Birth Of A Nation Racism Essays
The release of “Django Unchained,” and the discussion surrounding it, have brought “Birth of a Nation”—D. W. Griffith’s disgustingly racist yet titanically original 1915 feature—back to the fore. The movie, set mainly in a South Carolina town before and after the Civil War, depicts slavery in a halcyon light, presents blacks as good for little but subservient labor, and shows them, during Reconstruction, to have been goaded by the Radical Republicans into asserting an abusive dominion over Southern whites. It depicts freedmen as interested, above all, in intermarriage, indulging in legally sanctioned excess and vengeful violence mainly to coerce white women into sexual relations. It shows Southern whites forming the Ku Klux Klan to defend themselves against such abominations and to spur the “Aryan” cause overall. The movie asserts that the white-sheet-clad death squad served justice summarily and that, by denying blacks the right to vote and keeping them generally apart and subordinate, it restored order and civilization to the South.
“Birth of a Nation,” which runs more than three hours, was sold as a sensation and became one; it was shown at gala screenings, with expensive tickets. It was also the subject of protest by civil-rights organizations and critiques by clergymen and editorialists, and for good reason: “Birth of a Nation” proved horrifically effective at sparking violence against blacks in many cities. Given these circumstances, it’s hard to understand why Griffith’s film merits anything but a place in the dustbin of history, as an abomination worthy solely of autopsy in the study of social and aesthetic pathology.
Problematically, “Birth of a Nation” wasn’t just a seminal commercial spectacle but also a decisively original work of art—in effect, the founding work of cinematic realism, albeit a work that was developed to pass lies off as reality. It’s tempting to think of the film’s influence as evidence of the inherent corruption of realism as a cinematic mode—but it’s even more revealing to acknowledge the disjunction between its beauty, on the one hand, and, on the other, its injustice and falsehood. The movie’s fabricated events shouldn’t lead any viewer to deny the historical facts of slavery and Reconstruction. But they also shouldn’t lead to a denial of the peculiar, disturbingly exalted beauty of “Birth of a Nation,” even in its depiction of immoral actions and its realization of blatant propaganda.
The worst thing about “Birth of a Nation” is how good it is. The merits of its grand and enduring aesthetic make it impossible to ignore and, despite its disgusting content, also make it hard not to love. And it’s that very conflict that renders the film all the more despicable, the experience of the film more of a torment—together with the acknowledgment that Griffith, whose short films for Biograph were already among the treasures of world cinema, yoked his mighty talent to the cause of hatred (which, still worse, he sincerely depicted as virtuous).
Griffith’s art offers humanly profound moments, whether graceful and delicate or grand and rhetorical, that detach themselves from their context to probe nearly universal circumstances, such as the blend of shame and pride in the face of a returning Confederate soldier when he comes home in tatters and finds his sister in tatters as well, or the stalwart antics of a Union girl (Lillian Gish) as she sends her brothers off to war before collapsing in tears when they’re just out of view. The breathtaking shot that starts close to a huddling mother and children, high on a hillside, and then moves to the advance of Sherman’s army, seen from the family’s elevated refuge, poignantly depicts the intimate ravages of war. The shot of a former slave-owner, under siege by a posse of freedmen for his son’s membership in the K.K.K., holding his grown daughter by the hair and raising his pistol above her head—he’s preparing to kill her if the blacks breach the door—has a harrowing and exalted grandeur that surpasses the film's specific prejudices to achieve a classical moment of tragedy. The cavalry charges of the K.K.K., done with moving cameras that hurtle backward at the speed of the gallop, are visually exhilarating and viscerally thrilling, despite the hateful and bloodthirsty repression that they represent; it's the kinetic model for a century of action scenes.
Throughout the film, Griffith’s pro-Confederacy feelings are grossly apparent; yet his depiction of events—his representation of reality as he understands it—involves the inclusion of much that departs from his intentions. The very essence of his realism is open frames, complex stagings, and multiple planes of action, all of which suggest far more than Griffith’s descriptive title cards, and his stunted politics, would themselves allow.
For instance, a scene of slave-owners and their Northern guests amiably passing by cotton fields while slaves toil in the background presents, as if in a documentary, the obvious connection between the white Southerners’ gracious ways and the hard, enforced work of slaves that makes it possible. This was not Griffith’s intention, but it’s the effect. He shows a summary trial by the K.K.K. of a black man whose sexual advances toward a white woman induced her to leap to her death. That trial and the delivery of the victim’s corpse to the doorstep of the mixed-race lieutenant governor are meant to seem just, even heroic, but come off as obscene and horrifying. The splendid festivities to celebrate the Battle of Bull Run, intercut with the eerie flare of a bonfire, suggest a dance of death, the bonfire foreshadowing the burning of Atlanta. Despite Griffith’s beliefs, the arrival of the Klan, pointing rifles at unarmed blacks who merely seek to vote, appears unjust and cruel.
The overall subject of the film is the original sin of the proximity of the white and black races. The opening scene, in which Africans are brought to the United States and sold as slaves, is described in a title card: “The bringing of the African to America planted the first seed of disunion.” The problem, from the movie’s start, wasn’t slavery but the undue mixing of races—and Griffith’s original ending was to show the return of freedmen to Africa. The two great villains of the film are both described as “mulattos”: the licentious, social-climbing housekeeper of a Radical Republican congressman (based on Thaddeus Stevens, down to the bad toupee), who takes advantage of the widower’s so-called “weakness,” leading to his divisive, aggressive, vengefully carpetbagging version of Reconstruction; and the conniving, contemptuous politician whom the congressman imposes as South Carolina’s lieutenant governor. The crisis that sparks the revolt of Southern whites is the blacks’ claim (asserted with a hungry leering) to the right of intermarriage. The very notion of racial purity (or what one title card calls the “Aryan birthright”) is at the core of the film. Yet the essence of the movie’s aesthetic power—and of its enduring significance—is its intrinsic heterogeneity.
The movie’s perspective on the events of the plot is rich, broad, and deep enough to provide the material for its own contradiction. That’s the very definition of Griffith’s realism, the founding of a cinematic manner that flourishes to this very day, in a wide range of varieties and refractions, and that reflects filmmakers’ confidence that filmic representations, however artificial or contrived, make direct contact with the world of their experience. Griffith doesn’t hide behind interpretive ambiguities or assume that the facts speak for themselves; he makes a world after his own mind, stoking the events vigorously and skewing them decisively with the equivalent of a first-person voice (as in the title cards, adorned with his signature, throughout). He filmed a world that was made to embody his point of view—but the detail and scope that he considered necessary to simulate the reality of that vanished world was inherently multitudinous and polysemic. (And the scenes that aren’t—such as those, in the state legislature, depicting black legislators as leering slobs—are ridiculous and cartoonish.) The one-word definition of Griffith’s realism—and of the best of the generations of movie realism that followed in its wake—is “more.” Despite his best (or, rather, worst) efforts, his movie escaped him.
What “Birth of a Nation” offers, even more than a vision of history, is a template for the vast, world-embracing capabilities of the cinema. It provided extraordinarily powerful tools for its own refutation. The real crime was not Griffith’s, but the world’s: the fact that most viewers knew little about slavery and little about Reconstruction and little about Jim Crow and little about the Klan, and were all too ready to swallow the very worst of the movie without question. They saw only what Griffith wanted to say but not what the movie showed, and, upon seeing what Griffith showed, were ready to take up arms in anger. Ambient and accepted racism left viewers ignorant of the facts and prone to accept Griffith’s racist version as authentic—and denied other filmmakers the chance to appropriate and even to advance Griffith’s methods and make movies offering historically faithful accounts of the same periods and events.
It took another twelve years for sync sound to come into wide use, with “The Jazz Singer.” Why was there no movie documentary in which former slaves bore witness to their experience—no cinematic equivalent of the interviews in “Born in Slavery: Slave Narratives from the Federal Writers’ Project,” which were done in the mid-thirties? Griffith’s work could have given rise to a resounding cinematic response, anticipating the mode of “Shoah,” regarding slavery. It could have been the basis for visits by former slaves or their descendants to the sites of their sufferings. It could have provoked a full and classic drama about the agonies of slaves in the prewar South, and the full measure of horrific exactions by the Klan and the decades of Jim Crow. Such films weren’t made—couldn’t be made—because those who produced films didn’t allow them to be made—and because whites in the South would certainly not have let them be made.
Yet directors who looked more clearly at the history and the modern circumstances of blacks in America (starting with Oscar Micheaux, in the silent era) have done so, however paradoxically and however infuriatingly, on the basis of Griffith’s cinematic vision, which was far more enduring and more significant than his benighted historical vision. The legacy of Griffith is simultaneously that of the medium’s colossal artistic force and its power for demagogy—of the potential to bring a world to life onscreen and the potential to turn that world into the big lie, whether with sincere or cynical intentions.
Tarantino claims to have made “Django Unchained” as something of a response to “Birth of a Nation.” His depiction of the brutality and the horror of slavery is meant as a belated corrective to Griffith’s falsified record. Yet Tarantino offers nothing of Griffith’s polysemy, nothing of his sense of being in the actual presence of history; the cartoonishness of Griffith’s worst scenes is “Django”’s basic mode. Tarantino, in his cinema-centric skein of references, suggests precisely the lack of confidence that he’s filming anything like actual experience—even though the ardent righteousness of the movie’s emotional affect suggests that he’s filming something close to his thoughts and feelings. Tarantino has spoken of his awareness of filming on actual historical sites where slaves lived, yet nowhere in the film is there the frame-breaking gesture that suggests a recognition of his own presence in the history that he appropriates. Tarantino has distinguished between the kind of violence that “can be fun” and the kind that’s “hard to take” (and that he takes seriously)—yet “Django Unchained” often blurs the distinction between the two, suggesting mainly that the director gets off on filming violence to any end whatsoever.
As for the fantasies of vengeance that he offers, there may yet have been no K.K.K. in the antebellum South that Tarantino depicts (he calls his bag-headed marauders the “Regulators”), but the violence by blacks against whites in which Tarantino exults is the obverse of Griffith’s retrospective paranoia. It wouldn’t be a stretch to dissolve from the flames of Tarantino’s Candieland to Griffith’s Confederate veteran, on a hillside, giving birth to the idea of the hooded Klan, or to cut from a title card with Django’s famous line (“Kill white people and get paid for it? What’s not to like?”) to one of Griffith’s scenes of Klansmen suiting up for action. Despite Tarantino’s virtuous intentions and sympathies, his crude and childish view of revenge renders them as regressive as Griffith’s own.
P.S. “Birth of a Nation” isn’t the only work of repugnant propaganda that suggests a cinematic subconscious far more expansive than its director’s intentions. I’ve written here and here about “Jew Süss,” an anti-Semitic propaganda drama made in Germany in 1940. Its director, Veit Harlan, is nowhere near an artist of Griffith’s originality or aesthetic sense, but he is enough of a director to have made a similarly effective work of propaganda on the basis of its amplitude. It’s no stretch to see beyond the prejudices to the elements in the film that contradict its obvious intentions.
D .W. Griffith’s “The Birth of a Nation” plays as a strange and troubling artifact, a grainy, flickering work of artistic brilliance whose images are at once breathtaking and repugnant.
With sweeping shots and intimate close-ups, the 1915 silent film heralded the future of cinema, but its abhorrent depiction of African Americans and celebration of the Ku Klux Klan reawakened virulent strains in the nation’s violent racial history.
The movie baffles, enthralls, angers and mystifies. It was the fusing of a thrilling new art form with primitive instincts. Its revolutionary cinematography, editing, narrative range, battle scenes and sprawling cast mesmerized audiences and inspired generations of filmmakers. It was also searing propaganda that revitalized the Klan and roused prejudices that echo today in police shootings of black men, outrage over affirmative action and furor over whether we must rise for the national anthem.
The work, which immediately became a disturbing touchstone and point of bitter division, was shown in President Woodrow Wilson’s White House. Wilson and Griffith were Southerners nostalgic for the antebellum era, but the movie, serene in pastoralism and shocking in message, struck deep national chords that have resounded for more than a century.
Few film titles have evoked such passion. This was certainly on the mind of Nate Parker, who brazenly borrowed the name for his upcoming picture. His “The Birth of a Nation” is a repudiation of Griffith’s vision, a black director’s rendering of an 1831 slave rebellion that is likely to play into America’s conversation about race. But the movie, which opens Oct. 7, is shadowed by its own controversy: Parker’s acquittal in a rape trial involving an intoxicated white co-ed nearly two decades ago when he was a college wrestler. His black teammate Jean McGianni Celestin, who received a writing credit on the film, was convicted of sexual assault in the case. The verdict was overturned and prosecutors later dropped the matter.
Like Griffith’s epic, Parker’s movie is a visceral conjuring of history. But the director’s past and an off-camera rape in the film have complicated the marketing campaign. One can imagine what Griffith might have thought about the irony of an African American filmmaker usurping his title only to be entangled by an incident that validates, at least for racists, Griffith’s premise and speaks to women’s rights, race and the capacity of art to articulate the times.
The potency of those issues has shaped political discourse for generations. It has led to questions of identity, changing sexual attitudes and, when it comes to movies and books, who gets to shape historical narratives on matters from slavery to suffrage to the 1965 Voting Rights Act. Unlike Parker, Griffith, whose legacy would be tainted by his indelible scenes of racism, did not have to contend with studio reputations, endless news cycles and social media that can turn a potential landmark film into a cautionary tale before its release.
The Kentucky son of a former Confederate army colonel, Griffith was a master of images, a brash auteur who burst like a wizard from the nickelodeon era to give America its first blockbuster 24 years before a less abrasive version of racism in “Gone With the Wind.” His caricatures of blacks — as craven, simple-minded and savage — spurred protests in Philadelphia and Boston; Kansas, Ohio and other states refused to show it. The NAACP, which was founded in 1909, condemned it as “three miles of filth.”
The three-hour-plus film, which if released today would most likely be relegated to rabid corners of white supremacist websites, played to a nation still nursing the bruises from a conflict that for four years tore it apart. It traces the turbulence from the Civil War into Reconstruction. Told through the entwined lives of two families — the Stonemans of the North and the Camerons of the South — the story was adapted from the novel “The Clansman” by Thomas Dixon Jr. It depicted Northern abolitionists, carpetbaggers and freed slaves, many of whom were elected to state legislatures, as perilous to the storied if largely invented gentility of the antebellum South.“”— Thomas Allen Harris, filmmakerShare this quote
In one scene, blacks, dressed as if extras in a minstrel show, drink whiskey, sit barefoot and gouge on meat as they take their places in South Carolina’s new legislature. The screen fills with the words: “The helpless white minority.” In another moment, a white actor in black face chases a white woman, who rather than succumb to his advances — symbolic of the rape of the South — throws herself from a cliff.
The anticipation around the movie was undeniable. Theater lines stretched for blocks and ticket prices, normally between a nickel and 15 cents, jumped to $2. At least 1 million tickets were sold in New York; by some estimates, “Birth” grossed as much as $60 million. The film has since been released on DVD but is rarely shown in public. In 2004, threats and protests forced the Silent Movie Theatre in L.A. to cancel a screening.
“Griffith advanced the art of film, but did so by throwing African Americans under the bus,” said Thomas Allen Harris, a filmmaker whose 2014 documentary “Through a Lens Darkly” examines depictions of blacks in the media. “I remember seeing it as a student at the Bronx High School of Science. I think I was the only black person in the room. I experienced this kind of attack personally by the film. I felt anger and shame. I didn’t have the words to say, ‘Hey, what about this?’ I felt the shame of silence. That film is seared in my mind.”
Similar to today’s restive and politically charged America, the country at the time of the movie’s premiere bristled with racial tensions, anti-immigrant fervor and looming dangers from abroad. The U.S. was two years away from entering a world war raging in Europe and a backlash against a rising population of foreigners would lead Congress to limit immigration in 1917 and again in 1924. The great migration of blacks from the South to the North was just beginning, and anger and disillusionment over Reconstruction and Jim Crow were evident from old plantations to the White House.
Much of the film’s allure, at least among white audiences, was the glorification of the Old South, that world of tea, Spanish moss, buggy whips and summer dances. It was a populist paean to recapture certain vestiges of an America undergoing dramatic change, similar to Donald Trump vowing to “make America great again,” a phrase that has roused supporters in Appalachia, the South and the Rust Belt, where blue collar workers feel threatened by immigration and economic globalization.
One of the most prominent champions of Griffith’s film was Wilson, who noted what he considered the unrest that broke out when blacks rose to power in the Reconstruction years.
“In the villages the Negroes were the office holders, men who knew nothing of the uses of authority, except its insolences,” wrote Wilson, whose racist attitudes have led to calls to remove his name from Princeton University’s School of Public & International Affairs. Wilson added that laws passed by Congress “put the white south under the heel of the black south” until at last “there had sprung into existence a great Ku Klux Klan, a veritable empire of the South, to protect the Southern country.”
Griffith liked Wilson’s rhetoric so much that he quoted it in “Birth of a Nation.” The gravity of those words played alongside disturbing stereotypes: blacks eating watermelon, slipping into fits of brutality and leering as sexual predators. As the film rolls on, the Klan, like knights and avengers, gallops onto the screen to the tune — played by a theater orchestra — of Richard Wagner’s “Flight of the Valkyrie” to protect the South from “crazed negroes.”
After seeing the film, Wilson said: “It is like writing history with lightning, and my only regret is that it is all so terribly true.”
The movie’s mythologizing of the Old South carries the same urgency as its antiwar message. The battle scenes and depictions of death and the physically and emotionally wounded are unflinching. They provoke and haunt, as if Griffith were mastering the power of a new medium to not only entertain but also to creep deep into the conscience. It’s as if he understood what film would become, how it would ingratiate and taunt and how its images would glimmer like strange and beautiful mirrors for a new century.“”— Jonathan Kuntz, film historianShare this quote
Despite the movie’s vile portrayal of race relations, Griffith was a progressive in other ways. “He supported women and prisoners’ rights. He was for unions,” said Jonathan Kuntz, a film historian and lecturer at the UCLA School of Theater, Film and Television. “But obviously, when it came to African Americans, it was another issue. I don’t think he could see his own racism. The most terrifying, horrible thing about the film is that it legitimized the Ku Klux Klan like a superhero origin story.”
While the picture’s racism was reprehensible, its art was unmistakable. Honing his talent for years on short, one-reel films, Griffith, a playwright and an actor, took on “The Birth of a Nation” like an artist with unending canvas. He mastered cross-cut editing, stoked tension, unspooled plot lines and perfected the close-up, including luminous shots of his star Lillian Gish. He understood the thrall of great sweep and the poignancy of meticulous detail.
“To watch his work,” film critic James Agee wrote in an essay on Griffith, “is like being witness to the beginning of melody, or the first conscious use of the lever on a wheel; the emergence, coordination, and first eloquence of language; the birth of art; and to realize that this is all the work of one man.” He added in another passage that “for the first time the movies had a man who realized that, while a theater audience listened, a movie audience watched.”
Griffith’s romanticizing of the Klan and the Old South through cinema was a forerunner to the work of others who used film for propaganda means, notably Soviet directors from the end of World War I and into the Cold War and Leni Riefenstahl, the German auteur whose 1935 documentary “Triumph of the Will” celebrated Hitler’s Nazi Party at its congress in Nuremberg. The film glorified an ideology that would lead to World War II and the Holocaust.
But as the decades wore on, Griffith, whom Charlie Chaplin referred to as “the master,” could not escape the recriminations his images aroused. He never apologized for “The Birth of a Nation,” saying that speech and ideas should not be censored. But two films he later made suggested an artistic reconciliation: “Intolerance” (1916) told four tales from history, including the life of Jesus Christ, that spoke to intolerance; and “Broken Blossoms” (1919), an interracial love story between a Chinese man and a British woman.
“ ‘Intolerance’ was his answer to his critics,” said Kuntz. “Maybe he felt a little stung.” Film critic Richard Schickel’s biography “D.W. Griffith: An American Life” notes: “Though he went on to direct some of the most legendary films of the silent era, Griffith was doomed by his over-reaching drives, and he died an embittered man, shunned by the community he had largely created.”
When “The Birth of a Nation” opened, Griffith seemed at once a star of the new age and a man trapped in the lore of a misbegotten past. “He was a man with pioneering art form and a passion for the redemption of the fallen South. He wanted to rewrite that narrative as patriotic, strong and noble,” said Harris. “The country in 1915 was grappling with the question, ‘Who are we?’ Just like today.”
'The Birth of a Nation' startled audiences and critics alike when it premiered in 1915
When it opened in 1915, “The Birth of a Nation” was praised by film critics for its sweeping story and artistic innovation. The NAACP condemned it and called for it to be censored. And editorial pages worried that the silent black-and-white film would inflame racial hatred by glorifying the Old South and turning the Ku Klux Klan into heroes.
“ ‘The Birth of a Nation’ will thrill you, startle you, make you hold onto your seats. It will make you laugh. It will make you cry. It will make you angry. It will make you glad. It will make you hate. It will make you love, ” C.F. Zittel, a critic for the New York Evening Journal, wrote when the movie was released.
Other critics and writers of the day marveled at director D.W. Griffith’s technical and narrative brilliance and what it would mean for the future of movies. “I never had the slightest conception of what could be done with the moving picture as an art until I saw ‘The Birth of a Nation,’ ” wrote syndicated columnist Dorothy Dix.
However, as Richard Schickel noted in his biography of the director, “D.W. Griffith: An American Life,” some regarded the film as slandering black Americans. Under the headline “Capitalizing Race Hatred,” the New York Globe wrote: “To make a few dirty dollars men are willing to pander to depraved tastes and to foment a race antipathy that is the most sinister and dangerous feature of American life.”
The Washington Post called the movie a “wonderful spectacle” and compared Griffith to the poet Lord Byron for capturing the “thrilling contrast between the joy of life and the hollow emptiness of death.”
The best sound bite came from President Woodrow Wilson, who noted: “It’s like writing history with lightning, and my only regret is that it is all so terribly true.”
Even generations after its premiere, the film, which is on DVD and has been colorized, remains powerful.
In 2003, Roger Ebert wrote: “To understand ‘The Birth of a Nation’ we must first understand the difference between what we bring to the film, and what the film brings to us. All serious moviegoers must sooner or later arrive at a point where they see a film for what it is, and not simply for what they feel about it. ‘The Birth of a Nation’ is not a bad film because it argues for evil. Like [Leni] Riefenstahl’s ‘Triumph of the Will,’ it is a great film that argues for evil. ”
Contact the reporter at Jeffrey.Fleishman@latimes.com.
Credits: Produced by Andrea Roberson and Tracy Brown