveals why Latasha Harlins deserved to live.