Celluloid Confetti

I am probably the most politically-correct person I know.

For example, I once spent hours agonising over a brief synopsis for The Singing Ringing Tree to ensure that I correctly distinguished between dwarfs and dwarves.

(for your information, the former are small humans; the latter, fantasy creatures. When we speak of being ‘plagued by evil dwarves’ we are almost always referring to the latter)

But I was outraged by a John Patterson article in The Guardian, in which he presented his own alternative to The British Council’s Summer of British Film.

Patterson (not unreasonably) decried the official selection, which included the usual suspects of Brief Encounter, The Dambusters and Billy Liar, and presented his own list, declaring that:

“The first step we should take towards restoring some sort of national cinematic self-esteem (and sanity) is to dethrone David Lean - the man who twice presented us with Alec Guinness in blackface - and cast him down among the dunces where he and his fat-headed epics belong”

Now, I love fat-headed epics, especially Lean’s, but what I took issue with was Patterson’s use of the term ‘blackface’.

Blackface (one word, not two) refers to productions where a performer attempts a caricature of a person of African origin by means of burnt cork, greasepaint, a curly wig, and jazz hands. It isn’t, shall we say, a depiction that will win any method acting awards.

In short, dey ain’t foolin’ nobody.

But blackface, which deserves to be confined to the garbage pail of cinema, is a million miles away from films such as Lawrence of Arabia (1962) or Passage to India (1984), where an actor of one race makes an honest stab at portraying a character of another.

Alec Guinness, no matter how ludicrous and wrong-footed his turn in A Passage to India may have been, should not be tarred with the same brush (ahem) as, oh, I don’t know, Al Jolson.

And Guinness’ portrayal of Prince Feisal in Lean’s Lawrence of Arabia was, in my eyes, entirely above reproach. His performance wasn’t blackface.

It wasn’t even brownface.

It was just, ya know, Acting.

So could an Arab actor have played the role of Feisal any better? Well, the law of averages says there’s no reason why not. But, by the same logic, would Dr. Zhivago really have been a better film had Lean cast a Russian in the title role - rather than an Egyptian in a wig (Omar Sharif)?

Similarly, I thought the recent fuss kicked up over Memoirs of a Geisha (2005) bordered on insanity. Based on the book by Arthur Golden, the story is, of course, set in Japan, but the filmmakers had the temerity to cast non-Japanese actors (including Zhang Ziyi, Gong Li and the wonderful Michelle Yeoh) in many of the lead roles.

Another Guardian article, this time written by Shane Danielson, wrote:

“Note to Hollywood: far-east Asians … you know, those little yellow people you patronise? They’re NOT ALL THE SAME. Chinese and Japanese? Very different.”

Well, actually, no. They’re really not that different at all. Culturally, Japan and China are worlds apart of course, but if an Irish actor (Pierce Brosnan) can play James Bond (a character of Swiss/Scottish parentage) then Michelle Yeoh can certainly play a Geisha.

To be fair, in Memoirs of a Geisha, the real fuss was less about race, and more about language and politics (the Japanese media were appalled that plum roles went to Chinese actresses rather than domestic stars; Chinese authorities were outraged that Chinese actresses were being cast as prostitutes).

But imagine how bad it would have been if they had cast Lindsay Lohan in the lead role, replete with a straight black wig and Shirley Maclaine mascara?

You see, I think what people often object to isn’t race, it’s makeup.

Today, theatrical traditions of fake ears, rubber noses, wigs, glue-on moustaches and false teeth are frowned upon if we are talking about ’serious’ performances. Think of the ribbing Nicole Kidman got for her oversized snout in The Hours (2002). There seems to be the expectation that movie stars should look exactly the same in a movie as they do on the cover of Hello magazine.

So when Angelina Jolie had her hair permed and donned dark contact lenses to play Mariane Pearl, the widow of kidnapped journalist Daniel Pearl in A Mighty Heart (2007), Danielson’s article trotted out the old blackface critique, asking “were there no African-American actresses who might have taken the part?”

Well, for his information:
# 1: Mariane Pearl was herself mixed-race, meaning Ms. Jolie was - according to the Nuremberg Laws - half qualified to play the part
# 2: Pearl herself asked Jolie to play the role (and who can blame her? I hold out the hope that one day Angelina Jolie would agree to play me)
# 3: Halle Berry was busy

So decades after John Hurt missed out on a Best Actor Oscar for Elephant Man (1980), prosthetics and face-changing makeup tends to be reserved for oversized comedies such as the Austin Powers films starring Mike Myers, or pretty much anything starring Eddie Murphy.

And I think that’s a shame. The stagey acting style of greats such as Alec Guinness and Larry Olivier has gone out of fashion, and the willing suspension of disbelief has, temporarily, been suspended.

Edward James Olmos was great in Blade Runner, though I suspect his character was supposed to be of East Asian, rather than Latin American descent. Far from the coal mines of Wales, John Rhys-Davies has made a career playing swarthy Middle-Easterners, and long may he continue to do so. Keanu Reeves is not my favourite actor, but I think he did a good job as Denzel Washington’s half-brother in Much Ado About Nothing.

And if Max von Sydow wanted to paint on slanty-eyes to play Ming the Merciless, who am I to stop him?

That said, there is a world of difference between acting and caricature.

For every Guinness or Olivier, there was at least one Peter Sellers.

Or, worse still, a Mickey Rooney.

You see, Mr. Yunioshi - Rooney’s hideous turn as Ms. Golightly’s neighbour in Breakfast at Tiffany’s - nearly turned out to be my undoing.

I had been working in Japan for a couple of years when my darling sister - in whose mouth, butter wouldn’t melt - sent me the classic Audrey Hepburn film on DVD. Suffice it to say that I have never reached for the ‘eject’ button faster in my life.

One second slower, and I’d still be out there, working on one of their bloody railways….

Anyway.

Mr. Yunioshi is probably my least favourite filmic racial stereotype. What’s yours?