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Flickers of Black: short films and the Black quest for social citizenship in America before WWII

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Flickers of Black: short films and the Black quest for social citizenship in America before WWII

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Content

FLICKERS
OF
BLACK:

SHORT
FILMS
AND
THE
BLACK
QUEST
FOR
SOCIAL
CITIZENSHIP
IN

AMERICA
BEFORE
WWII

By

Kwynn
Perry

Dissertation
Presented
to
the

FACULTY
OF
THE
USC
GRADUATE
SCHOOL

UNIVERSITY
OF
SOUTHERN
CALIFORNIA

SCHOOL
OF
CINEMATIC
ARTS

in
partial
fulfillment
of
the
requirements
of
the

DOCTOR
OF
PHILOSOPHY

IN
CINEMA
AND
MEDIA
STUDIES

December
2019

ii

To
my
grandmother,
Sylvia,
who
always
believed
I
could
do
absolutely
anything
in
life,

and
no
matter
how
many
times
I
told
her
what
I
was
doing
in
school,
was
resolved
to

the
fact
that
I
was
going
to
make
movies.

To
my
son,
Ellison,
who
I
believe
can
do
absolutely
anything
in
life.
Explore,

experiment,
and
find
what
fuels
you.
Once
you
find
it,
pursue
it
with
vigor.

Sankofa.

iii

Acknowledgments

This
has
been
a
journey.
Making
it
across
the
finish
line
was
a
lot
of
sweat,
as

expected,
but
I
continue
to
marvel
at
the
serendipity
at
play
in
the
completion
of
this

project.

I
am
eternally
grateful
to
my
incredible,
thoughtful,
and
supportive

committee.
Your
availability
and
deep
engagement
with
my
project
truly
made

those
moments
of
impossibility
seem
possible.
Your
acuity
in
assisting
me
in

regaining
momentum
is
a
special
gift,
and
I
am
appreciative
of
each
of
you
for
giving

me
the
much-‐needed
boost.

To
Christine,
you
are
a
mentor
in
the
most
complete
sense
of
the
word.

Thank
you
for
your
guidance
both
on
and
off
the
page,
and
for
helping
me
navigate

those
sometimes
difficult
to
discern
moments
of
when
to
dig
deeper
and
when
to

pull
back.
Your
expertise
in
the
trajectory
of
Black
media
representation
was
very

helpful
as
I
moved
forward
with
this
project,
and
I
am
forever
appreciative
of
the

energy
and
encouragement
you
have
gifted
me.

To
J.D.,
your
arrival
at
USC
was
a
fortuitous
boon
for
me.
Thank
you
for
your

careful
reading
and
guidance
in
this
project.
I
am
so
lucky
to
have
benefitted
from

your
passion
and
wealth
of
knowledge
about
Hollywood’s
Golden
Age.
Thank
you

for
helping
me
structure
this
project
and
helping
me
organize
the
mass
of
research

and
ideas
that
I
had
accumulated
over
the
years.

To
Julia,
thank
you
for
reminding
me
of
the
value
of
‘reading’
film,
and

encouraging
me
to
dive
deep
into
textual
analysis.
Your
support
over
the
years
has

iv

been
invaluable,
and
it
means
so
much
to
me
that
I
was
able
to
have
your
gift
for

narrative
analysis
and
background
in
Black
narrative
and
representation
prodding

and
challenging
this
project.

Finally,
to
all
of
my
committee
members,
thank
you
so
much
for
your

availability.
The
coffee
meet
ups,
working
lunches,
texts,
and
email
check-‐ins
truly

helped
steer
me
towards
the
finish
line.

To
those
that
offered
input
at
the
initial
stages
of
this
project—Todd
Boyd,

Rick
Jewell,
Kara
Keeling,
Taj
Frazier,
and
Steve
Ross—
thank
you.

I
must
extended
gratitude
to
the
passionate
archival
researchers
and

collectors
who
never
seemed
to
tire
of
my
questions.
Thank
you
to
Brett
Service,

Ned
Comstock,
the
staff
at
the
Margaret
Herrick
Library,
the
New
York
State

Archives
staff,
and
Mark
Cantor.

You
can
never
underestimate
the
value
of
the
emotional
support
provided
by

those
who
understand
exactly
what
the
process
is;
to
my
academic
village
who
has

kept
me
propped
up
for
the
longevity
of
this
ride,
thank
you.
To
the
illustrious

members
of
Negro
Night:
Ayana
McNair,
Garrett
Thompson,
Leah
Aldridge,

Stephanie
Hoover-‐Yeung,
Manouchka
Labouba,
Lorien
Hunter,
Alicia
Cornish,
and

Dominic
Matheny
the
laughter,
tears,
and
general
cultural
uplift
was
integral
to
this

process.
To
my
USC
Day
One,
Elena
Bonomo,
all
your
support
and
reassurance
is

forever
embedded
in
my
essence,
and
our
bond
will
forever
run
deep.
I
love
you
all

dearly.

I
am
additionally
appreciative
to
my
network
and
community
outside
of

academia.
To
the
Inner
Circle,
Los
Angeles
Derby
Dolls,
and
Angel
City
Derby,
thank

v

you
for
keeping
me
buoyant
and
supporting
me
from
the
fringes.
Life,
including

pursing
a
Ph.D.,
is
about
balance,
and
I
am
thankful
for
your
presence
and
constant

reminder
of
that
fact.

To
my
creative
writing
partner,
Natalie
Chaidez,
thank
you
eternally
for

showing
me
the
carrot.
I
am
grateful
to
you
in
ways
you
will
probably
never

understand.

To
my
parents,
Lorraine
and
Darryl,
I
am
appreciative
of
the
sacrifices
you

have
made
to
set
me
along
my
path.
You
fostered
my
love
for
learning
and
critical

thinking
starting
at
a
very
young
age,
and
I
am
so
appreciative
that
you
always
made

sure
that
my
environment
was
one
in
which
I
felt
free
to
be
inquisitive.
Thank
you

for
the
various
forms
of
support
you
have
shown
me
along
this
arduous
process;
I

could
not
have
finished
without
your
support.
I
hope
I
have
made
you
proud.

To
my
husband,
Brian,
no
one
on
this
earth
knows
the
specifics
of
this

journey
in
the
detail
that
you
do.
Thank
you
for
being
there
to
console
me
through

the
difficulties
and
cheer
me
on
as
I
overcame
them.
You
were
the
listening
ear
and

voice
of
reason,
and
I
appreciate
that
your
support
style
was
one
in
which
I
was

always
able
to
come
to
my
own
conclusions.
Thank
you
for
making
me
slow
down

from
time
to
time
to
actually
take
stock
of
my
accomplishments.

To
Ellison,
you
have
spent
more
time
in
coffee
shops,
libraries,
and
archives

than
is
fathomable
for
any
kid
your
age.
Thank
you
for
being
my
buddy,
for
giving

me
peace,
for
being
patient,
and
for
reminding
me
that
breaks
are
sometimes

needed.
And
yes,
you
must
call
me
“Dr.
Mommy.”

vi

Abstract

“Flickers
of
Black:
Short
Films
and
the
Black
Quest
for
Social
Citizenship
in

America
before
WWII”
examines
mainstream
Black
representation
in
short
film

from
cinema’s
inception
until
the
onset
of
World
War
II,
and
the
ways
in
which
these

short
films
created
a
rare
platform
for
Black
boundary
crossing
and
subversive

confrontations
of
dominant
white
American
ideologies.
It
argues
that
these
films-‐-‐
often
overlooked
in
surveys
of
film
history-‐-‐
extend
the
historical
trajectory
of

progressive
representations
of
Blackness
and
Black
culture
on
the
front
end
of

cinema
history,
offering
nuanced,
and
defiant
representations
of
Black
culture
to
the

masses
before
WWII.
The
dissertation
investigates
the
ways
in
which
these
films-‐-‐

traditionally
seen
merely
as
uninspired
documentation,
or

“low
brow”
industrial

filler-‐-‐
did
important
work
to
usher
Black
Aesthetics
and
culture
into
the

mainstream,
while
simultaneously
working
to
destabilize
and
expose
racist
white

ideological
constructs
of
Blackness
during
the
Jim
Crow
era.

“Flickers
of
Black”
draws
from
various
theoretical
approaches
to
expose

overlooked
moments
of
Black
collaboration,
representational
ownership,
and
socio-‐
cultural
defiance
in
mainstream
film
before
WWII.

It
also
incorporates
relevant

works
from
the
Harlem
Renaissance
as
means
of
positioning
the
short
films
within

the
larger
Black
artistic
movement
and
history
of
Black
Aesthetics.
Finally,
it
works

to
demonstrate
how
the
combination
of
studio
business
practices,
music,
and

celebrity
created
a
unique
mechanism
that
allowed
Black
subjects
uncommon

access
to
the
cinematic
foreground
in
early
film
history.

Once
these
Black
subjects

were
moved
into
the
foreground
and
given
agency
over
their
cultural

vii

representation
in
mainstream
cinema,
an
unexpected
platform
for
subversive

sociopolitical
messaging
was
created.
Relaying
previously
unexplored
context

regarding
the
Black
community’s
expectations
around
equality,
opportunity,
and

social
enfranchisement
before
WWII,
these
historically
disregarded
short
films

serve
as
a
benchmark
for
Black
voices
permeating
into
the
pop
cultural
mainstream.

viii

Table
of
Contents

Dedication

ii

Acknowledgments

iii

Abstract

vi

List
of
Figures

ix

Introduction:

Short
Film,
American
Carnival,
and
Black
Representation

1

Chapter
One

Black
Patriotism
as
Social
and
Cinematic
Spectacle:

Morale,
Ideology
and
the
Long
Life
of
“Rookies
after
Two

Days
Training”

37

Chapter
Two

The
Hoy
Falloy
Head
Up
to
Harlem:

Black
Cultural
Tourism
and
Hollywood’s
Navigating

Ambassadors

74

Chapter
Three

Immersion,
Invasion,
and
Infiltration:

Boundary
Crossing
and
(Un)Belonging

131

Conclusion:

Hi
De
Ho(ax):
The
Apex
and
Decline
of
the
Black
Musical
Short

190

Works
Referenced

202

ix

List
of
Figures

FIGURE
2.1…………….……..…..…Cover,
The
Crisis
(June
1918)………………………………………50

FIGURE
2.2…………………Soldiers
in
Training
of
Colored
Troops
(1936)…………….………..60

FIGURE
2.3………James
Reese
Europe
and
the
Harlem
Hellfighters
Band
(1918)………..64

FIGURE
3.1………….…A
Night-‐Club
Map
of
Harlem,
E.
Simms
Campbell
(1933)…………..78

FIGURE
3.2………………………Cab
Calloway
in
Jitterbug
Party
(1935)………………………..…93

FIGURE
3.3….……Portrait
of
Woman,
The
Exhibit
of
American
Negroes
(1900).………..95

FIGURE
3.4………....Portrait
of
Man,
The
Exhibit
of
American
Negroes
(1900).…….…….95

FIGURE
3.5……………….…………
Image
from
Black
and
Tan
(1929)….……………..……..…..101

FIGURE
3.6……………….….Song
of
the
Towers,
Aaron
Douglas,
(1934).……………………..101

FIGURE
3.7……………..….………Image
from
The
Singing
Kid
(1936)…………….…………..…102

FIGURE
3.8………………...…..Harriet
Tubman,
Aaron
Douglas,
(1931)………………………..102

FIGURE
4.1.....…Six
Derisions
from
A
Mexican
Pencil,
Miguel
Covarrubias
(1925)……148

FIGURE
4.2..Enter,
The
New
Negro,
a
Distinctive
Type,
Miguel
Covarrubias
(1924)...149

FIGURE
4.3..…..…....….…Image
from
The
Old
Man
of
The
Mountain
(1932)…………….…169

FIGURE
4.4..…..…...….…Image
from
The
Old
Man
of
The
Mountain
(1932)……………..…169

1

Introduction:

Short
Film,
American
Carnival,
and
Black
Representation

In
2014,
University
of
Southern
California
archivist,
Dino
Everett,
unearthed

an
extremely
rare
and
ostensibly
unknown
print
of
Black
American
life
on
early
film.

Something
Good—Negro
Kiss
(Selig,
1898)
was
a
marvel
for
film
historians
and

African
American
studies
scholars
alike—
a
rare
glimpse
of
Black
joy
and

genuineness
in
film’s
nascent
stages.
In
December
of
2018,
the
film
was
catalogued

in
the
Library
of
Congress’
National
Film
Registry
as
a
point
of
recognition
for
its

“cultural,
historic
and
aesthetic
importance
to
the
nation’s
film
heritage.”
1

The
film
loosely
references
Thomas
Edison’s
early
film,
The
Kiss
(Heise,

1896),
filmed
two
years
before;
Edison’s
film
both
showcases
the
sheer
spectacle
of

early
motion
pictures
as
well
as
captures
what
historians
mark
as
the
first
filmed

kiss.
Negro
Kiss,
though
on
the
surface
treading
the
same
ground
as
Edison’s
Kiss,

adds
an
additional
and
important
historic
layer
of
cultural
significance.

Negro
Kiss
offers
an
alternative
to
the
historic
overview
of
Black

representation
in
which
cultural
representations
have
largely
been
regarded
as

degrading
and
representative
of
larger,
negative
ideological
perceptions
of
race
in

the
United
States.

The
short
film,
featuring
performer
Saint
Suttle
and
actress
Gertie

Brown,
is
a
rare
relic
of
Black
representational
nuance
and
humanity
on
the
screen;

qualified
by
historians
as
“the
earliest
known
cinematic
depiction
of
intimacy

between
African-‐Americans,”
2

Negro
Kiss
brings
a
cinematic
Black
authenticity
and

cultural
truth
to
the
forefront
that
is
often
unmarked
in
surveys
of
film
history.
This

particular
portrayal
of
the
Black
characters
was
not
made
for
white
audiences
at
the

2

expense
of
the
Black
actors
and
the
larger
Black
community;
instead,
this
short
film

demonstrates
a
representational
Blackness
that,
as
cultural
curator
Erica

Buddington
says,
is
“more
than
trauma
and
monoliths”
and
is
a
“nuance
of
who
we

are,
and
the
variation
we’ve
always
been
despite
what
the
history
books
tell
you.”
3

Part
of
what
makes
Negro
Kiss
so
special
is
that
there
seems
to
be
a
sort
of

co-‐ownership
over
the
project
by
the
Black
actors.
Although
there
is
no

documentation
to
prove
this
point,
historians
and
cultural
critics
all
hint
at
this
idea

in
their
reactions
to
the
film,
as
they
express
feelings
of
a
unique
energy
and

aesthetic
exuded
from
the
film
that
separates
it
from
other
early
representations
of

Blacks
on
film.
Field
goes
as
far
as
to
mark
the
film
as
a
“collaboration”
between
the

Black
actors
and
the
offscreen
white
filmmaker
through
her
reading
of
the

interaction
between
the
three
throughout
the
film.
4

This
concept
of
intercultural
collaboration
in
a
film
so
early
in
cinema
history

and
prior
to
certain
cultural
and
industrials
shifts
that
occurred
around
World
War

II
is
of
itself
noteworthy;
the
fact
that
the
collaboration
and
freedom
of
self-‐
expression
occurred
within
a
short
film
is
of
no
coincidence.

Though
early
cross-‐
cultural
cinematic
representations
of
Blackness
have
largely
been
considered

degrading
or
otherwise
negatively
stereotypical
by
historians
and
critics
such
as

Donald
Bogle,
Ed
Guerrero,
and
Thomas
Cripps
amongst
others,
the
focus
of
these

investigations
is
largely
on
feature
length
films;
but
their
positions
have
come
to

encompass
early
Black
representation
in
films
geared
toward
white
audiences
in

their
entirety.

It
is
understandable
why
the
study
of
Black
representation
in
film
has

largely
been
relegated
to
the
feature
film:
feature
length
films
were
the
industry’s

3

primary
focus,
it
was
the
feature
film
length
film
that
took
cinema
from
its
primitive

form
and
converted
it
into
a
profitable
industry,
and
there
is
a
treasure
trove
of

readily
available
data,
documentation,
and
archival
materials
about
feature
length

films
that
easily
lend
themselves
to
investigation
and
analysis.

In
fact,
outside
of

cartoons,
there
is
a
major
gap
in
the
scholarship
of
studio
system
film
shorts.

However,
the
tradition
of
overlooking
the
film
short
in
film
scholarship—
particularly
those
with
prominent
Black
representation—has
caused
a
body
of
rare,

mainstream
Black
cinematic
representation
to
go
largely
unexamined
and
be
even

more
greatly
undervalued.
As
seen
with
the
response
to
Something
Good—Negro

Kiss,
the
short
film
format
offered
uncommon
representations
of
Blackness
to
the

larger
American
(and
in
some
cases,
international)
public
that
posed
a
challenge
to

dominant,
white
ideologies.

These
alternative
Black
cultural
representations
both

broaden
and
reshape
the
narrow
discourse
on
the
subject
of
Black
representation
in

early
film
history.
Through
examining
early
film
shorts
prominently
featuring
Black

bodies,
we
can
discover
important
efforts
that
were
being
made
to
incorporate

Black
culture
into
a
mainstream
American
culture
that
was
working
tirelessly
to

enforce
cultural
barriers.
These
shorts
challenged
those
barriers,
serving
as
a
source

of
cultural
uplift,
a
solid
attempt
at
gaining
social
enfranchisement,
an
effort
to

“unother”
and
re-‐humanize
Black
bodies
in
mainstream
media,
a
tool
of
subversive

defiance,
a
conveyance
of
the
Black
Aesthetic
into
the
larger
American
fray,
and
an

aim
to
de-‐spectaclize
or
otherwise
take
ownership
of
the
presentation
of
Black

spectacle
through
the
personalization
of
celebrity.

4

While
of
course
every
short
film
featuring
Black
protagonists
was
not

resistant
towards
the
common,
demeaning
culture
tropes
seen
on
screen,
there
was

a
grouping
of
military
shorts
and
major
studio
musical
film
shorts
that
had
a
high

prevalence
of
pushing
back
on
white
ideological
“othering”
and
the
pure

spectaclization
of
Blackness.
In
order
to
understand
how
these
films
truly
stood
out

from
other
early
films
featuring
Blacks
in
lead
roles,
we
must
first
understand
the

practices
and
cultural
representations
that
films
of
the
period
were
working
against.

Black
Carnival/Black
Cinema:
Spectacle,
Showcase,
Sideshow,
and
Citizenship

There
was
been
a
long-‐standing
history
of
racial
exhibition—particularly
the

exhibition
of
Black
bodies—in
both
Europe
and
the
United
States
for
centuries.

Black
bodies
were
presented
as
a
commodity
on
auction
blocks
for
white
viewers
to

peruse
as
slave
ships
began
arriving
in
the
Americas
from
Africa.
The
atypical
body

of
South
African
Saartjie
Bartman
(aka
The
Hottentot
Venus)
was
exhibited
at

various
fairs,
circuses
and
other
public
exhibition
spaces
in
Europe
throughout
the

early
19
th

century
for
the
amusement
of
curious
whites.
5

After
her
death,
the

skeleton
of
her
steatopygiac
body
remained
on
display
in
Paris
until
1974.
“Human

Zoos”
with
African
tribal
peoples
on
display
were
also
popular
throughout
Europe

during
the
period,
6

and
the
Dahomey
tribe
of
Benin
was
a
popular
live
exhibit

attraction
at
the
1893
World’s
Fair
in
Chicago.
A
reporter
at
the
event
recorded
his

perceptions
of
their
pure
“otherness—of
the
utter
“spectacle”
of
their
Blackness
in
a

popular
magazine:

Sixty-‐nine
of
them
are
here
in
all
their
barbaric
ugliness,
blacker
than

midnight
and
as
degraded
as
the
animals
which
prowl
the
jungles
of
their

5

dark
land.
It
is
impossible
to
conceive
of
a
notch
lower
in
the
human
scale

than
the
Amazon,
or
female
Dahomey
warrior,
represents.

Yet,
withal
they

have
some
human
traits.
They
believe
in
a
supreme
power,
but
their
forms
of

worship
are
purely
idolatrous.
Dancing
around
a
pole
on
which
is
perched
a

human
skull,
images
of
reptiles,
lizards
and
other
crawling
things,
their

incantations
make
the
night
hideous...
In
these
wild
people
we
can
easily

detect
many
characteristics
of
the
American
negro.
The
latter
has
learned
the

language
of
civilization,
and
by
its
teaching
has
been
raised
above
the

deplorable
level
of
his
less
fortunate
kinsman.
7

This
exhibition
of
the
“spectacle
of
Blackness”
is
rooted
in
the
carnivalesque

spectacle—exhibition
of
that
which
is
foreseen
to
be
excessive,
grotesque,
and

“other,”
for
the
amusement
of
those
who
fit
within
the
“normative”
cultural

hegemony.

Cultural
critic
Philip
McGowan
claims
the
creation
of
spectacle
with
the

intention
to
“other”
is
a
specifically
American
approach
to
the
“carnival,”
and
that
its

function
stands
in
opposition
to
its
medieval,
European
predecessor.
Mikhail
Bakhtin’s writings on the European carnival position the space as inclusive and
democratic, filled with laughter and identity renewal, and all for the sake of diminishing
the hegemony.
8
In contrast, McGowan asserts that the American carnival was a site of
upholding the hegemonic order by establishing exclusionary binaries that distinguished
the “average” or “normal” from the fear-worthy “other.”
9

As the Black spectacle and the exhibition of Black bodies began to transition from
the fairgrounds stage to the film screen, the fundamental elements of the American
carnival persisted. Like the tendency of the American carnival to uphold the hegemony
while subjugating “the other,” film historian Ed Guerrero argues that the tradition of
Black representation within the film industry likewise is “in the service of feeding the
dulled cravings and fantasies of the dominant social order” as opposed to “inspiring
aesthetic, cultural, and political masterworks aimed at liberating human potential.”
10

6

In fact the spectaclization of Black bodies on the film screen was twofold; in
addition to the historical ties between Black cultural exhibition and the carnival, the
emergence of cinema itself in the late 19
th
century was closely related to the carnival as
well. Film
historian
Tom
Gunning
goes
as
far
as
to
refer
to
early
film
as
the
“carnival

of
the
cinema”
in
his
seminal
“Cinema
of
Attractions.”
11

Both
the
cinema
and
the

carnival
are
spaces
of
entertainment
and
exhibitionism
where
spectacle
is

manufactured
through
the
construction
of
excess,
hyperbole,
hyperstimulation,

allure
and
intrigue.
The
two
even
have
a
historical
connection
as
many
of
the

earliest
moving
pictures
themselves
were
fairground
attractions,
slotted
amongst

the
other
titillations,
marvels,
curiosities,
and
spectacles
that
rounded
out
an

exhibition
program.
In
cinema’s
nascent
stages,
the
simple
illusion
of
movement
created
by

rapidly
projecting
still
images
in
succession
was
the
extent
of
the
carnivalesque

spectacle
that
was
presented
to
curious
audiences;
however,
as
the
medium
evolved

and
the
practice
became
commonplace,
the
“spectacle”
of
film
moved
from
the
mere

mechanics
and
machinery
of
creating
the
illusion
of
movement
to
the
actual
visual

content
of
the
film.

Gunning
describes
this
evolution
of
the
spectacle
as
the
“Cinema
of

Attractions”—a
moment
in
which
film,
like
the
carnival,
began
to
explore
its

exhibitionism
and
its
ability
to
exploit
the
viewer’s
attention,
sensuality,
and

psychology.
12

From
Méliès’
“trick
films”
to
the
“actualities”
made
by
filmmakers
like

the
Lumière
brothers
and
Thomas
Edison,
the
creation
and
conveyance
of
visual

spectacle
was
the
priority
of
the
emerging
medium;
as
Gunning
explains,
this
early

7

“exhibitionist
cinema”
was
“a
way
of
presenting
a
series
of
views
to
an
audience,

fascinating
because
of
their
illusory
power…and
exoticism.”
13

Edison
in
particular
drew
from
the
carnival
when
considering
film
content.

Many
of
his
films
were
essentially
sideshow
events
in
which
the
exotic
or

grotesque—that
which
was
“other”-‐-‐
was
captured
and
presented
to
curious
film

audiences
searching
for
carnivalesque
spectacle.
Sandow
the
Strongman
(1894),

Cockfight
(1894),
and
Contortionists
(1894),
were
all
subjects
that
could
have
been

picked
directly
from
the
lineups
of
any
carnival
program
of
the
day.
However,

amongst
this
catalogue
of
carnivalesque
films
were
films
that
were
constructed
to

exhibit
race
as
spectacle,
and
to
“other”
Black
bodies
on
which
the
films
were

centered.
Edison’s A Morning Bath (1896) captures the mundane activity of a Black
woman bathing her child; however, the film is encoded with a racialized crudeness that is
normalized as the woman roughly handles the child and dumps suds on his head as he
cries uncomfortably. The categorization of such films as “actualities” misleads the
audience to perceive the activity as an unintrusive truth--a natural, non-performativity;
however, as the “actuality” converges with the white construction of Black cultural
spectacle, the result is a method of culturally “othering” the Black performer.
Other early short films likewise construct the representation of Blackness as a
spectaclized amusement. Edison drew from racial stereotypes in Watermelon Eating
Contest (1896) in which two Black men ingurgitate large slices of watermelon; four years
later, he augmented this same racial spectacle in the follow up, Watermelon Contest
(1900), by increasing the spectacle from two Black bodies devouring watermelon to
five—further working to normalize the stereotype. Competitor American Mutoscope also

8

dabbled in constructing racial spectacles for film in Cake Walk (1903) (alternatively
titled, Coon Cake Walk and Darky Cake Walk) and Comedy Cake Walk (1903); each film
features a group of dapperly dressed Black men and women who do the cakewalk as a
form of racial performativity, and for the amusement of the white audience.
14

Thus, from cinema’s inception, the medium has been used to spectaclize
Blackness, to position Black bodies and culture as “other,” and to create a new form of
visual commentary in which cultural stereotypes were upheld and perpetuated.
Guerrero’s claim that film holds an “ideological power to shape the audience’s
conceptions of race,”
15
has been a practice since the medium’s earliest days and
maintained close ties with the exclusionary American carnival from which it was
adapted.
The American carnival space, and racial representation therein has historically
been a space in which power dynamics between the white spectator and the Black screen
spectacle has been reinforced, as Black cultural representation was traditionally “distilled
through America’s particularized and carnivalized versions of white seeing.”
16
The
American carnival space in early film was a culturally separatist space, which McGowan
asserts flourished on a “continuous policy that stratified the American nation into zones
of… white identity…and Otherness.”
17

9

Thus, the normalization of the Black screen spectacle and its social function as an
othering device and tool of social disenfranchisement was established at film’s inception,
and continued to evolve throughout film history. The ideological method had become so
compounded and commonplace that in 1903, French filmmaker Georges Mèliés added a
racial spectacle short film to his milieu of “trick” films with the short The Infernal Cake-
Walk, (Le Cake-Walk Infernal). Moving away from his common trope of creating
spectacle through inventive editing, Mèliés instead centers the screen spectacle on the
performance of American Blackness—the cakewalk, and the two prominently featured
blackface characters that perform the dance in the pits of hell. Screened for both French
and American audiences, the encoded Black screen spectacle had begun to crystalize and
permeate.
Edison also continued to contribute to the standardization of Black cultural
othering on the film screen as cinema began to evolve from the primitive “actualities”
towards the emergence of narrative shorts, reconstructing the Black cinematic spectacle
to fit the new format. His 1905, The Watermelon Patch is a series of clumsily edited
sequences in which a group of white men rally to pursue and punish a group of Black
characters who have stolen watermelons from a white farmer’s field. Packed into the film
are a variety of white ideological cultural signifiers of Blackness (untrustworthiness,
ruralness, lower class status) as well as stereotypical activities that had begun to become
commonly associated with the Black screen spectacle (cakewalking, watermelon eating).
In the film, Edison revisits his original 1896 Watermelon Eating Contest, with a sequence
of two Black men engorging themselves with two massive slices of watermelon (and just

10

like in the original short, it is clear that the actors are taking direction from the white men
behind the camera).
There are some key differences, however. The carnivalesque “competition”
between the two has been replaced with the framing of cultural mundanity; no longer
driven by competition, the men seem to eat watermelon solely due to an insatiable desire
and need. In fact, instead of racing to be the first to finish his slice, one of the men is so
overcome by his pure desire for watermelon that he snatches a hunk off of the slice of his
companion while still eating his own. Also, the men have been moved from the carnival
space into their private home, allowing what was once staged as a racialized public
exhibition to instead function as a display of “private Black lives” made available for the
voyeuristic white gaze. Finally, the film builds on upon its predecessors by further
inflating Edison’s originally conceived Black spectacle. Once the direct reference to
Watermelon Eating Contest has been established, the film adds a layer of excess to the
already inherent excess of the Black spectacle: the two men are replaced by sixteen Black
actors greedily devouring watermelon. Although no longer set within the literal carnival
space, its excess and hyperbolic representation of as spectacle remains nevertheless
figuratively carnivalesque, and continues to demonstrate what Guerrero identifies as a
“mediation of the audience’s racial and social attitudes.”
18

Thus, the practice of building upon and adapting the racial spectacle for cinema as
the medium continued to evolve had several notable and lasting effects; at its minimum it
kept viewers engaged with and entertained by the material, but its social currency was far
more impactful, as it worked to normalize the racist ideologies of the white hegemony

11

while simultaneously upholding and perpetuating social disenfranchisement of the Black
American community.
These practices of racial spectaclization and othering continued to evolve as
cinema began to shape into a powerful industry with a flourishing studio system. Through
a formalized system of production, distribution, and exhibition practices, white
presentation of the Black spectacle had a broader reach than ever before. Technological
advancement and industrial shifts caused the industry’s focus during Hollywood’s
Golden age to shift towards feature length films, and it was within this format that the
tradition of Black spectaclization and othering continued to flourish.
Black cultural representation in feature films of this era was most commonly
performative (for white audience) and constructed (by white creators); further, the
inclusion was a diegetic mechanism used to create value for the white actors on screen.
Whether in the roles of cantankerous mammies, silly coons, or jovial porters, the Black
body often became a commodity marker of the white characters’ world and class status.
In the most superfluous cases, film segments featuring Black characters expressing any
semblance of autonomy would be completely eliminated in order to appease racist white
censor boards in the South.
Yet, this construction of Blackness as commodified “other” also superceded the
limits of the film screen, contributing to a greater discourse about belongedness in the
United States. The power of film as socio-cultural commentary began to establish itself,
and a white American nationalism—at times overt, at other times covert--began to
pervade. McGowan explains that the spectaclization of Black bodies was essential to this
process, as “the otherness of Blackness [was] displayed to confirm the racial, cultural,

12

and physical regularity of American whiteness.”
19
Thus, the social enfranchisement and
fortification of national belongedness gained by white Americans through film prior to
WWII had an inverse correlation to the social enfranchisement and national identity of
Black Americans.
However, with the industry’s primary focus on the feature film, artistic and socio-
cultural boundaries were able to be pushed in the world of short films. Marginalized and
operating with a different set of variables and expectations than their feature length
counterparts, the oft-overlooked and undervalued short film offered rare glimpses of de-
spectaclized Blackness—of Black regularity and national identity. As with Something

Good—Negro
Kiss
decades
before,
Studio
System
shorts
featuring
Black
stars

provided
the
mainstream
with
a
glimpse
into
Black
life
and
demonstrated
a
rare

collaboration
between
whites
behind
the
camera
and
Blacks
on
the
screen.

Studio System Film Shorts—Artistry, Autonomy, and the Black Aesthetic
Major
studio
short
films
have
long
been
trivialized
both
within
the
industry

at
large
and
especially
throughout
history’s
retelling
of
the
Hollywood
story.
While

the
film
industry
was
working
to
legitimize
its
features
as
a
true,
modern
art
form,

the
film
short
was
instead
overtly
derivative
of
the
“business”
of
Hollywood.
As
a

business
practice,
the
film
short
was
unable
to
stand
alone,
and
instead
was
always

in
service
to
a
larger
industrial
mechanism;
as
a
result,
the
shorts
of
the
Studio

System
era
have
largely
become
a
footnote
in
the
Hollywood
Story—what
film

historian
Richard
Koszarski
has
referred
to
as
a
“nickel-‐and-‐dime
business”

overshadowed
by
the
highly
profitable
blockbusters.
20

13

Similarly,
the
artistry
and
social
relevance
of
the
shorts
has
likewise
been

historically
minimized
in
most
literature
on
the
Studio
System—often
reduced
to

parenthetical
mentions,
banished
to
marginalia,
or
referred
to
epigrammatically
as

“the
orphans
of
the
studio
system.”
21

Although
Larry
Kent,
one
of
the
executives
of

Paramount’s
short
film
division,
claimed
that
the
shorts
were
held
to
as
high
of
a

standard
as
the
studios’
feature
films,
22

the
reception
throughout
the
years
has
not

historically
supported
this
claim.

While
features
have
been
legitimized
through

theories
of
auteurism
or
in
depth
surveys
about
the
star
system,
film
scholars
and

historians
have
found
little
importance
or
artistic
merit
in
the
film
short.

There
are
various
reasons
that
the
shorts
of
the
Classical
Hollywood
period

have
been
likely
been
devalued
and
overlooked.

One
such
reason
is
the
intended

purpose
of
the
short,
which
were
less
geared
towards
showcasing
cinema
as
art,
and

instead
was
a
small
business
appendage
in
the
larger,
vertically
integrated
industry

machine.
Over
a
decade
before
the
studios
were
forced
to
modify
their
distribution

practices
and
divest
themselves
of
their
exhibition
spaces
as
a
result
of
two

landmark
antitrust
court
cases,
shorts
were
largely
treated
as
block
booking
glue

used
to
round
out
an
exhibitor’s
program.
23

Jack
Alicoate,
editor
of
the
trade

magazine
“Film
Daily,”
confirmed
this
position
in
1930,
claiming
that
shorts
were

the
“dominant
spoke
in
the
wheel
of
the
modern
showman’s
program.”
24

Yet,
despite
their
business
relevance
to
the
exhibitor,
the
content
of
the
short

film
itself
was
rarely
deemed
as
significant
or
consequential.
Ranging
from

comedies,
to
cartoons,
to
serials,
to
newsreels,
to
travelogues,
to
musical
shorts,
the

short
films
were
light
fare
“directed
at
a
middle
brow
audience”
25
-‐-‐
a
device
used
to

14

entice
viewers
to
stay
in
their
seats
between
the
A
and
B
features,
and
a
visual

palate
cleanser
between
the
more
“serious”
features
that
demanded
more
attention.

Laurel
and
Hardy
films,
Hal
Roach’s
Our
Gang
(later
known
as
Little
Rascals),

countless
animated
films
from
the
Fleischer
studios
(including
cartoons
featuring

the
ever-‐popular
Betty
Boop
and
Popeye),
and
the
Zorro
serial
films
were
all
fan

favorites
that
were
situated
to
keep
the
audience
entertained
in
between
the

features.
In
a
sense,
short
films
were
predecessors
to
the
modern
television

commercial
(both
in
program
position
and
content,
as
the
shorts
at
times
included

direct
product
placement),
allowing
exhibitors
to
convert
a
single
film
screening

into
a
“program”
by
stringing
together
a
series
of
film
material
without
competing

with
or
overshadowing
the
feature.
Thus,
shorts
were
largely
considered
practical

and
economical
filler
—
more
of
a
business
practice
than
an
artistic
endeavor.

The
geographical
location
of
short
film
production
could
also
play
a
role
in

attitudes
about
their
importance
in
cinema
history.

Hollywood
in
the
Classical
Era

was
a
bicoastal
trade,
with
the
artistic
components
of
production
(writing,
directing,

acting,
set
and
costume
design,
etc.)
taking
place
in
Los
Angeles,
and
the
business

and
administrative
component
operating
out
of
New
York.

However,
many
short

films
were
still
shot
in
the
studios’
New
York
soundstages—relics
of
a
bygone
era
in

film,
before
production
had
begun
moving
to
the
more
amenable
West
Coast.
The

studios
peppered
the
New
York
metropolitan
area:
Paramount’s
studio
was
in

Astoria,
Warner
Brothers
(via
Vitagraph)
was
in
Brooklyn,
Fox
was
located
in

Manhattan,
Metro
(before
a
series
of
mergers
and
acquisitions
in
which
it
became

powerhouse
Metro-‐Goldwyn-‐Mayer)
had
a
studio
near
Central
Park
and
uptown,

15

spanning
between
126
TH
-‐127
TH

ST
AND
2
ND

Ave,
and
Columbia
had
a
studio
just

outside
the
city
in
Camden,
New
Jersey.
26

As
a
result,
the
cinematic
product

released
on
each
coast
became
perceptually
bifurcated—the
west
coast
films

demonstrated
Hollywood
as
an
artistic
machine,
while
the
east
coast
films
were

exemplars
of
the
industry’s
business
epicenter.

Negative
perceptions
held
by
professionals
within
the
industry
about
short

films
and
east
coast
production
could
also
inform
the
tendency
to
discredit
the
short

films
that
were
products
of
those
studios.
Amongst
those
in
the
industry,
the
east

coast
studios
were
considered
either
a
“testing
ground
for
writers,
actors
and

directors”
who
hoped
to
eventually
get
their
break
on
the
west
coast,
27

or
a

shameful
exile
for
those
directors
whose
studios
required
them
to
make
the
reverse

trip
from
west
to
east.
Koszarski
refers
to
New
York
production
as
a
“creative

vacuum”
due
to
the
resulting
talent
gap
in
major
film
production
moving
west.
28

Director
Joseph
Henaberry
explains
that
many
filmmakers
who
left
Hollywood
for

the
New
York
studios
underwent
a
process
of
“self-‐marginaliz[ation],”
feeling

“tainted
by
association
with
the
two-‐reel
comedies
and
one-‐reel
musicals
[they]

helped
create.”
29

The
comparative
lack
of
sophistication
in
content
and
innovation
in

technique
in
a
large
body
of
shorts
could
be
yet
another
a
factor
in
their

trivialization.
Besides
the
films
being
considered
“middle
brow,”
some
shorts—
specifically
musical
shorts—promoted
commercialism
over
cinematic
artistry.

With

promotion
being
the
main
intent
for
the
musical
shorts,
they
were
quickly
shot

(often
within
a
day),
loosely
scripted,
and
tended
to
be
plainly
staged.
Focus
was
put

16

on
the
product
that
was
being
sold—the
musician—
which
resulted
in
many
films

featuring
headliners
focusing
on
the
proscenium
as
the
musicians
performed
with
a

few
scattered
close
ups
of
the
headliner
or
other
enigmatic
band
members.
In

comparison
to
the
high
production
value
and
visually
compelling
features
that
the

major
studios
were
releasing
during
the
period,
many
of
the
musical
shorts
could
be

considered
uninspired
and
two-‐dimensional.

In
some
cases,
the
commercial
nature
of
musical
shorts
was
not
simply

structural
(exhibitor’s
positioning
in
program)
or
figurative
(“selling”
a
musician),

but
instead
bled
directly
into
the
film’s
diegesis,
making
its
proneness
to
promote

even
more
overt.
Considering
both
the
abbreviated
length
of
the
film
short
as
well
as

the
content
therein,
the
musical
short
was
a
fertile
medium
for
advertisement
of

music
and
musicians.
The
1933
Paramount
Pictorial
The
World
At
Large,
No.
837

was
one
such
effort
that
served
as
an
overt
advertisement
from
start
to
finish.
The

promotion
begins
as
soon
as
the
opening
credit
sequence
when
popular
talent

manager
Irving
Mills
is
introduced
as
“an
impresario
who
has
given
to
the
public

some
of
the
foremost
originators
of
modern
music.”
What
follows
are
snippets
of

selections
performed
by
three
of
his
clients,
Baron
Lee
and
his
Blue
Rhythm
Band

(also
known
as
the
Mills
Blue
Rhythm
Band),
Duke
Ellington,
and
Cab
Calloway-‐-‐
each
of
whom
Mills
proclaims
“stands
supreme
in
his
individual
field.”

The
film
is
an

early
representation
of
Mill’s
acute
understanding
of
the
power
of
short
film
as
a

promotional
tool,
as
he
used
the
medium
to
not
only
promote
three
of
his
acts,
but

also
himself.

17

In
1937,
Mills
again
overtly
utilized
the
musical
short
to
advertise
his

“products”—
both
human
and
inanimate—with
product
placement.
In
Record

Making
With
Duke
Ellington
and
his
Orchestra,
Ellington
and
his
band
essentially

bookend
an
educational
film
that
showcases
the
involved
process
of
manufacturing

analog
records
from
sound
recording,
to
plating,
to
pressing
the
shellac.
Though

filming
Ellington’s
scenes
at
the
Variety
studio
gives
the
short
an
authentic
feel,

stylization
in
the
film
is
minimal
with
only
the
occasional
use
of
wipes
and

superimpositions
to
move
between
shots.
However,
as
the
film
nears
its
conclusion,

the
shots
begin
to
focus
on
the
record
label,
“Variety,”
the
company
that
Mills
had

set
up
the
year
before
in
1936.
30

A
final
shot
of
the
label
freezes
on
the
talent

associated
with
Variety:
Duke
Ellington
and
his
Orchestra
featuring
Ivy
Anderson

singing
“Oh
Babe
Maybe
Someday,”
31

as
the
band
playing
the
selection
is

superimposed
over
the
spinning
Variety
record.

Though
certainly
interesting
as
an

educational
and
historic
artifact,
with
a
superficial
reading,
it
can
be
understood

why
many
would
believe
that
these
promotional
films
have
little
to
contribute
to
the

larger
industrial
or
social
context
of
the
film
industry.

A
final
promotional
tie-‐in
for
musical
shorts
occurred
at
the
exhibition
stage,

and
may
have
also
played
a
role
in
relegating
the
content
as
“advertisement”
and

continuing
to
shape
poor
attitudes
about
the
genre’s
“importance”
within
the

cinematic
industrial
landscape.
Prior
to
the
ruling
of
the
1948
Paramount
decree

when
the
five
major
studios
were
forced
to
divest
themselves
of
their
exhibition

spaces,
movie
theaters
not
only
played
films,
but
also
hosted
live
stage
shows;
these

theaters,
specifically
those
in
major
cities,
were
coveted
performance
spaces
for

18

artists.
In
Duke
Ellington’s
Music
is
My
Mistress,
he
lists
a
personal
career
highlight

as
having
“gained
entry
into
picture
houses,”
access
that
he
claims
was
a
pioneering

endeavor
for
big
bands
across
race.
32

Although
the
musicians’
film
contracts

contained
no
clauses
that
guaranteed
a
musician’s
booking
at
an
affiliated
studio

theater
after
filming,
booking
and
studio
records
suggest
a
close
connection

between
the
two,
nevertheless.

There
were
built
in
perks
for
musicians
filming

musical
shorts
during
the
period
(even
when
not
formally
in
writing),
and
in
many

cases,
the
perk
was
the
film
itself,
which
was
a
promotional
tool
for
a
subsequent

live
performance
at
the
studios’
theaters.
33

Thus,
it
is
possible
that
the
musical
film
short
has
historically
been
viewed
as

a
minor
cog
in
the
film
industry’s
complex
system—a
visual
reminder
of
a
forgotten

business
practice.
It
is
possible
that
the
Black
musical
short
has
been
marginalized

because
though
the
films
are
a
time
capsule
containing
enjoyable
musical

performances
of
yesteryear,
they
are
perceived
as
largely
“un-‐cinematic”
from
an

artistic
standpoint.
It
is
also
possible
that
these
shorts
have
largely
been
overlooked

because
of
their
overt
promotional
inclination
perceived
at
all
three
stages
of
pre-‐
WWII,
studio
system
filmmaking;
with
a
surface
reading,
the
musical
short

production,
distribution,
exhibition
could
be
considered
to
be
disconnected
from
the

important
social,
technological,
and
artistic
cinematic
strivings
of
the
era’s
feature

films.

However,
such
marginalization
and
subsequent
lack
of
scholarship
on
the

musical
short—specifically
the
major
studio
releases
starring
Black
artists
in
the

period
-‐-‐is
a
misstep.
In
fact,
short
films
were
vital
to
the
survival
of
the
film

19

industry
during
a
period
when
the
studios
were
floundering.
The
severe
economic

downturn
of
the
1929
stock
market
crash
and
ensuing
period
of
the
Great

Depression
took
a
toll
on
most
all
American
industry—including
the
film
industry.

During
this
trying
financial
period,
however,
short
films
continued
to
be
produced
in

large
quantities,
creating
a
much
needed
financial
cushion
for
studios.
With

abbreviated
production
schedules
and
exponentially
smaller
budgets,
the

production
of
film
shorts
allowed
for
studios
to
continue
to
produce
content
without

the
incredible
financial
risk
inherent
in
features.
In
fact,
according
to
Koszarski,
the

continued
production
of
film
shorts
kept
the
Studio
System
as
it
had
come
to
be

known
in
tact
during
the
tumultuous
period.
34

Paramount
in
particular
understood
the
financial
importance
of
its
New

York-‐based
shorts
division,
35

and
invested
more
heavily
in
the
production
of
short

films
than
any
other
studio.

While
the
studio
was
forced
to
cut
production
budgets

by
33%
in
1931,
36

it
was
not
deterred
from
making
short
films
en
masse.

From

1929-‐1942,
Paramount
went
on
to
produce
upwards
of
2000
live
action
shorts,
not

including
the
large
number
of
animated
shorts
it
also
released.

While
other
studios

were
struggling
to
turn
a
profit
in
their
shorts
department
in
the
1930s,
Paramount

lead
the
way
with
both
quantity
of
releases
and
revenue
earned
in
the
short
film

field.
Between
1933
and
1936,
Paramount
was
averaging
nearly
50%
of
the
entire

industry’s
short
film
production,
and
was
seeing
a
profit
margin
between
44%
-‐
97%,
while
the
rest
of
the
industry
was
only
able
to
reach
profits
as
high
as
54%

from
its
short
films
during
these
same
years.

20

There
were
various
contributing
factors
to
Paramount’s
financial
dominance

with
short
films
of
the
period.
First,
Paramount’s
vast
theater
circuit
allowed
the

studio
greater
opportunity
to
screen
the
shorts
than
any
other
company.
37

The

company
distributed
over
100
one
reel
(running
approximately
11
minutes)
films

each
year
during
a
period
in
which
the
“double
feature”
exhibition
practice
made

single
reel
films
more
desirable
and
profitable
than
double
reels.
38

With
a
shorter

run
time,
the
single
reel
short
was
easier
to
slot
in
between
double
features.
This

shorter
format
lent
itself
easily
to
cartoons
and
musical
shorts,
both
in
which

Paramount
had
vested
interest.
39

Secondly,
Paramount’s
particular
interest
in
music
during
the
era
created
a

natural
pool
of
content
for
its
single
reel
subjects.
In
1928,
the
company
bought
50%

of
the
shares
of
the
newly
emerging
CBS
radio,
40

which
film
historian
Joel
Waldo

Finler
says
allowed
the
company
“more
than
any
other
studio
to
exploit
the
link

between
movies
and
radio,
signing
up
numerous
radio
stars
and
dramatizing
the

link
on
the
screen…”
41

While
the
financial
hardships
of
the
Depression
and
being

forced
into
receivership
required
Paramount
to
sell
its
shares
back
to
CBS
in
1932,

the
studio’s
connection
to
radio
and
the
desire
to
bring
the
radio
program
to
the

screen
nevertheless
lingered.
The
studio
produced
upwards
of
100
musical
shorts,

from
1929-‐1942,
not
to
mention
the
countless
musical
appearances
in
the
feature

films
released
at
the
time.

It
was
at
this
same
time
in
1932,
that
Paramount
began
to
demonstrate
an

interest
in
Harlem-‐based
musicians
in
an
attempt
to
profit
from
what
the
company

called
“the
present
vogue
for
weird
Negro
rhythm
and
effects.”
42

While
the
studio

21

had
been
using
its
New
York
appendage
to
glean
white
talent
directly
from

Broadway,
suddenly
the
search
for
the
talent
pool
expanded
uptown
into
Harlem
as

the
Harlem
Renaissance
was
underway.
According
to
Koszarski,
Paramount
was

known
as
the
studio
with
the
“upscale,”
and
most
high
profile
performers,
43

and

their
Harlem
interests
were
no
exception
to
that
rule.

In
addition
to
such
popular

acts
as
Isham
Jones,
Ina
Ray
Hutton,
44

Ethel
Merman,
Vincent
Lopez,
Bob
Eberly,
Phil

Spitalny,
Jack
Teagarden
and
Hoagy
Carmichael,
Paramount
also
featured
the
top

Black
talent
during
the
period.

Through
the
Paramount
short,
Duke
Ellington,
Cab

Calloway,
and
Louis
Armstrong
were
each
able
to
transition
from
“featured”
billing

positions
in
mainstream
films
to
starring
roles
that
centered
around
them.
This
was

unprecedented
for
the
Studio
System
during
the
period,
and
in
and
if
itself
garners

importance
for
the
short
films.

Additionally,
these
short
films
featuring
Ellington,
Calloway
and
Armstrong

stand
apart
from
those
of
their
white
peers,
as
they
are
rarely
mere
staged

performances,
but
are
instead
some
of
the
Studio
System’s
earliest
representations

of
cinematic
Blackness
that
are
not
merely
in
service
to
the
whites
on
the
screen.

As
a
result,
the
musical
shorts
starring
Black
musicians
offer
a
groundbreaking

perspective
of
the
representation
of
Black
bodies
and
Black
life
in
mainstream,

Golden
Age
cinema.
The
manner
in
which
Black
bodies
and
Black
culture
are

represented
in
these
Studio
System
short
films
presents
a
thought-‐provoking,

boundary-‐pushing,
and
at
times
subversive
and
defiant
representation
of
onscreen

Blackness
that
is
otherwise
unseen
in
the
era.

22

While
of
course
there
was
a
collection
of
independent
films
featuring
Black

characters
and
centering
on
Black
life
made
by
filmmakers
like
Oscar
Micheaux,

Spencer
Williams,
Bert
Williams,
and
production
companies
like
the
Lincoln
Motion

Picture
Company,
Sack
Amusement
Enterprises,
Million
Dollar
Pictures,
and
All-‐
American
amongst
others,
these
films
were
made
primarily
for
Black
audiences
and

were
screened
in
Black
movie
theaters.
45

These
glimpses
into
Black
life,
provided
an

important
perspective
of
cultural
recognition
for
Black
audiences,
but
did
not
reach

across
the
racial
barriers
that
required
the
separate
cinema
in
the
first
place.
The

major
studio
short
operated
differently,
however,
ushering
Black
life
and
Black

bodies
into
the
mainstream;
these
Hollywood
studio
film
shorts
crossed
racial

boundaries
into
white
spaces
and
forced
Black
cultural
perspectives
onto
white

audiences
across
the
country
during
a
time
in
which
racial
segregation
and

subjugation
was
the
normal
American
practice.

Importantly,
these
short
films
offer
rare
cinematic
representations
of
an

authentic
Black
aesthetic
and
Black
representational
authenticity
to
the
mainstream

in
early
cinema
and
Hollywood
Studio
System
history.
Though
authenticity
is
a

complicated,
abstract,
and
often
off-‐putting
concept,
it
is
a
quality
that
nonetheless

exists
and
is
legible
to
those
with
what
Stuart
Hall
would
call
“discursive

knowledge”-‐-‐
or
the
necessary
tools
to
decode
encoded
messages.
46

Despite
the

tendency
towards
hesitation
in
applying
this
term,
it
is
essential
when
discussing

Black
art
and
representation—and
particularly
when
discussing
the
shifts
in

increased
cultural
agency
in
those
Black
representations.

23

“Black
authenticity”
can
be
understood
as
a
derivative
of

“Black
aesthetics”;

although
The
Black
Aesthetic
has
historically
bumped
up
against
problematic

limitations
of
cultural
essentialism,
47

cultural
theorist
Ernest
D.
Mason
provides
a

nuanced
and
evolved
framework
from
which
to
understand
the
true
pluralism
of

“Black
aesthetics.”
Mason
explains
that
the
Black
Aesthetic
is
not
in
fact
singular
or

demonstrative
of
a
Black
monolith,
but
is
instead
“the
manifold
character
of
the

Afro-‐American
experience.”
48

For
Mason,
although
the
parameters
of
Blackness
are

broad,
varied,
and
unique,
there
are
a
“cluster
of
characteristics”
that
largely
consist

of
the
combination
of
“cultural
and
social
influences”
with
“common
biological
and

psychological
traits”
from
which
a
sense
of
cultural
collectivism
can
be

understood.
49

The
grouping
of
Black
cultural
subjects
around
this
“cluster
of

characteristics”
in
turn
leads
to
“perceptions
and
judgments
that
have
a
high
degree

of
resemblance,”
according
to
Mason.
50

It
is
from
this
pool
of
perceptual

resemblance—one
that
draws
from
similarities
amongst
Black
conditions
and

experiences-‐-‐-‐
that
Black
cultural
expression
is
born,
and
from
which
a
Black

authenticity
can
be
understood.

For
this,
authenticity
is
an
articulation
of
the
Black
psyche,
and
as
explained

by
Harlem
Renaissance
philosopher
Alain
Locke,
is
received
and
understood

through
a
reciprocal
act
of
“perceptual
recognition.”
51

Like
the
Black
Aesthetic
from

which
it
is
derived,
Black
authenticity
is
a
“feel”
that
both
draws
from
and
relays
a

perceptual
Black
experience;
cultural
insiders
are
most
apt
to
“feel”
and
embrace

that
which
is
authentic,
and
bristle
or
pause
at
that
which
is
inauthentic.
It
is
that

24

knowing
head-‐nod
of
recognition—that
unprompted
act
of
Black
intracultural

exchange
that
needs
no
words,
but
through
ephemeral
abstraction
is
understood

between
the
parties
nonetheless.

Finally,
Black
authenticity,
like
the
Black
Aesthetic,
is
a
mechanism
of
self-‐
possession.
52

Where
as
Mason
explains
that
the
Black
Aesthetic
is
“an
inquiry
into

the
experiences
and
perceptions
that
black
people
have
of
themselves
and
others,”
53

the
Black
authentic
is
the
representation
and
articulation
of
those
experiences
and

self-‐possessed
perceptions.

This
dissertation
examines
the
rare
moments
in
early,
mainstream
film

history
in
which
such
Black
cultural
self-‐possession
was
realized
on
the
mainstream

cinema
screen.
Through
the
investigation
of
Black
representation
in
film
shorts

spanning
from
some
of
the
earliest
military
shorts
to
a
series
of
major
studio

musical
shorts
starring
prominent
Black
musicians
in
the
1930s,
a
representational

anomaly
is
revealed.
These
salient
shorts
present
a
departure
from
the
typical

representation
of
Blacks
on
the
mainstream
screen
up
until
WWII;
likewise,
this

analysis
is
a
departure
from
the
traditional
discourse
on
Black
representation
in

mainstream
film.

Chapter
Two
begins
with
a
focus
on
early
military
shorts
featuring
Black

soldiers,
spanning
from
cinema’s
nascence
up
until
around
WWI.
Through
the
Black

military
short,
a
rare
representation
of
de-‐spectaclized
Black
stoicism,
rooted

belongedness,
and
admirable
patriotism
was
presented
to
the
American
public
(and

beyond)
with
a
resolute,
documentary
style
matter-‐of-‐factness.

The
chapter
uses

the
military
film
as
an
entry
point
to
discuss
how
mainstream
Black
representation

25

on
film
has
historically
been
reactive;
as
Black
mobility
has
ebbed
and
flowed,
so
too

has
the
representation
of
Blacks
bodies
and
culture
on
film.

Historian
Eric
Foner
explains
that
representation
of
Blacks
in
the
military

carried
distinct
radical
and
political
implications;
however
Ed
Guerrero’s
position

about
the
“social
and
political
meanings
of
‘race’”
being
non-‐fixed
creates
an

interesting
and
complex
reading
of
Blackness
in
the
early
military
shorts.
54

Through

the
short
military
films,
a
visual
representation
of
such
ideological
flux
and

malleability
about
the
meaning
and
social
positioning
of
race
are
made
visual,

speaking
to
the
broader
social
complications
and
dominant
fears
involved
with
the

quest
for
Black
citizenry.

Using
the
discourse
of
various
historians,
sociologists,
and
military
personnel

on
the
concept
and
practice
of
morale,
we
can
come
to
understand
the
Black
military

film
as
a
propagandistic
tool
of
both
extracultural
and
intracultural
importance.
As

the
films
wavered
between
stoicism
and
stereotype
(sometimes
within
in
the
same

film),
the
warring
ideologies
at
the
root
of
the
American
race
issue
was
made

explicitly
visible.
The
chapter
will
follow
the
ways
in
which
early
Black
military
films

often
struggled
with
both
fostering
morale
(both
Black
and
white)
and
the

persistence
of
racial
prejudice.
The
films
bring
to
the
screen
the
American
race

conundrum:
Blacks
who
are
given
hope
of
dismantling
systems
of
racial
oppression

and
becoming
fully
enfranchised
through
service
and
contribution,
and
the
white

structure
that
simultaneously
uses
innovative
techniques
to
uphold
these
same

systems.

26

However,
within
this
same
genre,
fluctuations
of
Black
representation
that

mirror
the
white
masses’
fears
about
steps
towards
Black
enfranchisement
can
also

be
detected.
Black
military
films
prior
to
WWII
present
some
of
the
most
explicit

representations
of
the
cultural
conundrum
of
American
sociology;
the
films
are
a

clear
confrontation
of
the
mercurial
American
ideologies
about
race
and
Black

citizenship.
The
cultural
discourse
portrayed
within
the
fluctuating
representation

of
Black
bodies
in
these
films
is
historically
unique
and
encapsulates
both
Black

patriotism
and
the
autonomous
representation
of
Black
upward
mobility
while

simultaneously
assuaging
white
hegemonic
fears
through
the
practices
of
cultural

construction
and
“othering.”
These
films
have
long
gone
unexamined
in
scholarship

on
the
history
of
Black
representation
in
film,
and
deliver
the
nuance
of
the
Black

American
experience
at
the
turn
of
the
century.

Chapter
Three
continues
to
build
upon
this
under
examined
nuance
of
Black

cultural
representation
in
film
by
moving
the
focus
ahead
in
time
towards
the
Studio

System
era.

Socially,
the
1920s
and
1930s
was
a
period
of
evolution
for
Blacks
in

America;
it
was
during
this
time
that
Alain
Locke
introduced
his
writings
on
the

New
Negro:
Blacks
who
espoused
modernity,
sophisticated
urbanity,
upward

mobility,
middle
classness,
and
a
new
means
for
achieving
social
enfranchisement
in

the
United
States.
This
chapter
will
examine
this
modern
nuance,
and
the
ways
in

which
Black
musical
shorts
produced
by
major
studios
were
able
to
embody
and

portray
this
evolution.

Through
careful
analysis
of
these
shorts,
I
will
uncover
instances
of
Black

cultural
expression
that
were
able
to
transcend
the
same
ideological
barriers
that

27

were
ever-‐present
in
most
all
other
Hollywood
films
featuring
Blacks
during
the

period.
As
a
result,
the
short
films
demonstrate
a
valuable
alternative
to
the

dominant
cinematic
representations
of
Blacks
as
“other,”
“outsiders,”
“undesirable;”

through
these
films,
the
narrow
scope
of
American
social
citizenry
began
to
expand

in
pervasive
ways
to
include
the
Black
community.

The
development
of
sound
film
allowed
for
a
new
manner
of
communication

and
new
forms
of
expression
to
be
conveyed
to
the
cinema
audience.
This

development
was
a
particular
boon
for
the
possibilities
of
Black
representation
on

the
screen.
In
The
Signifying
Monkey,
Henry
Louis
Gates
Jr.
discusses
the
importance

of
figurative
language
in
Black
literature
and
vernacular,
however,
this
cultural

phenomenon
also
lends
itself
quite
seamlessly
to
Black
music
and
film.
Thus
the

Black
musical
short
brought
forth
a
new
and
evolved
method
of
Black
cultural

communication;
through
the
analysis
of
these
shorts
and
translation
of
the

figurative
“language”

(both
visual
and
aural)
therein,
we
can
detect
authentic
forms

of
Black
cultural
expression
not
seen
in
other
mainstream
films
of
the
period

featuring
Blacks.
Using
Ernest
D.
Mason’s
theories
of
the
Black
Aesthetic
and
various

Harlem
Renaissance
art
as
a
framework
through
which
to
read
the
films,
the
films

can
be
understood
as
fitting
into
a
tradition
and
genealogy
of
Black
art
and

expression.

Further,
application
of
the
W.E.B
Dubois’
theory
of
double-‐consciousness

and
Laura
Mulvey’s
feminist
“gaze”
theory
provide
lenses
for
oppositional
readings

of
the
Black
cultural
representation
in
the
shorts.

Dubois
argues
that
Blacks
in

America
are
burdened
by
a
figurative
“veil,”
under
which
their
self-‐expression
is

28

suppressed
and
their
self-‐worth
is
devalued.
Mulvey
claims
that
women
in
film
are

victims
of
scopophilia—passive
objects
placed
in
the
frame
to
be
actively
gazed
at

by
and
provide
visual
pleasure
for
dominant,
active
males.

While
both
Du
Bois
and

Mulvey’s
theories
focus
on
the
systemic
and
involuntary
encumbrances
imposed

upon
those
without
social
power,
I
will
use
these
same
frameworks
to
demonstrate

the
unique
manner
in
which
the
Black
musical
shorts
defy
these
theories
and

reclaim
cultural
autonomy.

Through
close
reading
of
the
Black
musical
short,
we

can
identify
rare
moments
of
Black
cinematic
defiance
in
the
mainstream
and

challenges
to
what
Ed
Guerrero
identifies
as
a
cinematic
tradition
of
“white-
dominated symbolic order and racial hierarchy.”
55

Although
the
musical
short
provided
an
avenue
for
a
variety
of
Black
artists
-‐
-‐including
Bessie
Smith,
56

Ethel
Waters,
57

Sammy
Davis
Jr.,
Lena
Horne,
Dorothy

Dandridge,
The
Mills
Brothers,
and
Fats
Waller-‐-‐
to
be
prominently
featured
in

starring
roles,
Cab
Calloway,
Duke
Ellington,
and
Louis
Armstrong
had
the
most

provocative,
subversive,
and
expansive
film
short
catalogues
amongst
the
majors.

To
some
degree,
all
of
these
film
shorts
featuring
Black
personas
in
starring
roles

were
progressive;
there
were
few
opportunities
for
Blacks
on
the
mainstream

screen
during
the
period,
and
the
limited
number
of
roles
were
most
always

supporting
roles.
Though
the
Black
musical
short
moved
Black
bodies
from
the

background
into
the
spotlight,
many
of
these
films
still
played
into
stereotypical

tropes
and
acts
of
“othering”
that
was
commonplace
in
feature-‐length
films.

This
chapter
focuses
particularly
on
Ellington
and
Calloway,
who
stand
apart

in
the
genre,
both
because
of
the
quantity
of
shorts
they
made
and
because
of
the

29

sheer
power
of
their
celebrity
during
the
period,
which
offered
the
two
more

favorable
roles
and
representations.
Unlike
the
Black
artists
in
the
majority
of
the

era’s
film
shorts,
Ellington
and
Calloway
are
not
simply
“performers”
in
their
films;

instead,
the
musicians
are
ambassadors
to
both
the
Black
screen
space
and

representatives
of
Black
modernity
and
upward
mobility.

It
is
also
important
to
note
that
although
white
men
were
largely
responsible

for
the
production
of
these
films
under
the
intricate
umbrella
of
the
Studio
System,

progressive
ideologies
of
Black
modernity
and
the
Black
Aesthetic
permeated

through
these
films
in
ways
that
would
not
again
become
apparent
in
film
until

decades
after
the
Civil
Rights
Movement.

Using
cinema
to
create
a
space
of
“cultural

tourism,”
the
Black
musical
shorts
does
important
work
to
invite
cultural
outsiders

into
otherwise
removed
and
“folkloric”
Black
spaces
while
simultaneously
working

to
“unother”
the
people
that
inhabited
them.
In
this
way,
I
will
argue
that
these
short

films
work
to
disrupt
Peter McGowan’s concept of the “visual economy of observing
Otherness” within the construct of racial spectacle.
58

While
Chapter
Three
examines
the
ways
in
which
shorts
films
invited

cultural
outsiders
into
Black
spaces,
Chapter
Four
reverses
this
cross-‐cultural

movement,
instead
investigating
how
short
film
provided
an
atypical
means
for

Black
bodies
and
Black
culture
to
cross
into
white
spaces
and
operate
therein
on

their
own
accord.
This
specific
method
of
cultural
integration—a
flow
in
which
the

30

disenfranchised
move
into
dominant
white
spaces
of
their
own
volition—
presents

the
complexities
of
integration
and
the
pursuit
of
social
citizenry.

Drawing
from
Janet
Murray’s
theories
on
immersion,
Chapter
Four
discusses

how
the
Black
musical
shorts
used
medium-‐specific
techniques
to
force
white

audiences
into
cultural
spaces
and
experiences.
The
cinematic
method
created
a
site

of
confrontation
and
disorientation
for
white
viewers,
and
as
a
result
worked
to

demythologize
Black
cultural
representations
and
create
a
metaphysical
cultural

balance
between
the
film
world
and
world
of
the
audience.
Through
this
Black
short

film
practice,
Black
bodies
and
culture
were
given
means
to
disrupt
the
tradition
of

being
“othered”
on
the
screen.

This
boundary
crossing,
however,
did
not
come
without
its
share
of
reactions

and
socio-‐cultural
complexities.
Chapter
Four
also
surveys
the
ways
in
which

cultural
immersion
and
Black
integration
into
white
spaces
was
often
seen
as
an
act

of
infiltration
and
invasion.

Using
Stuart
Hall’s
methodology
of
decoding
hidden

cultural
messaging
as
described
in
his
seminal
“
Encoding/Decoding,”
the
chapter

works
to
interpret
and
contextualize
the
ideologies
obscured
within
the
short
film

syntax.
Through
textual
analysis
and
the
process
of
decoding
encoded
Black

messages
in
the
films,
Black
voices
that
were
not
only
socially
disenfranchised,
but

had
also
been
largely
silenced
within
the
film
industry
itself
are
revealed.

This
section
puts
a
select
group
of
films
and
Fleischer
cartoons
starring,

Calloway,
Ellington,
and
Armstrong
in
conversation
with
one
another
as
a
method
of

decoding
ideologies
about
race,
class,
colorism,
and
specifically
the
ways
in
which

film
was
used
to
convey
those
ideologies
and
social
anxieties.

The
chapter
also

31

investigates
the
manner
in
which
satire,
caricature,
and
celebrity
persona
were
used

as
paradoxical
mechanisms
to
both
create
barriers
and
transcend
borders.

Through

applying
both
Hall’s
interpretive
theory
and
Henry
Louis
Gates
Jr.’s
Black
cultural

process
of
“signifyin(g)”
to
readings
of
the
films,
the
films
offer
oppositional

readings
in
which
the
Black
characters
are
understood
to
be
active,
defiant,
and

responsive
to
the
dominant
white
structure.

The
final
chapter
will
examine
moments
of
transcendence
in
Black

representation
on
screen.
Building
upon
both
the
foundation
of
Black
social

persuasion
created
in
the
Black
musical
shorts
until
the
mid-‐1930s
and
the
tensions

created
by
the
impending
threat
of
the
Second
World
War,
representation
of
Blacks

in
short
films
and
their
affiliated
celebrity
began
to
shift
at
the
tail
end
of
the
1930s.

During
this
period,
Blacks
were
no
longer
using
film
as
a
tool
to
seek
social

citizenship,
but
were
instead
claiming
their
place
in
both
direct
and
subversive
ways

on
the
screen.

Both
the
early
Black
military
short
and
Golden
Age
studio
shorts
starring

Black
performers
serve
as
an
unprecedented
point
of
Black
entry
into
“white”
film

space,
and
as
an
extension,
into
the
larger
American
landscape.
The
critical
access

point
occurs
not
only
within
the
diegetic
film
world,
but
also
figuratively
within

affiliated
white
exhibition
spaces
and
upon
the
white
psyche;
the
result
is
a

subversive
Black
proclamation
of
social
citizenship.
This
entry-‐-‐this
cultural
border

crossing—decenters
the
cultural
essentialism
of
early
cinema
and
Golden
Age

Hollywood,
in
which
whiteness
was
qualified
a
“desirable”
and
“American”
while

Blackness
was
positioned
as
“undesirable”
and
“other.”

32

The
short
film
provided
a
means
to
both
document
and
fuel
these
important

cultural
shifts
for
Blacks
seeking
social
citizenship
in
America.

Whether
through

overt,
patriotic
representations
in
military
films
or
through
pop
cultural

entertainment
showcases,
short
films
prior
to
World
War
II
provided
a
unique
arena

in
which
alternative
Black
representation
was
given
space
to
flourish
before
the

masses.

Within
these
short
films,
we
are
given
glimpses
of
Black
cultural
truth,

agency
in
representation,
and
conveyances
of
the
Black
Aesthetic
that
was
rarely

present
in
feature
length
films
featuring
Blacks
during
the
period.
The
short
films

challenged
dominant
white
ideologies
and
reshaped
the
tradition
of
unhinged
Black

spectacle
on
the
screen;
instead
the
Black
shorts
brought
the
mainstream
audience

in
to
observe
meaningful
and
culturally
significant
glimpses
of
Black
American
life.

In
the
following
select
short
films,
we
are
given
rare
access
to
screened

representations
of
Black
upward
mobility,
impactful
Black
contributions
to
the

United
States
at
large,
and
films
that
work
to
normalize,
challenge,
and
root
Black

Americans
into
the
larger
social
landscape
of
the
country.

Notes:

1

Brigit
Katz,
“Found:
The
Earliest
Depiction
of
a
Black
Couple
Kissing,”
Smithsonian

Magazine,
December
19,
2019,

https://www.smithsonianmag.com/smart-‐news/found-‐earliest-‐cinematic-‐
depiction-‐black-‐couple-‐kissing-‐180971065/.

2

Katz.

3

Brittany
Wong,
“The
Early
Film
Depicting
Black
Love
Went
Hidden
For
Years,”

Huffington
Post,
December
18,
2018,

https://www.huffpost.com/entry/rediscovered-‐silent-‐film-‐black-‐
love_n_5c17eda0e4b08db990566656.

4
Lila
MacLellan,
“The
Story
Behind
the
First
Depiction
Of
African-‐American
Love
on

Screen,”
Quartzy.
January
12,
2019,

33

https://qz.com/quartzy/1505068/the-‐story-‐behind-‐the-‐first-‐depiction-‐of-‐african-‐
american-‐love-‐on-‐screen/.

5
Clifton
Crais
and
Pamela
Scully,
Sara
Baartman
and
the
Hottentot
Venus:
A
Ghost

Story
and
a
Biography
(New
Jersey:
Princeton
University
Press,
2008),
70-‐81.

6

Hugh
Schofield,
“Human
Zoos:
Where
Real
People
Were
Exhibits”
BBC
News

Magazine,
December
27,
2011,

https://www.bbc.com/news/magazine-‐16295827.

7

Edward
B
McDowell,
“The
World’s
Fair
Cosmopolis,”
Frank
Leslie’s
Popular

Monthly
36
(1893):
415.

8

Mikhail
Bakhtin,
Rabelais
and
His
World,
trans.
Helene
Iswolsky
(Cambridge,
MA:

The
M.I.T.
Press,
1968),
3-‐13.

9

Philip
McGowan,
American
Carnival:
Seeing
and
Reading
American
Culture

(Westport,
CT:
Greenwood
Press,
2001),
ix.

10
Ed
Guerrero,
Framing
Blackness:
The
African
American
Image
in
Film
(Philadelphia,

PA:
Temple
University
Press,
1993),
2.

11

Tom
Gunning,
“The
Cinema
of
Attraction:
Early
Film,
Its
Spectator,
and
the
Avant-‐
Garde,”
Wide
Angle
8.3
(1986):
70.

12

Gunning,
64-‐66.

13

Ibid.,
64.

14

There
is
great
irony
in
the
evolution
of
the
cakewalk
dance.
Originally
a
dance

performed
by
Black
American
slaves
who
were
mimicking
their
white
slave
owners,

the
dance
began
to
be
identified
as
a
form
of
Black
cultural
performativity
by
whites

who
did
not
realize
they
were
being
made
fun
of.
The
dance
style
became

immensely
popular
and
was
used
as
cultural
identifier
in
a
variety
of
media

featuring
Black
representation
and
minstrelsy
shows.

Eventually,
the
dance
became

so
popular
that
whites
also
began
to
perform
the
dance—emulating
the
Blacks
who,

unbeknownst
to
the
whites,
were
mimicking
them.

15

Guerrero,
4.

16

McGowan,
25.

17

Ibid.,
x.

18

Guerrero,
4.

19

McGowan,
2.

20

Richard
Koszarski,
Hollywood
on
the
Hudson:
Film
and
Television
in
New
York
from

Griffith
to
Sarnoff
(New
Jersey:
Rutgers
University
Press,
2008),
399.

21
Douglas
Gomery,
The
Hollywood
Studio
System:
A
History
(London:
British
Film

Institute,
2005),
85.

22

Larry
Kent
in
“Paramount
Shorts
Win
Wide
Acclaim”,
Publix
Opinion
(September

5,
1930),
1.

23

In
1940,
a
consent
decree
was
filed
in
Federal
District
Court
for
the
Southern

District
of
New
York
as
an
agreement
made
by
the
five
major
studios
(Paramount,

Warner
Brothers,
MGM,
RKO,
and
Twentieth
Century
Fox)
to
end
blind-‐bidding
and

block-‐booking
of
short
films.
The
decree
was
followed
up
in
1948
by
the
Paramount

Decision:
an
antitrust
lawsuit
in
which
the
five
major
studios
were
forced
to
divest

themselves
of
their
exhibition
spaces.

24

Jack
Alicoate,
“Short
Subjects,”
Film
Daily,
February
24,
1930,
1.

34

25

Koszarski,
399.

26

For
more
on
locations
and
operations
of
the
major
studios
in
New
York,
see

Koszarski,
pp.
101-‐140.

27

Koszarski,
202.

28

Ibid.,
181-‐182.

29

Joseph
Henaberry,
Before,
In
and
After
Hollywood
(Lanham,
MD:
Scarecrow
Press,

1997),
297-‐298.

30

Duke
Ellington,
Music
is
My
Mistress
(Garden
City,
New
York:
Da
Capo,
1973),
87.

31

Ivy
Anderson
spelled
her
name
both
“Ivy”
and
“Ivie”
throughout
her
career.

Throughout
this
dissertation,
the
chosen
spelling
will
coincide
with
the
spelling

associated
with
the
performance
at
the
time.

32

Ibid.,
77.

33

The
meticulous
records
kept
of
Duke
Ellington’s
schedule
throughout
the
years

provides
great
insight
into
the
promotional
link
between
filmed
musical
artists
and

their
resultant
stage
appearances
in
the
studios’
theaters.
As
an
example,
on
April

21
st
,
1929,
Duke
Ellington
broke
the
color
line
at
RKO’s
Palace
Theater,
becoming

the
first
“colored”
orchestra
to
perform
on
stage;
four
months
later
he
was
at
RKO’s

Gramercy
Studios
in
New
York
filming
his
first
musical
short
for
the
studio,
Black

and
Tan
(Murphy).

In
1931,
Ellington
was
contracted
again
by
RKO
to
film
a

segment
in
Check
and
Double
Check
(Brown)
in
Los
Angeles
from
August
27
th

to
31
st
.

After
traveling
back
to
New
York
by
train
for
5
days,
the
band
immediately

headlined
at
the
Palace
Theater
for
a
week-‐long
engagement.
In
February
1934,

Ellington
and
his
band
traveled
to
Hollywood
to
begin
production
on
several

projects
for
Paramount,
including,
Murder
at
the
Vanities,
Belle
of
the
Nineties,
Many

Happy
Returns
(Calloway
played
the
music
for
Guy
Lombardo’s
character),
and
a

segment
in
a
Paramount
Newsreel,
“Hollywood
on
Parade.”

Wrapping
preliminary

shooting
on
March
26
th
,
Ellington
was
immediately
engaged
at
the
Paramount

Theater
in
Los
Angeles
from
March
29
th
-‐April
4
th
.

The
band
toured
heavily

throughout
the
country
until
the
end
of
September,
when
their
touring
congregated

along
the
Eastern
Seaboard.
Once
Ellington
had
again
laid
roots
in
the
east,
he

reported
to
Paramount’s
Eastern
Service
Studios
in
Astoria
to
film
his
headlining

film,
Symphony
in
Black:
A
Rhapsody
of
Negro
Life.

34

Koszarski,
205.

35

Ibid.

36

Gomery,
87.

37

Interoffice
Memo,
“Single
Reel
Subjects:
United
States
and
Canada,”
(June
30,

1936),
9.

Special
Collections,
Margaret
Herrick
Library:
Academy
of
Motion
Pictures

and
Sciences,
Beverly
Hills,
CA

38
“Single
Reel
Subjects:
United
States
and
Canada,”
10.

39

Paramount
was
the
producer
of
the
many
Fleischer
animated
films
throughout

the
Golden
Age.
The
popular
Popeye,
Betty
Boop,
and
Koko
the
Clown
cartoons
were

all
originally
produced
with
Paramount
as
a
parent
company.

40

See
Meg
James,
“End
of
an
Era:
CBS
to
Sell
its
Historic
Radio
Division,”
LA
Times,

March
15,
2016;
Joel
Waldo
Finler,
The
Hollywood
Story
(London:
Wallflower
Press,

2003),
183;
and
Gomery,
87.

35

41

Finler,
183.

42

“Short
Shots,”
Film
Daily,
February
14,
1932,
5.

43

Koszarski,
201-‐203.

44

Ina
Ray
Hutton
and
her
All
Girl
Orchestra
was
another
act
managed
by
Irving
Mills

and
also
was
contracted
for
several
musical
shorts
with
Paramount.

45

For
more
on
Black
exhibition
and
viewing
practices,
see
Jacqueline
Stewart,

Migrating
to
the
Movies:
Cinema
and
Black
Urban
Modernity
(Berkeley:
University
of

California
Press,
2005).

46

Stuart
Hall,
“Encoding,
decoding,”
in
The
Cultural
Studies
Reader
(New
York,

Routledge,
1993),
91-‐93.

47

“The
Black
Aesthetic”
was
a
term
and
ideology
coined
by
cultural
critic
Larry
Neal

and
embraced
by
thinkers
and
artists
involved
in
the
Black
Arts
Movement

beginning
in
the
late
1960s.
The
essence
of
the
Black
Aesthetic
was
an
embrace
and

celebration
of

had
Black
cultural
identity,
while
the
motives
of
the
Black
Aesthetic

were
to
operate
in
defiance
of
oppressive
and
established
white
ideologies.
For
this

distinction,
although
this
term
was
not
coined
until
the
era
of
the
Black
Power

Movement,
there
are
many
examples
of
the
essence
of
Black
Aestheticism
being

produced
in
Black
works
before
the
late
1960s—particularly
during
the
ripe
era
of

Black
cultural
production
during
the
Harlem
Renaissance.

See
Larry
Neal,
“The

Black
Arts
Movement,”
in
A
Turbulent
Voyage:
Readings
in
African
American
Studies,

ed.
Floyd
Hayes
III
(San
Diego:
Collegiate
Press,
2000),
236-‐246.

48

Ernest
D.
Mason,
“Black
Art
and
the
Configurations
of
Experience:
The
Philosophy

of
the
Black
Aesthetic,”
CLA
Journal
27:1
(1983):
15.

49

Ibid.,
11-‐14.

50

Ibid.,
14.

51

Alain
Locke,
“Values
and
Imperatives,”
in
American
Philosophy
Today
and

Tomorrow,
ed.
Horace
M.
Kallen
and
Sidney
Hook
(New
York:
Books
for
Libraries

Press,
1935),
320-‐321.

52

Ibid.,
12.

53

Ibid.,
2.

54

Guerrero,
41.

55

Guerrero,
2.

56

Bessie
Smith
starred
in
the
first
major
studio
Black
musical
short,
St.
Louis
Blues

(Murphy),
in
September
1929.
Immediately
following
the
release
of
MGM’s
August

release
of
the
Black-‐cast
musical
Hallelujah,
St.
Louis
Blues
served
as
a
catalyst
for

the
new
manner
in
which
Black
bodies
could
be
used
in
film
as
sound
film
emerged.

Industrially
innovative
and
progressive,
Smith’s
only
film
was
less
progressive

socially.
The
narrative
of
St.
Louis
Blues
is
entirely
vice
driven,
perpetuating
Black

cultural
stereotypes
of
gambling,
violence,
misogyny,
and
alcoholism.

57

A
1929
Variety
article
mentioned
Ethel
Water’s
prominence
in
Harlem
and

beyond,
identifying
her
as
the
“most
popular
and
highest
paid
black
female

entertainer
in
the
world.”
However,
despite
her
popularity,
she
seemed
to
have
little

autonomy
in
her
representation,
as
her
characters
rarely
challenged
racial

stereotypes.
Waters
was
often
cast
as
kerchief-‐wearing
maids
and
mammy
types

that
were
struggling
in
lower
class
settings,
and
her
short
films
of
the
1930s,

36

Bubbling
Over
(Jason,
1934),
Rufus
Jones
for
President

(Mack,
1933),
Change
Your

Luck
(McCarey,1933)
are
no
exception.

58

McGowan,
ix.

37

Chapter
1:

Black
Patriotism
as
Social
and
Cinematic
Spectacle:
Morale,

Ideology
and
the
Long
Life
of
“Rookies
after
Two
Days
Training”

Though parlayed simply as entertainment, film, like the American carnival, is not
socially benign; when dealing with representations of race, the space is often shaped to
establish or uphold the hegemonic mores of white supremacy. Cinema brought the
American carnival to film, and with it, the easily adapted Black spectacle. The Black
cinematic spectacle was pervasive and enduring, permeating and evolving itself into
cinema history. The social function of the Black cinematic spectacle was so persistent in
fact, that it at times seemed to operate unchecked, creating unbalanced layers of
counterintuitive messaging.
Early American military films made this abstract dynamic particularly legible.
Functioning as a propagandistic tool, military films worked to showcase a national
indomitability through their focus on a large, organized, and unified military body.
However, as an ideological tool, the films often disrupted the propaganda they were
working to establish, focusing on Blackness as spectacle, chaotic, and other. Thus, the
Black military shorts make visible the inherent social “glitch” of Black American
patriotism and citizenship—the conflict of simultaneously occupying a space of both
belonging and unbelonging, inclusivity and exclusivity.

38

The Black military short at once offers rare and empowering early cinematic
images of Black order, dignity, and austerity while also at times promoting familiar
images and well-established tropes of Black otherness. The conflict between the boost in
Black morale at the turn of the century and the suppressive strategies of Black
disenfranchisement were often at war in the Black military short. The rise of Black
modernity and the desire for Black social citizenship further complicated these films in
ways previously undetected in media created for integrated audiences. These films
expose the racial conundrum at the turn of the century, and highlight the ideological
slippage that resulted in white reactiveness and Black subversiveness—both in the name
of national identity.

Edison’s
earliest
films
in
the
late
1890s
included
a
slew
of
documentary
style

shorts
of
servicemen
engaging
in
everyday
military
activities
during
the
Spanish-‐
American
War
of
1898.
These
films
separated
themselves
from
both
his

carnivalesque
and
ethnic-‐based
anthropological
films,
which
focused
on
using
film

to
mark
the
“absurd”
or
“the
other.”
Instead,
Edison
played
up
the
documentary-‐
style
realism
in
the
military
films,
advertising
them
as
“…
pictures
of
stirring
camp

life,
transportation
of
troops,
and
general
bustle
of
military
preparations.
They
are

sure
to
satisfy
the
craving
of
the
general
public
for
the
absolutely
true
and
accurate

details
regarding
the
movement
of
the
United
States
army
getting
ready
for
the

invasion
of
Cuba.”
1

For
Edison,
the
intrigue
of
these
films
was
their
“natural”

39

quality—the
ability
to
showcase
the
American
military
in
all
of
its
truth
and
even

mundanity.

In
1898,
Edison
produced
twenty-‐one
shorts
capturing
various
political,

journalistic,
and
militaristic
aspects
of
U.S.
preparation
for
the
Spanish-‐American

War.
Of
these
twenty-‐one
films
two
focused
on
Black
servicemen:
Colored
Troops

Disembarking
(1898)
and
The
Ninth
U.S.
Cavalry
Watering
Horses
(1898).
The

pragmatic
film
titles
provide
an
explanation
for
the
content:
Colored
Troops

Disembarking
features
the
2
nd

Battalion
of
the
24
th

Colored
Infantry
arriving
in
Cuba

and
disembarking
down
a
steep
ship
plank
with
their
gear;
The
Ninth
U.S.
Cavalry

Watering
Horses
features
the
all-‐black
regiment
of
Buffalo
Soldiers
riding
their

horses
to
water
in
Tampa,
Florida.
The
films
fit
in
easily
amongst
the
others
in

Edison’s
wartime
catalogue,
such
as
10
th

U.S.
Infantry,
2
nd

Battalion,
Leaving
Cars

(1898),
in
which
formations
of
white
soldiers
exit
train
cars
in
Tampa,
and
Trained

Calvary
Horses
(1898),
in
which
white
soldiers
of
the
Troop
F,
6
th

Calvary

demonstrate
their
control
over
well-‐trained
military
horses.
Colored
Troops

Disembarking
and
The
Ninth
U.S.
Cavalry
Watering
Horses,
both
prominently

featuring
Black
subjects,
did
not
differ
from
the
representation
of
those
featuring

white
subjects,
and
the
overall
tone
of
military
life—stoic
and
noble—remained
the

same
across
the
catalogue,
despite
race.
2

Unlike
Edison’s
demeaning
and
spectaclized
representations
of
Black

subjects
in
films
such
as
Watermelon
Contest
(1896),
Watermelon
Eating
Contest

(1900),
and
A
Morning
Bath
(1896),
his
military
films
portrayed
the
Black
subjects

in
a
new,
progressive
light;
the
service
men
were
shown
as
capable,
distinguished,

40

and
human.
This
shift
in
Black
representation
was
not
unique
to
Edison
with
respect

to
military
films.

One
of
Edison’s
early
short
film
competitors,
Sigmund
Lubin,

likewise
advertised
his
Black
military
short,
Colored
Invincibles
(1898),
by

summarizing
the
film
as
“the
colored
troop,
the
so-‐called
immunes,
who
went
away

to
fight
with
as
much
zeal
as
their
white
brothers…This
is
one
of
the
scenes
where

the
colored
man
is
accepted
as
a
brother
in
arms,
for
his
work
in
the
field
was
equal,

if
not
superior
at
times,
to
his
white
companions.”
3

An
advertisement
in
The
New
York
Clipper
for
Lubin’s
Colored
Invincibles

further
suggests
the
U.S.
military
as
a
distinct
site
in
which
the
representation
of

racial
ideologies
of
the
racist
hegemony
was
secondary
to
the
portrayal
of
the

military
as
a
powerful
and
organized
force.
The
ad
features
Colored
Invicibles
as
one

in
a
series
of
twelve
military
films
highlighting
prowess,
strength
and
victory.

Despite
the
serious,
propagandistic
content,
cinema
was
still
considered
a
novelty

“spectacle”
at
this
time;
as
such,
the
advertisement
for
Colored
Invincibles
(along

with
an
ad
promoting
14
“Genuine
Edison”
films)
is
situated
amongst
a
page
full
of

advertisements
for
traditional,
carnivalesque
attractions.
From
want
ads
calling
for

burlesque
dancers,
to
a
street
fair
looking
for
jugglers,
contortionists,
and
magicians,

the
page
is
the
landscape
of
“spectacle.”
Barnum
and
Bailey
take
up
the
most
real

estate
on
the
page,
searching
for
“Living
Curiosities
and
Freaks,”
including
a
midget,

a
giant,
a
human
pin
cushion,
a
card
playing
pig,
a
glass
and
poison
eater,
and
a

Black
Tom.
4

Thus,
the
display
and
performance
of
Blackness
was
still
very
much

relished
in
the
form
of
performative
spectacle
during
the
period;
however,
the

41

military
film
offered
a
progressive
alternative
for
Black
screen
representation

before
the
turn
of
the
century.

The
military
films
of
the
Spanish-‐American
War
era
suggested
a
change

occurring
in
American
ideologies
about
race.
In
his
essay,
“The
Whites
of
Their

Eyes,”
cultural
theorist
Stuart
Hall
discusses
the
media’s
role
in
the
popularization

of
racist
ideologies,
and
claims
that
the
media’s
main
function
is
the
“production
and

transformation
of
ideologies.”
5

In
these
early
films
shot
of
Black
servicemen
during

the
Spanish-‐American
war,
an
emerging
cultural
ideology
about
“place”
in
the

United
States,
and
a
sense
of
national
belongedness
was
being
both
captured
and

constructed.
The
films,
both
in
advertisement
and
practice,
conveyed
military

service
as
the
means
to
a
future
of
racial
equality
for
Black
Americans
and
the

irrevocable
path
to
Black
enfranchisement.
These
films
worked
to
move
away
from

the
history
of
stereotype
and
degradation
in
Black
media
representation,
making
the

umbrella
of
patriotism
and
nationality
of
primary
unifying
importance.

These
pre-‐
turn-‐of-‐the-‐century
military
films
constructed
a
cinema
rarity,
normalizing
the

Black
figures
and
positioning
them
amongst
the
American
citizenry.

In
the
case
of
the
Black
Spanish-‐American
War
soldiers,
historian
Eric

Foner’s
stance
that
military
service
is
always
“a
politicizing
and
radicalizing

experience”
easily
translated
to
the
screen.
6

Although
the
U.S.
military
was
still
a

racially
segregated
body
during
this
period,
these
films
nevertheless
worked
to

position
the
Black
soldier
alongside
their
white
compatriots
through
film
tone
and

even
within
the
film
catalogues;
this
representation
of
Black
patriotism
was

particularly
progressive
and
radical.

The
Black
military
films
were
provocative,

42

portraying
some
of
the
earliest
recorded
films
images
of
the
U.S.
military
regardless

of
race,
but
also
demonstrating
a
subversive
defiance
by
showcasing,
as
Thomas

Cripps
says,
“crisp
armed
black
men
outside
of
their
prescribed
‘place’.”
7

The

cinematic
representation
of
Black
soldiers
on
screen
in
the
late
1800s
provided
a

rare
circumstance
in
which
Black
media
representation
was
disengaged
from
the

common
menial
and
demeaning
tropes,
and
was
moved
instead
into
a
social
space

that
had
historically
been
off
limits.
Through
these
late
19
th

century
military
films,

the
portrayal
of
Black
bodies
moving
outside
of
their
restricted,
socio-‐culturally

prescribed

“place,”
and
into
the
greater
American
cultural
space,
was
an
impactful

statement
about
the
potential
for
Black
social
citizenship
moving
into
the
20
th

century.

The
positive
and
humanizing
representation
of
Black
military
figures

extended
beyond
military
ranks,
and
was
an
incredible
boon
for
Black
cultural

morale
in
the
United
States
as
the
turn
of
the
century
approached.
U.S.
Brigadier

General
James
A.
Ulio
theorizes
that
the
creation
of
“morale”
is
of
the
utmost

importance
in
organizing
groups
of
people;
however,
he
contends
there
is
difficulty

in
identifying
morale,
as
it
is
a
“feeling”
that
is
not
definable
by
language.
8

Sociologist
Daniel
La
Rue
and
philosopher
William
Ernest
Hocking
each
delve

deeper
into
the
ephemeral
nature
of
morale,
attempting
at
minimum
to
categorize

the
indefinable
“feeling”
of
morale.
La
Rue
claims
that
the
feeling
of
morale
is
the

feeling
equality;
9

Hocking
concludes
that
the
feeling
is
a
state
of
freedom
and
control

of
one’s
energy
and
mental
condition.
10

Thus,
although
none
of
these
positions
are

able
to
provide
clear
and
concise
definitions
on
what
constitutes
“morale,”
they
each

43

recognize
that
“morale”
is
the
result
of
an
individual
or
group’s
feelings
of
access
to

autonomy
and
equity.

Brigadier
General
Ulio
goes
on
to
explain
that
“military
and
civilian
morale

are
welded
inseparably,”
11

thus
the
positive
morale
that
resulted
from
the
positive

representations
of
the
Black
servicemen
on
the
screen
was
not
only
felt
by
the
men

as
Black
soldiers,
but
also
by
the
men
as
Black
American
citizens.
Extrapolating
one

step
further,
as
cultural
representation
extends
beyond
the
parameters
of
the
screen

and
onto
the
larger
cultural
body,
the
positive
morale
experienced
by
the
Black

figures
on
the
screen
adhered
itself
to
the
larger
populous
of
Black
Americans

outside
of
the
screen.

The
social
morale
created
both
within
and
by
the
films

featuring
Black
soldiers
from
the
late
1800s
coincided
quite
directly
with
Black

Americans’
ubiquitous
aspirations
for
equality,
freedom,
and
agency
moving
into
the

20
th

century.
It
would
seem
that
patriotism—particularly
via
the
sacrifice
of
military

service—was
an
assured
path
to
enfranchisement
and
citizenship.

The
beginning
of
the
20
th

century
was
a
fertile
period
for
Black
social
growth

and
the
fortification
of
measures
intended
to
grant
Black
Americans
true
social

citizenship.

Leading
up
to
World
War
I,
Black
Americans
became
extremely

organized
in
their
fight
for
equality
and
strivings
for
upward
mobility.
There
were
a

series
race
riots
and
protests
around
the
country
in
which
the
focus
was
fighting

against
discrimination.
Core
civil
rights
and
Black
empowerment
groups
were

established,
including
the
NAACP,
Marcus
Garvey’s
UNIA,
The
National
Urban

League,
The
Niagara
Movement,
and
The
Association
for
the
Study
of
African

American
Life
and
History.

A
string
of
Black
newspapers
and
journals
began
being

44

published
around
the
country
catering
to
Black
topics
and
highlighting
Black

excellence,
including
The
Pittsburgh
Courier,
The
Chicago
Defender,
New
York

Amsterdam
News,
The
Crisis,
and
The
Journal
of
Negro
History.

The
first
Black

fraternities
and
sororities
were
founded
at
various
universities
around
the
country.

And
finally,
the
geographical
boundaries
of
the
Black
community
began
to
shift
and

broaden,
as
the
Great
Migration
swept
up
Blacks
from
rural
Southern
areas
and

moved
them
northward
towards
urban
areas
with
greater
opportunities.
Upward

mobility
was
percolating
within
the
Black
community,
and
Black
social
morale
was

at
an
all
time
high-‐-‐
or
else
vigorously
defended
when
threatened.

This
socio-‐political
upswing
was
met
with
white
fear
and
resistance;
Black

morale
outside
of
wartime
threatened
the
white
hegemonic
power
structure.
During

the
period
between
the
Spanish-‐American
War
and
World
War
I,
there
were

structural
and
systemic
actions
taken
to
decrease
Black
morale,
disrupt
Black

organization,
and
reestablish
feelings
of
Black
disenfranchisement
and
stasis.
The

attack
was
varied
and
occurred
on
multiple
fronts.

Various
acts
of
white
terrorism

and
oppression
tactics
against
Blacks
increased
throughout
the
country
ranging

from
a
series
of
racially-‐motivated
murders,
a
succession
of
race
riots,
and
the

“Antiradical
Crusade”,
which
worked
to
suppress
the
delivery
of
Black
journals
and

newspapers
to
their
subscribers.
12

Black
progress
was
even
thwarted
in
film,
as
ideologies
about
Black
mobility

were
reconfigured.
Hall
contends
that
despite
traditional
definitions
of
“ideology”
in

which
the
system
is
fortified
by
its
fixity,
that
“ideology”
is
in
fact
a
practice
that

requires
maintenance
and
adaptability
in
order
to
survive.
Critical
theorist

45

Nathaniel
Mackey
offers
a
similar
perspective
in
his
essay
“Other:
From
Noun
to

Verb,”
as
he
discusses
the
practice
of
“social
othering”—

the
effect
of
successfully

subjecting
and
maintaining
racialized
ideologies
onto
Black
bodies
and
Black

cultural
practices.
13

For
both
Hall
and
Mackey,
using
media
to
maintain
ideologies
is

extremely
powerful
and
has
the
ability
to
shape
and
influence
societies
with
near

effortlessness.
Hall
claims
that
media
forms
are
“apparatuses
of
ideological

production”
which
have
the
ability
to
both
“‘produce’
social
meanings
and
distribute

them
throughout
society”
(emphasis
mine).
14

As
a
result,
film
became
an
apt

mechanism
for
the
maintenance
of
dominant
white
ideologies.

While
Jim
Crow
created
an
undercurrent
of
structural
Black

disenfranchisement,
the
evolving
film
industry
used
its
own
powerful
mechanisms

for
its
preservation.

In
Black
Film,
White
Money,
author
Jesse
Algeron
Rhimes’

attributes
the
shifting
prevalence
towards
regressive
Black
representations
on

screen
to
the
introduction
of
mass
film
viewing
and
the
evolution
of
editing

techniques
as
a
narrative
device.
15

For
Rhimes,
while
“cutting”
undoubtedly
moved

the
medium
forward
and
revealed
the
extent
of
cinema’s
capabilities,
one
of
its
main

conventions
was
to
also
demoralize
Blacks
through
denigrating
representations.

With
the
introduction
of
editing
as
a
narrative
device,
the
Black
cinematic
spectacle

was
reborn.

The
1915
release
of
D.W.
Griffith’s
Birth
of
a
Nation,
a
film
which
historians

John
Hope
Franklin
and
Alfred
A.
Moss
Jr.
claimed
“did
more
than
any
other
single

thing
to
nurture
and
promote
the
myth
of
black
domination
and
debauchery
during

Reconstruction,”
16

is
an
apt
case
study
for
this
jarring
and
highly
politicized
shifting

46

perspective
in
Black
representation
in
media.
Revered
as
a
technical
marvel,

Griffith’s
film
laid
the
groundwork
for
cinematic
storytelling
as
the
medium
was

beginning
to
industrialize.

So
incredible
was
this
film
to
many
white
spectators
at

the
time
that
President
Woodrow
Wilson
is
quoted
as
having
praised
the
film
as

“like
writing
history
with
lightening.”
17

But
as
established
by
Algeron,
the
historical

link
between
the
early
development
of
film
editing
techniques
and
Black

representation
on
screen
cannot
be
separated
from
one
another.

The
narrative
of
Birth
of
a
Nation
is
heavily
driven
by
themes
of
white

supremacy
and
reestablishing
a
segregated
and
racialized
“order”
in
which
whites

were
positioned
at
the
top,
and
Blacks
far
below.

With
its
1915
release-‐-‐
the
same

year
as
the
beginning
of
the
Black
Great
Migration
northward-‐-‐
the
film
is
highly

retaliatory
to
the
upswing
in
Black
socio-‐cultural
organization
and
economic

mobility,
and
is
a
direct
response
to
the
various
forms
of
Black
morale
building
and

racial
unothering
that
was
occurring
in
the
early
1900s.
The
narrative
of
the
film

works
to
dismantle
this
rise
of
Black
“organization”
by
means
of
white
“re-‐
organization”—specifically
though
the
ascent
of
the
KKK.
Thematically,
the
film

deals
with
the
fear
and
chaos
that
results
from
Blacks
moving
out
of
their
prescribed

“place”
into
white
spaces.
Blacks
that
have
moved
out
of
their
“place”
pose
a
variety

of
threats
to
the
order
of
white
society
and
the
nation
as
a
whole:
physical
(the

attempted
rape
of
Elsie,
played
by
Lillian
Gish),
social
(the
rise
of
the
Black
middle

class
and
upward
mobility),
and
political
(Blacks
in
congress
creating
literal
and

figurative
chaos).
In
particular,
the
Blacks
who
had
become
fully
autonomous
and

47

enfranchised—those
who
used
their
morale
to
gain
power
and
influence-‐-‐-‐
were

particularly
threatening
to
the
white
supremacist
“order.”

For
these
imposing
threats,
Griffith
utilized
the
new
capabilities
of
cinema
to

resituate
the
Blacks
back
into
their
“prescribed
places”
under
the
strictures
of
white

dominant
ideologies.
Relying
on
spectacle,
Griffith’s
representations
“re-‐othered”

upwardly
mobilized
Blacks
in
the
film,
and
made
a
mockery
of
their
strivings.
The

use
of
stylized
editing
techniques
during
Birth
of
a
Nation’s
House
of

Representatives
scene
is
purposeful
in
its
othering
of
the
Black
characters.
The

dignified
and
supreme
political
space
is
suddenly
turned
into
a
sideshow
as
the

Black
bodies
take
up
residence
therein.
In
the
scene,
Black
mobility
is
framed
as

absurd
and
carnivalesque
as
the
space
becomes
spectaclized
with
grotesque
racial

stereotypes
and
otherwise
derogatory
racial
representations.
The
scene
begins
with

a
superimposition,
in
which
an
empty
Congressional
room
full
of
desks
is
abruptly

overlapped
with
a
chaotic
shot
of
bustling
Black
political
leaders
overflowing
the

space.
The
editing
choice
creates
a
mystical
illusion
and
sends
an
overt
message
that

in
the
mere
blink
of
an
eye,
upwardly
mobile
Blacks
can
take
over
and
reshape
(and

essentially
“infest”)
traditionally
white
national
institutions.

Griffith
also
used
the
practice
of
“othering”
as
a
technique
to
stoke
cultural

anxieties
about
Black
mobility.

Relying
on
white
supremacist
ideologies
of
cultural

diametrical
opposition,
Griffith
creates
a
spectacle
of
Blackness
in
order
to

conversely
portray
a
normalcy
or
order
in
whiteness.
The
Black
characters
are

constructed
as
“fish-‐out-‐of-‐water”—incapable
of
knowing
how
to
properly
act
in
the

space.
The
gauche,
Zip
Coon
style
suits
many
of
the
Black
congressmen
wear
is
the

48

first
marker
of
class
and
cultural
otherness.
18

A
montage
of
stereotypically
encoded,

undignified
and
inappropriate
behavior
(in
between
the
passing
of
racial
equality

bills
for
added
emphasis)
also
“others”
the
Black
men:
the
men
snack
on
pork
chops,

sneak
swigs
of
liquor,
take
off
their
shoes
and
air
out
their
bare
feet
on
desks,
stare

menacingly
at
white
women,
and
are
otherwise
raucous
and
disorderly
in
a
space

that
demands
order.
As
a
point
of
contrast,
though
within
the
same
space,
the

greatly
outnumbered
“helpless
white
minority”
were
instead
shown
as
proper,

qualified,
and
orderly.

Here,
the
spectaclized
Black
body
is
transmutable,
and
operates
as
a
cultural

contagion.
The
message
conveyed
by
Griffith
in
the
scene
is
that
the
spectacle
of
the

Black
body
is
not
contained—instead,
it
has
the
unique
ability
to
convert
entire

spaces
and
institutions
into
carnivalesque
sites.
The
title
cards
in
the
scene
likewise

attempt
to
stoke
white
cultural
anxieties
by
claiming
that
the
spectacle
and
its

transmittable
capabilities
was
“historical
facsimile”
and
a
restaging
of
“historic

incidents,”
blurring
the
lines
between
mythical
nightmare
and
hellish
reality.

As
these
fears
percolated,
the
United
States
entered
World
War
I
two
years

later
in
1917.
Thoughts
about
joining
the
war
effort
varied
amongst
the
Black

community.
Many
Blacks
believed
the
promise
of
the
military
service
would
provide

the
path
to
citizenship
in
the
long
term,
and
also
welcomed
the
short
term
benefits

and
“relief
from
repressive
conditions
at
home”
via
the
promise
of
“good
clothes,

three
meals
a
day,
shelter,
some
money,
and
the
chance
of
travel
and
adventure.”
19

Much
like
the
Great
Migration,
many
Black
men
believed
that
enlisting
in
the

military
was
an
opportunity
for
upward
mobility;
in
fact,
historian
Steven
A.
Reich

49

notes
that
there
was
such
interest
in
military
service
amongst
Black
men
in
Dallas
in

1918
that
many
had
to
be
turned
away
due
to
limited
space
and
resources
at
the

camps.
20

W.E.B.
Du
Bois
likewise
supported
and
shared
this
enthusiasm
for
Black

enlistment
in
the
war,
calling
Black
Americans
to
momentarily
“forget
[their]
special

grievances
and
close
ranks”
with
whites
in
his
call
to
arms,
“Close
Ranks,”
published

in
The
Crisis.
21

In
a
June
editorial
of
the
same
year,
with
a
stoic
Black
soldier

prominently
featured
on
the
cover,
Du
Bois
expressed
his
hopefulness
for
the

outcome
of
the
war,
and
the
need
for
Black
patriotic
participation
in
order
to
gain

equality
and
autonomy
for
disenfranchised
people
around
the
world,
including

Black
Americans:

This
war
is
an
End
and,
also,
a
Beginning.
Never
again
will
the
darker
people

of
the
world
occupy
just
the
place
they
had
before.
Out
of
this
world
will
rise,
soon

or
late,
an
independent
China;
a
self-‐governing
India,
and
Egypt
with
representative

institutions;
an
Africa
for
the
Africans,
and
not
merely
business
exploitation.
Out
of

this
war
will
rise,
too,
an
American
Negro,
with
a
right
to
vote
and
a
right
to
live

without
insult.
22

50

Fig.
2.1
Black
Patriotism
and
Stoicism
as
represented
on
the
June
1918
cover
of

the
NAACP’s
The
Crisis
magazine.

However,
there
were
also
groups
of
Black
Americans
who
were
more

skeptical
of
the
proclaimed
opportunities
advertised
by
the
government,
and
in
turn

showed
resistance
though
draft
dodging
and
fleeing
to
different
states.
23

The

systemic
practices
of
Black
devaluation
and
dehumanization
would
have
also
been
a

turn
off
to
conscious
Blacks.

Historian
Jeanette
Keith
explains
that
in
some
Southern
locations-‐-‐
from

where
80%
of
the
Black
American
population
lived
at
the
time-‐-‐

draft
boards
were

openly
planning
to
protect
whites
from
the
draft
and
send
Blacks
to
fulfill
the
duty.
24

Blacks
were
also
given
less
exemptions,
underscoring
ideologies
that
their
mere

51

humanity
was
not
equal
to
that
of
whites.
Further,
independent,
upwardly
mobile

Blacks
were
more
likely
to
be
conscripted
than
those
who
were
dependent
on
and
in

service
to
whites.
25

The
mechanism
was
set
in
motion
to
perpetuate
racial

inequality,
and
savvy
Blacks
were
wary
of
the
promise
of
equality
on
the
other
side

of
the
war
if
racist
ideologies
were
being
maintained
even
as
early
as
conscription.

In
fact,
Du
Bois’
patriotic
call
to
arms
was
so
off-‐putting
and
“accommodationist”
to

some
civil
rights
leaders
and
groups
that
his
creditability
was
questioned
and

reputation
tarnished,
as
Ellis
claims,
for
the
rest
of
his
life.
26

The
various
methods
of
systemic
Black
devaluation
and
dehumanization

used
in
military
conscription
and
beyond
around
WWI
demonstrated
that
the
fear
of

Black
enfranchisement
had
persisted
amongst
the
dominant
white
power
structure;

and
these
fears
of
the
ways
in
which
full
Black
enfranchisement
and
social

citizenship
would
inversely
affect
white
power
and
position
in
the
United
States

played
itself
out
on
the
screen
through
WWI.
Cinematic
examples
in
which
Black

upward
mobility
was
specifically
tied
to
nationhood
and
government,
as
with
Birth

of
a
Nation,
resulted
in
specifically
damning
and
perplexing
responses
from
the

white
hegemony.

It
was
during
this
period
that
Black
military
films
began
to
take
a

different
shape
as
well.
In
these
films,
propagandizing
the
U.S.
military
as
an

indomitable,
noble,
and
organized
force
became
secondary
to
ensuring
that
racial

hierarchy
was
solidified
through
the
othering
of
Blackness.

World
War
I
posed
an
interesting
conflict
for
the
construction
of
Black

morale:
while
on
one
hand,
American
troops
needed
to
be
rallied,
organized,
and

unified
across
racial
lines,
on
the
other
hand,
the
morale
amongst
Blacks
needed
to

52

be
tempered
to
avoid
the
great
swell
of
Black
organization
and
mobility
that

occurred
after
the
Spanish-‐American
War.
Historian
Steven
A.
Reich
goes
as
far
to

say
that
during
the
WWI
period,
“few
images
haunted
the
white
supremacist’s

imagination
more
than
a
Black
man
in
uniform.”
27

Thus,
a
problematic
rift—a

distinctive
divergence
between
military
and
cultural
morale
and
white
dominant

ideology
was
in
process;
this
fracture
can
be
identified
in
the
Black
military
films
of

the
period,
which
became
a
bit
strange
and
mercurial
in
construction.

In
1918,
the
military
film
Rookies
After
Two
Days
Training
demonstrated

these
warring
ideals
with
respect
to
establishing
positive
Black
morale.
Much
of
the

film
is
documentary
style
in
nature,
capturing
the
Black
recruits
of
the
154
th

Depot

Brigade
and
the
301
st

Engineers
participating
in
typical
army
activities
at
Camp

Meade
in
Maryland.
The
men
arrive
at
camp,
receive
their
government
issued

uniforms
and
supplies,
learn
marching
drills,
stand
in
a
chow
line,
wash
dishes,

exercise,
and
train
for
combat.

Outside
of
the
film
suggesting
the
Army’s
racial

segregation
policies
due
to
the
noticeable
absence
of
white
bodies
amongst
the

ranks,
there
is
nothing
that
overtly
distinguishes
the
race
of
the
servicemen—the

activities
the
Black
soldiers
undertake
are
not
culturally
specific
in
any
way.

Through
the
use
of
documentary-‐style
filming,
this
representation
of
the
Black

servicemen
is
representative
of
the
larger
military
body’s
sound
infrastructure,
its

dedication
to
Black
morale,
and
its
pride
in
Black
patriotism.

Behind
the
scenes,
the
sentiments
of
Black
morale-‐building
were
likewise

given
thought
and
carefully
crafted.
The
production
file
for
the
film
includes

instructions
for
the
film’s
title
card,
which
also
works
to
accentuate
agendas
of
Black

53

inclusivity,
morale
building,
and
the
ideology
of
American
uniformity
and
order.
The

card
is
instructed
to
read:

As
varied
as
the
Occupations
from
which
these
New
Additions
to
Our

National
Army
have
come,
is
their
Marching.
The
154
th

Depot
Brigade

“Rookies”
after
two
Days
of
Military
Training.
28

Although
the
card
does
hint
at
cultural
difference
in
its
mention
of
the
Black

soldiers’
“varied
marching”—a
reference
to
a
more
culturally
aligned,
rhythmic
style

of
marching—
this
style
is
not
present
in
the
film.
29

According
to
Ulio,
the
act
of

embracing
the
soldiers’
individualism
is
an
essential
quality
of
morale
building;

thus,
embracing
cultural
individualism
is
essential
to
cultural
morale
building.

Importantly,
despite
the
highlighting
of
cultural
difference
in
this
instance,
the
title

card
operates
as
a
mechanism
of
cultural
inclusion,
underscoring
that
the
Black
men

are
part
of
“Our
National
Army.”
As
a
result,
the
Black
soldiers
are
unothered,
and

situated
within
the
scope
of
the
larger
military
body.

However,
despite
the
film’s
use
of
documentary-‐style
methods
to
produce

images
of
racially
progressive
realism
and
patriotic
inclusivity,
the
peculiar
splicing

in
of
scenes
constructed
for
comedic
effect
works
to
undercut
any
progressive

propagandizing
and
morale
building
aimed
towards
Black
viewers,
and
speak

instead
to
the
practice
of
racist
white
ideological
maintenance.
In
particular,
the
film

integrates
two
oft-‐filmed
racial
stereotypes
in
an
attempt
to
create
a
loose
narrative:

a
watermelon
eating
contest
and
a
jazz
band
and
tap
performance.
The
scenes
are

thematically
disruptive
and
cinematically
disjointed,
and
serve
only
to
spectaclize

and
other
Blackness.
These
staged
scenes
stand
in
confusing
opposition
to
the

54

opening
scenes
and
the
title
card’s
inference
of
racial
inclusivity
and
cultural

respect.

The
scenes
of
Black
spectacle
function
as
a
reaffirmation
of
racist
white

ideologies,
as
they
“other”
the
Black
subjects
through
calling
back
to
specific
images

and
concepts
about
Black
cultural
practices
formed
and
distributed
the
past.
Hall

explains
that
one
of
the
most
troubling
aspects
of
the
creation
of
ideologies
is
that

they
“tend
to
disappear
from
view”
and
leave
in
their
wake
the
sense
of
naturalness

and
truth.
He
goes
on
to
explain
that
racism
is
“one
of
the
most
profoundly

‘naturalized’
of
existing
ideologies.”
30

The
callback
to
the
stereotypical
images
and

racialized
tropes
frequently
used
in
film’s
nascence
works
to
resituate
and
resolidify

tropes
of
stereotypical
Blackness.
The
inclusion
of
the
images
provides
a
white

racist
ideological
commentary
that
is
meant
to
thwart
Black
morale,
while
also

assuaging
white
anxieties.

The
inscribed
message
is
that
underneath
the
veneer
of

Black
progress
and
social
mobility
always
lies
the
Black
man’s
“rooted
nature”—one

that
is
grotesque,
absurd,
uncouth,
comical,
performative,
and
“other.”

For
the
white

eye,
these
scenes
demonstrate
a
Black
docility,
mitigating
fears
about
the
potential

insurgence
that
could
be
created
to
white
power
structures
by
trained,
armed,

organized
Black
men.
31

This
white
ideological
construct
intends
to
reposition
Black

subjects
into
their
prescribed,
inferior
place
within
the
dominant
white
hegemony.

Though
Hall
claims
the
invisibility
of
the
construction
of
ideology
to
be
one

its
most
“insidious”
but
essential
qualities,
the
conflict
between
morale
production

and
ideological
construction
in
Rookies
creates
a
strange
rift,
exposing
the

construction
and
maintenance
of
white
dominant
ideologies.
First,
the
use
of

55

cinema’s
medium-‐specificity
shows
the
most
traditional
ways
in
which
film

language
is
used
to
enhance
the
construction
of
ideological
othering.
The
opening

sequences
are
a
variety
of
long
shots
and
panning
shots
that
work
to
establish
the

American
military
as
vast
and
organized—even
before
the
arrival
of
the
Black

recruits.
The
great
quantity
of
Black
men
getting
uniforms,
doing
exercises,
and

being
fed
are
representative
of
the
immensity
of
the
larger
military
body.

However,
as
the
film
later
pushes
in,
focusing
on
the
Black
servicemen
in

much
smaller
groups
engaged
in
non-‐militaristic
activities
(such
as
eating

watermelon
or
tap
dancing
in
a
jazz
band),
the
individuals
become
separated
from

the
larger
institution,
and
are
instead
portrayed
as
engaging
in
“natural”
cultural

activities.
Like
the
Congress
scene
in
Birth
of
a
Nation,
the
act
of
framing
small

groups
of
Black
bodies
are
constructed
to
show
autonomous
Black
men
in
their

“natural
state,”
and
somehow,
that
state
is
always
the
carnivalesque
spectacle.

Abandoning
the
unobtrusive,
documentary-‐style
framing
in
the
film’s

beginning,
both
the
watermelon
eating
scene
and
the
“Receiving
Station
Jazz
Band”

scene
frame
a
performative
space.

The
staging
of
watermelon
eating
scene
closely

resembles
the
flat,
two-‐dimensional
style
of
its
predecessors.
The
band
scene
is
even

more
overtly
staged
for
performativity,
as
the
static
camera
is
framed
on
the
band

members
sitting
on
risers
with
their
instruments,
creating
a
proscenium.

As
the

band
plays,
an
ununiformed
Black
man
(complete
with
personal
effects
such
as

jewelry
and
suspenders)
enters
the
frame
from
off
screen
(i.e.
“off
stage”)
and

begins
tap
dancing
in
the
dirt.
Here,
a
Black
performative
space
is
constructed
by
the

white
filmmakers—a
figurative
stage
for
the
Black
spectacle
is
constructed
via
film

56

framing.
The
content
and
framing
of
the
sequence
work
to
relocate
the
Black

characters
from
their
progressive
position
as
patriotic
participants
included
within

the
citizenry,
and
instead
re-‐positions
them
as
performers
for
white
spectators
while

also
alluding
to
a
minstrel
past.
With
this,
a
great
variance
is
created
and
displayed

between
the
Black
soldiers,
and
their
white
counterparts.
The
legibility
of
film

language
offers
insight
into
the
white
construction
of
Black
cultural
otherness.

Hall
claims
that
“language”
is
“broadly
conceived,”
and
that
it
is
through

language
that
“ideological
discourses
[are]
elaborated.”
32

Unlike
Sergei
Eisenstein’s

foundational
theories
on
film
language
in
which
the
language
is
contained
within
the

film
and
interpretable
as
shots
within
the
film
collide
with
one
another,
33

“ideology”

instead
brings
meaning
from
outside
of
the
film—from
larger
social
frameworks—
and
uses
the
constructs
of
film
language
to
relay
meaning
back
to
viewers
outside
of

the
film.

Hall
goes
on
to
explain
that
is
through
the
ideological
use
of
film
“language”

that
we
are
able
to
“represent,
interpret,
understand,
and
‘make
sense’
of
some

aspect
of
social
existence.”
34

However,
what
makes
Rookies
particularly
unique
is
the
way
in
which
the

construction
of
dominant
white
ideology
breaks
down
as
film
language
fractures
in

the
short.

The
practice
of
“othering”—a
practice
that
is
reliant
on
ideological

“invisibility”-‐-‐
is
exposed
on
the
screen
as
the
film
is
being
shot.
The
film

unintentionally
reveals
cinema’s
discrete
“sleight
of
hand,”
and
as
a
result
displays

both
the
construction
of
ideology
in
action
as
well
as
some
of
the
deeper
points
of

racial
contention
around
concepts
of
Black
mobility
of
the
period.

57

As
with
many
early
actualities,
Rookies
exhibits
an
unpolished
quality
in
film

production
as
the
Black
servicemen
are
captured
continuing
to
interact
with
and

take
instruction
from
the
offscreen,
white
filmmaker.
Although
film
language

(through
framing,
camera
movement,
style)
proposes
that
the
camera
is
merely

documenting
the
Black
soldiers’
regimented
military
duties
and
activities,
the

ongoing
awareness
of
the
camera
and
interaction
with
the
filmmakers
disrupts
the

parameters
for
pre-‐established
film
language.
Though
the
Black
men
are
filmed

engaging
in
everyday
activities
that
should
require
no
direction,
such
as
eating

watermelon,
washing
dishes,
watching
a
boxing
match,
the
soldiers
continuously

look
to
the
camera
and
adjust
their
actions,
mannerisms,
and
reactions
based
on

directions
coming
from
the
filmmaker.
A
soldier
performs
the
act
of
eating

watermelon
for
the
camera—looking
directly
into
the
lens,
he
eats
vigorously
and

laughs
at
his
over-‐the-‐top
actions
while
two
Black
soldiers
stand
in
the
background

amused
by
his
performance.
Later,
while
the
soldiers
wash
their
dishes,
a
man
who

stares
at
the
camera
from
the
periphery
suddenly
enters
the
frame
while
continuing

to
look
towards
the
camera;
however,
he
seems
to
enter
the
frame
without

intention,
and
only
begins
to
wash
his
own
mess
kit
after
looking
towards
(what

seems
the
person
behind)
the
camera
several
times,
as
though
he
is
receiving

instruction.
A
short
and
tall
man
are
comically
paired
in
the
frame
to
highlight
their

visual
mismatch.
The
two
stare
directly
at
the
camera,
and
the
shorter
of
the
two

begins
to
move
suddenly
and
without
warning,
as
though
“action”
were
called
by
the

director.
The
short
man
steps
away
from
the
taller
man
and
takes
in
his
height,

before
removing
his
hat
and
scratching
his
head
as
though
confused
by
the

58

discrepancy;
when
the
action
is
completed,
he
looks
back
towards
the
camera,
as

though
awaiting
his
next
direction.

Unlike,
Negro
Kiss
which
hints
at
a
collaboration
between
the
Black
actors

and
the
white
filmmaker,
the
dynamic
in
Rookies
is
more
embodying
of
top-‐down

militarism
in
which
superiors
give
orders,
and
inferiors
take
them.
These

interactions
suggest
that
the
activities—those
which
are
supposed
to
be
conveyed

as
culturally
truthful
and
“natural”—are
being
constructed
by
a
white
outsider,
not

merely
captured
by
an
unbiased
camera.

The
ongoing
interactions
between
Black
subjects
and
white
filmmakers,
and

the
resultant
adjustments
made
by
the
Black
subjects
are
meaningful
when

considering
the
film
as
a
site
for
maintaining
racists
white
ideologies.

The
film

makes
visible
the
essential
component
that
Hall
claims
must
remain
invisible
in

ideology
building,
causing
disruption
in
ideological
production.
This
visibility
of
the

white
construction
of
the
Black
cinematic
spectacle—particularly
in
circumstances

that
are
supposed
to
portray
Black
“naturalism”—lends
itself
to
reveal
a
truth
about

early
Black
representation
on
the
screen;
the
Black
“spectacle”
is
often
a
white

fabrication,
and
Black
representation
on
the
screen
is
most
often
an
instructed

performativity,
not
a
documented
actuality.

In
short,
media
representations
that

prop
up
racist
ideologies
are
themselves
constructs
created
by
those
in
positions
of

social
dominance.

The
disjointed,
overlapping
of
film
styles
in
Rookies—“scripted”/constructed

(as
in
the
jazz
band
scene)
versus
documentary
realist
(as
in
the
chow
line
or

marching
scenes)—and
the
lack
of
filmmaker
control
of
the
language
therein
creates

59

a
type
of
“glitch”
in
the
film
language
that
also
exposes
the
construction
of
racial

ideologies.

The
“glitch”
disrupts
the
construction
process
midstride,
causing
the

film
language
to
“stutter.”
As
the
differing
film
styles
bump
up
against
one
another,

the
validity
of
the
content
becomes
unsettled.
It
is
within
these
“glitches”
that

unique
moments
of
cultural
exchange
and
rare
instances
of
radical
Black
resistance

towards
the
maintenance
of
racist
ideologies
can
be
detected.

The
chow
line
sequence
offers
a
unique
moment
of
Black
resistance
caught

on
screen
in
the
1910s.
A
long
line
of
Black
servicemen
wait
to
enter
a
cook
house

with
their
mess
kits.
While
many
of
the
subjects
break
the
fourth
wall,
looking

directly
at
the
camera
as
they
approach
the
building
and
ascend
the
stairs,
two
Black

enlistees
instead
use
their
mess
kits
to
shield
their
faces
from
the
camera;
one
man

drapes
a
towel
over
his
head.

This
notable
action
is
extremely
abnormal
for
films
of

the
era,
and
stands
in
direct
opposition
to
the
racial
performativity
constructed
as
a

mechanism
of
ideology
production
throughout
the
rest
of
the
film.

60

Fig.
2.2
Soldiers
shield
their
faces
from
the
camera
in
Training
of
Colored

Troops.
(Office
of
the
Chief
Signal
Officer,
1936)

The
act
of
obscuring
oneself
from
the
scope
of
the
camera
stands
in
direct

contrast
to
most
films
prior
to
cinema
industrialization,
in
which
conditions
could

be
better
controlled.
Most
early
filmmakers
struggled
with
maintaining
a
sense
of

documentary
“purity”
when
using
film
to
document
activities,
because
the
subjects

within
the
frame
were
often
intrigued
by
the
novelty
of
the
camera,
and
called

attention
to
its
presence
by
looking
directly
into
it
or
otherwise
interacting
with
it.

This
is
evidenced
in
some
of
the
earliest
films,
including
the
Lumieres’
Workers

Leaving
the
Factory
(1895)
and
Arrival
of
the
Train
at
La
Ciotat
(1895)
in
which
the

filmed
subjects
disrupt
the
documentary
realist
style
as
they
are
drawn
to
the

61

camera;
this
uncontrollable
interest
continued
for
decades,
and
can
be
witnessed
in

countless
documentary
style
films
and
stock
footage
through
the
1910s.
However,

Rookies
captures
a
rarity
in
documentary
style
films
of
this
era—
filmed
subjects’

revulsion
and
retreat
from
the
camera.
35

With
respect
to
the
film’s
function
as
a
tool
for
the
dissemination
of
national

propaganda
and
as
a
site
for
racist
ideology
building
and
maintenance,
the
Black

subjects’
retreat
from
the
camera
is
especially
significant
and
powerful.
The
Black

subjects
break
the
illusion
of
the
fourth
wall
not
with
intrigue
and
fascination,
but

instead
with
resistance;
their
awareness
of
the
camera
does
not
draw
them
closer,

but
instead
motivates
them
to
create
distance
and
separation—essentially
breaking

the
fourth
wall
by
creating
a
fifth…one
that
they
control.
The
act
allows
the

individuals
to
maintain
their
anonymity,
as
they
are
unidentifiable
amongst
the

mass.
It
also
relinquishes
autonomy
back
to
the
individual,
allowing
them
a
sense
of

control
of
their
own
representation.
This
act
of
resistance
not
only
exposes
the

fabrication
innate
within
racial
ideology
building,
but
also
prevents
the
necessary

language
of
social
othering
from
being
properly
developed.

Instead,
the
“glitch”
in

the
military
short
gives
a
rare
view
of
alternate
subjectivities—an
unexpected
and

unintentional
documentation
of
Black
resistance
to
performativity,
white

voyeurism,
and
the
lack
of
agency
in
cultural
representation.
A
record
of
Black
truth

and
Black
“naturalness”
that
stands
in
opposition
to
the
screen
representations
that

had
been
and
would
continue
to
be
procured
by
white
outsiders
for
years
to
come.

During
WWI,
the
combination
of
celebrity
and
Black
music
were
also

advantageous
in
challenging
white
ideologies
of
Blackness
and
shaping
the
military

62

film
as
a
site
for
the
dissemination
of
admirable
representations
of
Blackness.

Lieutenant
James
Reese
Europe
was
a
popular
ragtime
musician
and
bandleader

who
enlisted
in
the
15
th

New
York
National
Guard
Regiment
and
was
positioned
as

the
regimental
bandleader
in
1916.
Europe
had
begun
to
make
a
name
for
himself

years
prior.
His
orchestra,
the
Clef
Club
Symphony
Orchestra
played
at
Carnegie
Hall

in
1912,
earning
the
accolade
of
being
the
first
jazz
band
to
ever
play
the
venue.
He

worked
extensively
with
popular
dancers
and
screen
stars,
Vernon
and
Irene
Castle,

and
he
and
his
band
at
the
time,
The
Europe
Society
Orchestra,
were
featured
in

their
1915
film,
Whirl
of
Life.

Europe’s
regimental
commander,
Colonel
William
Hayward,
struggling
to

gain
equality
for
his
Black
regiment
within
the
U.S.
military
itself,
opted
to
use

Europe’s
popularity
to
the
regiment’s
benefit.
Europe
became
the
face
of
what
was

to
become
the
369
th

infantry,
also
known
as
“The
Harlem
Hellfighters,”
and
a

publicity
campaign
was
crafted
around
him
and
his
band
in
an
attempt
to
gain

leverage
to
move
the
Black
troops
away
from
menial
grunt
work
into
valorous

battle.

The
publicity
campaign
involved
film
footage
that
portrayed
Europe
and
his

band—and
by
extension,
the
greater
369
th

regiment—as
stoic,
capable,
and
orderly.

Though
the
footage
is
silent,
Europe’s
Black
“performativity”
was
expressed

through
the
complexity
of
his
music,
and
not
though
surface
constructions
of

stereotypical
Blackness
as
was
common
in
white-‐created
content
featuring
cultural

outsiders.
Europe
discussed
the
cultural
specificity
of
his
music
at
length
in
a
1914

interview
in
the
New
York
Evening
Post,
claiming,
“We
have
developed
a
kind
of

symphony
music
that…
is
different
and
distinctive,
and
that
lends
itself
to
the

63

playing
of
the
peculiar
compositions
of
our
race,”
and
also,
“We
colored
people
have

our
own
music
that
is
part
of
us.
It’s
the
product
of
our
souls;
it’s
been
created
by
the

sufferings
and
miseries
of
our
race.”
36

It
was
through
Europe’s
music
that
he
was

able
to
shape
his
screen
representation
and
control
his
screen
representation—
delivering
a
culturally
authentic
representation
to
the
masses.
Music—even
in
a

silent
film-‐-‐
was
the
primary
source
of
Europe
disrupting
dominant
white
ideology

construction.

In
his
seminal
book,
Noise,
theorist
Jacques
Attali
positions
music
as
a
source

of
“power”
and
“subversion”—“an
instrument
of
political
pressure;”
Europe
uses
his

music
in
exactly
this
manner—controlling
his
cultural
representation,
commenting

on
past
degrading
constructions
of
representation,
and
firmly
positioning
himself

within
the
American
citizenry.
Through
music,
celebrity,
and
military
patriotism,

Reese
was
able
to
harness
white
voyeurism
and
deliver
an
authentic
Black

representation
to
the
masses
during
a
period
in
which
finding
such
representations

in
the
mainstream
was
nearly
impossible.

64

Fig.
2.3
Lieutenant
James
Reese
Europe
and
his
369
th

U.S.
Infantry

“Harlem
Hellfighters”
Band
perform
outside
the
American
Red
Cross

Building
in
Paris,
in
1918.
(U.S.
Army
Signal
Corps
photographer,
Library

of
Congress
Prints
and
Photographs
Division)

Upon
his
untimely
death
just
few
months
after
returning
from
war,
he
was

granted
an
“official
funeral”
by
the
city
of
New
York—the
first
to
be
granted
to
an

African
American.

Blacks
and
whites
alike
mourned
his
passing
at
the
procession;

the
New
York
Times
eulogized,
“Ragtime
may
be
Negro
music,
but
it
is
American

Negro
music.
More
alive
than
much
other
American
music.
And
Europe
was
one
of

the
Americans
who
was
contributing
most
to
its
development.”
The
reaction
to
his

death-‐-‐
which
very
closely
coincided
with
the
end
of
the
war-‐-‐
suggested
that

perhaps
Du
Bois’
prediction
about
the
end
of
the
war
serving
as
a
benchmark
for
the

rise
of
the
enfranchised
American
Negro
was
accurate.
It
seemed
that
the
rare

ability
to
control
cultural
representation
had
the
power
to
reshape
ideologies
and

situation
Black
Americans
into
the
citizenry.

65

However,
again
white
dominant
ideologies
and
power
structures
were

recalibrated,
and
the
Black
military
film
was
again
used
as
a
tool
of
dissemination
of

dominant
white
ideologies.
After
WWI,
the
US
military,
realizing
the
true
power
and

potential
of
film,
decided
to
standardize
their
filmmaking.
In
1925,
the
US
Army

contracted
the
Signal
Corps
to
be
the
“outlet
for
all
pictorial
publicity,”
and
in
1928,

the
War
Department
had
largely
followed
suit.
In
an
attempt
to
increase
the
quality

and
complexity
of
the
films,
the
Signal
Corps
began
working
directly
with

Hollywood.
The
films
were
subsidized
by
the
Academy
of
Motion
Picture
Arts
and

Sciences’
Research
Council,
military
personnel
received
annual
training
in

cinematography
in
Hollywood,
and
commercial
agencies,
such
as
Fox
Movietone

News
and
RCA
were
hired
to
provide
various
equipment
to
the
production
of
the

films.
The
Signal
Corps
began
producing
twenty
films
per
year
in
response
to
an

increased
demand
from
the
military
agencies
that
claimed
that
“the
distance
from

World
War
I”
and
technological
advances
in
film
(including
sound)
had
“made
the

old
ones
absurd.”
37

Despite
this
claim
and
the
various
overhead
put
in
place
to
ensure
modern

takes
on
new
military
films,
in
1936,
the
War
Department
opted
to
make
a
“new”

Black
training
film
by
having
the
Signal
Corps
simply
cobble
together
various
Black

military
footage
shot
in
1918.
The
new
film—eventually
named
Training
of
Colored

Troops-‐-‐
was
largely
comprised
of
three
films
from
the
1910s,
including
Rookies

After
Two
Days
Training.

There
were
a
few
specifications
given
to
the
Signal
Corp
editing
department

in
an
effort
to
update
the
film.
The
War
Department
wanted
to
add
a
more
concrete

66

narrative
to
the
film-‐-‐
focusing
on
a
fictionalization
of
a
Black
serviceman
and
his

family
as
he
goes
through
the
process
of
enlisting,
leaving
home,
training,
and

sending
letters
to
his
family
while
away.
Secondly,
there
was
a
specification
to

remove
all
images
of
white
troops
from
the
chosen
sequences,
and
cut
the
military

training
sequences
long.
38

There
are
a
variety
of
ways
that
one
could
interpret
these
specifications.

Cutting
sequences
long
creates
a
less
intrusive
and
more
realistic
feel
in
film.

Removing
the
white
soldiers
could
have
been
an
attempt
at
creating
morale
by

persuading
future
recruits
that
the
Black
operations
were
run
by
Black
officers,
and

thus
were
truly
a
“separate
but
equal”
military
space.

It
is
also
possible
that
the
War

Department
chose
to
incorporate
the
fictionalized
narrative
into
the
story
in
an

effort
to
personalize
and
humanize
the
representation
of
the
Black
enlistee.
39

Yet,

although
the
narrative
sections
do
focus
more
on
the
Black
man
and
his
family
as

individuals,
the
sequences
nevertheless
point
back
to
a
white
ideology
apparatus,
as

each
scene
is
either
culturally
patronizing
or
plays
into
stereotypical
tropes.

The
first
sequence
features
the
family
all
happily
gathered
in
the
living
room

around
the
man’s
draft
letter.
Prominently
displayed
on
the
back
wall
are
two

portraits:
one
of
Abraham
Lincoln,
and
the
other
of
Booker
T.
Washington.

The
War

Department’s
choice
to
position
the
Black
enlistee
between
these
two
figures
serves

to
figuratively
set
parameters
for
the
Black
serviceman’s
drive
for
upward
mobility.

Standing
in
between
the
portraits,
the
recruit
is
positioned
in
the
ideological
“sweet

spot”
for
mobilized,
modern
Black
men
under
the
dominant,
white,
American
power

structure.
The
staging
is
instructive:
striving
Blacks
are
free
to
mobilize
themselves

67

somewhere
between
the
two
philosophies—Lincoln
being
a
figurative

representation
of
freedom
from
slavery,
and
Washington
figuratively
representing

limited
Black
mobility
in
which
prescribed
places
and
stations
have
been
updated

without
overstepping
boundaries
into
white
arenas.
40

The
portraits
attempt
to

invoke
a
sense
of
Black
morale
about
socio-‐economic
potential,
possibility,
and

equality,
but
it
is
all
done
under
the
guise
of
cultural
containment.

A
later
scene
supports
this
sentiment.
The
family
receives
a
letter
from
their

soldier,
and
proudly
acknowledges
the
service
flag
that
is
hung
in
the
window,

before
going
outside
to
share
the
contents
of
the
letter
with
the
entire
just-‐as-‐proud

town.
He
writes:

Dear
Ma
and
folks:

I
am
building
the
biggest
dock
in
the
world.

Pushing
a
wheelbarrow
is
the
same
language
as
ours,
but
I
cannot

understand
the
french
[sic]
talk.
Tell
Grandma
to
send
me
a
blackberry
pie.

Hotziggity!!!
The
dinner
horn
has
just
blowed
so
good
bye.

Your
loving
son,

Ed

The
film
concludes
with
his
father
(a
man
that
looks
to
be
at
least
70
years
old)

becoming
so
excited
over
the
contents
of
the
letter
that
he
rummages
for
his

military
sword
from
a
bygone
era,
and
begins
to
sharpen
it
on
a
grinding
wheel
to

ready
himself
for
his
own
enlistment.

The
letter
is
filled
with
stagnating
constructions
of
white
ideologies
about

Black
fulfillment,
strivings,
and
mobility.
Not
only
is
the
Black
soldier
represented
as

content
with
doing
grunt
work
as
opposed
to
going
to
combat
(which
the
Harlem

Hellfighters
rallying
to
fight
in
the
French
Army
in
their
American
uniforms
proves

was
not
the
case),
but
he
assigns
his
satisfaction
with
menial
tasks
and
manual
labor

to
his
nature
as
a
Black
man,
and
to
his
whole
Black
community.
He
is
simple-‐

68

minded—his
interests
are
sparked
by
provisions
and
nothing
else.
The
purpose

here
was
not
merely
to
denigrate
the
Black
subject,
but
instead
to
manufacture
the

Black
subject.
This
representation
is
the
U.S.
government’s
model
for
what
a
“safe”

and
“ideal”
Black
man
looks
like
in
America
in
the
1930s.

However,
the
footage
is
not
from
the
1930s
–it
is
from
1918-‐-‐
and
as
a
result

creates
an
extremely
bizarre
and
uncanny
military
film.
The
film
is
anachronistic
in

every
way.
Although
the
film
industry
and
the
Signal
Corps
alike
were
both
regularly

producing
sound
films
by
this
time,
Training
of
Colored
Troops’
reuse
of
pre-‐sound

clips
forces
the
film
into
silence.
Visually,
the
styling
is
incredibly
old
fashioned—the

hair
and
clothing
are
all
in
1910s
vogue,
billowing
and
dowdy,
and
stand
in
stark

contrast
to
the
sharp
and
sleek
lines
of
the
late
1930s.
Additionally,
the
soldiers’

uniforms
were
completely
outdated,
making
the
modern
day
army
seem
unevolved

and
impoverished.
As
a
recruitment
tool
for
modern
young
men
in
the
1930s,
or
as

an
evaluative
tool
for
military
officials
about
the
performance
of
their
training

program
for
Black
troops,
the
film
is
embarrassing
and
laughable.

From
a
racial
and
sociocultural
perspective,
the
representation
of
Blackness

was
also
outdated.
The
Great
Migration
had
begun
around
the
time
of
the
release
of

Rookies,
and
Blacks
moving
away
from
Southern
and
rural
areas
for
better

opportunities
in
northern
urban
areas
had
not
slowed.
Watermelon
eating
and

minstrelsy
were
stereotypical
relics
as
stereotypes
had
begun
to
evolve
with
the
rise

of
Black
Modernity
becoming
more
urbanized.
Zip
Coon
made
way
for
The
Numbers

Runner
and
watermelon
was
replaced
with
more
illicit
vices
like
marijuana
and

opium.

Harlem
was
the
prominent
location
of
stories
about
Black
life
in
the
1930s,

69

not
Louisville,
Kentucky.
As
social
circumstances
evolve,
so
too
must
ideological

language
and
practices,
lest
they
be
ineffective.

Though
ineffective
and
downright
inane,
Training
of
Colored
Troops’
does

provide
an
extremely
legible
insight
on
the
U.S.
military’s
feelings
about
Black

patriotism
and
the
desire
for
Black
social
citizenship
on
the
eve
of
World
War
II.
The

Harlem
Renaissance,
the
rise
of
Black
urbanity,
and
the
strivings
for
equality
had

reshaped
Black
American
thought
in
ways
that
challenged
the
white
dominant

power
structure.
This
shift
was
anxiety-‐producing
for
the
white
hegemony,
and
with

additional
economic
issues
such
as
the
strains
of
the
Great
Depression
creating

greater
competition
between
whites
and
blacks,
many
whites
wished
the
racial

dynamic
could
return
to
the
a
previous
era
in
which
racialized
power
structures

were
more
solid.

The
return
to
the
creation,
representation,
and
dissemination
of

Black
spectacle—particularly
in
such
an
archaic
manner—was
a
dominant
white

ideological
expression
about
the
desire
to
return
to
the
social
order
of
yesteryear.

Morale
and
ideology
are
oppositional
both
in
theory
and
in
practice.
Morale

is
the
condition
of
stimulating
people
to
bring
them
into
a
community.
Ideology
is
a

system
in
which
barriers
are
constructed
and
otherness
is
identified.
Morale
is
an

indefinable
“feeling.”
Ideology
is
dependent
on
utilizing
the
broad
spectrum
of

language
to
articulate
itself.

Early
Black
military
films
often
had
these
oppositional

practices
warring
within,
and
as
a
result
became
a
rare
site
of
Black
and
white

ideological
push
and
pull
over
issues
of
representation,
mobility,
and
social

citizenship.

70

It
was
also
in
the
Black
military
film
that
the
ideological
power
held
by
Blacks

in
the
dissemination
of
their
cultural
art—specifically
music—was
uncovered
and

made
legible
through
film
language.

While
the
deceit
of
gains
towards
citizenry
and

equality
being
made
though
patriotic
duty
were
being
exposed
within
the
fissures
of

the
military
film,
the
military
film
also
demonstrated
the
power
of
authentic
Black

music,
and
the
use
of
its
specific
language
to
subversively
cross
ideological
borders

and
gain
access
into
ideologically
off-‐limits
spaces.
Music
in
the
military
film

exhibited
political
power
and
subversion
of
dominant
white
ideologies
in
very

concrete
ways.
Black
music
on
film
was
revealed
as
a
disruptor
of
white
ideologies,

and
a
previously
unknown
key
towards
Black
cultural
autonomy,
morale,
and

citizenry.

Notes:

1
“War
Extra:
Edison
Films,”
Edison
Manufacturing
Company
Catalogue:
Supplement

No.
4,
May
20,
1898:
3.

2

Blanket
Tossing
a
New
Recruit
(Edison,
1898)
is
one
exception
to
Edison’s

otherwise
“serious”
1898
military
catalogue.
In
the
film,
a
group
of
white

servicemen
use
a
blanket
to
toss
a
new
white
recruit
in
the
air
multiple
times.
In

addition
to
the
activity,
the
men
are
shown
in
various
states
of
uniformed
undress,

enhancing
the
film
as
a
rare
representation
of
servicemen
in
their
down
time

partaking
in
a
moment
of
levity.

Blanket
Tossing
a
New
Recruit
not
only
stands
apart
from
the
other
films
with

respect
to
content,
but
also
with
respect
to
propping
up
of
themes
of
racial

degradation
with
its
alternate
title,
Tossing
a
Nigger
in
a
Blanket.

In
fact,
this
title

comes
from
a
strange
initiation
and/or
punitive
practice
used
by
white
military

members
as
early
as
the
Civil
War.

Historian
Mark
Dunkleman
explains
in
his

Marching
with
Sherman:
Through
Georgia
and
the
Carolinas
with
the
154h
New
York,

that
ex-‐slaves
who
became
part
of
the
154
th

regiment
as
cooks
and
servants
were

initiated
by
the
white
infantrymen
with
a
blanket
toss.
He
also
mentions
that
it
was

used
as
a
“mild
punishment”
for
people
that
broke
rules
(97-‐98).
Military
historian

Glyn
Harper
mentions
in
his
Johnny
Enzed:
The
New
Zealand
Soldier
in
the
First

World
War,
1914-‐1918
that
this
practice
was
also
used
outside
of
the
United
States,

as
New
Zealand
soldiers
stationed
in
Egypt
during
WWI
used
it
to
torture
black

71

Egyptians
who
they
viewed
contemptuously.
Though
the
activity
amused
the
racist

New
Zealander
soldiers,
Harper
contends
that
the
practice
was
“humiliating
and

dangerous”
for
the
black
people
being
tossed,
noting
an
occasion
in
which
a
local

Egyptian’s
arm
was
broken.

3

“War
Extra”
Bulletin,
S.
Lubin
Manufacturing
Optician.
May
20,
1898.

4

“Films
of
Admiral
Sampson
and
Schley,
S.
Lubin
Manufacturing
Optician,”
“Flagship

‘New
York’
Saluting
at
Grant’s
Tomb.
14
Fine
Films,
Edison
Manufacturing

Company,”
“Performers
Attention,
The
Bank
Exchange
Theater,”
“Wanted,

Attractions
for
Free
Street
Fair,”
“Wanted,
for
the
Barnum
and
Bailey
Greatest
Show

on
Earth,”
all
in
The
New
York
Clipper,
September
17,
1898,
494.

5

Stuart
Hall,
“The
Whites
of
Their
Eyes: Racists Ideologies and the Media,” In The
Race and Media Reader, edited by Gilbert B. Rodman, 37-51. New York: Routledge,
2014.
6

Eric
Foner,
Reconstruction:
America’s
Unfinished
Revolution,
1863-‐1877
(New
York:

Harper
Perennial,
1988),
9.

7

Thomas
Cripps,
Slow
Fade
to
Black:
The
Negro
in
American
Film,
1900-‐1942

(New

York:
Oxford
University
Press,
1993),
12.

8

James
A
Ulio,
“Military
Morale,”
American
Journal
of
Sociology
47,
no.3
(Nov.
1941):

321-‐330.

JSTOR
(2769282).

9

Daniel
W
La
Rue,
“Morale,
Character,
Discipline,
and
Democracy,”

The
Journal
of
Education
97,
no.
3
(Jan.
18
1923):
72-‐74.
JSTOR
(42799072).

10

William
Ernest
Hocking,
“The
Nature
of
Morale,”
The
Journal
of
Sociology

47,
no.
3
(January
1941):
302-‐305.
JSTOR
(1195402)

11

Ibid.,
329.

12

Mark
Ellis,
“’Closing
Ranks’
and
‘Seeking
Honors’:
W.E.B.
Du
Bois
in
World
War
I,”

The
Journal
of
American
History
79,
no.
1
(June
1992):
101-‐102.
JSTOR
(2078469).

13

Nathaniel
Mackey,
“Other:
From
Noun
to
Verb,”
Representations
no.
39
(Summer

1992):
51.
JSTOR
(2928594).

14

Hall,
40.

15

Jesse
Algeron
Rhimes,
Black
Film,
White
Money
(New
Brunswick,
New
Jersey:

Rutgers
University
Press,
1996),
14-‐15.

16

John
Hope
Franklin
and
Alfred
A.
Moss
Jr.,
From
Slavery
to
Freedom
(New
York:

Alfred
A.
Knopf,
2000),
359.

17

Rachel
Janik,
“’Writing
History
With
Lightening’:
The
Birth
of
a
Nation
at
100,”

Time,
February
2015.

18

Zip
Coon
was
a
minstrel
caricature
that
was
created
by
whites
as
mockery
of

Black
social
strivers.
The
character
lacked
class
and
self-‐awareness,
with
his

“dandy”
affectations
and
loud
suits.
The
lyrics
of
the
song
“Zip
Coon”
take
the

derision
further,
mocking
the
character’s
self
proclamation
of
being
a
“l’arned

scholar”
and
desire
to
one
day
becoming
president.

19

Reich,
1483.

20

Ibid.

21

W.E.B.
Du
Bois,
“Close
Ranks,”
The
Crisis
16,
no.3
(July
1918):
111.

22

W.E.B.
Du
Bois,
“The
Black
Soldier,”
The
Crisis
16,
no.2
(June
1918):
60.

23

Reich,
1480.

72

24

Jeanette
Keith,
“The
Politics
of
Southern
Draft
Resistance,
1917-‐1918:
Class,
Race,

and
Conscription
in
the
Rural
South,”
The
Journal
of
American
History
87.4
(March

2001):
1349-‐1352.

25

Ibid.

26

Ellis,
108-‐124.

27

Steven
A.
Reich,
“Soldiers
of
Democracy:
Black
Texans
and
the
Fight
for

Citizenship,
1917-‐1921,”
The
Journal
of
American
History
82,
no.
4
(March
1996):

1484.
JSTOR
(2945308).

28

Memo
from
G.
Wiggins/EFR
to
Mr.
Goldsmith,
March
27,
1918,
“Training
of

Colored
Troops,
1936,”
111-‐H-‐1211,
Historical
Films,
ca.
1914-‐ca.
1936,
Records
of

the
Office
of
the
Chief
Signal
Officer,
National
Archives
Catalogue
(24716).

29
Footage
of
a
later
film,
”US
Army
Black
Soldiers
Jive
March
Thru
Kettering,”

highlights
the
distinctive
and
rhythmic
marching
of
Black
troops
in
England
in
1943.

The
footage
can
be
read
in
various
ways,
and
is
heavily
susceptible
to
being
shaped

by
additional
framing
from
the
editor.
On
one
hand,
the
all-‐Black
troop
is
“othered”

simply
by
their
“Blackness-‐in-‐mass,”
and
abnormal
marching
style
as
they
march

through
a
white
area
of
Europe.
On
the
other
hand,
the
racial
spectacle
of
their

marching
is
not
merely
performed
for
the
pleasure
of
whites;
instead,
it
was
a

cultural
construction
practiced
by
the
Black
service
men
as
a
point
of
cultural

unification.
Thus,
as
the
Black
spectacle
is
married
to
American
patriotism
in
this

circumstance,
an
ownership
and
control
of
“place”
within
America
is
being

established
through
this
culturally
specific,
yet
American
marching.

30

Hall,
39.

31

Keith
asserts
that
one
county
in
Arkansas
was
so
fearful
of
potential
Black

uprisings
that
they
protested
against
allowing
Blacks
serve
in
the
military
at
all.
She

quotes
the
Craighead
County
draft
board
as
saying,
“the
negro
soldier
is
a
danger
to

any
community;
the
officers
seem
unable
to
control
them,
and
their
natural
brutality

asserts
itself
when
in
pack
and
with
arms…
They
are
quite
necessary
as
laborers,

and
should
stay
home
and
work.
Military
training
of
the
negro
will
certainly

intensify
the
race
problem
in
the
south.
The
south
will
do
the
negro’s
fighting,
if
he
is

left
in
the
field.”
(1351).

32

Hall,
39.

33

Sergei
Eisenstein,
“The
Dramaturgy
of
Film
Form
[The
Dialectical
Approach
to

Film
Form]”
in
Film
Theory
and
Criticism,
6th
ed.,
eds.
Leo
Braudy
and
Marshall

Cohen
(New
York:
Oxford
University
Press,
2004),
23-‐40.

34

Ibid.

35

Edison’s
Native
Woman
Washing
a
Negro
Baby
in
Nassau,
BI
(1903)
demonstrates

Black
subject’s
retreat
from
the
camera
that
seems
to
be
more
due
to
fear
than
due

to
non-‐cooperation
as
in
the
chow
line
scene
of
Rookies.
Native
Woman
is
nearly

identical
to
Edison’s
earlier
film
A
Morning
Bath,
in
which
a
Black
woman
roughly

bathes
a
Black
child
outdoors
in
a
washtub.
The
main
difference
between
the
two

films
is
the
distance
between
the
camera
and
the
subjects,
and
the
film’s
conclusion

perhaps
points
to
the
choice
in
this
distinction.
Native
Woman
(shot
in
a
medium-‐
long
shot
as
opposed
to
A
Morning
Bath’s
medium
shot)
concludes
with
the
camera

panning
away
from
the
woman
bathing
the
child
towards
the
group
of
onlookers.

73

The
distance
allows
the
filmmaker
to
capture
the
Black
onlookers
scattering
away

as
the
camera
points
in
their
direction,
seeking
safety
from
the
lens
of
the
camera.

With
the
newness
and
novelty
of
the
emerging
medium,
one
must
wonder
if
the

scattering
onlookers
took
the
concept
of
“being
shot
by
the
camera”
literally.

36

James
Reese
Europe,
“The
Negro’s
Place
in
Music,”
New
York
Evening
Post,
March

13,
1914;
reprint
in
Harvard
Musical
Review,
vol.
2,
no.
7
(April
1914),
15-‐16.

37

Dulaney
Terrey,
The
Signal
Corps:
The
Emergency
(Washington
DC:
Center
of

Military
History,
United
States
Army,
1994),
78-‐82.

38

Film
Editing
Instructions
to
Motion
Picture
Division
Signal
Corps

Photo
Lab,
April
13,
1936,
“Training
of
Colored
Troops,
1936,”
111-‐H-‐1211,

Historical
Films,
ca.
1914-‐ca.
1936.
Records
of
the
Office
of
the
Chief

Signal
Officer.
National
Archives
Catalogue
(24716).

39

One
could
also
speculate
the
War
Department’s
decision
to
make
use
of
the
old

footage
was
an
economic
decision
based
on
the
financial
restraints
of
the
Great

Depression.
However,
there
is
no
documentation
to
support
such
a
claim,
and
this

still
would
not
explain
why
the
War
Department
wouldn’t
just
show
the
original

versions
of
these
films
instead
of
cobbling
them
together.
Records
show
that
the

(re)production
of
Training
of
Colored
Troops
cost
a
mere
$16.03
in
1936—
equivalent
to
$295
today.
See
Film
Editing
Instructions
to
Motion
Picture
Division

Signal
Corps
Photo
Lab,
April
13,
1936,
“Training
of
Colored
Troops,
1936.”

40

Booker
T.
Washington
was
one
of
the
most
historically
notable
Black
leaders
at

the
dawn
of
the
20
th

century.
An
advocate
of
the
Atlanta
Compromise,
Washington

felt
as
though
Black
Americans’
best
ability
to
gain
social
acceptance
and
citizenship

in
the
United
States
post-‐Reconstruction
was
through
industrial
and
vocational

education.
Washington’s
politics
have
historically
been
considered
submissive
and

acquiescent
to
white
ideological
power
structures
by
many,
including
his
chief
rival

of
the
period,
W.E.B.
Dubois,
who
considered
Washington’s
framework
to
be
a
form

a
“semi-‐slavery.”
See
W.E.B.
Du
Bois,
The
Souls
of
Black
Folk
(New
York:
Barnes
and

Nobles
Classics,
2003),
35-‐47.

74

Chapter
2:

The
Hoy
Falloy
Head
Up
to
Harlem:
Black
Cultural
Tourism
and

Hollywood’s
Navigating
Ambassadors

In
1935,
Paramount
released
Cab
Calloway’s
Jitterbug
Party
(Waller)
as
an

installment
of
its
Headliner
Series.

The
film
is
one
of
fifty-‐one
shorts
the
studio

released
in
1935,
and
one
of
only
a
handful
that
positioned
its
Black
protagonist
in
a

manner
in
which
their
onscreen
Blackness
was
not
primarily
in
service
to
white

characters.
As
a
result,
the
film
was
one
of
a
small
group
in
which
an
unlikely

cultural
representation
was
able
to
emerge,
exposing
the
complexity
and
dynamism

of
Black
America
during
a
period
in
which
the
representation
of
Blackness
by
major

studios
was
quite
one-‐dimensional
and
derogatory.

Jitterbug
Party
subversively
brings
to
the
screen
W.E.B.
Du
Bois’
theory
of

Black
American
duality
and
double-‐consciousness,
through
innovative
uses
of

music,
performance
and
cinematic
space;
however,
by
the
film’s
end,
and
through

very
specialized
uses
of
the
cinematic
medium,
a
provocative
variation
on
this
well-‐
known
argument
is
broached.

The
film
showcases
a
reality
of
the
Black
experience

in
America
that
rarely
was
expressed
on
screen
during
Hollywood’s
Golden
Age—
and
particularly
for
white
audiences.
Calloway’s
film
and
those
of
his
peers
from
the

era
do
important
work,
celebrating
a
cultural
product
that
at
once
highlights
the

specificity
of
the
Black
American
experience
while
simultaneously
working
to
close

the
gap
by
“un-‐othering”
Blacks
during
a
period
of
racial
segregation
in
America.

In
the
1930s,
during
the
peak
of
the
Harlem
Renaissance,
Harlem
had

become
the
epicenter
for
Black
thought,
culture,
and
creativity.
It
was
a
culturally

75

insular
space
that
also
provided
the
opportunity
for
its
in
habitants
to
operate
and

excel
outside
of
the
racial
strictures
of
Jim
Crow
America.
In
Harlem,
Blacks
had
the

unique
ability
to
experience
a
sense
of
freedom,
agency,
and
upward
mobility
that

was
largely
stifled
elsewhere
in
the
country.
With
a
slight
distance
from
the
white

mainstream,
an
urban
Black
cultural
insiderism
was
able
to
take
root
through
the

proliferation
of
Black
art,
traditions,
and
practices.
While
Harlem
Renaissance

scholarship
has
tended
to
focus
on
both
the
prolific
literary
and
visual
art

movements
that
emerged
during
the
period,
Melissa
Barton,
curator
of
the
Harlem

Renaissance
collection
at
Yale’s
Beinecke
Library,
notes
the
often
undervalued

importance
of
the
nightclub
scene,
and
its
ability
to
draw
Black
inhabitants—
including
these
Black
literary
and
art
figures-‐-‐
from
around
the
country.
1

Harlem

became
a
modern
Mecca
for
Black
Americans—a
safe
space
geared
towards
Black

re-‐enfranchisement
and
progress.

This
draw
to
Harlem
was
not
exclusive
to
Blacks;
in
fact,
the
neighborhood’s

congregation
of
Black
entertainment
and
Black
cultural
product
was
a
lure
for

curious
types
from
a
variety
of
backgrounds.
A
1929
article
in
Variety
colorfully

described
the
influx
of
white
interest
in
Harlem
as
a
recreational
destination:

Harlem
has
attained
pre-‐eminence
in
the
past
few
years
as
an
amusement

center.
Its
night
life
now
surpasses
that
of
Broadway
itself.
From
midnight

until
after
dawn
it
is
a
seething
cauldron
of
Nubian
mirth
and
hilarity.

One
sees
as
many
limousines
from
Park
and
Upper
Fifth
avenue
parked

outside
its
sizzling
cafes,
“speaks,”
night
clubs
and
spiritual
séances
[sic]
as
in

any
other
high
grade
white
locale
in
the
country.
2

For
some,
Harlem
was
a
site
of
Black
attraction-‐-‐
a
place
where
cultural
tourists

could
view
“the
spectacle
of
Blackness,”
and
where,
as
entertainer
Jimmy
Durante

76

put
it,
“It
isn’t
necessary
to
mix
with
colored
people
if
you
don’t
feel
like
it…But
it’s

worth
seeing.
How
they
step!”

3

For
others
it
was
a
site
for
racial
progression—a

place
where
forward-‐thinking
types
could
contribute
to
and
collaborate
with

(though
at
times,
in
a
problematic
and
ethnographic
manner)
the
energy
brought

forth
by
the
effusive
Harlem
Renaissance.
Harlem
is
where
cultural
outsiders
like

writer/socialite
Carl
van
Vechten
and
artist
Miguel
Covarrubias
made
names
for

themselves,
and
others
like
philanthropist
Charlotte
Osgood
Mason
and
publisher

Alfred
Knopf
were
able
to
find
and
elevate
incredible
Black
talent-‐-‐
many
of
whom

would
come
to
be
known
as
some
of
the
most
important
contributors
to
American

art,
such
as
Langston
Hughes,
Aaron
Douglas,
and
Zora
Neale
Hurston.
Thus,
Harlem

also
became
a
site
for
racial
exchanges—both
distanced
and
involved-‐-‐
that
seemed

impossible
and
improbable
in
other
locales
throughout
the
United
States
in
the

period.
4

New
York
served
as
an
emblem
of
modernity—
not
only
because
of
its

urbanity
and
industrial
capabilities
but
also
socially,
due
to
its
varied
ethnic
make-‐
up
and
potential
for
cultural
intermingling.

Harlem,
as
an
urban,
Black
cultural
hub

that
celebrated
its
deviance
from
social
norms
was
arguably
the
most
progressive,

modern
locale
in
New
York
City
and
the
United
States
at
large.
This
uniquely

American
form
of
modernity
in
Harlem
was
a
crucible
that
attracted
people
from
all

ethnic
and
cultural
backgrounds.

There
was
such
interest
in
Black
modern
culture
by
outsiders
that
in
January

of
1933,
Manhattan
magazine
published
E.
Simms
Campbell’s
“A
Night-‐Club
Map
of

Harlem”
as
its
centerfold
spread
5

—a
detailed
map
highlighting
places
of
interest
in

77

Harlem
for
its
primarily
white,
middle
class,
mid-‐Manhattanite
readership.
6

White

New
Yorkers,
also
called
“The
Mink
Set”,
who
ventured
up
to
Harlem
during
the

Harlem
Renaissance
derogatorily
coined
the
short
voyage
Uptown
as
“slumming”,
7

and
were
partly
lured
by
the
flowing
booze
that
seemed
to
be
Prohibition-‐proof;
as

Smithsonian
curator
Wendy
Wick
Reaves
contends,
“the
exotic
allure
of
[Harlem’s]

nightclubs…
was
just
a
fashionable,
alcoholic
escapade”
for
many
cultural
outsiders.

In
fact,
upon
close
examination
of
Campbell’s
busy
map,
the
prevalence
of
alcohol

available
between
131
st

and
138
th

Streets
is
very
openly
advertised:
a
man
in

various
stages
of
drunkenness
drapes
the
compass
in
the
bottom
corner,
“a
shorty
of

gin”
is
qualified
as
“Harlem’s
National
Drink”,
and
the
“Harlem
Moon”
has
a
doubled-‐
visage
emulating
the
double-‐vision
one
might
experience
when
looking
up
at
the

moon
after
a
booze-‐filled
night
out
in
Harlem.

In
fact,
it
seems
that
the
“sky
is
the

limit”
for
obtaining
alcohol
in
Harlem
in
1932,
as
a
man
sits
in
a
cloud,
happily

drinking
from
a
bottle
he
looks
down
on
all
the
street
level
activity.
Additionally,

according
to
the
map,
one
could
satisfy
other
lurid
vices
in
Harlem,
including
buying

marijuana,
gambling,
and
doing
business
with
a
well-‐dressed
“Sheik”
and
his
bevy
of

women
(complete
with
literal
cats
on
leashes,
as
double
entendre).
8

78

Fig.
3.1
“A
Night-‐Club
Map
of
Harlem,”
Manhattan,
January
1933,

E.
Simms
Campbell.

While
enticing
for
the
“fashionable”
white
crowd,
more
modest

traditionalists
viewed
these
same
images
and
activities
through
an
alternate
lens.

For
these
types,
Harlem
was
a
debased
location
thriving
off
of
lawlessness
and

amorality-‐-‐
stigmatized
not
only
because
of
the
abundance
of
alcohol
during

Prohibition,
drugs,
mob
presence,
and
scantily
clad
women,
but
also
because
of
the

race
mixing.

A
year
after
Campbell’s
map
was
published
in
Manhattan,
white
travel
writer

Hendrik
de
Leuuw
included
a
chapter
on
Harlem
in
his
Sinful
Cities
of
the
Western

World
(1934);
his
description
of
Harlem
closely
resembles
the
vivacious
images
in

Campbell’s
map,
however
with
an
air
of
alarmism
and
repugnance.
He
writes,

79

I
beheld
brown-‐skin
vamps
and
other
gay
colored
silhouettes,
romp
from

lantern
post
to
post.
I
saw
white
women
trot
along,
prancing
and
strutting

with
negroes…swarms
of
people
with
banjoes
and
ukes
strumming,
gurgling

sensual
music,
while
from
side
streets
one
could
almost
hear
the
heavy

snoring
of
dusky
inhabitants,
sleeping
the
sleep
of
the
jungle
man.
9

For
de
Leuww,
the
excursion
becomes
increasingly
nightmarish
and
frenetic
as
he

describes
a
hellish
scene
in
which
he
is
assaulted
with
images
of
“whites
on
top
of

blacks”,
a
“colored
wench…
with
a
face
like
a
mongrel
and
a
beetle
brow”
and

various
others
that
“impeded
[him]
as
he
fought
[his]
way
to
the
door”
of
a
popular

nightclub.
10

But
the
lure
of
Harlem
for
whites
was
not
merely
an
exercise
in
hedonism—it

was
also
the
draw
of
what
bell
hooks
refers
to
as
the
“seduction
of
difference”
11

-‐-‐
an

unusual
cultural
experience
that
gave
“outsiders”
an
unprecedented
access
to
Black

culture.
For
this,
Campbell’s
map
also
works
to
make
Harlem
legible
to
cultural

outsiders,
while
simultaneously
promoting
a
level
of
opacity
and
cultural

insiderism-‐-‐
at
times
at
the
white
outsider’s
expense.
The
map
shows
hordes
of

white
people
infiltrating
Harlem—so
many
that
a
multi-‐car
pile
up
occurs
in
front
of

popular
Connie’s
Inn.
White
patrons
pepper
the
map
in
the
audiences
of
most
of
the

well-‐known
clubs
(almost
as
a
covert
directive
for
what
to
expect
from
a
crowd
at
a

particular
location);
and
for
future
white
visitors,
Campbell
reveals
secret

passwords
to
gain
access
to
clubs,
directs
map-‐users
to
the
best
restaurants,
and

defines
terms,
such
as
“Doing
the
Bump”,
to
outsiders
who
might
not
be
familiar

with
the
area
or
lexicon.
12

Campbell’s
map
is
not
simply
a
representation
of
space,

but
is
instead
a
crash
course
on
how
to
navigate
the
space.
Outsider
entry
into

80

Harlem
is
an
active
experience,
and
when
Black
insiders
allow
access
into
the
space,

whites
must
become
active
participants.

Campbell’s
images
work
to
lure
with
lore,
in
an
attempt
to
normalize
and

demythologize
the
curiosities
surrounding
Black
life
in
Harlem
for
cultural
and

proximate
outsiders.
Cornel
West
contends
that
“demystification
is
the
most

illuminating
mode
of
enquiry”
13

for
groups
attempting
to
broaden
their

representations
and
close
cultural
gaps
in
his
1990
essay
“The
New
Cultural
Politics

of
Difference.”
West
explains
how
the
process
of
demythologizing
works
both
to

chip
away
at
established,
oppressive
power
structures
while
also
enabling
the

disenfranchised
with
a
sense
of
agency:

Demystification
tries
to
keep
track
of
complex
dynamics
of
institutional
and

other
related
power
structures
in
order
to
disclose
options
and
alternatives

for
transformative
praxis;
it
also
attempts
to
grasp
the
way
in
which

representational
strategies
are
creative
responses
to
novel
circumstances

and
conditions.
In
this
way,
the
central
role
of
human
agency
(always
enacted

under
circumstances
not
of
one’s
choosing)
–
be
it
in
the
critic,
artist,
or

constituency,
and
audience
–
is
accented.
14

However,
while
Campbell’s
map
works
to
demythologize
Black
urbanity
on
a

surface
level
for
white
cultural
outsiders,
it
is
also
culturally
encoded
for
Black

insiders,
which
in
essence
works
to
keep
intact
a
level
of
mysticism
accessible
only

to
those
cultural
insiders.
In
fact,
Barton
claims
that
while
the
map
does
provide

“actual
advice,”
it
also
goes
so
far
as
to
“[poke]
fun
at
these
downtowners”
who
will

make
the
trek
up
to
Harlem
in
pursuit
of
the
Black
cultural
experience.
15

Cultural

theorist,
Ernest
D.
Mason
contends
that
“poking
fun”
at
the
conventional
and

cultural
outsiders
is
a
common
trope
in
Black
art,
stating:
“Black
art
has
systemically

satirized
conventional
belief,
punctured
smugness
and
condemned
the

81

oppressiveness
and
injustice
of
a
wide
variety
of
human
conditions.”
16

While

Campbell
makes
plain
and
plots
some
of
the
most
well-‐known
night
spots
in
Harlem,

he
also
makes
clear
that
despite
the
thoroughness
of
his
endeavor,
“the
only

important
omission
is
the
location
of
the
various
[500]
speakeasies.”
17

This
written

addendum
highlights
that
there
is
an
“uncharted”
and
somewhat
“inaccessible”

Harlem
that
can
only
be
experienced
by
those
in
the
know—and
likely,
this
“hidden”

Harlem
offers
the
most
authentic,
unadulterated
cultural
experience.

Cornell
West
explains
that
the
“marginalized
First
World
agents’”
gesture
of

simultaneously
welcoming
and
shunning
the
empowered
majority
results
in
a

cultural
product
that
is
at
once
“progressive
and
coopted.”
18

The
“twoness”
in

Campbell’s
piece
makes
accessible
a
foreign
Black
American
world
and
experience

while
simultaneously
giving
a
cunning
nod
to
cultural
insiders.
In
effect,
the
map,

with
a
Black
illustrator
at
its
helm,
is
bestowed
with
a
unique
sense
of
cultural

ownership
and
as
a
result
defiantly
subverts
and
repositions
W.E.B.
Du
Bois’
double

consciousness
theory.

Du
Bois’
most
renowned
theoretical
framework
introduces
the
concept
of

Black
Americans
being
burdened
with
living
in
a
state
of
double-‐consciousness.
In

his
1903
essay,
“Of
Our
Spiritual
Strivings,”
he
explains
that
skin
color
has
a
“veiling”

affect,
which
highlights
not
only
racial
difference,
but
also
social
difference
in

America.
For
this,
Black
Americans
are
stripped
of
their
self-‐conscious,
and
instead

are
forced
to
see
themselves
“through
the
eyes
of
others.”
19

For
Du
Bois,
double-‐
consciousness
is
the
residual
effect
of
racist
white
dominant
ideologies;
it
is
a

82

mechanism
that
deprives
Blacks
of
agency
over
their
representation,
forcing
their

identity
instead
into
a
culturally
and
psychologically
fractured
state
of
“otherness.”
20

Campbell
works
to
challenge
and
upend
the
burdensome
strictures
of
the

Black
double-‐conscious
state.
He
is
given
the
public
space
(the
white
magazine)
to

represent
his
own
cultural
space
(Harlem),
and
as
a
result
is
able
to
steer
Black

double
consciousness
towards
Black
self-‐consciousness
and
authentic

representation.
With
respect
to
Du
Bois’
theory,
being
“othered”
is
an
imposition

placed
upon
passive
receivers—“the
veil”
that
Black
Americans
are
forced
to
wear
is

a
biological
burden.
For
Du
Bois,
Black
subjects
not
only
have
no
control
of
this

“mark,”
but
also
have
no
control
of
how
the
white
hegemony
perceives
this
mark,

nor
how
Blacks
themselves
are
able
to
perceive
themselves
in
a
white
dominated

society
built
on
a
foundation
of
racist
ideologies.
Thus,
“double-‐consciousness”
is
an

effect
that
develops
from
a
lack
of
control
over
ones’
self-‐consciousness
and
self-‐
representation—the
theory
strips
Black
subjects
of
their
representational
power,

and
positions
them
as
passive
receptors
of
racist
white
ideologies.
However,
in
the

case
of
Campbell’s
“A
Night
Club
Map
of
Harlem”,
the
control
of
the
“the
other”
and

the
resulting
“double
consciousness”
is
subverted,
as
a
Black
man
is
given
the

agency
to
direct
outsiders
through
the
Black
cultural
space.

Calloway’s
1935
Jitterbug
Party,
shot
in
late
1934
and
released
in
May
of

1935,
builds
upon
these
concepts
in
Campbell’s
work
three
years
later—essentially

bringing
his
map
to
life
through
film-‐-‐
though
with
an
even
greater
social
class,

cultural,
and
geographic
audience
reach.
Adapting
Campbell’s
methods
to
a
different

medium,
the
film
uses
cinematic
and
narrative
devices
to
take
viewers
on
an

83

excursion
through
Harlem-‐-‐
with
Calloway
as
their
guide.
Film
and
the
Black
pop

cultural
subject—Calloway
in
this
case—are
used
in
tandem
to
demystify
the
Black

urban
experience
for
white
viewers;
meanwhile
the
performance
is
encoded
with

cultural
insiderism,
demonstrating
the
nuance
of
Black
cultural
life
rarely
found
on

the
big
screen
during
the
period.
For
this,
Jitterbug
Party,
and
other
short
films

featuring
Black
popular
entertainers
from
the
period
are
instilled
with
a
sense
of

ownership,
agency,
and
authenticity
that
is
absent
from
most
other
major
studio

films
during
Hollywood’s
Golden
Age.

This
control
of
representation—though
often

encoded—subverts
the
typical
passive
reception
associated
with
double

consciousness
and
gives
Blacks
back
access
to
their
self-‐consciousness
in
a
defiant

manner.

Jitterbug
Party
narrativizes
Du
Bois’
concept
of
the
bifurcation
caused
by

double
consciousness
by
using
two
separate
and
distinct
locations
to
represent
the

Black
characters’
unmediated
“twoness.”
21

The
first
act
begins
in
Harlem’s
most

popular
white-‐oriented
nightclub:
The
Cotton
Club.
Variety
classified
the
Cotton

Club
as
one
of
eleven
Harlem
nightclubs
that
catered
predominantly
to
whites;
22

of

the
eleven
clubs,
The
Cotton
Club
was
the
largest,
most
popular,
and
most

expensive,
and
was
known
to
enforce
the
color
line
most
strictly.
23

Thus,
though
in

the
center
of
America’s
most
progressive
Black
area,
and
though
singularly

showcasing
Black
performative
culture,
the
Cotton
Club
was
a
white
space.
24

The
“whiteness”
of
this
space
is
established
up
front,
as
the
film
begins
with
a

white
radio
announcer
playing
emcee,
both
welcoming
the
white
cinematic
viewer

into
the
space
and
vetting
the
performance
over
the
radio
waves
for
the
white

84

listeners
at
home.
Initiating
the
film
with
a
white
body
is
a
visual
“high
sign”
for
the

white
viewer,
a
comfort
technique
used
to
assuage
any
preconceived
cultural
fears

about
traveling
to
Harlem
(figuratively
and
cinematically)
or
any
anxieties
about
the

Black
cultural
product
that
is
to
follow.
This
signal,
however,
was
not
merely
a

narrative
technique
for
Jitterbug
Party;
this
“
cultural
nod”
was
authentic
to
the

Cotton
Club,
and
was
consistently
utilized
as
the
white
radio
broadcasters
ushered

the
Black
cultural
product
into
white
households
across
the
country
several
nights
a

week
in
the
late
1920s
and
throughout
the
1930s.

Beginning
in
1927,
the
Cotton
Club
program
began
to
be
broadcast
nationally

on
CBS
radio
(and
eventually
internationally)
after
having
local
success
on
regional

stations.
The
show
was
broadcast
between
five
and
six
times
a
week
to
the
broader

demographic;
Cotton
Club
historian
Jim
Haskins
suggests
that
“nearly
every

American
who
had
a
radio
knew
of
the
Cotton
Club.”
25

Historian
James
Lincoln

Collier
similarly
suggests
that
through
the
reach
of
the
radio
broadcasts
that
the

Cotton
Club
was
“becoming
the
most
famous
nightclub
in
the
country,”
because

“what
could
be
more
glamorous
to
a
radio
listener
in
Des
Moines
than
to
tune
in
to

the
Cotton
Club,
where
show
business
celebrities,
politicians,
and
famous

columnists
sat
around
with
big-‐time
gangsters
and
murderers?”
26

What
is
neither

inferred
nor
made
explicit
by
either
Haskins
or
Collier
however,
is
the
prevalence
of

white
consumption
of
the
Cotton
Club’s
Black
cultural
product.
The
broader

American
demographic,
“listener[s]
in
Des
Moines,”
and
glamorous
attendees
at
the

segregated
Cotton
Club
were
all
white.
Thus
despite
the
performance
of
Black

85

cultural
product
on
stage,
the
Cotton
Club
as
a
space—physical
(live
attendance),

visual
(cinematic
projection),
or
figurative
(radio
transmission)—was
truly
white.

Jitterbug
Party
conveys
this
distinction
visually,
demarking
the
white

audience
members
from
the
Black
performers
on
stage;
this
visual
division

reinforces
cultural
power
dynamics
and
underscores
the
whiteness
of
the
Black

performance
space.
This
is
a
representation
of
Harlem
as
a
safe
space—a
space
in

which
the
performativity
of
an
“acceptable”
version
of
Blackness
by
extension

underscores
Black
double
consciousness,
in
which
Blacks
can
only
see
themselves

“through
the
revelation
of
the
other
world.”
27

This
portrayal
of
the
Black
cultural

experience
and
Black
cultural
performativity
is
the
version
that
was
most
commonly

accessible
to
cultural
outsiders
and
was
represented
at
the
surface
level
of

Campbell’s
map.

However,
what
makes
this
film
particularly
subversive
is
the
fact
that

without
the
audience’s
consent,
the
film
uses
music
as
a
vehicle
to
travel
away
from

the
area
of
Harlem
deemed
“acceptable”
for
whites,
and
into
an
entirely
new
and

authentically
Black
space;
the
white
viewer
by
extension
is
along
for
the
ride
and

given
access
into
a
world
otherwise
off
limits
to
cultural
outsiders.
Popular
music

scholar
Josh
Kun
contends
that
music
is
“a
connection,
a
ticket,
a
pass,
an
invitation,

a
node
in
a
complex
network,”
28

and
as
Jitterbug’s
white
radio
announcer
introduces

Calloway’s
second
number
“Long
About
Midnight”
as
a
“musical
description
of

darkest
Harlem”,
the
white
viewer
is
being
prepared
for
a
journey
into
an
uncharted

Black
space.
The
song
is
the
bridge
between
the
two
worlds,
as
Calloway
then
takes

86

the
audience
on
a
lyrically
descriptive
journey
that
could
serve
as
an
accompanying

piece
to
Campbell’s
map:

Just
take
a
look
at
Harlem
after
sundown

Any
time
you
choose;

It's
hard
to
find
the
people
feeling
run-‐down;

There's
no
time
for
blues

If
you
don't
know
just
what
to
really
do

Just
take
a
walk
along
the
avenue;

You'll
hear
the
sounds
come
a-‐floatin'
through

Along
about
midnight

They
close
the
windows
and
they
dim
the
light

To
hide
their
doings
from
a
stranger's
sight;

Everything
is
going
right

'Long
about
midnight

Pianos
tinkle,
and
the
couples
sway

Taking
the
pleasures
they
find

They
don't
care
how
they
live
by
day

Why
not
leave
trouble
behind?

They're
not
pretending
like
the
hoy-‐falloy;
29

They
really
mean
it;
it's
the
real
McCoy

They
turn
an
ounce
of
booze
into
a
pound
of
joy

'Long
about
midnight!

The
song,
written
by
manager
and
publisher,
Irving
Mills,
30

and
Black
jazz

arranger
Alex
Hill,
31

gives
not
only
a
detailed
description
for
the
cultural
outsiders,

but
also
works
on
crafting
an
experiential
feel
and
overall
Black
cultural
aesthetic
of

Harlem,
its
inhabitants,
and
its
activities
for
the
listener.

Cultural
theorist
Ernest
D.
Mason
explains
that
the
“Black
Aesthetic”
cannot

simply
be
measured
by
the
same
traditional
formal
characteristics
as
other
art;

instead,
the
Black
Aesthetic
has
an
ephemeral
quality
that
relies
on
feel
and

experience.
Further,
he
contends
that
the
art
that
is
produced
via
the
Black
Aesthetic

87

is
part
of
a
dual
feedback
system,
as
“the
Black
Aesthetic
critical
methods
quickly

move
from
works
of
art
to
everyday
Afro-‐American
experiences
without
which

these
artistic
creations
would
never
have
come
into
existence.”
32

For
this,
art

enveloped
with
the
Black
Aesthetic
embodies
a
sense
of
“truth”
and
“reality”
that

may
not
be
found
in
Black
representations
that
do
not
also
convey
the
Black

Aesthetic.
Thus,
the
viewer
experiences
an
authenticity
that
is
not
present
during

the
scene
at
the
Cotton
Club;
the
feel
created
by
the
musical
journey
into
Harlem

takes
the
viewer
from
a
representation
of
a
Black
cultural
space
into
an
authentic

Black
cultural
space.

Harlem
Renaissance
poet
Jean
Toomer
writes
about
the
power
of
music

being
able
to
transport
listeners
into
different
worlds,
but
he
also
mentions
the

limitations
of
the
journey,
noting
that
it
“cannot
keep
[the
listener]
in
that
different

world…Once
it
is
over
for
the
time
being,
[the
listener]
slide[s]
back
into
this

world.”
33

However
the
Black
musical
short,
with
its
fusion
of
sound
and
the
visual,

as
well
as
with
the
feel
of
the
Black
Aesthetic
layered
throughout
allows
for
a
greater

permanence
in
the
journey.
The
music
in
Jitterbug
Party
is
a
porthole
for
the
white

viewer
into
the
Black
space,
but
the
Black
Aesthetic
and
visuals
allow
the
viewer
to

linger
after
the
music
has
ended.

With
“A
Long
Way
to
Go”
providing
the
music
for
the
Black
exodus
from
the

white-‐catered
fringes
of
Harlem
into
the
“dark”
heart
of
Harlem,
34

the
group

traverses
past
many
of
the
well-‐known
locations
represented
on
Campbell’s
map,

including
Tillie’s
Chicken
Grill,
the
Log
Cabin,
and
the
Lafayette
Theater.
A
sense
of

broader
Black
“community”
is
established,
as
a
large
swath
of
inhabitants
are

88

featured,
from
a
child
buying
a
bag
of
peanuts
to
Black
police
officers
happily

greeting
the
passersby;
additionally,
the
variety
of
activities
and
class

representations
demonstrate
the
complex
texture
within
the
Black
community
in
a

manner
not
typically
shown
on
film
during
this
era.
Images
of
poverty
in
Harlem

(poor
children
sleeping
on
a
door
stoop)
are
counterbalanced
with
images
of
the

Black
middle
class
reveling
in
the
Harlem
night
life
(well-‐dressed
couples
carousing

about
town),
and
images
of
“elevated”
culture
(The
Lafayette
Theatre)
are
blended

with
“low”
activities
(a
craps
game,
public
drunkenness).
Though
not
intended
to
be

exhaustive,
this
montage
takes
the
characters
and
the
viewer
into
the
heart
of

Harlem,
and
works
to
upend
the
monolithic
representations
of
Blackness
typically

on
the
screen
by
showing
a
diversity
in
the
Black
image.
The
result
is
a
cinematic

conversion
of
the
traditional
voyeuristic
portrayal
of
Black
bodies
and
Black

activities
to
a
representation
of
the
Black
experience.
As
the
group
moves
deeper

into
Harlem
and
physically
puts
distance
between
itself
and
whiteness,
it
also
moves

closer
to
Black
authenticity
and
self-‐representation,
and
away
from
the
burden
of

double
consciousness.

The
final
act
of
Jitterbug
Party
continues
to
allow
a
space
for
the
unburdening

of
the
Black
players’
double
consciousness.
The
characters’
exodus
through
the

heart
of
Harlem
culminates
at
a
“Jitterbug
Party”—essentially
a
“rent
party”
that

represents
a
space
of
Black
insularity,
and
the
innermost
concentric
circle
in
the

Black
Harlem
nightlife
experience.

As
Calloway
and
his
band
play
again,
there
are

no
longer
any
cultural
outsiders
in
the
frame,
no
white
viewers
in
attendance
as
the

band
performs,
and
in
fact,
no
passive
viewers
at
all;
thus,
the
burden
of
double

89

consciousness-‐-‐an
experience
that
can
only
be
upheld
when
barriers
of
difference,

class
and
racial
stratification
are
established-‐-‐
is
lifted
in
this
space.

As
a
result,
the

Black
players
are
unburdened
due
to
the
lack
of
white
gaze
(both
physically
and

conceptually)
and
are
able
to
act
and
react
in
what
is
perceived
to
be
a
more
natural

manner.

The
process
of
disengaging
from
the
strictures
of
double
consciousness

allows
the
Black
players
a
unique
on
screen
experience:
they
are
able
to
participate

in
their
Blackness
and
cultural
aesthetic
instead
of
performing
it.
This
conversion
is

made
literal
in
the
film
when
Calloway’s
Cotton
Club
performance
is
juxtaposed

with
its
reconfiguration
in
the
Black
space;
here,
there
are
no
barriers
between

those
being
“gazed
at”
and
“the
gazers,”
and
the
musicians
opt
to
dance
with
female

partygoers—instruments
in
hand
as
they
two
step.

Without
“the
veil,”
the
performance
space
is
equalized;
there
is
no
difference

between
a
performer
and
a
viewer.
As
a
final
comment
on
the
oneness
between

performer
and
viewer
achieved
in
this
space,
Calloway
begins
the
same
“Call
of
the

Jitterbug”
refrain
that
he
called
out
to
his
white,
Cotton
Club
audience
at
the

beginning
of
the
film-‐-‐
however
in
this
Black
space,
the
refrain
becomes
antiphonal,

as
the
Black
viewers
naturally
react
and
respond
to
the
unspoken
cultural
clues
that

signal
“call
and
response.”
Finally,
the
musical
dialogue
culminates
with
all
of
the

partygoers
randomly,
yet
seamlessly
falling
into
step
with
one
another.

This
insular

space
uses
both
musical
sound
and
performance
to
boast
Black
cultural
insiderism,

and
to
allow
the
inhabitants
of
the
Black
screen
space
to
move
freely
and
without

the
burden
of
the
“veil.”

90

By
the
film’s
end,
the
white
cinematic
viewer
is
imbued
with
a
sense
of

voyeuristic
triumph;
through
film
and
music,
they
have
been
on
a
secret,
peripatetic

journey—navigating
spaces
and
witnessing
rituals
that
would
otherwise
be
off

limits
to
them
as
outsiders.
However,
Calloway
unexpectedly
disrupts
the
viewer’s

voyeuristic
experience
in
the
film’s
final
moments
by
breaking
the
fourth
wall.
As

Calloway
addresses
the
viewer
directly,
he
makes
it
known
that
he
and
the
other
on

screen
Blacks
have
in
fact
been
aware
of
the
white
presence
all
along;
importantly,

despite
this
awareness
of
being
in
mixed
company,
they
have
rebelliously

unburdened
themselves
from
the
veil.
In
this
moment,
the
power
dynamics
between

Blacks
and
whites
and
the
theory
of
double-‐consciousness
are
restructured.

The
act
of
being
undeterred
in
the
practice
of
Black
insular
culture,
despite

the
voyeuristic
white
gaze,
is
particularly
impactful
in
this
film
because
the
act
is

anomalous
in
Hollywood
films
from
the
Golden
Age.

While
the
narrative
of
many

films
of
the
era
cause
white
protagonists
to
“catch”
Black
characters
in
a
state
of

their
natural,
non-‐veiled
Blackness,
once
the
Black
characters
discover
the
white

gaze,
they
are
immediately
shrouded
with
the
veil
again.

This
is
notably
evidenced
in
the
Harlem
Congaroo
dance
sequence
in

Universal’s
Hellzapoppin’
(Potter,
1941).
While
delivering
instruments
to
an
estate,
a

Black
porter’s
accidental
striking
of
a
single
piano
key
balloons
into
an
impromptu

jazz
improvisation
session.
Hearing
the
music,
all
of
the
other
Black
characters,
each

costumed
as
“the
help”
(porters,
kitchen
staff,
handymen,
maids,
maintenance
men,

valet,
etc.),
converge
from
various
areas
of
the
estate
to
participate
and
contribute
to

the
performative
activity.
Understanding
that
this
space
is
culturally
insular,
the

91

characters
are
freed
from
their
rigid
affectations
(as
well
as
their
imposed
work

responsibilities)
as
they
all
come
together,
discard
the
veil,
and
put
on
a
grand

display
of
the
Black
cultural
aesthetic
through
dance
and
music.

However,

unbeknownst
to
the
Black
characters,
as
the
cultural
practice
continues
the
white

characters
(Chic
Johnson,
Ole
Olson,
and
Jeff
Paige)
secretly
peer
in
on
the
space

from
behind
a
curtain.
They
are
gleeful
their
voyeurism,
as
they
seem
to
understand

that
they
are
witnessing
an
act
and
activity
that
would
normally
be
inaccessible
to

them
as
cultural
outsiders.
The
white
characters
have
the
rare
opportunity
to

witness
Blackness
in
its
natural,
“participatory”
state,
as
opposed
to
the

“performative”
manner
in
which
it
is
normally
relayed
to
a
white
audience.

Yet,

unlike
in
Jitterbug
Party,
the
act
of
participating
in
the
Black
cultural
aesthetic
is
not

defiant;
thus,
when
the
Black
characters
realize
they
are
being
peered
in
on
by

cultural
outsiders,
they
react
as
though
they
have
been
seen
naked,
quickly
re-‐
veiling
themselves,
and
scattering
away
out
of
eyesight.

This
reversion
to
embodying
the
theory
of
double
consciousness
when
Black

spaces
are
infiltrated
by
cultural
outsiders
happens
outside
of
the
performative

arena
as
well
in
films
of
the
era.
Warner
Brothers’
antebellum
period
piece
Jezebel

(Wyler,
1938),
has
several
Black
supporting
characters
that
are
featured
throughout

the
movie,
but
only
two
scenes
in
which
the
characters
are
able
to
congregate
and

create
an
insular
cultural
space.

In
the
first
such
scene,
the
Black
representation
is

performative
and
crafted
for
the
white
gaze.

In
an
effort
to
antagonize
her

progressive-‐thinking,
former
lover
(Henry
Fonda)
and
his
new
Northern
wife

(Margaret
Lindsay),
Julie
calls
for
the
Black
slaves
on
her
plantation
to
gather
and

92

perform
Negro
spirituals
for
the
white
group.
Though
the
group
is
amassed
to

perform
the
Black
cultural
aesthetic,
the
space
is
curated
by
Julie,
a
white
character,

for
the
white
audience.

As
a
result,
the
Black
musical
expression
is
veiled
with
the

burden
of
double-‐consciousness.

A
second
gathering
of
Black
characters
occurs
later
in
the
film,
but
this
time

in
the
kitchen—an
insular
Black
space
in
which,
without
the
presence
of
whites,
the

characters
are
unburdened
by
the
requirement
of
the
veil.
In
this
traditional
Black

workspace,
the
characters
crowd
around
a
kitchen
table
to
quietly
discuss
newly

discovered
details
about
the
Yellow
Fever
outbreak;
suddenly,
the
Black
nucleus
is

unknit
as
Julie,
a
cultural
outsider
in
this
Black
work
area,
infiltrates
the
space.
As
in

Hellzapoppin’,
the
very
moment
the
Black
characters
realize
the
space
has
been

breached,
the
cultural
power
dynamics
shift,
and
the
veil
is
reinstated
as
they

abruptly
disengage
from
their
insular
activity.

This
reordering
of
socio-‐cultural

power
and
Black
consciousness
is
a
trope
present
in
countless
Golden
Age

Hollywood
films;
35

the
presence
of
whites
in
Black
spaces
has
an
uncontrollable

“oppressive”
effect,
instantly
converting
Black
participants
into
Black
performers

and
reburdening
them
with
the
veil
of
double
consciousness.
36

Calloway,
however,
bucks
this
Hollywood
trend
in
in
Jitterbug
Party.
First,
his

breaking
of
the
fourth
wall
is
not
merely
a
self-‐reflexive
device,
but
also
speaks
to

Mason’s
concept
of
the
satire
in
Black
art.
Much
like
Campbell’s
map,
Calloway

“pokes
fun”
at
the
cultural
outsiders
who
have
attempted
to
infiltrate
and
witness

the
world;
Calloway
makes
it
explicit
that
despite
the
fact
that
he
was
in
an
insular

Black
space,
that
he
has
been
aware
all
along
that
outsiders
have
been
spying
on
the

93

practices
therein.
There
is
a
tongue-‐in-‐cheek
quality
to
his
address,
and
the
spying

viewer
is
made
to
feel
as
though
the
joke
is
really
on
them.
This
simple
cinematic

strategy
when
in
the
hands
of
a
Black
character
practicing
the
Black
Aesthetic

becomes
profoundly
political;
Calloway’s
use
of
cinematic
self-‐reflexivity
and
satire

is
an
astute
but
subversive
power
play
for
equality.

Fig.
3.2
Calloway
breaks
the
4
th

wall
and
shifts
the
dynamics
of
double-‐

consciousness
in
Jitterbug
Party
(Paramount,
1935).

Equally
significant
is
Calloway’s
refusal
of
the
veil
in
this
moment
in
which
he

acknowledges
white
presence
in
this
Black
cultural
space.
Unlike
the
historic

tendency
to
be
startled
by
the
white
gaze,
and
to
react
as
though
one
has
been
seen

without
suitable
cover,
Calloway
remains
not
only
unaffected
by
being
peered
at,

but
also
returns
the
gaze.
Thus,
while
the
standard
of
Du
Bois’
double-‐consciousness

is
“Blacks
seeing
themselves
through
the
eyes
of
whites,”
Jitterbug
Party

demonstrates
a
dynamic
in
which
double-‐consciousness
turns
in
on
itself
to
the

94

Black
subject’s
benefit.
In
this
circumstance,
the
gaze
(and
double-‐consciousness
by

proxy)
becomes
a
circuitous
feedback
loop,
causing
the
whites
who
see
Blacks

through
their
white
eyes
to
be
seen
through
Calloway’s
Black
eyes.

With
Calloway’s

gaze
and
direct
address,
the
power
dynamic
shifts,
his
ability
to
be
self-‐conscious
is

reclaimed,
and
he
is
given
equal
footing
with
the
gazer.

Du
Bois
himself
had
tested
this
concept
of
the
racially
inverted
gaze
at
the

1900
Paris
Exposition
with
his
“American
Negro”
exhibit.
Like
both
Campbell’s
map

of
Harlem
and
Calloway’s
Jitterbug
Party,
the
exhibit
was
meant
to
showcase
a

modern
representation
of
Blackness
not
often
seen
by
the
white
viewing
public.
In

his
exhibit,
Du
Bois
engaged
with
the
“visual
theory”
of
race,
curating
over
300

portraits
of
middle
class
Blacks
who
looked
directly
into
the
camera,
resulting
in

photographic
prints
of
subjects
that
look
directly
back
at
the
viewer.
Many
of
the

images
are
arresting—forcibly
causing
the
viewer
to
engage
directly
with
the

subject.
Du
Bois
hoped
that
these
images
would
create
a
new
dialogue
around
Black

visual
representation,
challenging
many
of
the
negative
and
prejudicial

preconceptions
about
Black
Americans.

Moreover,
as
scholar
Shawn
Michelle
Smith
argues,
the
returned
gaze
in

these
photographs
is
not
merely
progressive
in
its
attempt
to
disrupt
staid

socioeconomic
and
moral
stereotypes
about
Black
Americans,
but
is
also
a
“critical

cultural
position,”
as
it
both
defies
and
inverts
historic
power
dynamics.
37

The
act
of

returning
the
gaze
is
defiant
and
assertive.
Despite
being
showcased
in
this
white

space,
the
Black
gaze
is
confrontational
and
demanding;
with
this
returned
gaze,
the

95

photographic
subjects
stake
a
claim
to
their
right
to
exist
in
the
art
space—and
by

extension,
cultural
space-‐-‐
without
the
veil.

Fig.
3.3
and
3.4
Two
portraits
from
The
Exhibit
of
American
Negroes,

World’s
Fair
1900,
Paris

Calloway’s
returned
gaze
at
the
end
of
Jitterbug
Party
functions
similarly,
but
uses

the
additional
capabilities
of
music
and
the
devices
unique
to
moving
images
to

push
the
impact
of
the
returned
gaze
even
further.
Calloway
confronts
the
viewer

both
visually
and
audibly,
and
makes
it
clear
that
they
are
all
sharing
the
same

world—and
he,
happily
without
the
veil.
Further,
the
music
that
has
drawn
the

viewer
into
the
world
serves
as
an
additional
confrontation.
Kun’s
claim
that

“musical
listening
is
a[n]…encounter
of
the
meeting
of
worlds
and
meanings”
serves

as
a
point
of
interrogation
for
both
the
white
viewer
and
the
Black
subject
38

—while

96

the
white
viewer
gains
access
into
the
Black
world
via
music,
the
Black
subject
also

gains
freedom
in
the
white
world
as
a
byproduct
of
music.

The
Black
Aesthetic
proliferated
in
Jitterbug
proved
problematic
for

Paramount
before
the
short
was
even
released.
The
Production
Code
Administration

required
the
film
to
be
edited
and
re-‐submitted
numerous
times
over
several

months
before
it
was
given
a
seal.

Even
after
Paramount
complied
with
all
of
the

changes
requested
by
the
board,
the
PCA
still
found
the
film
objectionable—
although
no
one
seemed
to
be
able
to
pinpoint
why.
Vince
Hart,
head
of
the
New

York
branch
of
the
PCA,
claimed
that
even
though
“Paramount
had
done
everything

requested
[by
the
organization]
the
atmosphere
(negro
background)
was

questionable
and
[he]…could
not
issue
Code
Certificate.”
39

Desperate
to
solve
the

problem,
Paramount
chose
to
send
the
film
directly
to
PCA
head
administrator

Joseph
Breen
on
the
West
Coast.
Breen
found
the
content
similarly
inappropriate,

but
like
Hart,
was
unable
to
name
any
specific
issues
with
the
material,
claiming
that

“the
general
flavor
and
atmosphere
of
the
picture
are
such
as
to
make
it
definitely

objectionable
and
unacceptable.”
40

The
problem
seemed
to
be
undefinable
–
more
a

feeling
that
upon
initial
review
was
unusual
and
disconcerting
for
whites.
The
feel
of

the
Black
Aesthetic-‐-‐
its
confidence
and
its
defiance-‐-‐
caught
the
content

gatekeepers
at
the
PCA
off
guard
and
kept
them
unsettled.

The
overall
vagueness
of
Breen
and
the
PCA’s
issues
with
Jitterbug
Party
is

notable.
The
goal
of
the
self-‐regulating
PCA—unlike
the
tangentially
governed,

Catholic-‐led
Legion
of
Decency,
as
an
example—was
not
to
obstruct
the

dissemination
of
material,
but
instead
to
rework
and
retool
material
to
avoid

97

obstruction
down
the
line
by
localized
censor
boards.
For
this,
the
PCA
worked
to

proactively
resolve
potential
censor-‐worthy
concerns
in
films
by
giving
extremely

detailed
accounts
of
controversial
elements.
In
addition
to
the
comprehensive
list
of

requirements
stated
in
the
“General
Principles”
and
“Particular
Applications”

section
of
the
Code,
the
PCA
provided
studios
with
thorough
and
enumerated

feedback;
the
feedback
would
pointedly
specify
specific
activities,
costuming,

suggestive
body
language,
dialogue,
etc.,
that
would
be
considered
objectionable,

and
at
times
would
offer
suggestions
on
how
to
rectify
the
violation.

Although
there

is
evidence
of
one
such
elimination
required
by
the
New
York
Censor
Board
in

which
a
man
patting
a
woman
on
her
back
while
the
two
danced
was
considered

“indecent,”
41

the
PCA
as
the
overarching
governing
body
has
no
such
specifications

nor
suggestions
whatsoever
in
its
existing
records.
The
lack
of
clarity
in
correction

in
the
correspondence
is
a
bit
of
an
anomaly,
and
points
perhaps
to
larger
themes

and
preconceptions
about
racial
representation
that
exist
outside
of
the
text.

The
film
was
eventually
approved
by
both
the
Motion
Pictures
Producers
and

Distributors
of
America
(MPPDA)
and
the
National
Board
of
Review,
and
was
widely

released
and
distributed
three
months
later,
though
it
is
not
evident
that
any

specific
changes
were
made
per
recommendation
of
the
PCA;
further
the
“general

flavor
and
atmosphere”
with
respect
to
the

“negro
background”—an
element
that

made
the
film
entirely
unreleasable
according
to
the
PCA-‐-‐
seem
to
remain
fully

intact
in
the
cut.
42

The
release
of
Jitterbug
Party
was
a
destabilizing
representation

of
Blackness
to
the
mainstream,
and
was
uncharted
territory
for
the
Studio
System.

The
Black
studio
short
created
a
platform
for
the
“othered”
to
bring
forth
cultural

98

representations
that
might
otherwise
be
considered
resistant
and
subversive
in
the

feature
world.

While
Jitterbug
Party
incited
an
explicit
reaction
from
the
censor
boards
due

to
the
boundary
pushing
representation
of
Black
culture
on
screen,
there
were
other

Black
short
films
from
this
era
that
were
likewise
subverting
the
status
quo.
During

the
same
year
in
which
sound
film
was
emerging
and
the
racially
degrading

tradition
of
Blackface
minstrelsy
was
being
adapted
for
the
screen
in
The
Jazz
Singer

(Crosland,
1927),
Duke
Ellington
released
his
musical
composition
“Black
and
Tan

Fantasy”-‐-‐
the
name
of
which
was
derived
from
the
comparatively
racially

progressive
“Black
and
Tan”
clubs
in
Harlem
that
“permitted
casual
race
mixing.”
43

Two
years
later
in
December
of
1929,
RKO
adapted
the
composition
and
concept

into
a
film
short,
Black
and
Tan
(Murphy),
with
Ellington
as
the
star.

Black
and
Tan
was
the
second
Black
musical
short
for
Murphy
after
his
work

on
St.
Louis
Blues
(1929),
starring
Bessie
Smith,
was
released
a
few
months
earlier
in

September.
44

Black
and
Tan
centers
on
Ellington
(playing
a
loose
version
of
himself),

a
composer,
and
his
girlfriend
(Fredi
Washington),
a
dancer
with
heart-‐problems,

landing
a
much
needed
gig
at
a
nightclub.
Despite
his
initial
excitement,
Ellington
is

wary
of
Washington
putting
such
strain
on
her
body,
but
Washington
insists.
By
the

film’s
end,
Ellington’s
initial
hesitation
is
proven
credible,
as
Washington
passes
out

during
the
performance,
and
later
passes
away
in
her
sickbed
while
Ellington’s
band

plays
a
mournful
dirge.

Murphy’s
film
background
was
in
directing
“visual
symphonies”
(including

the
foundational
avant-‐garde
film,
Ballet
Mécanique
[1924],
alongside
Fernand

99

Léger),
and
unlike
the
majority
of
filmmakers
who
felt
that
New
York
was
a
place
of

Hollywood
exile
for
industry
professionals,
Murphy
relished
in
the
promise
and

possibilities
of
independent
production
that
was
beginning
on
the
East
Coast.
Self-‐
exiling
himself
to
the
coast
that
was
more
willing
to
experiment
and
take
risks
in

film,
he
sold
major
studio
RKO
on
the
idea
of
trying
their
hand
at
producing
Black

musical
shorts.
45

For
Black
and
Tan,
he
is
said
to
have
brought
in
resident
Harlem
Renaissance

cultural
outsider
Carl
Van
Vechten
as
an
uncredited
advisor
to
capture
the
feel
of

Harlem.
46

Murphy
brought
many
of
his
artistic
techniques
to
Black
and
Tan,
creating

kaleidoscopic
optical
illusions
that
not
only
showed
off
the
medium,
but
also
served

as
a
dizzying
visual
device
to
underscore
the
lead
actress’
(Fredi
Washington)
own

dream-‐like
fever
state.

Murphy’s
use
of
abstract
images
also
specifically
pointed
to
the
Black
cultural

content
he
was
portraying,
as
he
incorporated
an
emblem
of
Black
modernity
that

began
to
emerge
during
the
time,
and
continued
to
be
developed
by
a
variety
of

Harlem
Renaissance
visual
artists
from
the
mid-‐1920s
through
the
1930s.

Specifically,
in
the
final
scenes
of
Black
and
Tan
as
Fredi
Washington
clings
to
life

due
to
overusing
her
weak
heart
in
a
dance
routine,
Murphy
projects
the
shadows
of

the
swaying
Black
characters
in
an
attempt
to
make
visual
the
abstract
nature
of

praise,
despair,
and
spirituality.

The
incorporation
of
this
silhouetted
imagery
in
Black
and
Tan
was
a
direct,

cinematic
reference
to
the
imagery
made
most
popular
by
modernist
Black
painter

Aaron
Douglas;
through
its
use,
the
Black
Aesthetic
was
emblematized
and
the

100

emergence
of
“The
New
Negro”
was
highlighted
on
screen.
Douglas’
visual
concept

permeated
the
Black
Arts
movement
and
quickly
became
an
oft-‐used
cultural

signifier
of
Black
modernity.
Throughout
the
Harlem
Renaissance
period,
he
was

commissioned
to
create
his
signature
silhouetted
illustrations
for
nearly
every

important
literary
contributor,
including
Alain
Locke,
James
Weldon
Johnson,

Langston
Hughes,
Zora
Neale
Hurston,
Paul
Morand,
Claude
McKay,
Wallace

Thurman,
and
even
white
author
and
photographer
Carl
Van
Vechten.
He
also

provided
cover
art
for
the
National
Urban
League’s
magazine,
Opportunity,
the

NAACP’s
magazine,
The
Crisis,
as
well
as
other
Black
journals
such
as
Fire!
and
Spark.

In
fact,
Douglas’
social
realist
style
was
so
representative
of
the
Black
Aesthetic
and

the
rise
of
Black
urbanity
of
the
period
that
he
was
commissioned
by
the
Roosevelt

Administration
as
part
of
the
Public
Work
Art
Project

(the
predecessor
to
the

Works
Progress
Administration)
under
the
New
Deal
to
create
a
piece

representative
of
“The
American
scene.”
47

101

Fig.
3.5
and
3.6
Silhouettes
from
Black
and
Tan
(RKO,
1929)
and
Song
of
the

Towers
(Aaron
Douglas,
1934)

These
silhouetted
figures
were
unique
in
their
ability
to
straddle
the
line
between

Black
cultural
specificity
and
generic
Black
ambiguity:
while
the
physical

composition
and
features
of
the
figures
were
explicit
and
clearly
identifiable
in
their

Blackness,
without
identifying
features,
they
were
also
generic
enough
to
represent

and
incorporate
the
Black
community
at
large.
“Generic”
Blackness
in
images
can
be

either
progressive
or
regressive
in
its
ability
to
unify,
based
on
the
intent
derived

from
an
artist’s
body
of
work,
and/or
overall
ability
to
convey
the
Black
Aesthetic.

Based
on
Douglas’
background
and
cultural
proximity
to
the
Black
Aesthetic,
his

pieces
were
widely
lauded,
and
universally
incorporated
within
the
Black
literary

and
artistic
communities.
The
adoption
of
this
technique
by
cultural
outsiders

however—in
this
circumstance
a
story
conceived
by
cultural
outsider
Murphy
and

overlooked
for
authenticity
by
cultural
imposer
Van
Vechten-‐-‐

cannot
be
read

102

without
considering,
intent,
cultural
proximity,
inclusion
of
Black
agency
in

representation,
and
the
work
or
artists’
body
of
work
in
its
entirety.

Additionally,

this
visual
trope
became
customary
in
Black
spiritual
sequences
in
film;
the

silhouetted
figures
and
projected
Black
shadows
were
used
in
countless
films,

including
King
Vidor’s
Hallelujah
(1929),
Cab
Calloway’s
sequence
in
The
Singing
Kid

(Lord,
1936)
starring
Al
Jolson
again
in
blackface,
and
as
a
comical
set
up
in

Bubbling
Over
(Jason,
1934),
amongst
many
others.

It
is
only
through
considering

these
elements
that
one
can
determine
whether
cultural
representations
are

expressions
of
a
culture,
or
exploitative
signifiers.

103

In
the
case
of
Black
and
Tan,
despite
the
incorporation
of
Douglas’

emblematic
Black
Aesthetic
technique
at
the
short
film’s
climax,
the
scene
cannot
be

read
singularly;
the
cultural
representations
throughout
the
film’s
entirety
must
be

considered
and
positioned
as
a
whole.
Particularly
problematic
to
the
progressive

vision
of
portraying
“The
New
Negro”
and
Black
urbanity
on
screen
is
the
degrading

inclusion
of
the
piano
movers
in
the
beginning
of
the
film.
Decoding
the
racialized

degradation
of
the
Black
and
Tan
piano
movers
is
particularly
evident
when
put
in

conversation
with
the
successful
Laurel
and
Hardy
vehicle
that
was
released
3
years

later,
The
Music
Box
(MGM,
1932).
The
plot
of
Stan
Laurel
and
Oliver
Hardy’s
Oscar

winning
short
in
simple:
a
rich
woman
buys
a
player
piano
for
her
husband,
and

Stan
Laurel
and
Oliver
Hardy
must
deliver
it
up
a
seemingly
endless
flight
of
stairs-‐-‐

dealing
with
a
slew
of
comedic
obstacles
along
the
way.
For
nearly
30
minutes,
the

fool-‐hardy
and
dimwitted
duo
struggles
to
make
the
delivery,
but
there
is
no

obstacle
that
stops
them
from
seeing
their
job
through
to
completion.

Although
they

make
quite
a
mess
of
everything
in
their
wake,
they
work
tirelessly
to
complete
the

task
at
hand.
Beneath
the
inanity
are
themes
of
hard
work
and
dedication
that
drive

the
film,
which
according
to
film
historian
Rick
Jewell
were
emblematic
Hollywood

themes
during
the
Golden
Age.
48

Laurel
and
Hardy’s
relentless
representation
of

“unity,
teamwork,
and
perseverance,”
49

even
when
fabricated
for
laughs,
is

representative
of
the
essential
elements
of
a
successful
and
thriving
America—
particularly
during
the
Great
Depression.

Despite
Laurel
and
Hardy’s
chaos,
they

work
persistently
to
reestablish
order.

104

On
the
other
hand,
the
narrative
presence
of
the
Black
piano
movers
(Edgar

Connor
and
Alec
Lovejoy)
in
Black
and
Tan,
moves
in
opposition
to
the
white
piano

movers
in
The
Music
Box.
While
The
Music
Box’s
white
movers
represent
the
robust

machinations
of
consumerism
amongst
upper-‐middle
class
individuals
in
a
healthy,

capitalistic
society,
Black
and
Tan’s
movers
conversely
represent
American

capitalism’s
biggest
woe—the
economically
burdensome
who
do
not
uphold
their

end
of
the
capitalist
contract.
Unlike
Laurel
and
Hardy,
the
Black
movers
are
not
out

to
deliver
a
piano—they
have
been
sent
to
repossess
a
piano
on
which
payment
has

not
been
made
since
(as
the
mover
explains
in
stereotypical
and
grammatically

incorrect
vernacular
that
is
used
to
demonstrate
a
lack
of
education)
“last
Ocawary”

(a
jeering
blend
of
“February”
and
“October”).
Though
Ellington
retains
his
dignity

with
respect
to
his
diction
and
visual
representation,
his
low
class
position
and

economic
delinquency
work
to
racialize
the
space
in
a
negative
and
stereotypical

manner,
and
narratively
typify
him
as
a
racial
representation
that
The
New
Negro

was
diligently
attempting
to
move
away
from.

More
regressively
derivative
is
the
characterization
of
the
piano
movers

themselves,
and
the
racial
inscription
of
their
comedic
acts.

Unlike
Laurel
and

Hardy,
who
must
fight
against
outside,
physical
obstacles
to
complete
their
tasks
(a

woman
descending
the
staircase
with
a
baby
carriage,
a
cop
stopping
them
for

questioning,
a
professor
jockeying
for
space
on
a
narrow
passageway,
a

troublesome
fountain,
a
closed
door,
and
the
staircase
itself),
the
biggest
obstacles

for
the
Black
movers
is
their
own
stereotypical
Blackness.
Though
there
are
no

physical
barriers
that
impede
the
Black
duo
from
completing
their
task
of
picking
up

105

Ellington’s
piano
(in
fact,
they
rudely
enter
Duke’s
apartment
without
even

knocking),
they
are
instead
hindered
by
their
coonish
characterization:

illiterateness,
the
inability
to
tell
time,
shiftlessness,
laziness,
easily
enticed
by

bribery,
and
a
love
for
alcohol.
The
characterization
of
the
Black
piano
movers
falls

under
what
Donald
Bogle
classifies
in
his
seminal
work,
Toms,
Coons,
Mulattoes,

Mammies,
and
Bucks,
as
the
most
“blatantly
degrading
of
all
black
stereotypes”
in
the

configuration
of
his
“black
pantheon”
of
screen
characters:
the
“pure
coon”-‐-‐
the

“no-‐account
niggers,
those
unreliable,
crazy,
lazy,
subhuman
creatures
good
for

nothing
more
than…
shooting
crap,
or
butchering
the
English
language.”
50

The
brief

scene
works
meticulously
to
disparage,
demonstrating
that
they
are
not
only
unfit,

but
are
also
unwilling
to
perform
every
single
aspect
of
their
menial
jobs;
in
fact,
the

scene
ends
with
the
task
of
retrieving
the
piano
incomplete.

While
the
narrative
in
The
Music
Box
revolves
around
the
actions
of
the
piano

movers,
the
presence
of
the
Black
piano
movers
in
Black
and
Tan
is
instead

categorically
jarring
(this
is
the
only
comedy
scene
in
the
otherwise
melodramatic

short)
and
thematically
and
narratively
disjointed.
The
piano
movers
serve
no

narrative
purpose
outside
of
comic
relief
for
the
white
viewer,
at
their
own
racially

encoded
expense.
Additionally,
although
the
inclusion
of
these
inconsequential

characters
seems
a
bit
frivolous
with
respect
to
the
narrative,
their
racialized
antics

work
to
overpower
the
film’s
star.
As
Ellington
is
moved
into
the
background
of
the

scene
while
the
piano
movers
take
center
stage,
their
racialized
characterization
is

given
greater
weight,
and
Ellington’s
signature
practicality
and
dignified

sophistication
are
entirely
occluded
by
the
stereotypical
cooning
of
the
piano

106

movers.
Thus,
the
inclusion
of
the
piano
players
is
an
othering
device,
and
serves
as

a
prescriptive
on
how
to
view
the
racialized
content
throughout
the
rest
of
the
film-‐-‐

despite
the
adoption
of
the
Douglas’
technique
in
this
film
(a
technique
that
in
the

right
cultural
hands
is
ensconced
in
expressive
Blackness
and
is
celebratory
of
Black

culture)
the
film
still
remains,
in
the
hands
of
white
writers
and
producers,
largely

exploitative.
With
these
othering
and
exploitative
measures,
a
nod
to
white
cultural

scopophilia
becomes
evident,
causing
one
to
question
whose
“fantasy”
Black
and
Tan

refers
to—that
of
the
”black
and
tan
people”
within
the
diegesis,
or
that
of
the

passive,
white,
cultural
outsider
viewer.

By
the
time
that
Ellington
began
doing
projects
with
Paramount
and
Fred

Waller
in
the
1930s,
the
tone
and
Black
cultural
ownership
of
his
short
musical

projects
had
shifted.
Both
A
Bundle
of
Blues
(Waller,
1933),
and
Symphony
in
Black:
A

Rhapsody
of
Negro
Life
(Waller,
1935)
moved
away
from
creating
a
“fantasy”
world

for
the
white
viewer
and
instead
delved
into
a
world
more
representative
of
the

reality
of
the
Black
Aesthetic.

With
Ellington’s
1931
international
tour
hiatus
from
his
residency
at
the

Cotton
Club,
the
musician
begin
to
take
greater
control
of
his
image,
associated

cultural
representation,
and
cultural
product.
Likely
as
a
marketing
mechanism,

Ellington
began
to
distance
himself
from
the
Cotton
Club
and
promote
his
autonomy

in
concrete
ways:
a
1931
press
release
advised
that
though
he
and
his
orchestra
had

“won
its
reputation
at
the
Cotton
Club
in
Harlem,
New
York….do
not
refer
to
it
as
the

Cotton
Club
orchestra.”
51

However
this
act
of
distancing
made
an
additional

statement;
the
Cotton
Club
was
known
for
crossing
the
line
of
Black
degradation-‐-‐

107

from
its
plantation
based
set,
jungle
themes,
and
whites
only
policy,
the
club
was
not

representative
of
modern
Black
strivings
for
mobility
and
equality.
Though
Ellington

later
claimed
that
his
“engagement
at
the
Cotton
Club
was
of
the
utmost

significance,”
52

his
release
from
the
Cotton
Club
also
released
him
from
a
setting
of

white
dominant
ideologies
about
Black
representation.

Ellington’s
autonomy
solidified
his
persona,
which
in
turn
informed
all
of
his

projects.
As
a
result,
after
1931,
a
sense
of
personal
autonomy
and
cultural
agency

can
be
detected
in
all
of
Ellington’s
films.
In
Ellington’s
films,
the
audience
is
given

access
to
an
autonomous
Ellington;
likewise,
though
Ellington’s
films,
the
audience

is
given
access
to
an
autonomous
representation
of
Black
culture.
This
move

towards
more
realistic
and
culturally
upstanding
representations
was
a
byproduct

of
an
increase
in
Ellington’s
agency
over
the
cultural
product;
with
Black
music

serving
as
the
dramatic
focal
point
instead
of
as
the
offshoot
of
a
fictionalized

narrative,
Ellington
gained
a
creative
control
uncommon
for
Black
players
in

mainstream
Hollywood
films
of
any
type
during
the
period.

One
foundational
difference
that
informed
the
tone
of
Black
Aesthetic
realism

in
Ellington’s
films
succeeding
Black
and
Tan
was
that
Ellington
never
again
played
a

character,
and
instead
only
was
filmed
portraying
himself
and
his
established
star

persona.
This
technique
not
only
enhanced
the
illusion
of
reality
by
pointing
to
a

documentary-‐style
representation,
but
also
worked
to
show
a
Black
subject
on
the

screen
who
bucked
the
stereotypical
Black
representations
that
had
taken
root
and

become
normalized
during
the
Golden
Age.

108

While
Donald
Bogle
contends
that
most
all
Black
subjects
in
Hollywood
film

have
been
historically
typed
as
one
of
five
categories
(toms,
coons,
mulattoes,

mammies,
and
bucks),
Ellington’s
representation
in
his
short
films
was
a
remarkable

departure
from
this
trend.
After
the
fictionalized
and
stereotypical
turn
in
Black
and

Tan,
Ellington’s
following
films
instead
pivoted
more
closely
around
his
true-‐life

persona.
Notable
Ellington
historian
John
Edward
Hasse
classifies
Ellington
as

“practical
man
who
maintained
his
personal
dignity;”
53

Cohen
claims
he
had
a

demeanor
that
was
“constantly
associated
with
values
of
quality
and

respectability.”
54

It
was
these
traits
that
were
exemplified
in
every
Ellington

representation
after
Black
and
Tan.

What
remains
most
essential
however
when
considering
Ellington’s
stage

persona
is
the
artist’s
control
over
his
own
representation.

In
a
1952
interview,

Ellington’s
manager
Irving
Mills
explained,
“I
never
tried
to
persuade
Duke
to

sacrifice
his
integrity
as
Duke
Ellington,
the
musician,
for
the
sake
of
trying
to
find
a

short-‐cut
to
commercial
success.”
55

Ellington’s
agency
over
his
persona
and
cultural

representation
allowed
for
an
uncommon
Black
authenticity
to
be
brought
to
the

screen
and
disseminated
to
the
white
viewing
public.

Unlike
Bogle’s
restrictive
categorizations
of
Black
Hollywood
“types,”

Ellington’s
persona
was
not
an
industry
construct,
but
was
instead
a
product
of
his

reality—his
Black
middle
class
upbringing
and
social
status.
Thus,
Cohen’s
claim

that
Ellington
was
the
“architect”
of
his
own
image,
and
that
manager
Irving
Mills

merely
exploited
and
marketed
the
image
that
Ellington
approved
is
true,
but
a
bit

misleading.

109

Ellington’s
persona
was
not
entirely
individuated,
but
was
instead
a

constituent
of
the
Black
middle
class
community
at
large.
56

Author
and
cultural
critic

LeRoi
Jones
(Amiri
Baraka)
positioned
the
Black
middle
class
as
one
that
prioritized

a
representation
of
“respectability
and
prestige
and
their
concomitant
privilege;”
57

these
same
communal
desires
and
descriptors
were
those
most
commonly

associated
with
Ellington
personally.
Through
Ellington’s
stage
persona,
the
public

was
not
witnessing
a
masked
performer,
but
was
instead
given
access
to
an
entire

segment
of
the
Black
community;
Ellington’s
persona
reflected
the
Black
middle

class—not
the
white
imagination.

Ellington’s
dignified
practicality
in
his
1930s
Paramount
shorts
is

particularly
notable
because
Bogle
claims
that
though
the
Black
“entertainer”

emerged
as
a
type
in
the
1930s
in
Hollywood,
58

the
specific
persona
of
the

“bourgeois
Negro”
often
affixed
to
the
entertainer
was
not
showcased
on
the
screen

until
after
World
War
II.
59

However,
Ellington’s
composure
as
a
“bourgeois
Negro”

was
a
vital
aspect
of
his
celebrity
persona,
and
was
solidly
portrayed
in
both
his

1933
and
1935
Paramount
shorts.
Ellington
not
only
disrupts
the
common

stereotypes
portrayed
by
Blacks
on
screen
during
the
Golden
Age
in
his
shorts,
but

also
serves
as
a
prototype
for
a
version
of
on
screen
Black
dignity
that
would
not
be

fully
pursued
until
Sidney
Poitier’s
Hollywood
career
began
almost
25
years
later.

Secondly,
Ellington’s
Paramount
films
also
use
the
medium
itself
to
amplify

the
sense
of
“reality”—specifically
“Black
cultural
reality“-‐-‐
being
portrayed
on
the

screen.
Bundle
of
Blues
(filmed
on
May
23,
1933
and
released
on
September
1st
of

the
same
year)
pursues
the
portrayal
of
this
Black
cultural
reality
in
a
direct,
but

110

unique
manner.
Unlike
the
majority
of
Black
musical
shorts
released
in
the
1930s,
A

Bundle
of
Blues
is
not
narrativized,
and
is
instead
comprised
of
three
distinct

performances:
the
band
plays
“Rockin’
in
Rhythm,”
Ivie
(sometimes
“Ivy”)
Anderson

sings
“Stormy
Weather,
and
two
dancers
(Florence
Hill
and
Bessie
Dudley)
dance
as

the
band
plays
“Bugle
Call
Rag.”

As
a
result,
the
film
does
not
highlight
a
fantasy
or

fictionalized
Black
world,
but
instead,
works
to
intensify
the
illusion
that
a
real
show

performance
is
being
filmed.

Cinematic
techniques
such
as
tracking
shots,
close
ups,

and
wipes
are
additionally
used
to
demonstrate
the
medium-‐specific
was
in
which

film
can
relay
reality
by
drawing
the
viewer
closer.
In
this
way,
the
audience
is

likewise
being
instructed
to
read
the
performance
as
“real”
and
“authentic”—a

representation
of
on
screen
Black
cultural
product
that
is
only
manipulated
to
bring

the
viewer
in
closer
and
immerse
them
into
the
“authentic”
performance
more
fully.

This
technique,
though
seemingly
simple
and
perhaps
even
uninspired,
allows
for
a

move
away
from
the
typical
fantasy
representation
of
the
“othered”
Black
world

towards
a
more
naturalized
representation.

However,
although
the
understylized
simplicity
of
this
Black
short
seems
to

catalogue
the
film
with
other
conventional
concert
films
by
white
musicians,
the

organization
of
the
trifecta
of
performances
serves
an
additional
purpose.
The

standard
stage
performance
format
in
A
Bundle
of
Blues’
opening
and
closing

sequences
are
largely
positioning
tools—orienting
the
audience
to
“normalize”
the

content
(Black
cultural
product)
and
“unother”
the
performers
(Black
musicians
and

dancers)
at
the
start,
and
again
at
the
end
of
the
film.

However,
in
the
middle

segment,
Ivie
Anderson’s
performance
of
“Stormy
Weather”
is
a
jarring
centerpiece

111

that
attempts
to
slip
in
some
of
the
distinctions
of
the
Black
Aesthetic
once
the

audience
has
been
primed
to
read
the
film
as
both
“authentic”
and
“conventional”

(instead
of
“exotic”
and
“other”).
60

Anderson’s
segment
begins
on
the
stage,
as
she
emerges
from
behind
the

curtain
in
an
elegant
dress
looking
forlorn;
her
slow
pace
towards
the
microphone
is

somber
and
keeps
time
with
the
music
being
played
by
Ellington’s
band.

As
she

begins
to
sing,
the
lyrics
of
the
song
reveal
the
source
of
her
downtrodden
mood:

Don’t
know
why

There’s
no
sun
up
in
the
sky

Stormy
weather

Since
my
man
and
I
ain’t
together

Keeps
rainin’
all
the
time

Life
is
bare

Gloom
and
misery
everywhere

Stormy
weather

Just
can’t
get
my
poor
self
together

I’m
weary
all
the
time,
the
time

So
weary
all
the
time

…

Although
Anderson’s
solemn
delivery
of
the
song
attempts
to
emulate
its

emotion,
the
overall
“feel”
of
the
song
is
enhanced
through
the
use
of
apparatus-‐
specific
techniques
that
simultaneously
work
to
make
the
innate
ephemerality
of
the

Black
Aesthetic
visual.
Much
like
Calloway’s
Jitterbug
Party,
the
audience
is
moved

from
the
public
white
performative
space
into
a
private
Black
cultural
space.

Through
a
transposure
shot,
Anderson
is
transported
from
the
cultivated
urban

nightclub
to
a
small
and
humble
countryside
cabin.
Stylized
wipes
–
some
looking

like
dripping
water—transition
the
segment
from
stormy
shot
to
shot,
providing
an

on-‐the-‐nose
literal
underscore
for
the
lyrics
of
the
song.
Yet,
all
of
these
thematic

112

elements
work
to
convey
a
mood;
the
traditional
narrative
was
been
replaced
with
a

focus
on
the
Black
Aesthetic
“feel”
and
“experience”
in
order
to
convey
a
sense
of

“truth”
and
“reality”—much
like
Calloway’s
Jitterbug.

In
Anderson’s
segment,
we

have
an
early
film
attempt
to
harness
Black
cultural
product
and
make
the
Blues

visual.

In
what
seems,
with
a
cursory
reading,
to
be
a
rather
unprovocative
and

“literal”
segment,
lies
messaging
that
highlights
the
complexity
and
variety
of
Black

thought
and
approaches
around
issues
of
positive
and
progressive
representation

during
the
period.
With
respect
to
New
Negro
discourse,
Anderson’s
diegetic
move

from
the
nightclub
to
the
cabin
would
have
been
seen
as
taboo
and

counterproductive.
In
his
blueprint
of
the
“New
Negro,”
Alain
Locke
equates
Blacks

living
in
the
countryside
to
an
American
primitivism
that
Blacks
must
flee
for
any

chance
of
equality,
social
and
economic
freedom,
and
democracy.
Locke
contends

that
the
plight
of
Black
Americans
can
begin
transformation
with
the
simple

transplantation
from
the
countryside
to
the
city,
and
specifically
towards
the

Eastern
hubs.
61

Through
the
total
embrace
of
modernity
and
urbanity,
the
New

Negro
is
able
to
make
upwardly
mobile
strides
and
gain
social
citizenship
in

America.

With
this
framework,
Anderson’s
transition
to
the
cabin
is
representative

of
a
social
regression—a
move
away
from
the
possibilities
and
opportunities
for

modern
Blacks
back
towards
the
racial
restrictions
of
“medieval
America.”
62

The
explicit,
visual
connection
made
in
the
film
between
the
Black
urban

middle
class
and
the
rural
lower
class
challenges
the
prominent
images
of
Black

urbanity
that
were
being
carefully
constructed
within
the
Black
community
by
the

113

Black
elite.
Jones
claims
that
the
desire
for
Black
upward
mobility
caused
a
fracture

in
the
Black
community
at
large;
he
explains
that
the
goal
of
the
“New
Negro”
was
to

not
only
distinguish
himself
from
the
struggling
lower
class,
but
also
to
create

distance
from
his
own
historic
past
which
might

“connect
them
with
the
poor
man

or
slave.”
63

The
film’s
visual
effect
does
not
create
distance
between
the
Black

historic
past
and
Black
modernity,
but
instead
literally
fuses
and
overlaps
the
two
to

make
the
Anderson’s
connection
to
the
two
spaces
explicit.

Anderson’s
move
from
the
urban
stage
space
to
the
rural
cabin
is
not
merely

geographical—it
is
also
categorical
of
class
status,
as
there
are
also
several
markers

of
manual
labor
and
lower
class
status
that
shape
the
space.
The
pliability
of
her

stage
persona
is
demonstrated
as
her
elegant
gown
is
exchanged
for
a
plain
and

unglamorous
housecoat;
a
lone
broom
leans
against
a
wall
in
the
corner
of
the
room

as
a
reminder
of
her
daily
chores;
a
soggy
grinding
wheel
sits
in
a
lonesome
work

shed
and
a
forgotten
ax
remains
lodged
in
a
stump
as
the
rain
beats
down
(adding
to

the
feeling
of
the
“blues”
as
an
insinuation
that
the
man
who
used
these
tools
is
no

longer
on
the
premises).
She
is
surrounded
by
markers
of
social
circumstances
that

were
imposed
upon
Blacks
due
to
a
history
of
oppression
and
degradation—
signifiers
of
what
Locke
demands
that
the
New
Negro
must
leave
in
the
past:
a
lack

of
opportunity,
a
lack
of
economic
freedom,
a
lack
of
spirit
to
seize,
and
lack
of

ability
to
improve
one’s
conditions.
64

However
though
the
use
of
cinematic
language,
the
film
delivers
an
alternate

perspective
on
the
manner
which
modern
Blacks
should
navigate
the
American

landscape.
As
opposed
to
the
“forgetting”
and
distancing
oneself
from
the
traumatic

114

past,
Bundle
of
Blues
instead
suggests
that
Blacks
should
embrace
and
celebrate

their
past—because
the
“medieval”
past
informs
modernity.
As
such,
Anderson’s

sequence
does
not
end
with
her
transplantation
from
the
nightclub
to
the
cabin,
but

instead
returns
her
to
the
nightclub—the
world
of
possibility
and
opportunity.

The

film
concludes
in
this
urban
world,
with
Ellington
and
his
band
playing
upbeat

numbers
for
the
dancers.

The
film
shows
the
recognition
of
the
difficult
Black

past—the
figurative
“return”
to
the
rural
world-‐-‐
can
be
a
momentary
detour,
and

not
a
permanent
regression.

Though
Black
representation
in
Bundle
of
Blues
stands
in
opposition
to
the

ideologies
of
the
“New
Negro”,
it
was
representative
of
Ellington’s
own
ideologies

about
race
and
mobility.
Two
years
before
the
release
of
the
film,
he
wrote
an
article

for
the
British
magazine,
Rhythm,
in
which
he
positioned
Black
music
as
a
signifier,

and
expressed
the
importance
of
its
the
connection
to
the
past
in
modern
Black

expression:

The
music
of
my
race
is
something
more
than
the
“American
idiom.”
It
is
the

result
of
our
transplantation
to
American
soil,
and
was
our
reaction
in
the

plantation
days
to
the
tyranny
we
endured.
What
we
could
not
say
openly
we

expressed
in
music,
and
what
we
know
as
“jazz”
is
something
more
than
just

dance
music.
65

Ellington
claims
that
not
only
does
the
Black
past
inform
Black
modernity,
but
also

that
without
understanding
the
Black
past,
Black
modernity
is
illegible.
His

perspective
on
Black
modernity
and
advocacy
of
the
recognition
of
the
difficult

Black
past
was
brought
to
his
Bundle
of
Blues,
as
it
likewise
underscored
the

importance
of
historical
Black
trajectory
and
amalgamated
complexity
of
American

115

Blackness.

In
Ellington’s
film,
modern
Blackness
did
not
appear
out
of
the
ether
as

the
result
of
ties
cut
from
the
past,
but
instead
was
the
evolution
of
the
historic

Black
experience—an
experience
to
which
Black
people
were
still
innately
tethered.

Conversely,
Bundle
of
Blues
comments
that
Black
modernity
is
rooted
in
America,

and
by
proxy
makes
a
claim
of
national
belongedness
that
positions
Black
people

within
the
American
social
citizenry.

Bundle
of
Blues
portrays
the
Black
Modern
Movement
as
a
recursively

centripetal
progression
as
opposed
to
the
linear
progression
embraced
by
New

Negro
philosophies-‐-‐-‐
as
a
complex
series
of
departures
and
returns
that
create
a

looping
inertia
of
forward
movement.
It
is
through
the
process
of
revisiting
and

revision
that
the
Black
Aesthetic
is
able
to
develop
and
continue
to
evolve
in
the

current
day.
This
process
is
shown
in
Anderson’s
return
from
the
rural
cabin
to
the

modern
stage
as
she
holds
on
to
the
emotional
experience
she
experienced
in
the

rural
world,
and
continues
to
articulate
it,
through
song
and
body
expression,
in
the

urban
world.
The
sequence
makes
visible
the
cultural
seepage
of
the
Black

Aesthetic,
and
demonstrates
its
place
in
Black
Modernity.
Through
Bundle
of
Blues,

Black
modernity
and
the
Black
Aesthetic
is
seen
as
an
expansive
and
complex

practice—an
ongoing
exchange
between
past
conditions
and
future
strivings
to

create
robust
reflections
of
the
contemporaneous
Black
psyche.
In
the
simple

sequence,
the
act
of
marrying
Black
modernity
to
a
rural
past
through
medium

specific
techniques
of
spatial
navigation,
pushes
back
on
the
dogmatic
ideologies
of

the
New
Negro
demonstrating
that
upwardly
striving
Blacks
could
be
and
were
both

“this”
and
“that.”

116

This
practice
also
challenged
the
dominant
white
constructions
of
Blackness

as
singular
and
“other,”
bringing
a
rare,
dynamic
representation
of
Blackness
to
the

mainstream
screen.
Although
Bundle
of
Blues
(like
all
of
the
other
films
in

Hollywood
of
the
period)
was
written,
directed,
and
produced
by
white
men,
there

is
a
nod
to
a
collaborative
effort
from
Ellington.
Ellington’s
distinctiveness
did
not

only
present
itself
through
the
presentation
of
“sophisticated”
Blackness
that
was

emblematic
of
his
persona,
but
also
with
his
cultural
ideologies
and
practices
of

Blackness
that
were
featured
and
made
visual
in
his
films.
Black
and
Tan,
Bundle
of

Blues,
and
his
most
personal
of
all,
Symphony
in
Black:
A
Rhapsody
of
Negro
Life

(Waller,
1935)
all
maneuver
deliberately
around
the
spectrum
of
Black
life
and

work
to
bring
that
spectrum
of
Black
representation
and
experience
to
the
screen.

Symphony
in
Black:
A
Rhapsody
of
Negro
Life
was
Ellington’s
last
narrative

film,
and
the
most
ambitious
of
all
of
the
Black
musical
shorts
(and
perhaps
all
of
the

shorts,
regardless
of
race)
of
the
era.
Filmed
in
March
and
released
in
September
of

1935,
the
short
was
Ellington’s
cinematic
grand
opus—poetically
stylized,
moody,

and
culturally
immersive,
Symphony
in
Black
brings
the
Black
Aesthetic
to
film
while

also
offering
a
rare
perspective
of
the
cultural
intricacies
that
make
up
the
breadth

of
Black
urbanity
and
modernity.
Ellington’s
fingerprint
is
on
this
film;
in
fact,
Cohen

claims
that
Symphony
in
Black
was
“the
film
project
over
which
he
exercised
the

most
control.”
66

With
music
as
the
foundation,
the
short
film
is
perhaps
the
most

nuanced
representation
of
on
screen
Blackness
of
the
era,
and
the
“feel”
of
the
Black

Aesthetic
is
made
evident
through
the
marrying
of
sound
and
images.

117

Ellington
first
expressed
interest
in
creating
a
longer
composition
that
would

reflect
the
broad
scope
of
Black
life
and
bring
forth
the
authenticity
of
the
Black

Aesthetic
into
the
mainstream
in
1931:

The
history
of
my
people
is
one
of
great
achievements
over
fearful
odds;
it
is

a
history
of
a
people
hindered,
handicapped
and
often
sorely
oppressed,
and

what
is
being
done…
in
literature
is
overdue
in
music.

I
am
therefore
now
engaged
on
a
rhapsody
unhampered
by
any

musical
form
in
which
I
intend
to
portray
the
experiences
of
the
coloured

[sic]
races
in
America
in
the
syncopated
idiom.
The
composition
will
consist

of
four
or
five
movements,
and
I
am
putting
all
I
have
learned
into
it
in
the

hope
that
I
shall
have
achieved
something
really
worth
while
[sic]
in
the

literature
of
music,
and
that
an
authentic
record
of
my
race
written
by
a

member
of
it
shall
be
placed
on
record.
67

The
result
was
“Creole
Rhapsody,”
which
premiered
at
the
Cotton
Club
that
same

year
in
1931,
and
became
one
of
his
quintessential
hits.

The
timing
of
Ellington’s
statement
and
the
coinciding
grand
musical

composition
of
Black
life
“written
by
a
member
of
[the
Black
race]”
are
noteworthy.

Lock
claims
that
Ellington’s
first
trip
to
Hollywood
in
1930
for
the
Amos
and
Andy

film
Check
and
Double
Check
(Brown,
1930),
and
the
racism
he
witnessed
and

experienced
within
the
film
industry
and
society
at
large
had
an
effect
on
Ellington.

In
addition
to
being
subjected
to
the
two
main
white
characters
wearing
Blackface

and
speaking
crude,
“Negroized”
vernacular
throughout
the
film,
his
own

trombonist,
fair
skinned
Puerto
Rican
Juan
Tizol,
was
“blacked
up”
so
as
not
to
give

the
impression
that
the
band
was
integrated.

The
narrative
itself
also
included
an
unnecessary
racial
indignity
that

Ellington
and
his
band
likely
took
personally.
Ellington
and
his
orchestra
were

known
for
travelling
in
private
Pullman
cars-‐-‐
the
same
way
the
president
traveled

118

in
real
life.
This
travel
choice
was
not
only
stylish
but
was
also
practical;
the
Pullman

cars
offered
the
Black
band
security
as
they
traveled
through
racially
unwelcoming

areas
of
the
South
where
they
might
risk
not
being
able
to
find
accommodations.
68

In
1979,
drummer
Sonny
Greer
spoke
proudly
of
the
dignity
he
felt
via
the
band’s

use
of
Pullman
transportation:

The
way
we
looked
and
the
class
had.
They
had
never
seen
nobody
like
us.

They
had
heard
different
colored
aggregations
that
come
through
on
a
little

ragged-‐ass
bus
or
something
like
that,
but
we
were
the
first
band
and
the

only
band,
white
or
colored...
[with]
our
own
Pullman
car…our
own
baggage

car,
and…full
possession
of
the
diner.”
69

For
the
band,
transportation
was
a
marker
of
success
and
self-‐worth.

In
the
film,

however,
Ellington’s
tuxedo-‐clad
twelve
piece
orchestra
arrives
at
the
event

crammed
into
an
old
jalopy
driven
by
Amos.
The
scene
is
fleeting
and
serves
no

narrative
purpose
except
to
work
Amos
into
the
scene;
but
the
scene
creates
a

larger
racial
commentary
that
Ellington
and
his
band
took
specific
measures
to

evade.

According
to
Lock,
this
experience
in
Hollywood
created
a
more
responsive

and
reactive
Ellington
around
issues
of
race
and
representation
in
his
work.

“Creole
Rhapsody”
is
evidence
of
this
reaction.
With
“Creole
Rhapsody,”

Ellington
made
a
conscious
effort
to
take
ownership
of
Black
representation,
and

make
a
direct
statement
about
Black
history,
Black
belonging,
Black
contribution,

and
how
all
of
those
elements
shape
the
Black
experience
and
can
be
found
in

authentic
Black
art.
Ellington’s
desire
to
convey
a
more
expansive
representation
of

Blackness
through
his
own
lens
as
a
cultural
participant
and
contributor
aligned

directly
with
the
philosophy
of
the
Black
Aesthetic,
which
Mason
describes
as

119

“inquiry
into
the
experiences
and
perceptions
that
black
people
have
of
themselves

and
others.”
70

1931
also
marks
the
year
in
which
Ellington’s
mainstream,
cross
over

popularity,
was
amplified,
as
his
band
was
able
to
play
Paramount-‐Publix
Circuit’s

Oriental
Theater
in
Chicago
for
the
first
time.
71

This
booking
demonstrated
a
shifting

progression
in
racial
and
cultural
attitudes
about
Blackness—a
preliminary

“invitation”
of
Blacks
into
traditionally
white
spaces.

As
a
result,
Ellington
felt
an

additional
“grave
responsibility”
in
the
construction
of
his
Black
cultural

representation,
as
he
explains
that
he
felt
as
though
he
was
“practically
always
on

stage,
for
every
time
people
saw
a
Negro
they
would
go
into
a
reappraisal
of
the

race.”
72

Thus,
representation
for
Ellington—and
specifically
control
over
that

representation-‐-‐
was
essential
in
his
career
after
he
began
to
cross
cultural

boundaries
through
touring
internationally
and
making
appearances
in
mainstream

Hollywood
films.
Ellington’s
progressive
crossover
into
white
spaces
was

correlative
to
his
understanding
of
the
larger
social
impact
of
a
Black
artists’

representation.
Being
in
such
a
position
during
Jim
Crow,
Ellington
felt
a
personal

responsibility
to
bring
authentic,
respectable,
and
dignified
representations
of

Blackness
to
the
mainstream;
he
believed
that
this
could
only
be
done
by
doing
as

much
as
possible
to
control
images,
as
well
as
shape
the
mainstream
public’s

understanding
of
Blackness
himself.

Symphony
in
Black
positions
Ellington
as
an
autonomous
collaborator
and

conveyor
of
the
Black
Aesthetic
from
the
opening
scene.
A
letter
from
the
National

Concert
Bureau
addressed
to
Ellington
reveals
that
he
is
working
on

“manuscript”

120

for
the
“world
premiere
of
[his]
new
Symphony
of
Negro
Moods.”

From
the
onset,

the
film
works
to
position
Ellington’s
work,
and
by
extension
“modern
Black
Art,”
as

“serious”
and
fitting
within
pre-‐established
hegemonic
constitutions
of
“serious”
art.

The
film’s
immediate
positioning
of
Ellington
and
his
cultural
product
in
this

manner
speaks
directly
to
an
evolution
in
Ellington’s
self-‐perception
and
desire
to

control
his
image
that
occurred
after
he
left
the
Cotton
Club
to
tour
in
1930.
73

In
the

same
years
as
Symphony
in
Black’s
release,
music
critic
John
Hammond
lambasted

this
evolution
in
Ellington
and
his
music,
explaining
that
after
his
reception
while
on

tour
in
Europe,
“[Ellington]
felt
it
necessary
to
go
out
and
prove
that
he
could
write

really
important
music
far
removed
from
the
simplicity
and
charm
of
his
earlier

tunes.”
74

Although
Hammond
was
not
a
fan
of
what
he
considered
to
be
a
new,

labored
style
chosen
personally
by
Ellington,
this
change
was
reflected
from
the

onset
in
Symphony
in
Black—
pointing
towards
Ellington’s
hand
in
the

conceptualization
and
construction
of
the
film.

The
film
is
shot
in
four
movements
that
move
between
Ellington
composing

the
accompanying
piece
in
his
solitude,
performing
the
piece
with
his
orchestra
in
a

concert
hall,
and
enactments
that
draw
from
and
make
visual
the
film’s
various

cultural
motifs.
Each
segment
represents
a
different
aspect
of
modern
Black
life;
but,

despite
the
thematic
disparity
between
the
segments,
Ellington’s
temperamental

score
serves
as
a
through
line,
connecting
all
of
the
segments
and
movements
with

one
another.

The
first
movement
is
“The
Laborers”—a
segment
that
challenges
New
Negro

philosophies
of
Black
modernity
by
highlighting
Black
manual
laborers.
Muscular

121

Black
men
shovel
coal
and
haul
heavy
loads
rhythmically
to
match
the
score.

As

opposed
to
ignoring
or
erasing
the
less
than
glamorous
aspect
of
the
Black
cultural

experience
as
suggested
by
Locke,
Ellington
instead
acknowledges
the
difficulties,

but
shapes
the
representation
with
solemn
and
downbeat
music
to
mark
the

activity.

The
next
section,
“A
Triangle,”
focuses
on
a
traditional
love
relationship

triangle,
but
colors
the
concept
with
a
Black
specificity.
Broken
into
three
acts,

“Dance,”
“Jealousy,”
and
“Blues,”
shows
a
Black
couple
dancing
a
jitterbug
in
their

living
room
while
a
forlorn
Billie
Holiday
looks
in
on
their
shadows
from
the
city

street,
a
confrontation
that
ends
in
a
Holiday
being
physically
rejected,
and
finally,

Holiday
expressing
her
heartbreak
through
an
extremely
somber
Blues
songs.

“A

Hymn
of
Sorrow”
is
the
third
movement
and
makes
a
comment
on
the
connection

between
Black
culture
and
faith.
Black
figures
gather
and
mourn
at
what
seems
to

be
some
sort
of
funeral
or
memorial
service
in
a
church,
while
a
spiritual
figurehead

leads
them
all
in
raising
their
arms
skyward
in
praise
(resulting
in
yet
another

example
of
the
iconic,
racialized,
spiritual
silhouettes).
And
finally,
the
film

culminates
in
the
urban
center
with
the
“Harlem
Rhythm”
segment,
in
which

through
stylized,
canted
shots
and
superimpositions,
the
energy
of
Harlem
nightlife

is
brought
to
the
screen
as
a
group
of
dancing
girls
and
popular
act
and
Harlem

staple,
Earl
“Snakehips”
Tucker,
swivels
and
shimmies
on
the
stage.

The
display
of
the
Black
Aesthetic
in
Symphony
in
Black
was
not
only

important
because
it
presented
a
larger
and
more
complex
representation
of
Black

culture
to
the
mainstream,
but
also
because
of
what
such
a
progressive
display

signaled
to
the
Black
community
itself.
Mason
explains
that
the
cultural
autonomy

122

required
for
the
creation
of
the
Black
Aesthetic
is
proof
of
“self-‐possession,”
as
he

says,
“Only
the
things
that
are
a
man’s
actual
possessions
can
be
determined
by
him;

consequently,
it
is
only
by
being
in
possession
of
themselves
that
Afro-‐Americans

can
control
themselves.”
75

The
authenticity
and
representational
scope
of
the
Black

experience
undertaken
in
the
film
points
to
a
unique
control
over
the
cultural

material;
as
such,
the
film
relays
a
subversive
example
of
Black
self-‐possession
in

and
for
mainstream
America
during
a
period
in
which
intense
systematized
racial

discrimination
across
the
country
worked
oppositionally—stripping
Blacks
of
the

basic
ability
to
self-‐possess.
For
Black
viewers,
Symphony
in
Black
demonstrated
a

changing
tide—
a
deeply
philosophical
representation
of
new
possibilities
for
the

Black
experience
in
America.
76

Symphony
in
Black
brought
to
the
mainstream
a
great
evolution
of
Black

images
on
the
big
screen,
and
created
a
nuanced
composite
of
the
socio-‐cultural

strivings
of
the
Black
community
in
the
1930s.
As
with
Du
Bois’
Parisian

photography
exhibit
which
Shawn
Michelle
Smith
claims
was
more
than
“simply

offering
images
of
African
Americans
up
for
perusal,
but
was
critically
engaging

viewers
in
the
visual
and
psychological
dynamics
of
race,”
77

Symphony
in
Black

likewise
attempts
to
engage
viewers
more
deeply
by
making
the
abstract
elements

of
Blackness
perceivable
through
music
and
visual
images.

Ellington’s
Symphony
in
Black
uses
the
Black
Aesthetic
as
a
means
of
freeing

itself
from
the
oppressive
tradition
of
double
consciousness,
and
from
the
self-‐
imposed
confining
strictures
of
the
“New
Negro.”
As
opposed
to
defining
modern

Blackness
as
a
point
of
disconnection—a
display
of
the
things
that
Black
people
and

123

the
Black
experience
were
not,
Ellington
instead
uses
film
to
make
a
comment
on

and
embrace
the
array
of
elements
and
experiences
that
create
the
modern
Black

experience—both
positive
and
negative.
Ellington’s
portrayal
of
Black
modernity

was
one
in
which
Blacks
were
able
to
position
themselves
within
American
culture

because
of
their
Black
past,
not—as
per
the
New
Negro
philosophy-‐-‐
in
spite
of
it.

The
result
is
an
authenticity
in
representation
that
also
speaks
to
the
American

rootedness
of
upwardly
mobile
Blacks.

The
film
also
demonstrates
an
evolution
in
Black
cultural
tourism
across
media.

While
Campbell’s
“Night-‐
Club
Map
of
Harlem”
and
Calloway’s
journey
Uptown
in

Jitterbug
Party
quite
literally
position
the
artists
as
“cultural
tour
guides,”
a
1934

profile
in
The
Chicago
Defender
positioned
Ellington’s
intercultural
interaction
as

having
more
depth
and
even
greater
weight,
labeling
him
a
“missionary
in
his

particular
effort—the
popularization
of
Race
music”
(emphasis
added).
78

Such
a

categorization
is
due
to
Ellington’s
artistic
delve
into
deeper
representations
of

Black
life
in
and
for
the
mainstream.
Symphony
in
Black
showcases
the
Black

experience
as
an
amalgam
of
abstractions
that
give
cultural
outsiders
access
into

deeper
aspects
of
the
Black
experience-‐-‐-‐the
Black
psyche,
value
systems,
and

philosophies
about
Black
modernity.

While
Campbell’s
map
and
Calloway’s
trek

frame
Harlem
as
a
mere
space
of
Black
entertainment
and
performativity;
Ellington

frames
the
city
as
a
figurative
location
that
imbues
what
author
Margaret
Walker

Alexander
refers
to
as
“Black
cultural
dynamism”—a
Black
cultural
space
that
“has

124

an
emotive
content,
a
human
representational
nature,
and
stylized
abstraction.”
79

Though
its
use
of
Black
musical
and
visual
lexicon,
the
film
pulls
the
viewer
deeper

into
the
realm
of
Black
realism.

The
Black
musical
short
came
to
function
as
a
provocative
site
of
cultural

tourism.
What
was
intended
as
a
means
for
removed
whites
to
observe
traditionally

off-‐limits
Black
cultural
spaces
and
the
“otherness”
of
Black
life,
became
a
space
of

resistance
and
subversion
for
Black
Americans.
Once
cultural
outsiders
were

“invited”
into
the
Black
space
of
the
short
film,
Black
stars
were
able
to
navigate

them
towards
Black
ideologies
and
Black
representations
that
were
unusual
in
the

mainstream;
through
this
process
Black
short
film
stars
were
able
to
deconstruct

and
challenge
larger
degrading
social
norms
regarding
race
and
racial

representation.
The
Black
musical
short
film
offered
an
unprecedented
ability
for

Black
autonomy
and
self-‐expression
on
screen
and
across
media
formats.
It
was
in

this
film
space
that
Black
artists
attempted
to
unburden
themselves
from
the

encumbrance
of
double
consciousness
by
defiantly
returning
the
gaze
towards

white
viewers.

It
was
also
within
the
film
space
that
Black
artists
were
able
to
bring

the
Black
Aesthetic—an
expression
and
representation
of
Black
truth
and

authenticity
to
the
big
screen,
demonstrating
more
diverse
and
heterogenous

representations
of
Blackness
than
could
be
found
anywhere
else
in
Hollywood
for

years
to
come.

Margaret
Walker
Alexander
proclaimed,
“Black
art
is
an
expression

of
the
Black
world.
It
binds
black
people
as
well
as
invites
others
in;”
80

this
position

perfectly
frames
the
function
of
autonomous
Black
film
shorts—a
rare
avenue
for

125

which
Blacks
could
both
fortify
their
own
community
while
simultaneously
allowing

cultural
outsiders
access
into
that
community.

Notes:

1

Greg
Miller,
“During
Prohibition,
Harlem
Night
Clubs
Kept
the
Party
Going,”

National
Geographic,
April
4,
2017,

https://news.nationalgeographic.com/2017/03/prohibition-‐harlem-‐night-‐clubs-‐
maps/.

2

“Black
Belt’s
Nite
Life.”
Variety
(October
16,
1929):
1.

3

James
Francis
Durante
and
Jack
Koefoed.
Night
Clubs
(Whitefish,
MT:
Literary

Licensing,
2003),
114.

4

To
be
clear,
this
“integrated
site”
was
not
necessarily
a
site
of
equality.
Jim
Crow

segregationist
politics
were
still
in
place
in
many
Harlem
area
entertainment

venues,
including
the
Cotton
Club.
However,
it
is
noteworthy
to
recognize
that
these

Black
cultural
sites
were
unique
in
their
ability
to
lure
white
patrons.

5

Campbell
is
widely
cited
as
the
first
Black
artist
to
be
hired
and
hold
a
long-‐term

contract
with
a
national
publication,
and
the
first
Black
syndicated
cartoonist.
He

was
a
top
artist
for
Esquire
Magazine
for
two
decades
from
its
very
inception,

creating
many
iconic
works
for
the
magazine
that
highlighted
the
urban
white

American
experience,
and
white
femininity
and
sexuality
(including
the

popular

“Cuties”
panel).
However,
the
detail
and
pointed
sardony
in
his

“A
Night-‐Club
Map

of
Harlem,”
as
well
as
his
contributions
to
the
Black
newspaper,
Amsterdam
News,

suggests
that
despite
the
bulk
of
his
hired
work
for
the
upper-‐class,
white

magazines,
he
was
most
at
home
in
Black
Harlem.
For
more
on
Campbell,
see
Mel

Heimer,
Famous
Artists
&
Writers
of
King
Features
Syndicate.
(New
York:
King

Features
Syndicate,
1949)

6

E.
Simms
Campbell.
“A
Night-‐Club
Map
of
Harlem,”
Manhattan
:A
Weekly
for

Wakeful
New
Yorkers,
vol
1.
no.1
(Jan.
18
1933):
8-‐9.

7

Wendy
Wick
Reaves,
Celebrity
Caricature
in
America
(New
Haven:
Smithsonian

Institution,
Press,
1998),
177.

8

Campbell,
8-‐9.

9

de
Leuuw,
Hendrik,
Sinful
Cities
in
the
Western
World
(Whitefish,
MT:
Kessinger

Publishing,
[1934]
2007),
261.

10

de
Leuuw,
261-‐263.

11

bell
hooks,
Black
Looks:
race
and
representation
(Boston:
South
End
Press,
1992),

21.

12

Campbell,
8-‐9.

13

Cornell
West,
“The
New
Cultural
Politics
of
Difference,”
in
The
Cultural
Studies

Reader,
ed.
Simon
During
(New
York:
Routledge,
1993),
213.

14

Ibid.

126

15

Miller,
“During
Prohibition,
Harlem
Night
Clubs
Kept
the
Party
Going.”

16

Ernest
D.
Mason,
“Black
Art
and
the
Configurations
of
Experience:
The
Philosophy

of
the
Black
Aesthetic,”
CLA
Journal
27,
no.
1
(1983):
6.

17

Campbell,
A
Night
Club
Map
of
Harlem

18

West,
204-‐205.

19

W.E.B.
Du
Bois,
The
Souls
of
Black
Folk
(New
York:
Barnes
&
Noble
Classics,
2003),

9.

20

For
more,
see
Du
Bois,
The
Souls
of
Black
Folk,
7-‐15.

21

Du
Bois,
9.

22

In
addition
to
The
Cotton
Club,
Connie’s
Inn,
The
Nest
Club,
Small’s
Paradise,

Barron’s,
The
Spider
Web,
The
Saratoga
Club,
Ward’s
Swanee,
Pod’s
and
Jerry’s

Catagonia
Club,
The
Bamboo
Inn,
and
The
Lenox
all
catered
primarily
to
white

patrons.
See
“Black
Belt’s
Nite
Life.”
Variety
(October
16,
1929):
1,
12.

23
Steven
Watson,
The
Harlem
Renaissance:
Hub
of
African-‐American
Culture,
1920-‐
1930
(New
York:
Pantheon
Books,
1995),
124-‐128.

24

The
“whiteness”
of
this
Black
cultural
space
was
underscored
in
1936,
when
the

club
uprooted
itself
from
Harlem,
and
made
itself
even
more
accessible
to
its
white

clientele
by
moving
to
the
Theater
District
in
midtown
Manhattan.

25

Jim
Haskins,
The
Cotton
Club:
A
Pictorial
and
Social
History
of
the
Most
Famous

Symbol
of
the
Jazz
Era
(New
York:
Random
House,
1977),
57.

26
James
Lincoln
Collier,
Duke
Ellington
(New
York:
Oxford
University
Press,
1987),

96.

27

Du
Bois,
9.

28

Josh
Kun,
Audiotopia:
Music,
Race,
and
America
(Berkeley:
UC
Press,
2005),
3.

29
The
phrase
“hoy
falloy”
is
an
adaptation
of
the
Greek
“hoi
polloi,”
which
means

“the
many”
or
“the
common
people.”
When
reconfigured
as
Black
cultural
lexicon

slang
however,
the
meaning
is
reversed,
and
instead
means

“hoity
toity”
or
“the

elite
few.”
This
linguistic
reversal
is
a
power
shifting
mechanism—allowing
the

“other”
to
other
the
“otherer.”

30

Though
white,
Irving
Mills
had
a
special
connection
to
Harlem,
and
the
jazz

musicians
it
fostered.
As
a
music
publisher,
lyricist,
and
manager,
he
is
credited
with

having
discovered
Duke
Ellington,
and
for
breaking
both
Ellington
and
Calloway
into

“the
closed
world
of
white
music.”
See
Penelope
McMillan.
“Irving
Mills,
Discoverer

of
Duke
Ellington,
Dies,”
Los
Angeles
Times,
April
22,
1985.

31

Alex
Hill
was
a
Black
jazz
arranger
and
pianist
who
worked
with
an
array
of

popular
musicians
in
the
1920s
and
1930s,
including
Duke
Ellington,
Paul

Whiteman,
Benny
Carter,
and
Ina
Ray
Hutton.
He
became
staff
arranger
for
Irving

Mills.

32

Mason,
4-‐5.

33

Jean
Toomer,
“Music”
from
The
Psychologic
Papers
in
A
Jean
Toomer
Reader:

Selected
Unpublished
Writings,
ed.
Frederik
L.
Rusch
(New
York:
Oxford
University

Press,
[1937]
1993),
276.

34

Calloway
is
seen
greeting
a
table
full
of
Black
patrons
in
attendance
at
the
Cotton

Club
after
his
set.
A
similar
scene
occurs
in
Calloway’s
1934
iteration
of
Hi-‐De-‐Ho,
in

127

which
he
happily
joins
the
Black
porter’s
wife
at
a
booth
after
his
performance.

Although
these
scenes
give
the
illusion
that
the
club
supported
a
racially
mixed

audience,
this
is
not
the
case.
Headliner
and
main
draw
Duke
Ellington
was
able
to

achieve
a
minute
level
integrating
the
audience
during
his
residency
by
asking
for

the
“whites
only”
policy
to
be
relaxed
with
respect
to
the
band’s
friends
and
family.

The
club
obliged,
but
still
carefully
screened
its
patrons,
priding
itself
on
its

otherwise
strict
racial
policies.
For
more
see
Jim
Haskins’
The
Cotton
Club.

35

It
is
important
to
note
that
race
and
class
are
often
conflated
in
these
films.
These

subjects
operate
both
under
the
veil
of
Blackness
and
as
“the
help”(whether

gainfully
employed
or
enslaved);
this
causes
Blacks
“caught”
by
whites
“
while

engaging
and
gathering
freely
to
have
to
both
socio-‐culturally
and
“professionally”

reposition
themselves
as
the
white
hegemonic
power
structure
is
reintroduced.

36

The
one
exception
to
the
rule
here
can
be
found
in
the
slew
of
Shirley
Temple
and

Bill
‘Bojangles’
Robinson
films
released
by
20
th

Century
Fox
in
the
1930s
[The
Little

Colonel
(Butler,
1935)
The
Littlest
Rebel
(1935),
Captain
January
(1936),
Rebecca
of

Sunnybrook
Farm
(1938),
Just
Around
the
Corner
(1938].

As
a
prepubescent
star,

Shirley
Temple’s
screen
characters
interacted
with
her
Black
costars
with
a
physical

proximity
and
level
of
emotional
intimacy
that
would
have
been
socially
and

industrially
unfathomable
had
she
been
older;
her
youthful
innocence
derailed
any

possible
suggestion
of
miscegenation
as
she
interacted
with
her
Black
caretakers,

but
also
provoked
a
perception
of
social
equality.
Likewise,
her
youthful
innocence

seemed
to
strip
her
of
her
white
social
power
in
the
film,
which
instead
made
her

presence
in
Black
spaces
essentially
innocuous.
This
allowed
the
Black
characters
in

her
films
reprieve
from
the
veil
when
she
was
in
their
presence
or
their
spaces.
As

an
example,
in
The
Little
Colonel
Lloyd
(Temple)
is
escorted
by
her
Black
caretakers,

Mom
Beck
(Hattie
McDaniel)
and
Walker
(Bill
Robinson)
to
an
elaborate
Black
river

baptism.
Her
presence
as
a
cultural
outsider
in
the
Black
cultural
space
has
no

bearing
on
the
activity,
nor
on
the
Black
participants.
In
fact
not
only
is
she
given
the

opportunity
to
witness
the
Black
aesthetic,
but
she
also
is
converted
into
a

participant.
In
young
Temple’s
screen
presence,
the
Black
characters
she
shares
the

screen
with
are
not
burdened
with
the
veil.

37

Shawn
Michelle
Smith,
“Looking
at
One’s
Self
through
the
Eyes
of
Others:
W.E.B.

Du
Bois’
Photographs
of
the
1900
Paris
Exposition,”
African
American
Review
34,
no.

4,
(Winter
2000):
589.

38

Kun,
13.

39

Correspondence
from
Vincent
G.
Hart
to
Joseph
I.
Breen.
11
February
1935,

Motion
Picture
Association
of
America
Production
Code
Administration
records.

Margaret
Herrick
Library,
Beverly
Hills,
CA.

40

Correspondence
from
Joseph
I.
Breen
to
Vincent
Hart,
15
February
1935,
Motion

Picture
Association
of
America
Production
Code
Administration
records,
Margaret

Herrick
Library,
Beverly
Hills,
CA.

41

State
of
New
York
Education
Department:
Motion
Picture
Division,
f.
Cab

Calloway’s
Jitterbug
Party,
May
2,
1935,
New
York
State
Archives,
Albany,
NY.

128

42

Although
there
is
a
small
web
of
PCA
correspondence
on
file
about
the
potential

Code
violations
of
Jitterbug
Party,
there
is
no
existing
correspondence
that
details

the
conclusion
of
the
issue
before
the
film’s
release.
It
should
be
noted
that
Jitterbug

Party’s
running
time
is
noticeably
shorter
than
most
musical
shorts
of
the
era

coming
in
at
just
over
7:30;
most
musical
shorts
of
the
era
tend
to
range
between
9

and
10
minutes—
closer
to
the
length
of
full
reel
of
sound
film.

The
New
York

Censor
Board
records
mark
that
nearly
200
feet
(approximately
2
minutes)
of

material
was
cut
from
the
original
film
before
it
was
approved
for
exhibition
in
New

York
state;
this
final
exhibition
length
is
close
to
the
length
of
the
print(s)
that
is

most
widely
in
circulation
today.

Again,
these
eliminations
were
made
by
the
state

censor
board,
not
by
the
suggestion
of
PCA
itself,
so
it
would
seems
that
despite

PCA’s
concerns
that
no
changes
to
the
film
were
ever
made
at
their
behest.

43

Claudia
Roth
Pierpont,
“Black,
Brown,
and
Beige:
Duke
Ellington’s
music
and
race

in
America,”
The
New
Yorker
(May
17,
2010),
100.

44

St.
Louis
Blues
was
one
of
many
all-‐Black
films
produced
and
distributed
by
Jewish

Texan
Alfred
N.
Sack
under
his
production
company
Sack
Amusement
Enterprises.

Sack’s
company
served
as
a
niche
outlet
creating
race
films
which
catered
primarily

to
Black
audiences
throughout
the
1930s
and
1940s.
He
continued
producing

and/or
distributing
a
number
of
Spencer
Williams’
and
Oscar
Micheaux’s
films
up

until
the
beginning
of
the
Civil
Rights
Movement.
See
Brandon
Harris,
“Black

America’s
Forgotten
film
history:
a
new
MoMA
exhibit
puts
black
films
front
and

center,”
The
New
Republic
Magazine,
June
8,
2015.

45

Harvey
G.
Cohen,
Duke
Ellington’s
America
(Chicago:
The
University
of
Chicago

Press,
2010),
103.

46

Carl
Van
Vechten
was
a
staple
white
figure
during
the
Harlem
Renaissance.
He
is

known
for
having
photographed
many
prominent
Black
Harlem
Renaissance
figures,

and
for
having
written
about
Harlem
as
a
place
of
lore
and
its
inhabitants
as

mystifying
in
both
Vanity
Fair
and
in
his
seminal
novel
Nigger
Heaven.
Van
Vechten

was
a
complicated
figure
both
within
and
outside
of
Harlem,
and
opinions
on
his

presence
and
representation
of
Black
culture
varied
widely
in
the
Black
community;

Cohen,
103.

47

Elizabeth
Broun
in
1934:
A
New
Deal
for
Artists,
Ann
Prentice
Wagner
(London:

Giles
Ltd,
2009)

48

Rick
Jewell,
The
Golden
Age
of
Cinema:
Hollywood
1929-‐1945
(Malden,
MA:

Blackwell
Publishing,
2007),
29-‐30.

49

Jewell,
30.

50

Donald
Bogle,
Toms,
Coons,
Mulattoes,
Mammies,
and
Bucks
(New
York:

Continuum,
2004),
7-‐8.

51

Cohen,
59.

52

Duke
Ellington,
Music
is
My
Mistress
(Garden
City
New
York:
Da
Capo,
1973),
77.

53

John
Edward
Hass,
Beyond
Category:
The
Life
and
Genius
of
Duke
Ellington
(New

York:
Da
Capo,
1993),
100.

54

Cohen,
53.

55

Irving
Mills,
“I
Split
with
Duke
When
Music
Began
Sidetracking”
in
The
Duke

129

Ellington
Reader,
ed.
Mark
Tucker
(New
York:
Oxford
University.
Press,

1993)
274.

56

Cohen,
51-‐53.

57

LeRoi
Jones,
Blues
People:
Negro
Music
in
White
America
(New
York:
Perennial,

1963),
127.

58

Bogle,
117-‐136.

59

Bogle,
xxiv.

60

Ivie
Anderson
was
the
lead
singer
of
Ellington’s
orchestra
from
1931-‐1942.

61
Alain
Locke,
“The
New
Negro”
in
The
New
Negro:
Voices
of
the
Harlem
Renaissance,

ed.
Alain
Locke
(New
York:
Touchstone,
1997),
3-‐6.

62

Locke,
6.

63

Jones,
132.

64

Locke,
6.

65

Duke
Ellington.
“Ellington’s
First
Article:
‘The
Tragedy
of
Duke
Ellington’
(1931)”

in
The
Duke
Ellington
Reader,
ed.
Mark
Tucker
(New
York:
Oxford
University
Press,

2005),
49.

66

Cohen,
108.

67

Ellington,
“The
Duke
Steps
Out
(1931),”
49-‐50.

68

See
Ellington,
Music
is
My
Mistress,
85;
Pierpoint,
100.

69

Sonny
Greer
in
Cohen,
52.

70

Mason,
2.

71

Ellington,
Music
is
My
Mistress,
122.

72

Ibid,
17.

73

Ellington’s
self-‐perception
of
his
work
as
“serious”
was
importantly
shared
by
his

manager
Irving
Mills.
Ellington
historian
Harvey
G.
Cohen
claims
Mills
“viewed

Ellington
not
just
as
a
musician
or
songwriter,
but
as
an
important
composer,
and
he

treated
him
that
way.”
(Cohen,
51.)
As
Ellington’s
manager,
Mills
was
the
enforcer

who
ensured
that
Ellington
and
his
band
were
treated
and
represented
in

accordance
with
Ellington’s
“serious”
self-‐perception.

74

John
Hammond,
“’The
Tragedy
of
Duke
Ellington”
(1935)’
in
The
Duke
Ellington

Reader,
ed.
Mark
Tucker
(New
York:
Oxford
University
Press,
2005),
119.

75

Mason,
12.

76

Ellington
continued
to
experiment
with
compositions
that
articulated
the
Black

experience
as
a
broad
and
historical
spectrum.
In
1943,
he
composed
the
three

movement
symphony,
“Black,
Brown
and
Beige,”
for
a
performance
at
Carnegie
Hall.

When
he
introduced
the
piece,
he
is
noted
to
have
said
to
his
mostly
white
audience,

“We
would
like
to
say
that
this
is
a
parallel
to
the
history
of
the
American
Negro.
And

of
course,
it
tells
a
long
story.”
The
first
movement,
“Black,”
reflects
the
physical
and

emotional
struggles
of
slavery;
“Brown,”
the
second
movement
deals
with
the

period
of
Emancipation
and
the
Black
military
service
throughout
American
history,

and
“Beige”
highlights
the
continuing
racial
and
class
injustices
in
contemporary

1940s
Harlem.
Like
Symphony
in
Black,
“Black,
Brown
and
Beige”
spoke
to
the
Black

American’s
main
social
concerns
in
America
at
the
time—in
this
case
the
feeling
of

130

disillusionment
that
arose
for
many
Black
Americans
as
they
were
called
upon
to

fighting
against
fascism
and
inequality
in
WII.

Graham
Lock
claims
that
both
Symphony
in
Black
and
“Black,
Brown
and

Beige”
are
both
connected
via
Ellington’s
explicit
proclamation
of
the
works
coming

from
a
place
of
“social
significance.”
(Lock,
107).
See
also
Pierpont,
100-‐101;

77

Smith,
582.

78

“Hollywood
Calls
the
Duke
Ellington
Rehearsals
Hot,”
The
Chicago
Defender,
May

12,
1934.

79

Margaret
Walker
Alexander,
“Some
Aspects
of
the
Black
Aesthetic,”
Freedomways,

vol.
16,
no.
2
(1976):
101.

80

Alexander,
97.

131

Chapter
3:

Immersion,
Invasion,
and
Infiltration:
Boundary
Crossing
and

(Un)Belonging

The
abbreviated
format
of
the
short
film
provided
a
distinct
opportunity
to

fully
immerse
the
viewer
in
ways
that
were
much
more
difficult
to
sustain
in
feature

length
films.

With
respect
to
musical
shorts
in
the
1930s
in
particular,
the
technique

served
multiple
purposes.

The
financial
toll
of
the
Great
Depression
had
eaten
into

the
public’s
disposable
income
for
leisure
activities,
which
in
turn
caused
many
live

entertainment
houses
to
close.
1

The
movie
industry,
itself
struggling
at
the
time,
saw

this
sudden
dip
in
live
musical
entertainment
as
an
opportunity,
and
brought
the

performances
to
the
screen,
creating
a
beneficial
and
economical
exchange
for
both

themselves
and
the
artists.

Musicians
and
bands
used
the
films
as
modernized,
pinpointed
marketing
in

which
the
shorts
were
strategically
and
contractually
released
in
theaters
that

coincided
with
those
on
the
artists’
tour
circuits.
2

Movie
houses
used
the
films
to

entice
frugal
patrons
with
a
robust
bill
that
offered
several
hours
of
screen
material,

including
features,
shorts,
cartoons,
newsreels,
and
musical
performances
all
for
a

comparatively
more
affordable
cost.

Theater-‐goers
benefitted
from
the
satisfaction

of
“immediacy”
related
to
short
film
distribution;
no
longer
having
to
wait
until
a

performer
or
band
toured
through
their
city,
they
could
experience
the
performance

concomitantly
with
other
moviegoers
around
the
country.
Filmed
musical

performances
also
provided
an
increased
level
of
convenience
for
fans,
as

reproducibility
expanded
the
amount
of
locations
in
which
performances
could
be

132

seen;
with
film,
fans
were
given
additional
options
on
where
and
when
to
see
the

artists.
And
finally,
the
movies
studios
and
musical
talent
alike
benefitted
from
the

promotional
aspect
of
short
films—
essentially
stylized,
long
form
commercials,
the

films
worked
to
advertise
the
artists’
music
or
upcoming
tours.

The
key
to
making
a
successful
musical
short
was
to
create
an
atmosphere
of

“active
presence”
in
which
the
viewer
was
persuaded
to
believe
that
their

experience
at
the
theater
was
at
minimum
as
good
as
that
in
the
live
arena,
if
not

better.

In
order
to
manufacture
this
atmosphere,
the
filmmakers
relied
heavily
on

constructing
the
illusion
of
immersion.
The
creation
of
an
immersive
experience

requires
the
metaphysical
breaking
of
the
barrier
created
by
the
screen,
and
the

resultant
envelopment
of
the
audience
into
the
performance
space
on
the
screen.
At

this
moment,
the
viewer
is
converted
from
a
distanced,
passive
state
into
an

involved,
active
state.

Most
musical
shorts
of
this
period
utilized
various

techniques
and
staging
to
create
such
an
immersive
atmosphere,
3

but
the
films

featuring
Black
musicians
in
particular
were
comparatively
more
creative
and

aggressive
in
their
attempts
at
immersion.

As
discussed
in
the
previous
chapter,
one
such
immersive
technique
in
Black

musical
shorts
was
the
invitation
(used
loosely),
which
resulted
in
a
“cultural
tour.”

During
the
“tour,”
a
Black
cultural
insider
acted
as
tour
guide,
and
provided
the

audience
with
access
to
a
world
and
cultural
practices
that
were
otherwise

inaccessible
to
them.
The
immersive
feel
of
the
cultural
tour
was
often
enhanced
by

other
medium-‐specific
techniques
that
heightened
the
illusion
for
the
viewer.

In

Paramount’s
1933
Bundle
of
Blues,
director
Fred
Waller
initiates
the
construction
of

133

the
immersive
experience
as
soon
as
the
opening
credits.
Beginning
like
any
other

credit
sequence,
a
title
card
boldly
displays
the
feature
act-‐-‐“Duke
Ellington
and
his

Orchestra”-‐-‐and
then
follows
with
the
film’s
name
and
supporting
performers.

However,
after
all
pertinent
introductory
information
has
been
displayed
in
its

customary
fashion,
the
screen
suddenly
comes
to
life
as
the
band’s
name
begins
to

blink
feverishly.
With
this
jarring
animation,
the
viewer
is
signaled
that
what
is
to

follow
will
be
a
heightened
interactive
experience,
and
that
“Duke
Ellington
and
his

Orchestra”
will
serve
as
the
catalyst
for
that
interactivity.
The
information
on
the

film’s
animated,
blinking
title
card
is
then
transposed
onto
a
theater
marquee
within

the
film
world
as
an
act
of
replicating
the
visual
marker
of
a
live
performance.
This

stylized
tactic
seamlessly
blends
the
real
world
and
diegetic
world
and
as
a
result,

repositions
the
audience;
the
illusion
is
created
to
move
the
passive
film
audience

from
the
movie
theater
into
the
concert
hall
presented
in
the
film.
Finally,
the

transition
into
the
immersive
space
is
completed
as
the
camera
pans
down
from
the

marquee
to
the
theater
entrance,
then
tracks
down
the
hallway
towards
the
main

event
space;
this
specified
camera
use
moves
the
viewer
from
outside
the
theater,

inside,
where
Ellington
sits
at
his
piano.
Through
the
use
of
film
language,
white

viewers
are
moved
from
the
movie
theater,
into
the
film,
into
the
concert
hall,
and

are
immersed
into
the
Black
cultural
space.

Two
years
later,
director
Waller
continued
to
build
on
immersing
white
film

audiences
into
Black
cultural
spaces
with
his
Jitterbug
Party
featuring
Cab
Calloway,

and
discussed
in
Chapter
3.
4

In
this
film,
Waller
stages
the
film
in
a
manner
in
which

to
position
the
viewer
amongst
the
live
performance
audience
by
pulling
the
camera

134

back
from
the
stage
and
framing
the
scene
to
include
not
just
the
stage,
but
also
a

portion
of
the
nightclub
audience.
5

This
seemingly
simple
framing
is
impactful,
as
it

creates
an
illusion
in
which
the
onscreen
diegetic
audience
extends
into
the
real

space
of
the
movie
theater.
The
illusion
blurs
the
liminal
barrier
of
the
screen
and

blends
the
two
audiences
creating
an
increased
level
of
immersion
for
the
movie

viewer.

This
particular
method
of
breaking
the
4
th

wall
to
integrate
the

representational
world
and
the
actual
world
of
the
audience
was
innovative
and

uncommon
during
the
Golden
Age,
when
self-‐reflexivity
was
the
common

mechanism
for
breaking
the
4
th

wall.
Further,
self-‐reflexivity
was
most
often
an
anti-‐
immersive
tool,
used
to
disrupt
the
closed
film
world
via
an
actor
who
temporarily

calls
attention
to
the
film
façade
by
interacting
with
the
world
outside
of
the
frame.

In
Waller’s
films,
however,
the
flow
in
which
the
4
th

wall
is
dismantled
is
reversed,

and
instead
of
the
actors
breaking
into
the
outside
world,
the
outside
world
is

forcibly
invited
into
the
screen
world.

Digital
media
scholar
Janet
Murray’s
claim
that
such
techniques
are
a

phenomenon
unique
to
the
modern
digital
world
proves
that
these
early
short
films

were
not
only
innovative,
but
also
well
ahead
of
their
time.
In
her
seminal
work,

Hamlet
on
the
Holodeck,
Murray
says
that
early
media
producers
were
most
often

limited
by
the
constructs
of
the
frame
in
their
boundary
crossing
experiments;
while

these
filmmakers
used
various
methodologies
(including
character-‐fusion,

dramatization,
narrative
construction
and
disruption)
to
break
boundaries,
they

struggled
to
find
ways
to
bring
the
audience
into
the
frame.
6

The
act
of
breaking

135

boundaries
in
media
has
historically
been
done
for
the
audience,
not
with
the

audience.

However,
Jitterbug
Party
demonstrates
an
early
example
of
filmmakers

attempting
to
immerse
the
audience
in
a
manner
not
typically
surveyed
until

decades
later.
By
metaphysically
thrusting
the
viewer
into
the
screen
space,
the

illusory
space
is
made
malleable
and
realism
is
heightened.

From
a
cultural
perspective,
this
sort
of
immersive
practice
was
a

progressive
tool
that
had
the
potential
for
progressive
ramifications
in
the
larger

macrocosm
of
the
segregated
United
States.
While
“the
invitation”
in
the
Black

musical
short
allowed
for
satirical
and
defiantly
provocative
methods
of
cultural

exchange
to
be
employed
directly
by
the
Black
performers
themselves,
immersion

was
instead
a
purely
cinematic,
confrontational
form
of
cultural
interactivity.

Immersion
not
only
controls
the
position
of
the
viewer,
but
also
as
a
byproduct

diminishes
gaps
and
space
between
the
viewer
and
the
subject.

Viewing
the
Harlem
nightclub
in
major
studio
short
films
provides
an

interesting
lens
through
which
to
view
such
intercultural
confrontation.

Author

James
De
Jongh
claims
that
Renaissance
era
Harlem
was
an
interculturally
complex

location
that
“posed
a
challenge
to
contemporary
limits
and
cultural
terms
within

which
personal
being
for
both
blacks
and
whites
were
imagined
and
defined.”
7

Though
Harlem
may
have
been
a
crucible
of
Black
modernism
and
mobility,
it
was

its
traversable
borders
that
made
it
especially
unique.
De
Jongh
explains
that

cultural
outsiders
crossing
this
border
was
“an
act
fraught
with
connotations
and

implications,”
8

and
thus
certain
mechanisms
and
protocols
were
put
in
place
at

nightclubs
to
assuage
some
of
those
culture-‐blending
implications.
Historian
Jim

136

Haskins
claims
that
the
segregated
operation
of
all-‐white
trade
clubs
in
Harlem,

such
as
the
Cotton
Club,
was
strategic
and
formulaic;
he
identifies
the
business

model
as
such:

Cater
primarily
to
whites
and
give
them
everything
they
want—an

opportunity
to
observe
exotic
entertainment,
a
chance
to
participate
without

crossing,
to
any
appreciable
degree,
the
color
line,
a
chance
to
be
in,
but
not

of
Harlem.
9

However,
as
the
clubs
were
brought
to
the
film
screen
this
formula
was
disrupted,

as
immersion
became
a
primary
experiential
objective.
While
a
film
can
never
make

a
viewer
“of”
a
place,
it
does
have
the
power
to
unsettle
and
reorient;
the
act
of

cinematic
immersion
can
force
viewers
to
cross
lines
without
consent
or

forewarning.

Murray
contends
that
with
these
immersive
actions,
a
“sense
of
being

contained
within
a
space
or
state
of
mind
that
is…more
focused
and
absorbing”

results.
10

When
made
culturally
applicable,
immersion
in
Black
musical
shorts

forced
white
cultural
outsiders
into
a
tight
confine
with
the
Black
“other,”

challenging
preexisting
myths
and
fantasies
about
the
“other,”
and
allowing
for

more
realistic
portrayals
to
surface.

The
disruption
caused
by
this

demythologization
and
normalization
of
the
“Black
other”
were
essential
steps
for

Blacks
gaining
acceptance
and
citizenship
in
modern
America.

The
use
of
immersion
in
Black
musical
shorts
as
a
means
of
challenging

cultural
othering
and
mythologization
was
also
supported
through
the
construction

of
the
artists’
stage
personas.
While
the
Black
cultural
differences
of
Ellington
and

Calloway
were
celebrated
instead
of
disparaged
in
their
representation,
these

cultural
differences
most
often
fell
under
the
larger
umbrella
of
dominant
white

137

American
ideology,
creating
concrete
points
of
relatability
and
familiarity
for
white

audiences.
Primarily,
it
was
their
distinguished,
middle
class,
citified
personas
that

were
key
identifiers,
and
for
all
of
Ellington’s
stateliness
and
Calloway’s
eccentricity,

class
alignment
and
urbanity
were
the
most
important
signifiers
for
the
modern

white
viewer.

These
signifiers
were
partially
by
design.
Historian
Harvey
Cohen
claims
that

manager
Irving
Mills
made
a
concerted
effort
to
uphold
these
progressive

representations
and
“to
[shield]
Ellington
and
the
orchestra
from
the
degrading

contemporary
images
of
Jim
Crow
discrimination.”
11

Calloway,
also
managed
by

Mills,
additionally
benefitted
from
this
progressive
attitude.
12

The
urbanized
and

middle
class
representations
of
these
artists
were
an
emblem
of
American

modernity
and
progress;
although
the
world
that
they
represented
on
film
was
still

that
of
a
segregated
America,
there
were
figurative
and
ideological
points
of

alignment
with
cultural
outsiders
in
their
representation.
Through
their
personas,

the
strivings
and
potentialities
for
and
upholding
of
such
by
management
had
a

normalizing
and
integrative
effect
for
the
Black
performers.
Thus,
the
construction

of
Black
persona
had
the
capability
to
serve
as
a
secondary
immersive
tool,
and

when
used
as
a
point
of
ideological
alignment,
could
increase
the
immersive
cultural

experience
for
the
white
viewer.

Although
various
immersive
and
integrated
techniques
were
utilized
to

usher
in
and
familiarize
the
white
audience
to
the
foreign
Black
cultural
worlds
of

Ellington’s
and
Armstrong’s
films,
the
short
films
featuring
their
contemporary,

Louis
Armstrong,
were
not
given
the
same
treatment.
Although
Paramount

138

produced
all
but
one
of
the
major
studio
short
releases
of
these
three
musicians,
the

“house
style”
that
was
prevalent
in
features
of
the
era
was
not
necessarily
apparent

in
the
shorts.
Instead,
the
Black
shorts
moved
away
from
generic
studio
styles,
and

alternatively
catered
the
shorts
to
each
featured
star’s
persona.
With
the
stars’

individual
personas
as
the
blueprint
for
the
films,
the
shorts—though
similarly

themed-‐-‐
greatly
differed
from
one
another.

Thus,
the
progressive
strides
made
in

Ellington
and
Calloway’s
films
as
points
of
integration
and
immersion
were
not

automatically
transferable
to
those
of
Armstrong
simply
because
he
was
also
a
Black

jazz
musician
making
films
under
the
Paramount
“Headliner
Series”
umbrella.

In
fact,
Armstrong’s
two
Paramount
shorts,
the
live
action
A
Rhapsody
in

Black
and
Blue
(1932,
Aubrey
Scotto)
and
the
live
action
cartoon
I’ll
be
Glad
When

You’re
Dead
You
Rascal
You
(1932,
Dave
Fleischer)
directly
oppose
many
of

techniques
and
conceptualizations
utilized
in
the
films
of
his
Black
contemporaries;

this
opposing
representation
has
most
commonly
been
read
as
regressive
and

anachronistic
by
historians
and
scholars.
Armstrong’s
films
do
not
make
use
of

innovative
immersive
techniques,
and
also
play
up
the
“otherness”
of
his
persona

and
connected
Blackness
to
amplify
and
maintain
cultural
distance
between
himself

as
subject,
and
the
viewer.

In
opposition
to
the
racialized
elements
of
Calloway
and

Ellington’s
films,
Armstrong’s
films
work
to
uphold
old,
racial
ideologies,
and
create

a
distanced,
anti-‐immersive
experience
for
the
viewer.

Like
Ellington
and
Calloway,
Armstrong’s
individual
stage
persona
was

fundamental
to
the
construction
of
his
films;
however,
unlike
Ellington
and

Calloway,
Armstrong’s
short
films
reestablished
the
regressive
and
stereotypical

139

barriers
that
the
modern
Black,
“New
Negro”
was
working
to
diminish.
It
is

important
to
note
that
the
stage
persona
of
each
musical
personality
was
not
merely

a
construct
of
entertainment,
but
was
also
in
many
ways
a
conveyance
and
display
of

their
true
backgrounds
and
status
positions.
Classism—and
as
a
result
of
innate

entanglement,
colorism
and
regionalism-‐-‐
informed
representational
distinctions
of

Blackness
between
Calloway,
Ellington,
and
Armstrong’s
personas
during
this

period.

Ellington
and
Calloway
were
each
byproducts
of
Northern,
urbane,
middle

class
families.
Ellington’s
stage
sophistication
was
an
extension
of
his
turn-‐of-‐the-‐
century,
urban
upbringing
in
Washington,
D.C.
His
class
status
was
generational:
his

maternal
grandfather
was
a
police
chief,
and
his
father
was
a
high-‐class
butler
and

caterer
who
even
was
employed
at
the
White
House
during
the
Harding

administration.
Although
Ellington
developed
his
jazz
style
amongst
other

musicians
as
he
grew
up
in
D.C.,
it
was
his
parents
who
first
introduced
to
him
to

music,
enrolling
him
in
formal
piano
lessons
at
a
young
age
as
a
method
of
social

acculturation.
13

Similarly,
Calloway
came
of
age
in
Black
middle-‐class
Baltimore,

under
the
tutelage
of
his
college
graduate
parents.
His
father’s
career
as
a
lawyer
no

doubt
inspired
Calloway
to
seek
out
the
profession
himself
14

-‐-‐
studying
pre-‐law
at

Crane
College
in
Chicago
before
dropping
out
to
pursue
his
music
(ironically,
his

first
gig
was
as
a
singer
in
Louis
Armstrong’s
band).
15

Like
Ellington,
though

Calloway
honed
his
craft
on
the
streets
of
Baltimore,
he
was
first
primed
through

formal
voice
training,
and
admitted
in
a
later
interview
with
Steve
Voce
that
it
was

his
musical
studies
that
had
all
of
his
attention
throughout
school.
16

140

Although
their
manager,
Irving
Mills,
worked
to
ensure
their
positive

representations
and
cultural
dignity
on
screen
and
otherwise,
Calloway
and

Ellington
never
“performed”
their
middle
class
status
in
the
age
of
“The
New
Negro;”

instead,
they
upheld
it.

Their
representation
was
a
portrayal
of
their
reality
as

“Modern
Negroes,”
highlighting
urbanity
(specifically
northeastern
urbanity),

middle
class
positioning,
respectability,
and
the
preferred
lighter
skin
tone
that

made
the
navigating
these
spaces
with
dignity
a
possibility.

On
the
other
hand,
Armstrong’s
class
background
and
persona
portrayal
was

representative
of
perceptions
that
most
modern,
turn-‐of-‐the-‐century
Blacks
were

trying
to
distance
themselves
from.
Unlike
Calloway
and
Ellington,
Armstrong
was

born
to
a
single-‐parent,
teenaged
mother,
and
grew
up
extremely
poor
in
New

Orleans.

His
introduction
to
music
was
informal
and
unintentional,
he
was
given
a

cornet
to
play
in
order
to
attract
attention
to
the
wares
for
sale
on
the
cart
of
a

Lithuanian
family
of
peddlers
he
worked
for.

Later,
he
was
arrested
for
firing
blanks

at
age
11
and
was
sent
to
live
at
the
Colored
Waif’s
home-‐-‐
a
reform
school
which

had
a
youth
band.
It
was
here
in
this
juvenile
detention
center,
which
jazz
writer

Matt
Miccuci
describes
as
being
“surrounded
by
barbed
wire
and
looming
over
a

mixture
of
graveyards
and
farms,”
that
Armstrong
was
able
to
“practice
the
horn

with
regularity”
for
the
first
time.
17

Skin
color
also
played
a
role
in
the
representation
of
class
distinction
and

otherness
on
the
screen
for
the
artists.
In
1918,
American
Sociological
President
and

eugenicist
Edward
Byron
Reuter
published
his
The
Mulatto
in
the
United
States,
a

study
in
which
he
concluded
that
in
racially
mixed
societies,
“physical
appearance

141

becomes
the
basis
for
class
and
caste
distinction”
in
which
a
social
hierarchy
was

determined
in
degrees
of
whiteness.
According
to
his
racist
findings,
the
whiter,
or

whiter
looking
a
Black
person,
the
higher
caste
they
naturally
belonged
to.
18

Despite

the
lack
of
science
in
Reuter’s
theories,
the
societal
and
cinematic
landscape
both

supported
and/or
adhered
to
his
findings.
Though
navigating
the
screen
space
(and

United
States
at
large)
was
an
obstacle
for
all
Black
figures
during
this
period
of

intense
and
overt
racial
discrimination,
Blacks
with
lighter
skin
tones
were
often

portrayed
with
more
dignity
on
the
screen.
Colorism
as
classism
could
be
seen
at

play
in
the
consistent
casting
of
darker
skinned
actors
in
films
as
mammies,
slaves,

coons,
workers
in
menial
positions,
and
cultural
buffoons.
Conversely,
Black
women

who
were
to
be
ogled
(by
Black
and
white
men
alike),
social
climbers,
or
suave

sophisticates
were
most
always
lighter
skinned.

Colorism
as
an
ideology
and
social
practice,
and
the
conflation
of
class
and

color
were
brought
to
the
visual
medium;
as
such,
Calloway
and
Ellington’s
lighter

hues
were
a
marker
of
their
social
class
status
on
the
screen.
Conversely,
Armstrong,

with
his
darker
skin
tone,
was
visually
stratified
at
the
bottom
of
the
racial
caste

spectrum.
Armstrong
supports
this
concept,
claiming
that
even
amongst
his
own

Black
community
in
New
Orleans,
he
and
his
family
were
considered
“black
blacks”,

or
the
“bottom
of
the
heap”
amongst
the
Creole
population.
19

This
colorist
ideology

was
likewise
articulated
on
the
screen,
as
Calloway
and
Ellington’s
lighter
skin
tone

and
middle
class
status
both
made
the
personas
more
relatable
to
and
more
easily

digestible
for
white
audiences,
while
Armstrong’s
dark
skin
tone
and
resultant

social
class
status
was
used
as
a
“othering”
and
distancing
device.
20

142

Ellington
and
Calloway’s
personas
built
films
that
celebrated
minute
Black

cultural
differences
while
simultaneously
promulgating
a
universal
“sameness”
in

both
their
overall
“humanity”
and
American-‐ness.
It
is
no
surprise
that
this
binary

was
a
common
trope
explored
by
many
Black
Harlem
Renaissance
artists,
and

speaks
to
the
ways
in
which
Calloway
and
Ellington
were
able
to
shape
the
material

and
representations
in
their
films.
Harlem
Renaissance
scholar
James
de
Jongh
notes

the
representation
of
this
duality
in
Harlem’s
literary
tradition
by
explaining
that

the
world
of
Harlem
was
“at
one
and
the
same
time
a
fundamentally
alien,
and
yet

patently
intelligible,
environ.”
21

Thus,
through
analyzing
the
screen
personas
of

Calloway
and
Ellington,
a
reading
of
the
larger
world
they
inhabited
as
middle
class,

upwardly
striving
“New
Negroes”
could
be
likewise
formulated.
The
two
musicians

blended
their
representations
as
formally
dressed,
urbane,
Americans
with
urban

slang,
Black
soulful
moods
and
ephemera,
and
Black
cultural
specificity;
likewise

this
balance
was
extended
to
the
entire
world
of
their
films,
making
them
at
once

appear
culturally
familiar
to
the
masses
while
also
appearing
culturally
unique.

On
the
other
hand,
Armstrong’s
screen
characterization,
seemed
to
lack
this

progressive
duality,
22

resulting
in
both
a
problematic
one-‐dimensionality
for
both

Black
subject
and
Black
world
alike.

Armstrong’s
persona
as
caricature
promoted
a

comparatively
less
distinguished,
culturally
immobilized
and
unrelatable

representation
of
modern
Blackness.
Instead,
Armstrong’s
persona
drew
heavily

from
a
mythological
minstrel
past,
inhabiting
many
of
the
identifying
characteristics

of
Alain
Locke’s
description
of
the
“Old
Negro.”
In
his
seminal
essay,
“The
New

Negro,”
Locke
describes
this
“Old
Negro”
as
a
“stock
figure”
that
was
“deliberate
in

143

reactionism”
and
who
was
regarded
more
as
a
“formula
than
human
being.”
23

This

formulaic
construction
of
Blackness
by
white
cultural
outsiders
in
turn
created
an

oxymoronic
mythology
of
Blackness—a
stereotypical
and
rudimentary
“point
of

familiarity”
that
was
actually
based
on
the
presentation
of
Blackness
as
alien
and

unfamiliar.
Armstrong
as
caricature—and
by
extension,
the
general
representation

of
Black
cultural
elements
in
his
films—
is
oppositional
to
the
prevalent
cultural

binary
portrayed
by
many
artists
during
the
Harlem
Renaissance
era.

With

Armstrong,
de
Jongh’s
explanation
of
Renaissance-‐era
Black
cultural
representation

is
misaligned,
instead
demonstrating
an
innate
“alienness”
and
“unintelligibility.”

Unlike
Ellington
and
Calloway,
Armstrong’s
screen
persona
worked
to
reinforce
his

Black
“otherness.”

From
a
marketing
standpoint,
Armstrong’s
heavily
caricatured
persona
had

positive
aspects,
as
the
unique
qualities
of
his
visual
persona
aptly
individuated
him

from
other
performers.
Armstrong’s
look,
sound,
and
actions
were
all
clearly

identifiable
and
distinctive,
and
thus,
as
a
true
showman
should,
he
always
stood
out

from
the
crowd.
However,
the
relation
between
his
persona
and
its
connection
to

degrading
representations
of
Blackness
were
at
once
representative
of
a
debased

minstrel
past
and
the
emergence
of
modern
caricature.
Outside
of
his
virtuoso

trumpet
playing,
all
other
defining
characteristics
of
Armstrong’s
persona
were

distorted
to
the
point
of
parody:
his
garbled,
gravely
voice,
his
bugged
out
eyes,
his

mugging,
his
overstretched
grin
that
seemed
to
bare
every
tooth.
In
Migrating
to
the

Movies,
film
historian
Jacqueline
Stewart
explains
that
situating
the
Black
body
as
a

site
for
“humor,
satire,
and
caricature”
was
a
technique
often
used
to
“support
[a]

144

fantasy
of
Blackness
in
the
white
imagination…that
is
fixed,
is
visually
familiar,
and

can
be
placed
safely
under
white
control.”
24

For
Armstrong,
the
satirical

presentation
of
his
persona
worked
thusly,
serving
as
both
an
ideological
white

fantasy
of
Blackness
and
also
a
way
to
mollify
white
fears
of
Black
upward
mobility

with
inanity.

Armstrong’s
satirical
representation
and
proximity
to
racial
caricature
was
a

great
departure
from
the
representations
being
conveyed
by
the
Black,
middle
class

urbanites
in
the
period.
As
the
Harlem
Renaissance
began
to
gain
its
footing
in
1925,

Locke
proudly
proclaimed
“Uncle
Tom
and
Sambo
have
passed
on”
as
an
energetic,

declarative
statement
for
the
emerging
New
Negro.

25

Leroi
Jones
gives
broader

context
to
the
desires
of
upwardly
mobile,
middle
class
Blacks
separating

themselves
from
a
degrading
past;
for
Jones,
middle
class
Blacks
weren’t
simply

attempting
to
distance
themselves
from
hyperbolized
representations
of
racial

degradation,
but
were
instead
working
towards
the
“hopeless
hypothesis”
of

creating
an
absolute
disconnection
from
the
entire
history
of
slavery.
26

Essentially,

the
foundation
of
the
Black
middle
class
and
its
subsequent
mobilization
was
based

upon
theories
of
cultural
agency
in
both
representation
and
practice.
The
continual

referencing
of
the
Black
American
past—whether
through
propping
up
degrading

minstrel
representations,
the
acknowledgement
of
slavery
as
a
painful
Black

American
beginning,
or
the
subjugation
of
Black
culture
as
poor
and
rural
were
all

examples
of
a
period
in
which
little-‐to-‐no
cultural
agency
was
afforded
Black

Americans.
Recognizing
and
referencing
the
Black
past
became
the
antithesis
to
the

Black
modern
middle
class’
ability
to
move
towards
the
Black
future.

145

As
such,
Armstrong’s
caricaturized
celebrity
persona
and
its
connection
to
a

problematic
Black
past
was
an
opposition
to
and
stagnation
of
the
ideological

strivings
of
the
Black
middle
class.
Donald
Bogle
goes
even
as
far
as
to
classify
this

representational
regression
by
saying
that
“without
[Armstrong’s]
music,
it
was

obvious
that
here
was
coon
and
a
tom
all
rolled
into
one.”
27

Unlike
Ellington
and

Calloway’s
personas
which
provided
a
conceptual
extension
to
modern
Black

culture,
Armstrong’s
persona
instead
primarily
manifested
itself
visually
and

physically.

As
a
result,
Armstrong’s
portrayal
of
Blackness
concretely
lent
itself
to

the
foundational
elements
of
modern
caricature,
which
served
as
a
regressive

counterpoint
to
Locke’s
proud
claim
that
the
era
was
giving
a
representational

platform
to
Blacks
who
“instead
of
being
wholly
caricatured,
[were]
being
seriously

portrayed
and
painted.”
28

With
this
in
mind,
Armstrong’s
persona
doubly

complicated
the
progressive
strivings
of
Black
modernity.

Not
only
did
Armstrong’s

proximity
to
caricature
drudge
up
what
the
Black
middle
class
considered
to
be

problematic
notions
and
regressions
towards
a
degrading
minstrel
past,
but
the

innate
anti-‐immersive
nature
of
caricature
in
general
promoted
a
form
of
cultural

acquiescence
to
white
supremacy
and
distanced
viewing.

Black
caricature
was
simply
an
adaption
of
a
long
history
of
distanced,
white

scopophilic
viewing
practices.

Laura
Mulvey’s
psychoanalytic
framework
of

cinematic
scopophilia
and
the
practice
of
“taking
other
people
as
objects
[and]

subjecting
them
to
a
controlling
and
curious
gaze,”
29

in
her
seminal
“Visual
Pleasure

and
Narrative
Cinema,”
is
a
near
perfect
correlation
to
the
racial
power
dynamics
of

cultural
gazing
in
film.
Mulvey’s
formative
gender
theory
places
power
in
the
gaze
of

146

the
active
male
viewer
who
derives
pleasure
from
looking
at
the
passive
female

subject,
cultural
pleasure
systems
in
film,
work
similarly:
white
cultural
scopophilia

is
derived
from
distanced
gazing
at
Black
subjects.
What
differs
however
between

Mulvey’s
gender-‐based
gaze
theory
and
the
cinematic
cultural
gaze
is
that
cultural

practices
re-‐determine
what
is
considered
“active”
and
“passive”
viewing.
For

Mulvey,
the
“active”
male
viewer
is
made
active
by
the
voyeuristic
“conditions
of

screening
and
narrative
conventions
[that]
give
the
spectator
an
illusion
of
looking

in
on
a
private
world.”
30

Alternately,
as
white
cultural
outsiders
gaze
uninvited
and

undetected
on
foreign
Black
culture
practices,
and/or
peer
in
on
the
performance
of

Black
cultural
activity
constructed
for
pleasure
of
the
white
gaze,
the
cultural

outsider’s
gaze
is
“passive”—though
they
still
control
the
power
dynamic.
When

considering
cultural
practices,
passive
viewing
is
distanced,
voyeuristic,

unimmersed
viewing.

Modern
caricature
is
a
representational
technique
that
heightens
such

scopophilic
gazing.
Unlike
immersion,
which
aims
to
draw
the
viewer
in,
modern

caricature
is
by
design
anti-‐immersive
and
distancing.
Not
only
is
it
foundationally
a

style
used
to
highlight
distinctions
and
differences,
and
otherwise
“other”
or

dehumanize
the
subject,
it
also
sets
the
parameters
for
removed
and
disconnected

viewing.
Art
historian
and
Smithsonian
curator,
Wendy
Wick
Reaves
notes
World

War
I
as
a
point
of
demarcation
in
caricature
style;
according
to
Reaves,
prior
to

World
War
I,
caricaturists
began
to
shift
their
focus-‐-‐
whereas
before
the
war,

caricature
artists
put
an
emphasis
on
revealing
the
“soul”
in
their
work,
during
the

Modern
period
they
felt
as
though
“the
soul
was
none
of
their
business.”
31

No
longer

147

using
caricature
exaggeration
to
“prob[e]
beneath
outward
appearances
to
expose

hidden,
disreputable
character
traits,
caricature
artists
after
WWI
were
instead

“respond[ing]
to
the
new
preoccupation
with
mass-‐media
generated
fame,”
32

Reaves
explains.
This
shift
resulted
in
cursory
representations
in
subjects
that
not

only
highlighted
surface
differences,
but
also,
when
considering
racial
distinctions,

worked
to
prop
up
pre-‐existing
stereotypes.

Such
effect
is
notable
in
the
work
of
Mexican
modern
caricature
artist
and

anthropologist
Miguel
Covarrubias,
who
became
an
influential
artist
in
Harlem
(and

New
York
at
large)
during
this
post
WWI
period.
During
the
time,
Covarrubias
was

praised
for
his
ability
to
create
a
“discernable
emotional
distance”
in
his
work,

which
“freed
him
to
concentrate
with
cool
detachment
on
likeness,
line
and

pattern.”
33

Importantly,
Covarrubias’
detachment
was
not
merely
stylistic,
but
was

also
cultural.
34

His
perspective
as
a
Mexican
artist
capturing
American
culture
was
at

the
forefront
of
his
work,
and
was
even
overtly
emphasized
in
a
1925
Vanity
Fair

piece
entitled,
“Six
Derisions
from
a
Mexican
Pencil:
Contemporary
Americana

Pictured
by
Covarrubias,”
in
which
Covarrubias
drew
6
popular
American
figures
of

the
time
in
caricature
form.

148

Fig.
4.1
“Six
Derisions
from
A
Mexican
Pencil,”
Vanity
Fair,
March
1925,

Miguel
Covarrubias.

This
disconnected
style
was
further
exhibited
in
his
“Enter,
The
New
Negro,
a

Distinctive
Type,”
a
two-‐page
Vanity
Fair
spread
in
the
1924
December
issue
that

focused
on
ten
Black
“types”
one
might
find
in
Harlem.
Ranging
from
“The
Sheik
of

Dahomey”
to
“That
Teasin’
Yalla
Gal,”
the
artist’s
depictions
of
the
well-‐dressed

Black
Harlemites
are
alluring,
35

yet,
limited
by
their
style.
Though
exploratory,
the

result
is
a
surface
rendering
of
urban
Black
life.

Reaves
notes
this
to
be
an

identifying
characteristic
of
modern
caricature,
claiming
that
“modern
caricature

was
not
a
probing
analysis,
nor
a
revelation
of
elemental
human
instincts
and

149

emotion,”
but
that
instead,
“it
exploited
rather
than
penetrated.”
36

Though

stereotyping
aims
to
make
the
cultural
foreignness
of
Black
Harlem
more
legible
to

white
outsiders
through
categorization,
it
simultaneously
dehumanizes
that
Black

subject
by
removing
individuality.

This
detachment
in
the
Covarrubias
piece
was
further
exacerbated
by
the

elitism
of
the
publication
itself;
Vanity
Fair’s
brand
proudly
advertised
that
it

catered
to
“the
vast,
Luxury-‐loving,
money-‐spending
multitude
everywhere.”
37

Curating
the
magazine’s
content
for
“the
elite”
supported
an
ability
for
curious

upper
class
white
readers
to
access
cultural
information
and
activities
outside
of

their
circle
while
also
never
having
to
leave
their
social
circle;
essentially,
the

magazine
served
as
an
acceptable
vehicle
for
exploring
“the
other”
from
a
distance

without
compromising
their
class
position.

150

Fig.
4.2
“Enter,
The
New
Negro,
a
Distinctive
Type,”
Vanity
Fair,

December
1924,
Miguel
Covarrubias.

Although
the
Vanity
Fair
audience
for
Covarrubias’
piece
was
the
same
as

that
of
E.
Simms
Campbell’s
in
Manhattan
(discussed
in
the
previous
chapter),
38

the

artists’
cultural
proximity
causes
the
power
dynamics
in
the
two
pieces
about

Harlem
life
to
differ
greatly.
Though
sardonic,
Campbell’s
position
as
a
Black
cultural

insider
allowed
for
a
reconfiguration
of
intercultural
power
dynamics
and
the

invocation
of
power
in
his
Black
subjects
who
poked
fun
back
at
the
white
viewer.

On
the
other
hand,
Covarrubias’
engagement
with
the
Black
cultural
space—both
as

a
cultural
outsider
and
through
his
use
of
caricature—is
distanced
and
reduced
by

Reaves
to
a
“fascination;”
39

his
portrayal
upholds
historical
racial
dynamics
steeped

in
white
supremacy
and
strips
Blacks
of
their
power.

The
large
readership
of
Vanity
Fair
also
imbued
the
magazine
with
a
bit
of

cultural
cache.
Known
as
a
“cultural
bellweather
of
the
Jazz
Age,”
40

and
touted
as
“as

accurate
a
barometer
of
its
time
as
exists”
by
social
critics,
41

the
contents
of
Vanity

Fair
were
a
beacon
of
modernity
and
carried
an
extra
air
of
cultural
insight
and

importance.
Covarrubias’
“Enter,
The
New
Negro,
a
Distinctive
Type,”
situated

within
this
periodical,
exemplified
such
cultural
positioning
was
to
be
digested
as
a

satirical
actuality
and
cultural
artifact.

Though
on
one
hand
making
strides
from
previous
monolithic
minstrel-‐like

representations
of
lower
class
Black
menial
types,
the
use
of
caricature
in
the
piece

was
simply
an
evolution
and
expansion
of
those
types;
Reaves
explains
such
an

evolution
as
a
general
principal
of
modern
caricature
which
relies
on

151

“magnifying…familiar
characteristics
into
something
fresh
and
modern.”
42

Film

historian
Thomas
Cripps
specifies
the
cultural
implications
of
such
an
evolution
in

his
conceptualization
of
the
“good-‐bad
nigger,”
a
caricatured

“ambiguity”
that

“seeped
through
the
fissures
left
by
the
old
types”
and
modernized
older

stereotypes.

43

Covarrubias’
Vanity
Fair
piece
centered
itself
on
this
ambiguity,

carefully
balancing
Black
representation
with
white
fantasy,
ironically
expanding

and
adapting
the
portrayal
of
Black
one-‐dimensionality.
In
opposition
to
the

instructive
nature
of
Campbell’s
piece
which
provided
its
white
viewers
with
a

literal
roadmap
for
navigating
and
immersing
themselves
into
a
geographical
Black

cultural
space,
Covarrubias’
caricatured
renderings
continued
to
zoom
in
on
the

Black
bodies
that
populated
that
space,
turning
its
white
viewers
into
scopophiliacs,

taking
in
the
subjects
of
a
cultural
sideshow.

His
caricatures,
though
satirical,
44

were
to
serve
as
informative,
encyclopedic
entries
for
distanced
viewers;
a
helpful

tool
for
those
that
had
a
curiosity
about
Black
life,
but
not
enough
to
engage
with
the

culture
in
any
deep
and
meaningful
way.

Louis
Armstrong’s
short
films
brought
the
modern
Black
caricature,
along

with
its
various
anti-‐immersive
functions,
othering
techniques,
and
racial

politicizations,
to
the
big
screen.
Generally
speaking,
Armstrong’s
caricatured

persona
functioned
as
intended,
clearly
distinguishing
him
from
other
performers.

But
when
considering
the
racial
component
of
his
caricature—particularly
its

connectivity
to
a
minstrel
past—the
representation
worked
against
individuation,

and
instead
typed
him
as
a
live
action
“good-‐bad
nigger.”
His
persona
became
at

once
specific
to
his
personal
celebrity
and
at
the
same
time
representative
of
a

152

generic
and
negative
stereotype
of
Blackness
that
was
often
came
to
be

interchangeable
with
“jazz”
or
“Black
music.”
This
oxymoronic
split—at
once

luminary
persona
and
average,
everyday
Black
man—
upheld
a
representational

“othering”
of
Armstrong
and
promoted
anti-‐immersive
and
scopophilic
viewing

practices.

The
complicated
bifurcation
of
Armstrong’s
persona
is
apparent
in
both
A

Rhapsody
in
Black
and
Blue
and
I’ll
Be
Glad
When
You’re
Dead
You
Rascal
You.
Unlike

Ellington
and
Calloway’s
films
of
the
era
that
highlighted
their
star
status
by

concentrating
the
entire
narrative
around
the
musicians,
Armstrong’s
“star”
is

decentered
in
each
of
his
films.

Despite
the
prime
positioning
of
his
name
in
the
title

sequence
of
A
Rhapsody
in
Black
and
Blue,
and
his
featured
live
action
segment
that

bookends
the
title
card
in
I’ll
Be
Glad
When
You’re
Dead
You
Rascal
You,
within
the

narrative
of
each
film
he
serves
more
as
a
“featured
act.”
In
effect,
Armstrong
“jazzes

up”
his
shorts,
but
his
shorts
do
not
revolve
around
him,
and
certainly
do
not
use

him
as
an
access
point
to
gain
better
understanding
of
the
modern
Black
experience

(as
is
done
in
Calloway
and
Ellington’s
films).
Instead,
Armstrong’s
shorts
both

emphasize
and
deconstruct
his
caricature-‐driven
persona
in
a
manner
that
serves
to

represent
generic
“Blackness”
and
“Black
music”
as
an
all-‐encompassing
genre.
As
a

result,
Armstrong
himself
becomes
a
cultural
representation
of
the
films’
themes
in

their
entirety.

A
Rhapsody
in
Black
and
Blue
revolves
around
a
poor
man
(Sidney
Easton),

who
lives
in
a
humble
home
and
has
a
penchant
for
engineering
makeshift

instruments
and
avoiding
his
responsibilities.
45

Preferring
to
play
along
with
the

153

music
of
his
Louis
Armstrong
record
instead
of
mopping
the
floor,
his
fed
up
wife

hits
him
over
the
head
with
a
mop,
sending
him
into
an
unconscious
state.
While

unconscious,
he
enters
“Jazzmania,”
a
fantasy
world
where
he
is
no
longer
a

common,
poor
man,
but
is
instead
a
king
with
a
front
row
seat
to
a
private

performance
by
Louis
Armstrong
and
his
orchestra.
After
enjoying
Armstrong

performing
“You
Rascal
You”
and
“Shine”
in
the
dream
world,
the
husband
regains

consciousness,
and
finds
himself
back
in
his
humble
home
with
his
wife
lurking

angrily
nearby
because
his
chores
have
not
been
completed.
Wishing
to
go
back
to

his
fantasy
world,
he
says,
“I’ll
be
glad
when
I’m
dead
you
rascal
you”
before
hitting

himself
over
the
head
with
a
vase
in
an
attempt
to
knock
himself
unconscious
again;

his
wife
follows
suit,
repeating
the
refrain
in
agreement,
and
hits
him
with
a
second

shot.

The
film
and
its
characters
are
certainly
a
departure
from
the
upwardly

mobile
representations
of
middle
class
Black
urbanity
most
common
in
Ellington

and
Calloway’s
films;
Black
and
Blue’s
characters
are
a
poor,
downtrodden,
and

unsophisticated.
Although
the
script
sets
the
scene
in
Harlem,
46

there
are
no

landmarks
or
even
general
markers
of
urbanity
in
the
film
that
point
to
the
location.

In
this
space,
additional
racial
stereotypes
are
upheld:
the
characters
are
loud,

discordant,
and
inarticulate-‐-‐
fighting
and
physical
threats
are
normal
currency.
The

wife
(Fanny
Belle
DeKnight)
is
a
textbook
Bogle
“mammy,”
“big,
fat,
and

cantankerous,”
47

while
her
husband
straddles
the
line
between
a
stereotypical

“coon”
and
a
shiftless
Stepin
Fetchit
type.
48

Any
aspirations
the
husband
holds
are

quickly
eviscerated
by
his
wife,
who
instead
supports
racialized
socio-‐economic

154

complacency.
When
he
expresses
an
interest
in
listening
to
(and
playing)
jazz
she

scolds,
“That’s
all
you’se
got
is
an
ear
for
music
and
a
mouth
for
pork
chops.
You

better
get
a
desire
for
work.
Don’t
think
you
gon’ta
gigolo
me,
big
boy.
You
just

shake
that
education
out
your
head
and
get
a
move
on.”
The
man’s
desires
for
a

better,
more
rewarding
life
are
overshadowed
by
his
wife
reminding
him
of
both
his

commonness,
his
predetermined
station
in
an
unglamorous
life
of
manual
labor,
and

in
essence,
the
limitations
imposed
by
his
Blackness.

Black
upward
mobility
in
the
film
is
greatly
limited
and
just
out
of
grasp
in

Black
and
Blue;
these
limitations
stand
contrary
to
the
focus
on
Black
aspiration
and

economic
upswing
that
were
emerging
across
artistic
mediums
and
throughout

Black
communities
during
the
same
period.
While
Ellington
and
Calloway’s
films

portray
Black
upward
mobility
in
action,
Black
and
Blue
positions
the
concept

merely
as
a
temporary,
fantasy
construct.

The
fantasy
is
further
removed
from
the
realm
of
“possibility”
with
its

imaginary
setting.
“Jazzmania”
is
a
contrivance
loosely
based
on
Tasmania—an

antipodal
locale
most
commonly
used
to
demonstrate
difference,
foreignness,
and

primitiveness
in
their
most
extreme
forms.
In
its
entirety,
the
representation
of

Jazzmania
runs
counter
to
the
strivings
of
the
modern
Black
experience
and
pursuit

for
citizenship;
and
Armstrong
as
the
ambassador
of
this
film
space
is
likewise

viewed
in
accordance
with
this
regressive
reading.
Jacqueline
Stewart
claims
that

such
cultural
stagnation
in
Black
screen
representation
was
a
means
of
white

fantasizers
creating
portrayals
that
they
deemed
“safe”
and
under
their
control.
49

The
various
techniques
used
within
the
film
to
either
narratively
thwart
Black

155

aspirations
or
reel
in
any
thematic
ideologies
about
Black
upward
mobility

demonstrate
a
desire
for
cultural
fixity
by
the
white
cultural
outsiders
that
have

constructed
the
imaginative
Black
space.

White
control
of
the
Black
space
is
further
established
through
the
slipshod

and
confused
construction
of
Jazzmania.
The
Black
American
characters
reside
on

an
island
off
the
coast
of
Australia,
but
are
dressed
in
various
generic
“Africanized”

attire:
the
servants
wear
Egyptian
style
attire,
and
Armstrong
and
his
band
wear
a

various
“tribal”
attire,
including
animal
pelts
and
draped
African-‐style
prints.
The

king/husband
is
the
most
confusing
of
all,
wearing
a
European-‐style
ceremonial

military
uniform
complete
with
bearskin
cap.

The
conceptualization
of
the
Black
illusory
space
is
haphazard
at
best,
and

points
to
a
removed,
outsider
construction
in
which
all
cultural
Blackness
is
the

same,
and
most
of
all,
is
foreign.
Its
generic,
stereotypical,
and
Pan-‐black

representation
demonstrates
the
cultural
distance
and
mere
“cursory
knowledge”

that
Leroi
Jones
claims
is
innate
in
white
America’s
understanding
of
Black

America.
50

The
arbitrary
construction
of
the
cinematic
Black
space
in
Black
and
Blue

is
representative
of
the
effects
of
the
Armstrong’s
caricaturization—it
is
not
meant

to
immerse
the
viewer,
but
instead
is
meant
to
highlight
inanity,
be
disruptive,
and

“other”
the
subjects.

While
the
husband
in
the
film
does
experience
a
momentary,
imaginary

moment
of
individualized
upward
mobility
in
his
fantasy,
it
is
accomplished
by

simultaneously
degrading
the
remaining
Black
characters
in
the
film.
The
husband’s

entry
into
the
fantasy
world
allows
him
to
elevate
his
personal
class
status
from

156

poor,
common
man
to
throned
king,
but,
this
same
world
converts
the
polished,
suit-‐
wearing
Armstrong
band
into
half-‐dressed
servants
wearing
crudely-‐imagined

“tribalized”
attire.
Likewise,
Armstrong’s
movement
from
reality
to
fantasy
world

converts
the
distinguished
bandleader
into
a
primitive
court
jester-‐-‐
his
formal
suit

is
traded
in
for
an
animal
pelt
that
loosely
drapes
over
his
half-‐dressed
body
as
he

stands
up
to
his
knees
in
bubbles,
entertaining
the
king.
This
fantasy
Black
space
is

largely
a
space
for
Black
humiliation,
as
even
the
king’s
elevated
class
position
is

made
ridiculous
and
laughable.
He
is
an
imposter
in
this
world,
and
is
consistently

shown
as
being
out
of
place
through
the
questions
he
asks
his
royal
stooge
and
the

look
of
persistent
shock
on
his
face.
Like
a
modernized
Zip
Coon
character,
the

husband/king
seems
to
be
performing
his
class
status,
as
opposed
to
living
it

naturally.
Although
he
desires
to
have
mobility
in
his
class
station,
it
is
not
a
realistic

possibility.

Though
not
the
protagonist
of
the
film,
Armstrong
still
plays
a
vital
role
as

the
theoretical
connector
between
the
film’s
real
world
and
its
fantasy
world.
His

song,
“You
Rascal
You”
is
an
aural
marker
that
allows
movement
between
the

worlds
as
its
phonographic
play
in
the
“real
world”
morphs
into
Armstrong’s
live

performance
in
the
“fantasy
world.”
The
song,
first
released
in
1929
by
Sam
Theard

(known
as
Lovin’
Sam
Down
in
the
Ram),
and
rerecorded
by
various
artists

including
Cab
Calloway,
became
most
well-‐associated
with
Louis
Armstrong,
and
is

actually
prominently
featured
in
both
of
his
Paramount
shorts.
51

The
soapsuds
from
the
real
world’s
mop
bucket
converge
with
Armstrong’s

grandstand
in
the
fantasy
world,
metaphorically
enshrouding
him
in
the
same

157

unsophisticated,
working
class
tradition
that
the
husband
and
wife
themselves
also

experience—despite
his
celebrity.

The
connection
between
Armstrong
and
the
poor

man
is
also
made
concrete
through
the
referencing
of
Armstrong’s
characteristic,

exaggerated,
toothy
smile
by
the
protagonist
as
the
real
world
is
bridged
with
the

fantasy
world.
In
a
sense,
the
smile
telegraphs
the
musician’s
forthcoming

appearance.
While
Armstrong’s
physical
presence
is
exhibited
only
in
the
fantasy

world,
his
essence,
as
displayed
through
music,
class,
and
caricature
is

transcendent—making
him
at
once
unique
and
illusory,
but
also
common
and
real.

Armstrong
as
a
presence
blurs
the
worlds,
proving
some
truth
to
the
white
fantasy.

In
short,
the
overall
outward
construction
and
representation
of
Armstrong’s

persona
stood
in
opposition
to
that
of
the
strivings
of
the
Black
middle
class,
and

was
often
read
as
not
only
a
personal
degradation
to
the
artist
himself,
but
as
a

continued
degradation
of
the
Black
community
at
large.
While
Ellington
was
going

through
many
efforts
to
position
Jazz-‐-‐
and
by
extension
Blackness-‐-‐
as
“serious”

(see
previous
chapter)
and
worthy
of
being
rightfully
positioned
alongside
white

musical
and
cultural
traditions,
the
surface
readings
of
Armstrong
were
driven
by

inanity
and
low
brow
humor.
And
importantly,
due
to
the
caricatured
construction

of
his
persona
which
rendered
a
tendency
for
removed,
scopophilic
viewing,
the

laughs
conjured
by
his
antics
were
often
at
him,
not
with
him.

“A
Rhapsody
in
Black
and
Blue”
as
a
title
alone
is
loaded
with
the
same
sort
of

surface-‐level,
cultural-‐expense
driven
humor
that
was
consistently
embodied
in

Armstrong’s
performative
persona
and
representation.
At
its
most
basal
narrative

level,
the
phrase
“black
and
blue”
references
the
byproduct
of
the
domestic
violence

158

between
husband
and
wife,
which
serves
as
a
catalyst
for
the
character’s
movement

between
Black
reality
and
fantasy.
This
movement
between
spaces
does
not
signify

an
ethos
of
upward
mobility,
but
instead
comments
on
an
inevitability
of

“hopelessness”
in
the
Black
experience,
as
it
is
only
through
the
affliction
of

additional
discomfort—the
state
of
being
beaten
“black
and
blue”-‐-‐
that
the
Black

bodies
in
the
film
are
able
to
transcend
themselves
into
a
more
desirable
lifestyle.

And
in
the
end,
the
ascension
in
status
is
mere
fantasy,
but
the
brutality
and
residual

scars
are
real.

The
title
also
subversively
situates
the
film
outside
of
the
narrative,
and
into

larger
social
and
historical
practices
regarding
race
during
the
time.

The
title’s
use

of
the
term
“Black”
(like
other
commonly
used
racial
descriptors
of
the
period
such

as

“ebony,”
“chocolate,”
“tan,”
“sepia,”
etc.)
was
a
common
“othering”
tool
that
was

used
as
a
rhetorical
device
to
alert
the
viewer
of
the
“race”
content
that
followed.
It

placed
the
product
in
a
“knock
off”
category,
signifying
that
product
was
not

“genuine,”
but
was
instead
a
“darkened”
adaptation
of
“serious,”
established,
white

artistry.

The
title
A
Rhapsody
in
Black
and
Blue
complicates
this
trope
however.

While
at
once
adhering
to
the
trope
of
“coloring”
“legitimated”
white
art
through
the

referencing
of
George
Gershwin’s
“Rhapsody
in
Blue,”
52

the
title
is
made
more

complex
when
considering
its
mash
up
with
Armstrong’s
own
song
“Black
and

Blue,”
a
melancholy
blues
about
the
difficult
conditions
of
being
Black
in
white

society.

Though
not
scored
for
the
film,
foreknowledge
of
the
film’s
reference
is

informative
and
provides
depth
for
those
in
the
know.
“Black
and
Blue”
is
actually

159

quite
a
disquieting
and
melancholic
blues
piece
about
the
socio-‐emotional
aspects
of

the
Black
experience:

Cold
empty
bed,
springs
hard
as
lead

Pains
in
my
head,
feel
like
old
Ned

What
did
I
do
to
be
so
black
and
blue?

No
joys
for
me,
no
company

Even
the
mouse
ran
from
my
house

All
my
life
through
I've
been
so
black
and
blue

I'm
white
inside,
but
that
don't
help
my
case

Cause
I
can't
hide
what
is
on
my
face

I'm
so
forlorn.
Life's
just
a
thorn

My
heart
is
torn.
Why
was
I
born?

What
did
I
do
to
be
so
black
and
blue?

I'm
hurt
inside,
but
that
don't
help
my
case

Cause
I
can't
hide
what
is
on
my
face

How
will
it
end?
Ain't
got
a
friend

My
only
sin
is
in
my
skin

What
did
I
do
to
be
so
black
and
blue?

Tell
me,
what
did
I
do?

What
did
I
do?
What
did
I
do?

What
did
I
do?
What
did
I
do?

What
did
I
do?
What
did
I
do?

What
did
I
do?
Tell
me,
what
did
I
do
to
be
so
black
and
blue?

What
did
I
do
to
be
so
black
and
blue?

The
song’s
beginning
has
a
direct
correlation
to
the
film’s
beginning.
“Cold
empty

bed,
springs
hard
as
lead/Pains
in
my
head,
feel
like
old
Ned,”
establishes

Armstrong’s
setting
as
a
place
of
emotional
and
financial
lack,
and
his
character’s

experience
in
this
place
as
one
that
results
in
physical
pain.
Replacing
the

melancholy
with
the
comedic,
A
Rhapsody
in
Black
and
Blue
likewise
establishes
the

setting
in
a
similar
manner,
showcasing
a
home
that
lacks
material
conveniences,
a

relationship
that
lacks
emotional
warmth,
and
a
main
character
that
is
pained
by
a

violent
blow
he
receives
to
the
head.

However,
the
remaining
lyrics
examine
the

160

psychological
state
of
Blackness,
a
discontented
and
static
imposition
that
is

debilitating
and
inescapable.

While
the
film
puts
a
humorous
spin
on
this
concept,
the
melancholic
cultural

commentary
addressed
in
the
song
persists:
the
man
opts
for
a
comatose
state
over

the
bleak
realities
of
his
Black
life.
Additionally,
the
use
of
humor
when
addressing

this
socioeconomic
reality
is
not
illuminating
or
empathetic,
but
is
instead
merely

dismissive.
Thus,
through
Armstrong
as
established
persona
and
referentially

through
his
music,
the
film
stalls
the
momentum
of
Black
cultural
uplift
and
hope,

and
instead
entrenches
itself
in
a
history
of
Black
cultural
despair
and
melancholia

beneath
its
comedic
spin.

Animation
provided
a
medium
to
actualize
and
further
hyperbolize
the
Black

cultural
references
inscribed
in
Armstrong’s
caricaturized
persona.
Through
the

medium’s
lack
of
limitations
and
tendency
to
foster
the
inane,
comedic,
and
surreal

through
a
scopophilic
lens,
Armstrong
was
a
perfect
fit.
Released
the
same
year
as
A

Rhapsody
in
Black
and
Blue
and
also
under
the
Paramount
banner,
the
Fleischer

cartoon,
I’ll
Be
Glad
When
You’re
Dead
you
Rascal
You
literalized
elements
of

Armstrong’s
Blackness
that
could
only
be
suggested
in
live
action
film.
Like,
A

Rhapsody
in
Black
and
Blue,
Armstrong
plays
the
role
of
a
supporting
character,

despite
the
fact
that
he
and
his
orchestra
are
top
billed,
and
that
he
and
his
band

bookend
the
credits;
regardless
of
this
elevated
framing,
the
film
is
Betty
Boop’s.

The
film
features
Boop
and
her
friends,
Koko
and
Bimbo,
heading
out
on

safari
in
a
distant
jungle.
Boop
is
given
the
treatment
of
a
queen—precious
cargo

that
her
two
friends
carry
on
a
litter
through
the
terrain.
Within
seconds,
they
find

161

themselves
surrounded
by
dangerous
cannibals,
who
are
crudely
drawn
in
the
style

of
Blackface
minstrel
characters,
with
large
bugged
out
eyes,
large
white
lips,
and

stretched,
ape-‐like
mouths.

After
a
kerfuffle,
the
savages
abscond
with
Boop.
Koko

and
Bimbo
spend
the
rest
of
the
film
trying
to
track
down
and
rescue
Boop
from
the

grasp
of
the
savage
black
men.
By
the
end
of
the
film,
Boop
is
rescued,
the
savages

are
blown
away
by
an
erupting
volcano,
and
order
is
restored.

Beneath
the
inanity
of
the
cartoon
is
cultural
commentary
about
race
mixing

and
anxiety-‐ridden
attitudes
about
the
disruption
of
racial
order;
the
themes

demonstrate
that
attitudes
in
1932
may
not
have
changed
much
from
those

presented
in
Griffith’s
KKK-‐exalting
Birth
of
a
Nation
in
1915.
Boop
and
her
friends

are
the
vehicle
for
racially-‐centered
fear
mongering
regarding
the
nearly

unconquerable
sexual
appetites
of
Black
men
for
white
women.
Simply
bringing
a

comedic
twist
to
the
same
themes
of
racial
disorder
notoriously
presented
in

Griffith’s
film,
I’ll
Be
Glad
When
You’re
Dead
You
Rascal
You
is
able
to
hyperbolize
the

dangers
presented
by
brutish
Black
men
on
innocent,
white
women.

While
Birth
of
a
Nation’s
Elsie
Stoneman
melodramatically
jumps
to
her

death
instead
of
facing
unwanted
sexual
aggression
by
her
Black
pursuer,
Gus,

Boop’s
preservation
of
her
white
bodily
purity
takes
a
more
comedic
approach.

Despite
the
fact
that
Boop
has
been
incapacitated
and
tied
at
the
stake
in
the

cannibals’
village,
when
one
of
the
cannibals
attempts
to
kiss
her,
she
somehow

frees
her
hand
to
create
a
barrier
by
pulling
his
nose
ring
down
like
a
window
shade

over
his
lip—impeding
his
attempt.
Once
she
has
thwarted
his
advances,
her
hand

returns
to
its
bound
position
at
the
stake,
and
she
continues
to
await
rescue
by

162

Bimbo
and
Koko.
Boop’s
action
makes
literal
a
lasting
ideology
regarding
the
fears

and
revulsion
of
physical
interactions
between
white
women
and
Black
men,

demonstrating
that
when
white
women
are
put
in
such
a
precarious
and
expected

situation,
they
should
be
emboldened
to
do
the
unthinkable
and
seemingly

impossible
in
order
to
preserve
their
white
purity.

Individually,
Armstrong’s
presence
in
the
film
in
its
entirety
also
hinges
on

such
concepts
of
“racial
disorder”
and
Black
cultural
xenophobia—a
practice
that

innately
relies
on
distanced,
anti-‐immersive
viewing.
Armstrong
is
transported
from

the
performance
stage
into
the
action
of
the
cartoon
itself.
Initially,
the
song
he
has

been
singing
on
the
stage
with
his
band,
“You
Rascal
You,”
is
transferred
to
the

mouth
of
one
of
the
animated
cannibals
as
it
chases
Koko
and
Bimbo.
The
savage’s

head
becomes
disembodied,
floating
in
the
air,
but
still
aggressively
pursues
Boop’s

terrified
friends,
while
figuratively
spewing
the
lyrics
of
the
song
in
their
direction.

At
this
point
the
suggestiveness
of
pairing
Armstrong’s
Blackness
with
that
of
the

cartoon
savage
is
actualized,
and
the
disembodied
cartoon
head
morphs
into

Armstrong’s
disembodied
head,
who
continues
to
chase
Koko
and
Bimbo
through

the
jungle
with
his
song.

Through
animated
transmutation
and
caricature,

Armstrong
is
literally
commoditized
into
an
evolved
emblem
of
modernized

minstrelsy.

Critical
theorist
Bill
Brown
explains
that
while
commodity
forms
evolve
to

keep
pace
with
the
times,
they
are
always
rooted
by
a
“residual
ontology”
that

connects
them
to
their
pasts.
53

In
his
essay

“Reification,
Reanimation,
and
the

American
Uncanny,”
he
references
Marxist
theory,
explaining
“the
commodity
form

163

itself
depends
on
‘the
conversion
of
things
into
persons
and
the
conversion
of

persons
into
things.’”
He
goes
on
to
explain
that
such
conditions
create
“the

personification
of
things
and
the
reification
of
persons.”
54

I’ll
Be
Glad
When
You’re
Dead
You
Rascal
You,
adapts
this
concept
for
the

animated
medium,
and
while
doing
so
amplifies
the
traditional
minstrel
concepts
of

Black
caricatured
dehumanization
and
commoditization.
The
exchange
from
thing

to
person
is
made
literal
as
the
racialized
savage—so
generic
and
vaguely

animalistic-‐looking
that
it
reads
more
as
a
crude
“thing”
than
a
human-‐-‐
first

embodies
Armstrong,
and
then
is
literally
transformed
into
Armstrong
in
human

form;
the
commoditization
comes
full
circle
as
Armstrong
is
converted
back
into
the

savage
thing
towards
the
end
of
the
chase.
55

Through
Armstrong’s
visual

transmutation
in
the
Fleischer
cartoon,
his
figurative
position
as
“jazz
commodity”
is

actualized.
Armstrong
is
the
politics
of
jazz
personified,
and
jazz
is
the
ephemeral

embodiment
of
Armstrong.

Those
individualized
characterizations
and
elements
of
caricature
which
are

meant
to
identify
Armstrong
specifically,
paradoxically
extend
to
the
broader
Black

culture.

As
a
result,
the
feelings
evoked
from
Armstrong’s
integration
into
white

spaces
and
his
interactions
with
white
bodies
on
screen
provide
a
lens
through

which
to
read
perceptions
of
Black
integration
and
interactions
with
whites
as
a

whole.

Although
he
has
been
made
less
threatening
through
the
process
of

minstrelized
dehumanization,
disembodiment,
and
inanity,
his
Black
presence

amongst
whites
(in
a
space
that
whites
are
meant
to
control)
is
still
made
a
fear-‐
worthy
arbiter
of
Blackness.
56

164

Armstrong’s
embodiment
of
the
ideological
danger
of
Blacks
and
Black

culture
infiltrating
white
spaces
was
explored
more
broadly
in
other
films
of
the

period
that
centered
Black
music
as
a
proliferative
point
of
intrigue
and
nuisance.

The
Fleischer’s
consistently
incorporated
the
anxieties
of
inter-‐race
interactions

into
their
cartoons,
and
jazz
as
aural
commentary
was
most
often
associated
with

chaos,
fear,
and
the
uncanny.
In
the
early
1930s,
the
jazz
in
the
Fleischer
films
was

specified
and
personified
through
the
bodies
of
both
Armstrong
and
Calloway.

These
films
were
at
once
symbolic
of
the
crossover
appeal
and
celebrity
power
held

by
these
musicians,
and
also
fraught
with
a
historic
racism
displayed
through
an

encoded
surrealist
and
comedic
lens
that
has
traditionally
been
overlooked
or

oversimplified
by
scholars.

In
Minnie
the
Moocher,
released
on
March
11,
1932,
an
upset
Boop
decides
to

run
away
from
her
parents’
home
with
her
friend,
Bimbo.
With
the
very
first
step

that
she
takes
away
from
this
safe,
white
space,
the
jazz
score
of
“Minnie
the

Moocher”
begins
as
an
aural
cue
for
the
foreboding
dangers
that
lie
ahead.

The
song

ramps
up,
and
with
each
step
that
she
takes
away
from
her
home,
the
scene

continues
to
darken
and
becomes
more
eerie.
Eventually,
she
and
Bimbo
are

enveloped
in
a
dangerous
and
terrifying
underworld
that
is
full
of
jazz
singing

skeletons,
ghosts,
ghouls,
devils
and
spirits.
The
world
is
brought
to
life
by
a

rotoscoped
apparition
of
a
Walrus
(modeled
by
Cab
Calloway)
who
plays
the
role
of

a
sort
of
Greek
Chorus,
giving
shape
to
and
summarizing
the
various
screen

activities.

As
they
continue
to
move
deeper
into
this
“othered,”
Black
jazz
ascribed

world,
the
scene
becomes
so
terrifying
for
Boop
and
Bimbo
that
they
both
seek

165

safety
by
running
back
home.
Boop
cowers
under
her
bed
blankets
in
remembrance

of
her
terrifying
experience
to
the
proverbial
“other
side
of
town;”
however,
though

still
shaken,
the
restoration
of
racialized
order
and
of
Boop’s
personal
safety
in
this

enclosed
white
space
is
underscored
by
a
note
that
falls
on
her
traumatized
body,

reading
“Home
Sweet
Home.”

Cab
Calloway
was
rotoscoped
into
two
additional
Fleischer
cartoons
the

following
year,
and
was
a
similarly
menacing,
jazz-‐infused
presence
in
each.

Released
on
March
31,
1933,
Snow
White
features
Calloway
rotoscoped
as
Koko

attempting
to
save
Snow
White
(Betty
Boop)
from
the
evil
queen;
however,
the
bulk

of
his
presence
in
the
film
revolves
around
his
ominous
performance
of
“St.
James

Infirmary
Blues.”
Like
Boop
in
Minnie
the
Moocher,
Boop
as
Snow
White
attempts
to

escape
and
is
led
to
a
perplexing
underworld
where
Black
music
activates
the

landscape,
bringing
it
to
life;
along
the
way,
she
loses
control,
becoming
encased
in
a

snowball,
and
finally
comes
to
rest
in
an
ice
coffin.
“St.
James
Infirmary
Blues”

(ironically,
originally
made
famous
by
Armstrong
in
1928)
is
sung
by
Koko
as
an

ominous
dirge
while
Snow
White
is
transported
by
the
pallbearing
dwarfs;
as
such,

the
Blues
is
an
aural
referent
to
dangers
that
are
lurking
for
white
cultural
outsiders

entering
Black
spaces.

The
Old
Man
of
the
Mountain,
released
August
4,
1933,
similarly
aligns
the

rotoscoped
jazz
man
with
a
sense
of
foreboding
danger.
The
film
begins
with
a
lion

serving
as
town
crier
shouting,
“Look
out,
look
out!
The
old
man
of
the
mountain!”,
a

mass
exodus
of
all
the
animals
in
the
town
who
wish
to
save
themselves
from
this

Old
Man,
and
finally
an
owl
who
gives
Boop
a
thorough
explanation
through
song

166

about
why
the
Old
Man
is
so
dangerous
(including
his
savage
and
cannibalistic

tendencies).
The
fearful
tales
of
the
Old
Man,
however,
do
not
scare
Boop
off
with

the
rest
of
the
town,
but
instead
intrigue
her;
she
ventures
despite
forewarning,

travelling
against
the
current
of
fleeing
townspeople
to
meet
this
enigmatic

character.
On
her
journey
up
the
mountain,
Boop
encounters
a
fleeing
woman
who

is
pushing
triplets
in
a
stroller
who
all
bear
likeness
to
the
Old
Man
with
their

comical
white
hair
and
long
white
beards;
this
gag
demonstrates
that
the
Old
Man
is

not
simply
monstrous,
but
that
his
virility
also
imposes
a
real
sexual
danger
on
the

women
he
encounters.

When
she
finally
comes
face
to
face
with
the
dangerous
man,
though
he

appears
racially
white,
he
is
encoded
with
Blackness
through
his
voice
and

rotoscoped
movements
(both
Calloway’s),
as
well
as
the
jazz
music
style
and
the

cultural
content
of
the
lyrics.
Thus,
the
eventual
reveal
of
the
fearsome,
jazz-‐loving

Old
Man
and
his
embodiment
of
pop
cultural
Blackness
recalibrates
the
lens
in

which
to
view
the
initial
mass
exodus—their
fleeing
is
a
representation
of
the
same

White
Flight
that
had
begun
occurring
at
the
beginning
of
the
20
th

century
in
Harlem

and
other
Northern
urban
areas
as
Blacks
began
to
relocate
in
mass
and
set
cultural

roots.
57

Although
the
Old
Man’s
fearsome
lore
precedes
him,
he
explains
to
Boop
that

her
acceptance
of
and
participation
in
the
Black
cultural
elements
and
activities
that

define
him
has
the
power
to
change
the
expected
dynamic
of
their
relationship,

creating
a
copacetic
means
for
them
to
“get
along”
with
one
another.

In
an

antiphonal
jazz
refrain—a
call
and
response
that
he
shares
with
Boop-‐-‐
he
sings:

167

You’ve
got
to
Ho
De
Ho,

You’ve
got
to
Hi
De
Hi,

You’ve
got
to
He
De
He,

To
get
along
with
me

You’ve
got
to
learn
my
song

If
you
do
me
wrong,

You’ve
got
to
kick
the
gong

To
get
along
with
me.

Making
specific
reference
to
Calloway’s
signature
refrain,
“Hi
De
Ho,”
and
also
using

Black
urban
slang
(“kick
the
gong”
was
a
slang
phrase
meaning
“smoke
opium”
58
),

the
Old
Man
provides
insight
on
how
to
perceive
him
more
positively.
His
directives

are
all
participatory
points
of
relation-‐-‐
a
simple,
racialized
blueprint
for
how
to

eschew
the
distanced
scopophilic
viewing
exhibited
by
the
townspeople
in
exchange

for
intercultural
involvement
and
understanding.

Essentially,
once

a
person

attempted
to
“learn
his
song,”
he
would
be
understood,
un-‐othered,
and
no
longer

fearworthy.
For
the
“Blackened”
Old
Man,
the
complete
acceptance
of
Black
cultural

product
was
the
crucial
key
to
a
harmonious
coexistence.

However,
ever-‐naïve
Boop,
who
agreeably
performs
every
aspect
of
the
Old

Man’s
contract
(less
smoking
opium),
suddenly
discovers
that
she
has
been
lured
in

just
enough
to
be
within
the
Old
Man’s
dangerous
clutches,
as
he
advances
on
her

and
chases
her
down
the
mountain.
The
duration
of
the
chase
levies
a
series
of

threatening
behaviors
on
the
fleeing
Boop:
the
jazz
background
music
becomes

more
frenetic
as
the
man
goes
wild
and
his
eyes
roll
around
uncontrollably,
he

inebriates
himself
by
guzzling
an
entire
beer,
and
finally,
he
strips
Boop
out
of
her

clothes,
all
while
scatting
wildly.
It
is
only
through
the
help
of
all
the
town’s

animals—the
same
animals
whom
earlier
warned
Boop
that
the
Old
Man
of
the

168

Mountain
was
a
serious
threat-‐-‐
that
she
is
spared.
The
animals
torture
the
Old
Man

in
a
variety
of
comical
ways
as
he
continues
to
scat
wildly,
and
ultimately

incapacitate
him
by
tying
his
limbs
in
knots.
The
animals
commit
a
final
act
of

immobilizing
the
troublesome
and
sexually
deviant
Old
Man
by
tying
a
knot
on
his

long,
phallic
nose;
through
the
Old
Man’s
physical
containment
and
metaphoric

“neutering,”
peace
is
restored
in
the
town.

The
Black-‐encoded
Old
Man
in
particular
is
proven
not
only
fear-‐worthy,
but

also
untrustworthy
as
he
stands
to
turn
on
those
white
bodies
that
are
curious

enough
to
seek
him
out.
As
a
result,
the
Fleischer
cartoons,
which
on
the
surface

seem
to
offer
a
rare
site
for
“intercultural”
exchange
between
Blacks
and
whites,

consistently
position
these
exchanges
as
ultimately
nightmarish.
The
interracial

interactions
in
The
Old
Man
of
the
Mountain,
I’ll
be
Glad
When
You’re
Dead
you
Rascal

You,
and
Minnie
the
Moocher,
each
prove
so
terrifying
that
Betty
is
forced
to
run
for

her
life.
In
such
case,
Leonard
Maltin’s
claim
that
a
main
point
of
distinction
for

Fleischer
cartoons
was
their
tendency
to
“depict
adult
trauma
and
emotions,”
59

is

likewise
given
racial
context;
with
respect
to
the
Fleischer’s
“race”
films,
Betty

Boop’s
“trauma”
and
“emotions”
were
a
depiction
of
greater
xenophobic
fears
about

Black
integration,
Black
social
mobility,
and
Black
enfranchisement.

169

Likewise,
Boop
herself
is
a
stand-‐in
for
“whiteness,”
and
is
consistently

represented
as
vulnerable,
fragile,
and
under
attack
as
an
emblematic
means
to

hyperbolically
juxtapose
the
encoding
of
Blackness
as
“tricky”
and
“dangerous.”

Boop
as
white
proxy
was
not
merely
“at
risk”
in
the
cartoons,
but
was
specifically
at

risk
of
being
besieged
by
the
Black
cultural
presence.
Beneath
the
surface

progressiveness
of
the
Fleischers’
interest
in
showcasing
Black
talent
and
culture
as

a
focal
point,
the
deeper
cultural
themes
and
nuances
cause
the
films
to
be

complexly
fraught
with
racist
ideologies.

The
xenophobic
encoding
of
Black
music
as
a
representation
of
the
perceived

dangers,
aggressions,
and
threats
of
Black
culture
at
large
in
white
society
was
not

merely
relegated
to
animated
film.
Black
cultural
integration
was
often
troped
in

170

films
of
this
era
as
a
dangerous
and
overbearing
“infiltration,”
and
often,
Black
music

was
used
as
a
conceptualization
of
this
xenophobic
ideology.

Though
the
Black
musical
shorts
were
an
important
and
boundary-‐pushing

site
for
white
cultural
immersion
and
integration
into
Black
spaces,
the
progressive

act
was
not
entirely
uninhibited.

As
evidenced
in
the
shorts,
immersion
was
an

acceptable
concept
as
long
as
it
was
unidirectional
(whites
immersing
themselves

into
black
spaces)
and
as
long
as
whites
had
the
agency
to
remove
themselves
from

the
Black
spaces
as
they
saw
fit.
White
immersion
was
not
a
permanent
act,
but
was

instead
intended
as
a
technique
to
assuage
temporary
white
curiosities
about
Black

culture.
Conversely,
on
the
rare
occasion
that
Blacks
were
given
agency
to
mobilize

themselves
within
the
cinematic
space,
the
progressive
nature
of
culture
immersion

was
halted.
In
such
cases
when
Black
agents
were
mobilized,
the
integrative
move

was
not
portrayed
as
immersion,
but
instead
as
infiltration.

The
1934
Paramount
release
of
Hi-‐De-‐Ho
(Fred
Waller)-‐-‐
the
first
of
three

films
starring
Cab
Calloway
that
would
carry
the
name
of
his
most
famous
song
60

-‐-‐

conveys
the
white
ideological
perception
of
unchecked
Black
movement
as
fearsome

and
threatening.
In
Paramount’s
version
of
the
film,
Cab
and
his
orchestra
are

traveling
by
private
train
car
from
Chicago
en
route
to
the
Cotton
Club,
and
are

suddenly
awakened
in
the
middle
of
the
night
by
a
porter
(Sidney
Easton)
who
is

delivering
an
urgent
telegram
from
Calloway’s
manager,
Irving
Mills.
The
telegram

informs
the
band
that
they
must
come
up
with
a
new
opening
number
before
they

arrive,
and
Calloway
and
the
band
waste
no
time.
Using
their
environment
as

inspiration,
Calloway’s
band
incorporates
the
staccato
rhythm
of
the
wheels
on
the

171

track
and
the
moaning
sounds
of
the
train
horn
to
expertly
and
effortlessly
compose

an
entire
song
without
even
changing
out
of
their
pajamas
or
leaving
their
bunks.
61

Although
the
band
is
literally
mobilized
as
the
train
travels
from
Chicago
to
New

York
City,
the
Black
bodies
are
in
fact
confined
to
the
racially
segregated
train
car.

Essentially,
Black
mobility
in
the
scene
is
entirely
inhibited
and
defined
by
white

hegemonic
constructs
of
Jim
Crow
separatism,
and
is
thus
an
acceptable

representation
of
Black
mobility.

The
band’s
arrival
in
New
York,
however,
serves
as
a
pivot
for
the
film’s

commentary
on
Black
mobility
as
a
mere
innocuous
concept,
as
suddenly
Calloway’s

“movements”
become
unconfined
and
uncontrolled—and
thus
problematic
to

hegemonic
“order.”
The
porter
helping
Calloway
with
his
luggage
mentions
that
his

wife
is
a
fan
of
his,
and
with
a
rather
lascivious
look
in
his
eye,
Calloway
responds,

“So
your
wife
likes
jazz
music,
hey?”

The
film
then
weaves
Calloway’s
foreboding

glance
in
with
some
overt
product
placement,
as
Calloway
convinces
the
porter
to

buy
a
Homefire
Radio
in
order
to

“keep
[his]
wife
entertained
at
home
while
[he’s]

away.”
With
this
moment
of
suggestivity
and
commercialism,
Calloway,
sex,
and
jazz

music
become
conflated
into
a
single
caution-‐worthy
entity.

Calloway
passes
a
Homefire
Radio
Stores
business
card
to
the
porter,
and
a

close
up
on
the
card
reveals
the
products
superior
technological
ability
to
create
an

immersive
experience
for
listener:

The
Homefire
Radio

“Brings
The
Leading
Radio
Artists
Into
Your
Home”

172

After
purchasing
the
radio,
the
porter
backs
up
the
advertisement
by
proudly

claiming
to
his
wife,
“Just
one
twist
of
the
dial,
and
it’s
the
same
as
if
you
were
sitting

in
the
Cotton
Club!”

Although
the
advertisement
of
this
radio
as
a
peripatetic
unit
that
can

teleport
people
between
spaces
originally
seems
figurative
and
physically

impossible,
cinematic
techniques
actualize
the
figurative
language.
As
the
porter

turns
the
radio
on,
Calloway’s
voice
comes
over
the
airwaves,
exclaiming,
“With
a

Hi-‐De-‐Ho,
this
is
Cab
Calloway
taking
you
to
the
Cotton
Club.”
Before
a
note
is

played,
the
film
cuts
to
the
Cotton
Club
where
Calloway
strikes
up
the
band
on
stage,

suggesting
the
characters
have
been
transported
directly
into
the
live
entertainment

space,
just
as
the
advertisement
boasted.
As
a
result,
the
radio—via
Calloway’s

voice-‐-‐
becomes
a
figurative
agent
of
immersion,
as
a
well
as
a
vehicle
for
Black

mobility.

Once
the
porter
leaves
for
work,
his
wife
very
quickly
sidles
up
to
the
radio

with
a
lascivious
look
that
mirrors
that
of
Calloway
earlier
in
the
film—the
radio

clearly
serving
as
an
enticing
proxy
for
Calloway
himself.
The
radio
then
functions

as
an
immersive
narrative
device
that
literally
moves
the
porter’s
wife
from
her

living
room
where
she
listens
to
Calloway
crooning
over
the
radio,
directly
into
the

Cotton
Club
where
Calloway
performs
live
on
stage.
Janet
Murray
explains
that
the

act
of
being
transported
from
a
real
space
into
a
simulated
space—the
act
of
being

immersed-‐-‐is
a
pleasurable
experience;
62

thus
the
woman’s
shift
from
reality
into

the
Cotton
Club
as
a
figurative,
fantasy
space
can
be
decoded
as
a
progressive

movement.

173

Further,
the
movement
from
personal
space
into
public,
Black
cultural

space—is
likewise
encoded
as
progressive
social
mobility;
as
the
porter’s
wife
moves

from
her
private
space
into
the
Black
cultural
space,
she
achieves
an
enhanced

listening
experience.
The
movement
is
portrayed
as
fulfilling
and
exceptional,
but

importantly,
is
also
encoded
as
socially
acceptable,
as
it
abides
by
the
stringent

racial
mores
of
1930s
America.
Though
mobilized,
the
porter’s
wife’s
mobility
is

confined
to
and
contained
within
pre-‐established
Black
spaces.
63

On
the
other
hand,
Black
mobility
becomes
oppositionally
encoded
when

Black
bodies
are
transported
from
fantasy
spaces
into
real
spaces,
64

and
from
public

spaces
into
private
spaces.
This
reversal
is
most
often
encoded
as
“caution-‐worthy”

instead
of
“pleasurable,”
and
as
an
act
of
“infiltration”
instead
of
an
act
of

“immersion.”

Hi-‐De-‐Ho
(1934)
demonstrates
this
discrepancy
and
the
fears
of

unchecked
Black
mobility
as
the
adulterous
flirtation
between
Calloway
and
the

porter’s
wife
intensifies
at
the
Cotton
Club,
and
they
are
transported
back
to
the

woman’s
living
room.
In
this
moment,
Calloway
embodies
the
spectrum
of
white

ideological
fears
about
unchecked
Black
mobility:
at
once
he
is
jazz,
he
is
Black

masculinity,
he
is
sexually
aggressive
energy,
he
is
Black
culture,
and
most
of
all,
he

has
overstepped
and
taken
advantage
when
the
man
of
the
house
least
expected.
As

the
two
lustfully
kiss
on
the
porter’s
living
room
sofa
while
he
is
away
at
work,

Calloway’s
infiltration
into
the
private
space
(even
though
that
private
space
is

Black)
is
encoded
as
worrisome
and
carries
a
cautionary
message.

The
final
piece
of
explicit
commentary
about
the
potential
dangers
of
Black

mobility
and
infiltration
is
made
explicit
in
the
film’s
final
scene.
Returning
home

174

early
from
work,
the
porter
nearly
catches
his
wife
and
Calloway
on
the
sofa,
but

Calloway
escapes
to
the
bedroom
to
hide
in
just
the
nick
of
time.
Making
himself

quite
comfortable
on
the
couple’s
bed,
he
begins
to
sing
refrains
from
“Hi-‐De
–Ho,”

confusing
the
porter,
as
the
radio
is
not
turned
on.

The
porter
finally
wises
up,

threatening
to
shoot
whoever
is
behind
the
bedroom
door;
much
to
his
surprise,

Calloway
flings
open
the
door
and
leads
his
entire
orchestra
out
of
the
woman’s

bedroom
as
they
play
their
instruments
in
formation.

The
overall
sexually
suggestive
nature
of
this
scene
is
surprising
to
see
in
the

1934,
Production
Code
era
film.
Hi-‐De-‐Ho
quiet
blatantly
disregards
the
foremost

provision
under
the
PCA’s
“Sex”
guidelines:

II-‐
Sex

The
sanctity
of
the
institution
of
marriage
and
the
home
shall
be
upheld.

Pictures
shall
not
infer
that
low
forms
of
sex
relationships
are
the
accepted

or
common
thing.

1. Adultery,
sometimes
necessary
plot,
material,
must
not
be
explicitly

treated
or
justified
or
presented
attractively.

Though
less
overt,
the
film
also
tests
the
“Locations”
provision,
in
which
it
states

that
“the
treatment
of
bedrooms
must
be
governed
by
good
taste
and
delicacy,”
as

Calloway
sings
happily
to
himself
while
laying
across
the
woman’s
bed—
conjuring

an
image
of
post-‐coital
bliss.

It
would
seem
the
film’s
late
August
release
date
that
year
would
have

prevented
it
from
receiving
an
approval
seal
from
the
PCA,
after
the
Code
had
been

amended
and
was
being
newly
enforced
starting
a
month
before
in
July.

Film

historian
Rick
Jewell’s
claims
that
“Breen
and
his
staff
were
extremely
tough
in
their

initial
enforcement
of
the
Code”
make
the
fact
that
this
content
seemed
to
slip
past

175

the
Censors
further
perplexing.
65

There
is
no
existing
interoffice
documentation

between
Paramount
and
Breen’s
office
about
this
film,
and
thus
it
is
difficult
to

assess
how
or
why
this
content
made
the
film’s
final
cut.
However,
the
suggestive

nature
of
Calloway
and
his
entire
band
marching
out
of
the
woman’s
room,
was
not

only
a
direct
challenge
to
Production
Code
enforcement,
but
also
was
explicit

commentary
about
the
dangers
of
Black
cultural
infiltration
into
private,
or

otherwise
off-‐limits
spaces.

Paramount’s
Old
Man
Blues
(Scotto,
1931)
featuring
Ethel
Merman
physically

manifested
“The
Blues”
as
a
menacing,
Grim
Reaper
type
character
who

unrelentingly
stalks
Merman.
“The
Blues”
in
the
film
is
a
double
entendre,
referring

both
to
a
sorrowful
emotional
state,
and
to
the
type
of
historically
Black
music
that

Merman
(another
representative
of
white
female
fragility)
sings
throughout
the

short.
Despite
her
pleas
to
be
left
alone,
the
“Blues”,
cloaked
in
his
ominous
black

clothing
continues
to
lurk,
claiming,
“I
will
follow
you
no
matter
where
you
go.”
His

threatening
presence
is
converted
into
outright
danger
when
he
encourages
her

suicide.
Only
through
the
valor
of
her
white,
male
lover
is
she
saved
from
the

overreaching
brutality
of
the
“Blues.”

Murder
at
the
Vanities
(Leisen),
Paramount’s
1934
backstage
musical-‐murder

mystery
also
uses
Black
music
to
provide
thorough
commentary
on
the
anxieties
the

white
hegemony
held
about
the
Blacks
integrating
into
white
spaces.

The
stage

show’s
second
act
begins
with
a
close
up
of
the
program
which
is
entitled
“The
Rape

of
Rhapsody;”
the
act
is
broken
into
three
movements,
“The
Rhapsody,”
“The
Rape,”

and
“The
Revenge.”
The
film’s
protagonist,
Eric
Lander
(Carl
Brisson)
performs
as

176

the
Hungarian
classical
pianist,
Fran
Liszt,
as
he
attempts
to
compose
his
well-‐
known
“Hungarian
Rhapsody
No.
2.”
As
he
searches
for
inspiration,
he
telegraphs

the
next
sequence,
claiming,
“Someday,
the
finest
orchestra
will
play
my
rhapsody;

I’ll
see
my
dream
turn
into
reality.”
Immediately
following,
an
orchestra
dressed
in

courtly
nineteenth-‐century
attire
and
lead
by
a
stately
conductor,
performs
his

finished,
Classical
composition;
his
proverbial
dream
has
turned
into
reality.

However,
the
satisfaction
of
Liszt’s
dream
is
suddenly
called
into
question
as
Black

jazz
performers
appear
from
nowhere
and
interrupt
the
orchestra’s
flowing
melody

with
brassy
horn
bleats
before
disappearing
again.
The
confused
orchestra
resumes

playing,
only
to
be
interrupted
again
by
the
jazz
intonations
seconds
later.
And
then,

the
space
is
slowly
infiltrated
by
Black
jazz
performers:
Black
female
dancers
appear

pushing
the
white
dancers
into
the
recesses
of
the
balcony,
the
Black
band
members

continue
to
advance
until
they
have
physically
taken
the
seats
of
the
courtly

orchestra,
and
Duke
Ellington
usurps
the
conductor,
leaving
him
visibly
frustrated

and
angry.
In
this
moment,
racial
integration
of
the
space
quickly
turns
into
an

entire
domination
of
the
space
via
reacculturated
Blackness.
In
the
wake
of
the

cultural
upheaval,
the
question
is
posed:
which
of
the
two
orchestras
was
actually

the
“finest
orchestra”
that
Liszt
had
referenced
during
his
composition?
The
courtly,

European
traditional
iteration,
or
Ellington’s
all-‐Black,
modern
replacement?

While
it
is
largely
left
to
the
viewer
to
come
to
their
own
terms
in
deciding
if

modern
Black
music
is
better
than
traditional,
canonized
European
music,
the

message
about
the
nuisance
and
dangerous
aftermath
of
Black
infiltration
is

nonetheless
less
difficult
to
decipher.

In
Murder
at
the
Vanities,
the
introduction
of

177

Black
bodies
into
white
spaces
is
actually
named:
“The
Rape.”
The
integrative
move

is
unsolicited,
aggressive,
and
in
the
end
is
a
near
complete
eradication
of
the
whites

that
previously
occupied
the
space.
This
exchange
is
yet
another
acute
connection
to

the
racist
anxieties
famously
explored
in
Birth
of
a
Nation
around
integration
and

equality,
and
the
perceived
detrimental
effects
of
Black
enfranchisement
on
white

society.
As
demonstrated
in
the
film,
perceptions
of
Black
integration
would
lead
to

the
immediate
“rape”
of
white
culture
in
accordance
with
its
various
definitions:
it

would
result
in
forceful
advances
against
another’s
will
and/or
the
spoiling,
and

destruction
of
a
place.

By
these
definitions,
the
mere
emergence
of
Ellington
and
his
band
and

dancers
are
treated
as
a
“rape”
of
the
sophisticated
white
concert
space,
and
his

“Ebony
Rhapsody”—
a
Black
jazz
interpolation
of
Liszt’s

“Hungarian
Rhapsody
No.

2”
–-‐is
treated
as
a
“rape”
of
the
white
musical
tradition.
66

The
scene
is

representative
of
white
loss
of
control
under
the
scope
of
chaos
created
by
Black

ascension;
the
white
band
is
ousted
from
their
positions
against
their
will,
the

conductor
covers
his
ears
to
tune
out
the
“offensive”
version
of
the
composition
to

no
avail,
and
as
a
final
act
of
uppity
defiance,
the
band
throws
the
original

orchestra’s
sheet
music
in
the
air
and
appears
to
riff
their
jazz
version
of
the
song.
67

“Rape”
essentially
becomes
synonymous
with
“
racial
integration,”
and
is

representative
of
the
inherent
result
of
shifts
in
Black
power
dynamics
in
white

society.

As
with
Birth
of
a
Nation
and
the
aforementioned
shorts
and
Boop
cartoons,

Murder
at
the
Vanities
also
uses
white
women
as
ideological
props
of
cultural
purity

178

and
vulnerability
to
highlight
the
intrinsic
dangers
of
Black
integration.

In
Murder

at
the
Vanities,
the
male
Black
jazz
musicians
run
all
of
the
white
men
off,
and
are

left
on
stage
with
not
only
the
Black
female
dancers,
but
also
with
all
of
the
white

female
dancers.
However,
unlike
Elsie
from
Birth
of
a
Nation,
and
Boop
who
both
do

the
unimaginable
to
avoid
the
advancing
Black
male
presence,
the
white
women
in

Murder
at
the
Vanities
willingly
participate
and
interact
with
the
Black
cultural

element,
and
quickly
adapt
to
the
musical
style.
In
fact,
the
white
lead
singer
Rita

(Gertrude
Michael)
appears
fully
culturally
converted,
costumed
in
a
head
scarf
and

maid’s
costume
similar
to
the
those
of
the
Black
dancers;
she
also
takes
on
the
task

of
providing
expertise
on
(read:
whitesplaining)
what
constitutes
the
“Ebony

Rhapsody”,
complete
with
Negroized
vernacular
such
as
“oh
lawdy.”
Embedded
in

stereotypical
Black
signifiers,
Rita’s
acceptance
and
celebration
of
the
Black
culture

around
her
complicates
the
symbolism
of
cultural
“rape.”
Rita
does
not
run
away—
Rita
is
happily
compliant.

Here,
the
anxieties
of
Black
assimilation
are
intensified,
as
fears
of
white

cultural
dilution
and
eradication
give
way
to
theories
of
white
indoctrination
into

Black
culture.

At
this
moment,
the
film
suddenly
becomes
more
frenetic
and

anxiety-‐inducing—the
shots
of
the
band
are
suddenly
off-‐kilter
and
disorienting,
the

music
quickens,
and
the
shots
are
edited
in
rapid
succession.
The
frenzied
chaos
is

only
quieted
once
the
conductor
(Charles
Middleton)
appears
with
a
machine
gun

and
mows
down
the
entire
jazz
band,
as
well
as
the
“culturally
contaminated”
Rita.

At
this
point,
order
is
restored,
the
white
space
is
reclaimed,
and
the
audience

179

responds
with
gleeful
laughter
and
applause.

The
final
act
of
the
piece,
“The

Revenge,”
has
come
to
a
conclusion.

Conversely,
through
a
Black
cultural
lens,
an
alternate
reading
of
that
which

was
portrayed
by
white
content
creators
as
“rape”
of
white
culture
presents
itself.
In

Henry
Louis
Gates
Jr.’s
The
Signifying
Monkey,
Gates
contends
that
Black
vernacular

is
one
that
prioritizes
the
figurative
over
the
literal,
and
is
largely
a
rhetorical
means

of
communication.
For
Gates,
“signifyin(g)”
is
a
Black
revision
and
critique
on

standard,
Europeanized
understandings
of
language
and
semiotics.
68

Although
his

work
focuses
on
the
literary
works
of
Black
writers,
the
concept
of
communicating

through
“signifyin(g)”
is
a
theory
that
translates
across
the
Black
aesthetic
and
Black

artistic
mediums,
including
cinema.
As
such,
when
stripped
away
from
the

predominant
construction
of
racist
and
xenophobic
ideologies,
Ellington’s

interpolation
of
Liszt’s
piece
in
Murder
at
the
Vanities
is
in
fact
a
rhetorical
social

positioning
and
act
of
“signifyin(g).”

The
white
cultural
signifier
is
not
“raped,”
but

is
instead,
more
accurately
“responded
to”
via
Black
musical
vernacular.

For
Gates,
“response”
is
an
inherent
component
of
Black
vernacular,
69

and
he

claims
that
for
many
Black
writers
“response”
often
lies
in
the
Black
tradition
of

“seek[ing]
to
place
their
work
in
the
larger
tradition
of
their
genre
[by]...revisi[ing]

tropes
of
antecedent
texts.”
70

He
goes
on
to
claim
that
such
revision
is
not
only

important
for
the
individual
work
itself,
but
also
for
the
“new
space”
that
the
revised

text
creates
for
subsequent,
“signifyed”
texts.
From
Ellington’s
perspective,
“Ebony

Rhapsody”
is
not
an
effort
to
eradicate
whiteness,
but
is
instead
an
integrative

maneuver
that
allows
him
to
communicate
directly
with
other
Blacks
in
his
own

180

vernacular,
as
well
as
carve
out
space
within
the
larger,
white
musical
tradition
for

Black
music
to
take
root
and
flourish.
It
is
this
attempt
of
“carving
out
Black
space”

and
establishing
Black
place
within
the
larger,
existing
white
spaces
-‐-‐whether
that

be
through
means
of
social
mobility,
integration,
or
the
infiltration
of
pop
culture-‐-‐

that
is
truly
the
root
of
white
anxieties
on
film
and
elsewhere
during
this
period.

The
destabilization
created
by
“response”
has
uncanny
effects,
which
also

plays
into
white
anxieties.
Through
the
act
of
Black
response,
familiar
objects
are

adapted
and
made
slightly
unfamiliar
in
the
pursuit
of
tailoring
the
object
for
a
Black

cultural
audience.
Thus,
Ellington’s
Black
vernacularization
of
Liszt’s
“Hungarian

Rhapsody
No.
2”
via
his
interpolated
“Ebony
Rhapsody,”
is
a
“response”
that
causes

the
song
to
be
once
familiar
and
yet
also
unfamiliar
to
the
white
masses.
In
fact,
this

destabilization
is
identified
directly
in
the
song’s
lyrics,
which
comment
upon
the

revision
by
saying:

Instead
of
playing
music
like
you
do,

they
supply
with
Classical
voodoo.

They
keep
swinging
that
thing
while
singing

The
Ebony
Rhapsody.

The
lyrics
highlight
Bill
Brown’s
explanation
of
“the
uncanny,”
71

in
which
that
which

is
familiar
is
unsettled
by
the
unfamiliar.
The
eerie
and
unsettling
effect
created
by

interaction
with
an
“uncanny”
object
or
situation,
rouses
the
individual
experiencing

it
into
a
heightened
sense
of
awareness,
a
skepticism,
a
fearfulness.
As
Ellington

configures
the
traditional
European
piece
into
something
that
feels
uncannily
both

familiar
and
new,
the
white
characters
become
aroused
with
this
same
sense
of

uneasiness.
Here,
it
is
not
merely
a
threat
imposed
by
the
physical
presence
and

181

proximity
of
Black
bodies,
but
is
more
importantly
an
allegory
for
the
uneasy
feeling

about
how
the
permeation
and
infiltration
of
Black
cultural
product
into
established,

white
spaces
will
lead
to
the
eventual
occlusion
of
white
cultural
product.

Thus,
although
the
Black
musical
shorts
of
the
period
tended
to
showcase
the

world
inhabited
by
Black
entertainers
as
a
site
of
cultural
intrigue
worthy
of
white

immersive
exploration,
it
conversely
portrayed
the
integration
of
Black
bodies
into

white
spaces—both
physical
and
symbolic—as
a
great
affront
and
threat.
While

white
movement
between
cultural
spaces
was
encouraged,
Black
movement

between
cultural
spaces
was
portrayed
as
a
dangerous
disruption.
Ellington
and

Calloway
provide
a
sampling
of
films
for
which
we
can
examine
this
difference.

When
occupying
their
“natural
habitat”
(Black
spaces),
the
careful
construction
of

Ellington
and
Calloway’s
respectable,
middle
class
personas
was
forthright;

however,
when
Ellington
and
Calloway
integrated
into
white
spaces
in
films,
their

class
respectability
gave
way
to
chaos,
threatening
behavior,
and
an
uncanny

eeriness.

In
these
scenarios,
their
class
background
or
skin
tone
is
regarded
no

differently
than
that
of
Armstrong.

The
practice
of
immersion
in
film
has
socio-‐cultural
effects
that
extend

beyond
the
mere
entertainment
experience;
immersion
can
also
destabilize
and

resituate
power
dynamics
between
the
dominant
class
and
the
marginalized.
The

technique
of
moving
white
viewers
“into
the
frame”—into
Black
spaces—
subverted

the
history
of
white
passive
viewership
of
Black
bodies.
As
a
result,
the
practice
of

Black
performativity
and
Black
spectacle
—phenomena
that
can
only
exist
in

proximity
to
removed,
distanced,
scopophiliac
outsider
gazing-‐-‐
were
likewise

182

transformed.
Immersion
demonstrates
a
capability
of
social
power
conversion;

within
the
Black
short
films,
immersion
served
as
a
powerful
tool
that
had
the

capability
of
demythologizing
and
“unothering”
the
Black
bodies
on
the
screen.

As
the
act
of
demythologization
and
“unothering”
Blacks
also
carried
with
it

the
disruption
of
the
white
hegemony,
the
white
dominant
power
structure

exhibited
anxieties
about
acts
of
cultural
immersion
across
the
spectrum,
including

intercultural
interaction
and
racial
integration.
Through
the
use
of
anti-‐immersive

techniques,
such
as
caricature
and
the
promotion
of
scopophiliac
gazing,
white

anxieties
about
Black
mobility
and
equality
were
subversively
propagandized
and

crafted
into
representations
of
cultural
infiltration
and
invasion.

Cinematic
immersion
and
anti-‐immersion
in
Black
musical
shorts
of
the

1930s
uncovered
the
larger
social
and
racial
tensions
created
by
the
emergence
of

Black
modernity
in
the
United
States.

These
tensions,
and
the
negotiation
of
these

tensions,
bring
to
the
screen
a
truth
about
the
Black
strivings
and
the
reactive
white

fears
of
Black
mobility
in
ways
that
were
either
undetectable
or
representative
of
an

overt
racism
that
Hollywood
suggested
was
a
product
of
the
distant
past.
Black

representation
in
feature-‐length
films
of
the
period
was
largely
an
expression
of

white
fantasy
and
Black
fixity;
in
features,
the
construction
of
representation
was

most
commonly
at
service
to
upholding
white
dominant
ideologies
about
race.

However,
the
Black
musical
shorts
were
sites
of
confrontation
that
brought
to
the

forefront
the
contentious
reality
of
American
racial
and
social
hierarchies
being

challenged
and
unsettled,
and
provided
an
atypical
perspective
of
modern
Black

screen
representation
during
Hollywood’s
Golden
Age.

183

Notes:

1

While
no
area
in
the
United
States
was
“Depression-‐proof,”
major
urban
locales

were
best
equipped
to
keep
many
of
their
live
entertainment
arenas
functioning

during
the
economic
downturn.
This
led
to
a
Black
musical
exodus
from
many

Southern
areas
to
major
urban
centers
in
the
North
such
as
Chicago,
Boston,
and

New
York
during
the
period.
Thus,
while
the
Depression
compromised
many

established
entertainment
institutions
across
the
country,
it
conversely
fortified
the

Black
renaissance
in
Harlem
by
drawing
and
concentrating
much
of
the
country’s

Black
musical
and
performative
talent
within
the
borough
limits.
For
more
info
on

Black
musical
migratory
patterns,
please
see
Leroi
Jones,
Blues
People:
Negro
Music

in
White
America.
(New
York:
Perennial,
2002),
95-‐121.

2

Christopher
Lehman,
The
Colored
Cartoon:
Black
Representation
in
American

Animated
Short
Films
1907-‐1954
(Boston:
UMass
Press,
2007),
30.

3

As
an
example,
a
vast
majority
of
the
musical
shorts
of
this
era
worked
to
immerse

the
viewer
by
recreating
the
theater
space
and
viewing
experience.
Cinematically

speaking,
these
films
were
simple:
the
stage
was
centered
in
the
frame,
the

proscenium
was
the
focus,
and
the
editing
was
basic-‐-‐

cobbling
establishing
shots
of

the
band
together
with
close
ups
of
the
band
leader
and
featured
players
to
amplify

the
immersive
experience.
In
some
films,
shots
of
patrons
dancing
before
the
stage

were
included.
Such
techniques
can
be
seen
in
the
short
films
featuring
Isham
Jones

(Follow
the
Leader,
[P,
1935]
and
Underneath
the
Broadway
Moon
[P,
1935]),
Phil

Spitalny
(Queens
of
Harmony
[P,
1937]),
Artie
Shaw
(Class
in
Swing
[P,1939]
and

Symphony
in
Swing[WB,
1939].
Ethel
Merman
was
a
continuous
exception
to
this

standard
in
musical
shorts,
as
her
films
were
largely
scripted
from
a
narrative

perspective
(See
Ireno
[P,
1932],
Roaming
[P,
1931],
Be
Like
Me
[P,
1931],
Devil
Sea

[P,
1931],
Old
Man
Blues
[P,
1931]).

4

The
creation
of
immersion
as
a
cinematic
experience
seemed
to
be
of
specific
and

ongoing
interest
to
Paramount’s
principal
shorts
director
and
producer,
Fred

Waller.
He
is
best
known
for
later
going
on
to
patent
and
develop
various
immersive

mechanisms
and
cinematic
technology
including,
the
Waller
Flexible
Gunnery

Trainer
(a
complex
simulator
that
trained
gunners
for
combat
in
various

conditions),
the
Aquaplane
(early
waterskis),
Vitarama
(a
projection
apparatus

created
to
project
inside
a
domed
interior),
and
Cinerama
(a
curved
projection

screen
developed
to
incorporate
the
use
of
peripheral
vision
for
viewers,
creating
a

more
immersive
experience).

5

There
is
a
similar
positioning
of
the
theater
audience
in
Paramount’s
1934,
Hi-‐De

Ho
(Waller)
featuring
Cab
Calloway;
however,
the
continuous
cutting
between

storylines
constantly
impedes
live
performance
emulation,
and
thus
disrupts
the

immersive
experience.
Likewise,
the
specific
positioning
of
the
camera
does
not

allow
for
complete
immersion,
as
it
is
positioned
in
the
aisle
in
order
to
capture
a

clear
shot
of
the
stage.
This
stands
in
opposition
to
the
realistic
camera
placement

(as
though
one
were
sitting
at
a
table
in
the
audience)
in
Jitterbug
Party.

6

Janet
Murray,
Hamlet
on
the
Holodeck
(New
York:
Free
Press,
1997),
105-‐106.

184

7

James
de
Jongh,
Vicious
Modernism:
Black
Harlem
and
the
Literary
Imagination

(New
York:
Cambridge
University
Press,
1990),
15.

8

Ibid.

9

Jim
Haskins,
The
Cotton
Club:
A
Pictorial
and
Social
History
of
the
Most
Famous

Symbol
of
the
Jazz
Era
(New
York:
Random
House,
1977),
23.

10

Janet
Murray,
Inventing
the
Medium:
Principles
of
Interaction
Design
as
a
Cultural

Practice
(Cambridge,
MA:
MIT
Press,
2011),
407.

11

Harvey
G.
Cohen,
Duke
Ellington’s
America
(Chicago:
The
University
of
Chicago

Press,
2010),
53.

12

The
protection
of
Calloway’s
image
from
degrading
stereotypes
was
also

reinforced
by
Ellington
himself,
who
had
a
personal
stake
in
the
musician
with
his

50%
ownership
of
Mills-‐Calloway
Enterprises,
Inc.
When
Mills
and
Ellington
parted

ways
in
1939,
Ellington
exchanged
his
50%
share
of
Calloway
for
Mills’
50%
share

of
Duke
Ellington,
Inc.,
allowing
him
to
be
sole
owner
of
his
enterprise.

13

For
more
on
Ellington’s
upbringing
see
Duke
Ellington,
Music
is
My
Mistress,
pp.
6-‐
37;
Terry
Teachout,
A
Life
of
Duke
Ellington,
pp.
21-‐54;
John
Edward
Hasse,
Beyond

Category,
pp.
21-‐60,
and
James
Lincoln
Collier,
Duke
Ellington,
pp
1-‐27.

14

Calloway
biographer
Alyn
Shipton
notes
that
Calloway’s
father,
Cabell
II,
was
a

law
clerk,
but
all
other
accounts
identify
him
as
a
lawyer.

15

See
Alyn
Shipton,
Hi-‐De-‐Ho:
The
Life
and
Times
of
Cab
Calloway,
(New
York:

Oxford
University
Press,
2010),
1-‐18;
David
Ossman,
“Jazz
Profiles:
Cab
Calloway,”

NPR,

https://www.npr.org/programs/jazzprofiles/archive/calloway.html;

and
Linell
Smith
and
Fred
Rasmussen,
“Cab
Calloway’s
memoirs
tell
the
story
of

growing
up
in
a
segregated
Baltimore,”
The
Baltimore
Sun,
November
20,
1994,

https://www.baltimoresun.com/news/bs-‐xpm-‐1994-‐11-‐20-‐1994324027-‐
story.html.

16

Steve
Voce,
“The
Marquis
of
Harlem,”
Jazz
Journal,
vol.
9,
no.
6
(June
1958),
9.

17

Matt
Micucci.
“Louis
Armstrong
and
the
Colored
Waif’s
School
for
Boys,”
JAZZIZ

Magazine,
July
4,
2016,
https://www.jazziz.com/louis-‐armstrong-‐colored-‐waifs-‐
home-‐boys/

18

Edward
Byron
Reuter.
The
Mulatto
in
the
United
States
(Boston:
The
Gorham,

1918),
6.

19

Giddins,
28.

20

Despite
Armstrong’s
celebrity,
financial
gain,
and
the
general
cultural
elevation
of

Jazz
music,
the
artist’s
class
portrayal
did
not
waiver
throughout
his
career.

Archivist
Ricky
Riccardi
of
the
Louis
Armstrong
House
Museum
in
Queens,
New

York
aptly
labels
him
as
“earthy”
(as
opposed
to
terms
often
affiliated
with
Ellington

like
“sophisticated”
and
“suave”,
those
associated
with
Calloway,
like
“charismatic”

and
“sly”);
Armstrong
was
recognized
and
respected
as
a
musical
genius,
but

continued
to
be
portrayed
as
“common”
and
a
bit
unpolished
throughout
his
career.

In
direct
opposition
to
Ellington’s
consistent
portrayal
of
refined
sophistication
(as

he
felt
the
burden
of
representing
his
entire
race)
throughout
his
career,
Armstrong

had
no
reservations
about
being
unguarded,
and
at
times
downright
crass
in
his

representation
and
sharing
of
his
private
life.
In
the
1950s,
he
became
an
endorser

185

of
Swiss
Kriss
laxatives,
giving
great
detail
about
his
experience
with
the
product

and
mailing
novelty
cards
of
himself
sitting
bare-‐bottomed
on
a
toilet
to
his
fans.
To

solidify
the
boorish
nature
of
the
advertisement,
the
card
included
a
repugnant

slogan
from
Armstrong
himself:

“Leave
it
All
Behind
Ya.”

21

de
Jongh,
33.

22

Armstrong’s
questionable
roles
and
portrayals
in
his
shorts
from
this
period
have

long
been
the
ire
of
many
scholars.
Gary
Giddins
called
his
cinematic

representations
“largely
problematic”;
Nicholas
Sammond
stated
that
his
role
in
I’ll

Be
Glad
When
You’re
Dead
You
Rascal
You
was
“so
obviously
racist
that
it
barely

seems
worth
the
ink
to
say
so.”
(See
Giddins,
9;
Sammond,
132)

23

Alain
Locke,
“The
New
Negro”
in
The
New
Negro:
Voices
of
the
Harlem
Renaissance,

ed.
Alain
Locke
(New
York:
Touchstone,
1997),
3.

24

Jacqueline
Stewart,
Migrating
to
the
Movies:
Cinema
and
Black
Urban
Modernity

(Berkeley:
UC
Press,
2005),
34.

25

Locke,
“The
New
Negro,
5.

26

Leroi
Jones,
Blues
People:
Negro
Music
in
White
America
(New
York:
Perennial,

2002),
136.

27

Donald
Bogle,
Toms,
Coons,
Mulattoes,
Mammies
&
Bucks:
An
Interpretive
History
of

Blacks
in
American
Films
(New
York:
The
Continuum
International

Publishing
Group,
2004),
75.

28

Locke,
“The
New
Negro,”
9.

29

Laura
Mulvey,
“Visual
Pleasure
and
Narrative
Cinema,”
Film
Theory
and
Criticism,

ed.
Leo
Braudy
and
Marshall
Cohen
(New
York:
Oxford
University
Press,
2004),
839.

30

Mulvey,
840.

31

Wendy
Wick
Reaves,
Celebrity
Caricature
in
America
(New
Haven:
Smithsonian

Institute,
1998),
173.

32

Wendy
Wick
Reaves,
interview
by
Warren
Perry
in
“Closing
Exhibition:
Ballyhoo!

Posters
as
Portraiture,”
Smithsonian
National
Portrait
Gallery,

https://npg.si.edu/blog/closing-‐exhibition-‐ballyhoo-‐posters-‐portraiture.

33

Reaves,
Celebrity
Caricature
in
America,171.

34

Despite
Covarrubias’
background
as
a
person
of
color,
he
remained
a
cultural

outsider
in
Black
Harlem
in
the
1920s
and
1930s.
While
his
status
as
an
ethnic

minority
may
have
given
him
more
points
of
relation
to
the
Black
community,
his

position
as
a
non-‐
Black,
cultural
outsider
informed
his
perspective
of
Black
life
in

Harlem,
and
thus
influenced
his
art
on
the
subject.
Occupying
a
space
that
catered
to

both
the
curious,
upper
class
white
world,
and
the
promotion
of
the
Black
Aesthetic

as
worthy
art,
there
was
no
Black
consensus
on
Covarrubias’
style
in
Harlem
at
the

time.
He
was
commissioned
by
many
important
Black
Harlem
Renaissance
literary

figures
to
provide
illustrations
for
their
work,
including:
Zora
Neale
Hurston,

Langston
Hughes
and
Taylor
Gordon.
Langston
Hughes
praised
Covarrubias’
work
in

his
Weary
Blues,
claiming
it
to
be
“the
best
pictorial
interpretation
of
my
Weary

Blues
that
[I
had]
ever
seen.”
(Hughes,
quoted
in
Adriana
William’s
Covarrubias,
40.)

Alain
Locke
claimed
that
Covarrubias
had
a
“clever
grasp
on
Negro
traits.”
(Locke,
in

Negro
Art:
Past
and
Present,
57.)
However,
other
Black
figures
considered
his
art

featuring
Blacks
to
be
exploitative.

W.E.B.
Du
Bois
was
particularly
harsh
on

186

Covarrubias’
style,
claiming
that
“though
“[he
was]
not…an
art
critic…[he]
could

exist
quite
happily
if
Covarrubias
had
never
been
born.”
(Du
Bois,
in
“Review
of

Born
to
Be,”
in
The
Crisis,
[April
1930],
129.)

35

Miguel
Covarrubias.
“Enter,
The
New
Negro,
a
Distinctive
Type
Recently
Created

by
the
Coloured
Caberet;
Exit,
the
Coloured
Crooner
of
Lullabys,
the
Cotton-‐Picker,

the
Mammy-‐Singer,
and
the
Darky
Banjo-‐Player,
for
so
Long
Over-‐Exploited
Figures

on
the
American
Stage,”
Vanity
Fair
23,
no
4.
December
1924,
60-‐61.

36

Reaves,
Celebrity
Caricature
in
America,
174.

37

David
Friend,
“Vanity
Fair:
The
One
Click
History”,
Vanity
Fair,
September
2004,

https://www.vanityfair.com/magazine/2008/01/oneclickhistory.

38

While
Manhattan
magazine
was
as
local
high
society
publication,
Vanity
Fair

circulated
nationwide
with
a
readership
that
fluctuated
in
the
period
between

80,000
and
99,000.

For
more
on
circulation,
see
Theodore
Peterson,
Magazines
in

the
Twentieth
Century,
258.

39

Reaves,
Celebrity
Caricature
in
America,
178.

40
Friend,
“Vanity
Fair:
The
One
Click
History.”

41

Cleveland
Armory
quoted
in
Bohemians,
Bootleggers,
Flappers,
and
Swells:
The

Best
of
Early
Vanity
Fair,
eds.,
Graydon
Carter
and
David
Friend
(New
York:
Penguin

Books,
2014),
4.

42

Reaves,
Celebrity
Caricature
in
America,
174.

43

Thomas
Cripps,
Slow
Fade
to
Black:
The
Negro
in
American
Film,
1900-‐1942
(New

York:
Oxford
University
Press,
1993),
229.

44

Although
Covarrubias
himself
did
not
consider
his
drawings
of
his
Black
subjects

to
be
satirical,
Covarrubias
expert
Adriana
Williams
claims
that
through
caricature,

he
“unintentionally
initiated
new
stereotypes
as
he
challenged
old
ones.”
See

Reaves,
Celebrity
Caricature
in
America,
178.

45

The
character
is
a
familiar,
headscratching,
“lazy
genius”
Black
stereotype
that

appeared
in
films
throughout
the
1920s
and
1930s.
While
attempting
to
provide

commentary
on
the
less
than
motivated
work
ethic
of
the
Black
characters
in
their

films,
they
also
poked
fun
at
the
Black
characters’
impoverished
lifestyles,
and
their

necessity
in
“making
due”
with
meager
supplies.
As
a
result,
the
Black
characters

often
engineered
extremely
complicated
Rube-‐Goldberg-‐esque
contraptions
that

aided
in
their
workload
or
created
time
for
leisure
opportunities.
While
the

intention
was
to
poke
fun
at
the
poor
Black
characters,
it
is
difficult
not
to
marvel
at

their
innovation
and
ingenuity.

The
Little
Rascals’
Farina
was
famously
known
for

such
crude
but
impressive
inventions.

46

State
of
New
York
Education
Department:
Motion
Picture
Division,
f.
Rhapsodies
in

Black
and
Blue,
July
19,
1932.
(New
York
State
Archives,
Albany,
NY).

47

Bogle,
9.

48

For
a
thorough
breakdown
of
the
historical
Black
character
types,
see
Bogle.

49

Jacqueline
Stewart,
Migrating
to
the
Movies
(Berkeley:
University
of
California

Press,
2005),
34.

50

Jones,
137.

51

It
is
difficult
to
statistically
chart
and
compare
popular
music
prior
to
the
mid-‐

1930s
due
to
a
lack
of
published
popular
ratings.
Music
rating
charts
such
as
those

187

established
on
the
radio
program
“Your
Hit
Parade”
and
“Billboard”
were
not

established
until
1935
and
1936,
respectively.
To
date,
there
have
been
at
least
34

recorded
covers
of
“You
Rascal
You”,
and
Armstrong’s
1931
version
was
one
of
the

last
of
its
era
before
it
was
revitalized
over
20
years
later
in
1956
by
Louis
Prima.

Through
its
use
in
both
of
Armstrong’s
1932
star
vehicles
at
Paramount,
we
can

conclude
that
the
song
became
very
commonly
associated
with
him.

(See
Jonathan

Sale,
“Sixty
Years
of
Hits:
From
Sinatra
to
Sinatra,”
January
5,
1996,
The
Independent

https://www.independent.co.uk/life-‐style/sixty-‐years-‐of-‐hits-‐from-‐sinatra-‐to-‐
sinatra-‐1322429.html)

52

Despite
the
fact
the
Gershwin’s
original
composition
was
itself
an
interpolation
of

Black
music,
the
various
measures
taken
to
recalibrate
the
musical
form
to
exist

alongside
other
“serious”
music
in
the
white
tradition
simultaneously
worked
to

distance
it
from
its
Black
roots.
“Rhapsody
in
Blue”
was
an
effort
to
legitimize
jazz

music
by
situating
it
in
proximity
to
whiteness.
Bandleader
Paul
Whiteman

commissioned
Gershwin
to
compose
a
“serious”
jazz
composition,
which
jazz
critic

Richard
Williams
labels
a
“rapprochement
between
jazz
an
classical
music.”
On

February
12,
1924,
the
piece
was
performed
as
part
of
the
“An
Experiment
in

Modern
Music”
concert
at
New
York’s
Aeolian
Hall—a
concert
hall
that
was
known

to
host
“elite,”
“serious,”
classical
musicians
such
as
the
New
York
Symphony

Society,
Sergei
Rachmaninoff,
and
Igor
Stravinsky.
Ironically,
the
jazz
composition
is

what
initially
qualified
Gershwin
as
a
“serious”
composer,
and
strengthened

Whiteman’s
self-‐named
title
as
the
“King
of
Jazz.”
(See
Richard
Williams’

“Gershwin’s
Rhapsody
in
Blue
premieres
at
New
York’s
Aeolian

Hall,”
Richard
Harrington’s
“New
Blue,”
and
John
Wilson’s
“Recordings;
The

Whiteman
Concert
of
1924
Lives
On”)

53

Bill
Brown,
“Reification,
Reanimation,
and
the
America
Uncanny,”
Critical
Inquiry

32
(Winter
2006):
182.

54

Karl
Marx,
quoted
in
Brown,
180.

55

Armstrong’s
drummer,
Alfred
“Tubby”
Hall
(who
was
also
given
a
cameo
in

Rhapsody
in
Black
and
Blue)
gets
similar
cameo
treatment
in
the
cartoon;
a
cannibal

who
creates
a
rhythmic,
tribal
beat
while
stirring
a
pot
that
awaits
the
captured

Boop
is
suddenly
transposed
into
Hall,
whose
stirring
spoons
are
exchanged
for

drum
sticks.

Hall
bops
his
head
to
the
tribal
rhythm,
and
then
like
Armstrong,
is

converted
back
to
a
commoditized
“thing”—the
unhuman
savage
that
stirs
the
pot.

He
and
Armstrong
are
the
only
two
members
of
the
band
to
be
shot
in
close
up

during
the
films.

56

Although
Armstrong’s
presence
in
short
films
was
intentionally
constructed
in
a

ideologically
regressive
fashion
as
a
means
of
forewarning
viewers
about
the

potential
dangers
of
Black
cultural
infiltration,
Armstrong’s
presence
in
feature

length
films
did
not
follow
suit.
In
fact,
Armstrong’s
feature
career
allowed
a
far

more
nuanced
representation
of
his
persona
and
his
Blackness.
Ironically,
his

“infiltration”
into
white
spaces—particularly
in
his
films
costarring
Bing
Crosby,

such
as
Pennies
from
Heaven
(McLeod,1936)
and
High
Society
(Walters,
1956)-‐-‐
and

was
normalized
and
was
particularly
subversive
and
socially
defiant
during
a
period

in
which
spaces
remained
racially
segregated
and
the
screen
promoted
racial

188

difference.
Armstrong’s
“defiance”
when
entering
these
spaces
can
also
be
charted

through
his
refusal
to
engage
with
the
practice
of
“respectability
politics”
when

claiming
space
in
these
traditionally
white
spaces.

57

Kristopher
B.
Burrell,
“Harlem,
New
York,”
in
Encyclopedia
of
American
Urban

History,
vol.
1
(Thousand
Oaks,
CA:
Sage
Publications,
2007),
322-‐324.

58

Calloway’s
use
of
this
phrase
was
a
reference
to
his
popular
1931
song,
“Kickin’

the
Gong
Around;”
it
was
re-‐recorded
in
1932
by
Louis
Armstrong.
Calloway
first

performed
this
song
for
the
screen
in
Paramount’s
first
of
four
installments
of
The

Big
Broadcast
in
1932.

59

Leonard
Maltin
and
Jerry
Beck,
Of
Mice
and
Magic:
A
History
of
American
Animated

Cartoons
(New
York:
Plume,
1987),
102.

60

In
1947,
an
independent
film
company,
All-‐
American,
released
its
own
feature-‐
length
version
of
Hi-‐De-‐Ho
(Josh
Binney).
This
version
of
Hi-‐De-‐Ho
was
a
departure

from
the
previous
two
mainstream
short
films
of
the
same
name,
as
it
was
a
“race

film”
marketed
specifically
for
a
Black
audience.

61

The
focus
on
Irving
Mills’
signature
at
the
end
of
the
telegram
highlights
the

manager’s
celebrity
status
as
a
growing
household
name.
Mills
was
known
to
have

co-‐written
many
of
his
artist’s
most
popular
songs
including
Cab
Calloway’s
“Minnie

the
Moocher”
and
Duke
Ellington’s
“It
Don’t
Mean
a
Thing
(If
It
Ain’t
Got
that

Swing).”
Despite
that
well-‐known
fact,
the
representation
of
artistic
agency
given

Calloway
as
he
masterfully
composes
the
piece
without
the
input
of
Mills
in
this

scene
is
noteworthy.

62

Janet
Murray,
Hamlet
on
the
Holodeck
(New
York:
Free
Press,
1997),
98.

63

The
previous
chapter
marked
the
racially
segregated
space
of
the
Cotton
Club
as

“performatively
Black,
”
but
operationally
“white.”
The
club
space
is
framed

differently
in
Hi-‐De-‐Ho,
however,
as
it
is
mainly
a
locus
of
interaction
between
the

Black
porter’s
wife,
and
not
primarily
presented
as
an
entertainment
space
for

white
patrons.
Although
in
general,
the
space
functioned
as
“white,”
in
this
film,

whiteness
is
largely
omitted
from
the
frame.

64

The
“fantasy
space”
is
quite
literal
in
Hi-‐De-‐Ho
(1934),
as
the
porter’s
wife’s
sexual

desires
for
Calloway,
as
well
as
radio
itself,
move
her
into
her
conjured
reverie
of

the
Cotton
Club.
However,
Black
fantasy
spaces
in
mainstream
film
were
most
often

conjured
by
white
cultural
outsiders
during
the
Golden
Age
of
Hollywood,
which

resulted
in
the
spaces
being
most
commonly
occupied
by
Black
“types.”

65

Richard
B.
Jewell,
The
Golden
Age
of
Cinema:
Hollywood
1929-‐1945
(Malden,
MA:

Blackwell,
2007),
135.

66

This
was
not
the
first
time
that
Ellington
riffed
on
a
well-‐known
Classical

composition
to
position
his
own
art
and
make
a
broader
cultural
statement.
“Black

and
Tan
Fantasy”
also
includes
an
interpolation
of
Chopin’s
“Funeral
March.”
Like

the
unsettling
effect
of
Ellington’s
band
playing
Liszt
in
Murder
at
the
Vanities,
critic

Claudia
Pierpont
calls
Ellington’s
riff
of
“Funeral
March”
“at
once
mocking
and

chilling,
like
a
funeral
cortège
with
skeletons
dancing
behind.”
See
Claudia
Roth

Pierpont,
“Black,
Brown,
and
Beige:
Duke
Ellington’s
music
and
race
in
America,”

The
New
Yorker
(May
17,
2010),
96.

189

67

The
Black
musicians’
flippant
act
of
“tossing
away”
the
sheet
music
is
additional

commentary
on
how
Black
jazz
music
was
positioned
in
the
white
mainstream.
Seen

as
pop
and
“not
serious,”
the
insinuation
that
Ellington’s
jazz
adaption
was
a
mere

musical
riff
created
on
the
spot
as
opposed
to
a
carefully
crafted
interpolation
again

plays
into
the
degraded
notions
of
Black
music
of
the
time.

68

Henry
Louis
Gates
Jr.,
The
Signifying
Monkey:
A
Theory
of
African-‐American

Literary
Criticism
(New
York:
Oxford
University
Press,
1988),
44-‐88.

69

Gates
Jr.,
184.

70

Gates
Jr.,
122.

71

Brown,
198.

190

Conclusion:

Hi
De
Ho(ax):
The
Apex
and
Decline
of
the
Black
Musical
Short

In
1937,
Cab
Calloway
starred
in
one
of
the
last
musical
shorts
featuring

Black
subjects
produced
by
a
major
studio.
1

The
second
of
three
Calloway
films

named
for
his
most
famous
song,
Hi
De
Ho
(Mack,
1937)
was
a
film
that
was
racially

transcendent,
and
situated
the
Black
body
within
the
American
landscape.
While
the

film
does
highlight
certain
Black
cultural
differences,
it
does
so
for
texture
as

opposed
to
with
the
intention
of
othering,
or
upholding
dominant
white
ideologies.

Instead,
Warner
Brothers’
installment
of
Hi
De
Ho
thematically
draws
from
the

pursuit
of
the
American
Dream—and
that
dream
is
within
Calloway’s
reach.

Hi
De
Ho,
follows
Calloway’s
(playing
a
referential
version
of
himself)
rise
to

success
as
a
bandleader.
The
film
begins
with
Calloway
pretending
to
lead
an

orchestra
in
a
modest
apartment
he
shares
with
his
mother,
a
kerchief-‐wearing

washerwoman.
He
expresses
his
desire
and
future
aspirations
to
become
a

conductor,
and
his
mother,
a
visual
and
figurative
relic
from
the
Black
past,

responds
with
doubt
and
confusion
in
a
“Negro-‐ized”
vernacular,
“The
nearest
yuh
is

ever
gwan
get
to
a
conductor
am
a
job
as
a
Pullman
porter.”
The
scene
is

reminiscent
of
the
interaction
between
the
husband
and
wife
in
A
Rhapsody
in
Black

and
Blue
(Scotto,
1933),
in
which
the
man’s
aspirations
are
quickly
thwarted
by
his

wife’s
racialized
reality
check—the
reminder
that
Black
upward
mobility
has
its

limitations,
and
that
aspirational
dreams
for
Blacks
in
America
can
only
remain
in

the
fantasy
realm.

191

But
by
1937,
after
8
years
of
Black
musical
shorts
bringing
Black
modern
life

to
the
mainstream,
a
shift
had
occurred
with
respect
to
this
ideology,
and
was

detectable
in
Hi
De
Ho.
Responding
to
his
mother’s
limiting
suggestion,
Calloway

responds,
“Not
me.
I’m
going
places
someday.
I
may
go
to
Broadway.
Might
go
to

Paris.
Even
to
London.”
His
mother
is
astounded
by
the
reach
of
his
dreams;
she

replies,
“You
sho’
am
taking
in
a
lot
of
territory
chile.”

For
Calloway,
the
job
as
a
Pullman
porter—a
life
of
menial,
manual
labor
is

not
sufficient;
this
same
occupation
which
represented
urbanity,
modernity,
and

opportunity
for
Blacks
migrating
northward
earlier
in
the
1930s
is
now
seen
as
a

subjugated
position
for
Black
men
thru
the
evolved
eyes
of
Calloway.
Calloway

intends
to
move
away
from
a
past
of
jobs
limited
by
necessity
(as
represented
by
his

washerwoman
mother),
and
instead
prepares
to
pursue
a
career
in
which
he
is

impassioned
and
hopes
to
be
fulfilled.
It
is
through
self-‐determination
that

Calloway-‐-‐a
Black
man-‐-‐
intends
to
become
a
contributor
and
success
in
America.
At

the
heart
of
Hi
De
Ho
is
a
story
of
the
American
Dream,
and
delivering
the
message,

is
Calloway,
a
Black
man.

Incidental
but
extremely
important
to
Calloway’s
aspirations
are
both
his

gained
mobility
and
autonomy.
Calloway
expresses
dreams
that
are
bigger
than

Harlem;
he
plans
for
a
future
without
boundaries-‐-‐
neither,
figurative,
economic,
or

physical.
He
also
makes
it
clear
that
his
personal
success
and
upward
mobility
is
not

limited
to
just
himself
either;
his
success
will
extend
beyond
himself
and
onto
other

Black
bodies.
He
holds
an
impromptu
audition
for
band
members
in
his
community
;

his
cries
of
“hi
de
ho”
is
met
with
culturally
affirming,
antiphonic
response.

192

Calloway’s
desires
to
move
outside
of
the
limited
and
limiting
of
occupations
set

aside
for
Blacks
is
also
a
desire
to
move
his
mother
away
from
those
same
racialized

confines.
When
his
mother
replies
to
him,
“…honey
don’t
you
go
worryin’
about
me,

I
ain’t
got
no
voice
in
de
matter,”
Calloway
is
quick
to
confidently
respond,
“
I
know

but
I
have.”
He
follows
up
this
statement
by
singing
“I
Got
a
Right
to
Sing
the
Blues,”

with
pointed
lyrics:

I’ve
got
a
right
to
sing
the
blues

I
got
a
right
to
feel
low
down

I
got
a
right
to
hang
around

….

I’ve
got
a
right
to
moan
and
sigh

I’ve
got
a
right
to
sit
and
cry

…

You
can
say
what
you
choose

I’ve
got
a
right
to
sing
the
blues.

Not
only
has
Calloway-‐-‐
the
modern,
urban
Black
man-‐-‐
gained
the
ability
to
pursue

his
dreams,
he
has
also
gained
a
voice
and
rights.
This
is
the
position
of
an

autonomous
Black
American
citizen.
Through
the
Black
musical
short,
the
implicit

goal
of
the
Black
subjects
was
broached.

Hi
De
Ho
does
not
represent
Black
Americans
as
trying
to
situate
themselves

within
the
American
citizenry
through
the
methods
of
unothering,
invitation,
or

subversive
infiltrations;
instead,
Hi
De
Ho
represents
Blacks
as
already
having

staked
a
rightful
claim
within
the
American
landscape.
Calloway
and
his
Black
peers

are
no
longer
seeking
social
citizenship,
but
instead
are
seizing
it.
Upward
mobility
is

no
longer
represented
as
a
“fantasy”,
but
has
instead
materialized
into
something

real.
Further,
these
Black
desires
for
opportunity,
personal
fulfillment,
and
equality

are
not
met
with
condescending
markers
of
dominant
white
ideology.
The
racialized

193

status
quo
is
allowed
to
be
challenged
without
the
traditional
cinematic
inhibitions

of
white
anxieties.

In
the
end,
we
see
Calloway’s
drive
to
achieve
the
American
dream
as
a

journey
of
personal
growth
that
simultaneously
encompasses
the
authenticity
of
the

Black
Aesthetic
while
also
using
music
to
convey
the
various
“moods”
of
Black
life

as
articulated
in
Ellington’s
Symphony
in
Black:
A
Rhapsody
of
Negro
Life
(Waller,

1935).
Calloway’s
journey
in
Hi
De
Ho,
reverses
that
of
Jitterbug
Party
(Waller,

1935).
While
Jitterbug’s
Calloway
invites
dominant
white
culture
in
to
private
Black

spaces
in
an
attempt
to
normalize
the
mystique
of
Black
culture,
Hi
De
Ho’s
Calloway

instead
moves
outward-‐-‐
leaving
the
insularity
of
his
home,
moving
into
the

familiarity
of
his
Black
cultural
community,
and
then
beyond
onto
a
large
stage

(much
larger
than
the
Cotton
Club)
that
is
representative
of
the
racially
boundary-‐
less
world.

The
film
also
takes
both
the
Dubosian
theory
of
double-‐consciousness
and

Locke’s
criteria
for
the
New
Negro
to
task.

Calloway
is
able
to
negotiate
his

doubleness-‐-‐
his
Blackness
and
his
Americanness—and
his
Blackness
is
neither
a

hindrance
nor
a
blemish
on
his
ability
to
thrive
in
America.
He
is
also
able
to

reference
and
respect
his
Black
past
(as
seen
through
the
inclusion
of
his
poor,

rural-‐adjacent,
washerwoman
mother)
as
he
moves
towards
his
modern
Black

future
in
America.
Hi
De
Ho
is
a
celebration
of
Blackness
is
its
totality—its

mundanity,
performativity,
diversity,
history,
and
promise
for
the
future.

1937’s
Hi
De
Ho
marks
an
ideological
shift
in
Black
representation
in
the

mainstream.
Importantly,
the
film
does
not
exist
in
a
vacuum;
Hi
De
Ho
is
one
of
a

194

series
of
historically
uncharted
films
that
mark
disruptions
in
Black
cinematic

representation
and
white
ideological
practices
in
the
media.
The
films
were

subversive
in
their
continual
negotiation
of
settling
Blacks
into
the
American

citizenry,
and
reclaiming
agency
in
their
representation.
During
a
period
in
which

the
mainstream
was
working
to
combat
Black
social
mobility
by
reestablishing

socially
stagnated
representations
of
Blackness
from
yesteryear
in
features
such
as

Showboat
(Whale,
1936),
Jezebel
(Wyler,
1938),
and
Gone
with
the
Wind
(Fleming,

1939),
or
contemporary
versions
of
the
trope
as
in
Imitation
of
Life
(Stahl,
1934),

the
short
films
provided
an
unexpected
outlet
for
Black
expression;
the
short
film

pushed
back
against
the
stale
representations,
demonstrating
Black
mobility,

urbanity,
and
self-‐sufficiency.
Through
music
and
celebrity,
Blacks
were
able
to

maintain
a
sense
of
agency
and
cultural
autonomy
on
the
film
screen.
In
these
films,

Black
subjects
were
able
to
bring
aspects
of
Black
culture
commonly
unseen

amongst
the
mainstream
to
the
mainstream,
and
by
doing
so
were
able
challenge

white
ideological
constructs,
build
Black
morale,
and
defiantly
position
Black
culture

within
the
American
citizenry.

And
then
the
world
broke
out
into
a
second
world
war.

World
War
II
signaled
dramatic
industrial
shifts,
cultural
shifts,
economic

shifts,
and
as
with
the
previous
wars,
representational
shifts
in
on-‐screen
Blackness.

Within
a
year
after
the
release
of
hopeful
Hi
De
Ho,
the
tensions
of
WWII
began
to

rise,
and
though
the
United
States
would
not
officially
join
until
after
the
attack
on

195

Pearl
Harbor
in
1941,
the
country
had
begun
preparing
for
their
impending

participation
years
before.
In
1938,
tensions
abroad
had
convinced
the
US
Navy
to

preemptively
increase
its
strength
by
20%
via
the
Naval
Act
of
1938.
The
following

year,
as
Germany
invading
Poland
made
World
War
II
official,
the
United
States

experienced
a
positive
ripple
effect
by
finally
being
thrust
out
of
the
Great

Depression.
The
war
created
jobs,
and
jobs
created
movement.

Although
the
Harlem
Renaissance
had
been
slowly
dissipating
throughout

the
latter
half
of
the
1930s
due
largely
to
the
financial
strains
of
the
Great

Depression,
WWII
was
the
final
blow
to
the
concentrated
social
movement.
The
war

required
cultural
energies
to
be
refocused,
and
rechanneled
into
the
national
effort.

Communities
were
disrupted
as
Black
men
(and
in
some
circumstances,
women
in

the
cases
of
Army
Nurses)
were
sent
away
to
serve
in
the
military.

Many
of
those

that
remained
at
home
were
also
swept
up
into
the
war
effort,
and
in
the
process,

unsettled
what
Alain
Locke
had
years
before
referred
to
as
the
“race
capital”
2
-‐-‐
the

“Mecca”
of
Black
upward
mobility.

The
Second
Great
Migration
caused
Black
movement
that
was
no
longer

centralized
in
Northern
urban
centers.
With
the
war,
Black
movement
began
to

spread
across
the
country;
in
addition
to
increased
opportunities
in
the
North
and

Midwest,
the
West
Coast
suddenly
gained
mass
appeal
for
Black
migrants
with
its

military
industrial
centers
in
Los
Angeles,
San
Diego,
Oakland,
Portland
and
Seattle.

Ellington
noted
the
ongoing
relation
between
the
disruption
of
Black
organization

and
wartime
obligations
when
he
claimed,
“just
as
always
before,
the
Black
Brown

and
Beige
were
soon
in
there
for
the
Red
White
and
Blue.”
3

196

The
film
industry
also
experienced
some
disruptions
and
changes
during
the

period,
and
as
a
direct
result
of
the
war.
In
1940,
the
U.S.
government
determined

the
film
industry’s
“block-‐booking”
practice
unlawful,
forcing
studios
to
abandon
the

packaging
technique.
With
block-‐booking
serving
as
the
primary
method
for

distributing
most
shorts,
short
film
production
was
greatly
impacted
by
the
decision

and
began
to
dwindle.
4

Additionally,
the
war
created
supply
shortages
that
required

studios
to
be
more
mindful
and
judicious
in
their
productions-‐-‐
this
resulted
in
a
30

percent
decrease
in
production
by
the
end
of
the
war.
5

Historian
Thomas
Schatz

notes
that
Warner
Brothers,
producer
of
progressive
Hi
De
Ho,
was
even
more

aggressive
with
cuts,
reducing
its
production
by
half
and
eliminating
B
films.
6

With

these
constraints
the
short
film
was
the
easily
cut
fat,
and
began
to
consist
largely

consisting
of
less
risk-‐averse
content
like
sports
films
and
cartoons.

7

With
the
decrease
in
short
film
production,
the
New
York
studios
were
a

costly
extravagance.
Warners
announced
that
it
would
be
moving
all
production
to

the
west
coast
in
1939,
where
Koszarski
claims
new
celebrities
“could
easily
juggle

careers
in
both
radio
and
film
without
ever
leaving
Los
Angeles.”
8

In
1942

Paramount’s
Kaufman
Astoria
Studios
in
New
York
was
purchased
by
the
U.S.
Army;

the
studio
become
the
Signal
Corps
Photographic
Center
(SCPC)—one
of
the
two

primary
offices
of
the
Army
Pictorial
Center.
At
the
old
Paramount
lot,
combat

photographers,
camera
repairmen,
lab
technicians,
motion
picture
electricians,

projectionists,
draftsmen,
animation
artists,
model
makers,
sound
recorders,
sound

mixers,
playwrights,
dark
room
assistants,
editors,
and
photo
librarians
were

trained,
and
training
films
were
made
by
some
of
the
most
well-‐known
directors,

197

such
as
John
Huston,
Frank
Capra,
and
George
Cukor.
The
studio
remained
in
the

hands
of
the
U.S.
Armed
Forces
until
1970.
9

Finally,
Black
cultural
product
began
to
take
a
new
shape
as
well.
In
1940,
the

Cotton
Club
officially
closed
its
doors.
Many
other
prominent
Harlem
nightclubs

hadn’t
even
lasted
that
long.
Big
bands
were
becoming
passé,
and
new
style
of

Jazz—bebop-‐-‐
was
on
the
rise
in
the
early
1940s.
10

Bebop’s’
smaller
combos
and

cooler,
improvisational
style
lent
itself
less
seamlessly
to
the
grandiose
theatricality

that
the
Big
Band
had
once
offered
the
short
film.

Major
studios
tried
to
channel
the
energy
of
the
previous
era’s
short
films

with
a
few
Black
cast
features
such
as
Cabin
in
the
Sky
(Minnelli,
1943)
and
Stormy

Weather
(Stone,
1943)—but
unlike
the
musical
shorts,
these
films
were
geared

primarily
towards
Black
audiences.
Although
the
films
operated
under
the
guise
of

increased
Black
representation
on
the
screen,
they
also
quelled
white
anxieties
of

Black
mobility
and
integration
by
placing
Black
figures
and
culture
back
into
racially

confined
and
insulated
worlds.
Ellington
and
Armstrong
made
appearances
in
Cabin

in
the
Sky,
and
Calloway
in
Stormy
Weather,
but
the
films
lacked
the
defiance
of
their

earlier
shorts
and
were
largely
acquiescent
to
white
ideological
social
constructs.

The
subversive
work
the
shorts
had
done
of
inviting
and
immersing
white
cultural

outsiders
into
Black
spaces,
and
of
integrating
Black
bodies
into
the
large
white

American
spaces
was
unraveling
on
multiple
fronts.

The
Black
military
film
of
WWII
likewise
was
a
bit
backhanded
and

manipulative
in
its
presentation.
Footage
of
the
Tuskegee
Airmen
was
plentiful,
but

like
the
Black-‐cast
films,
showcased
the
servicemen
operating
in
a
culturally

198

separate
world
with
no
possibility
for
barrier
crossing.
In
1944,
the
war
department

enlisted
Frank
Capra
to
produce
a
Hollywood-‐style,
feature-‐length
propaganda
film

in
an
effort
to
increase
Black
military
enlistment;
the
film
consolidated
documentary

footage
and
created
an
interspersed,
staged
narrative
to
frame
the
picture
similar
to

the
method
used
in
Training
of
Colored
Troops
nearly
ten
years
prior.

Though
Capra’s
production,
The
Negro
Soldier
(Heisler,
1944),
had
evolved

beyond
the
use
of
degrading
images
of
minstrelsy,
and
though
there
was
a
level
of

“morale”
constructed
through
the
representation
of
the
Black
soldiers’
stoicism
and

nobility,
their
segregated
representation
demonstrated
the
continued
strength
and

evolution
of
the
practice
of
white
ideological
construction.
Despite
the
Black

servicemen’s
most
overt
demonstration
of
patriotism,
The
Negro
Soldier
made
clear

that
the
barriers
for
Blacks
achieving
full
social
citizenship
were
being

reconstructed.

The
following
year,
the
Navy
released
its
own
recruitment
film,
The
Negro

Sailor
(Levin,
1945).

At
first
glance,
The
Negro
Sailor
seems
especially

progressive—the
Navy
had
begun
to
slowly
integrate
a
few
years
before
President

Harry
Truman
signed
the
executive
order
to
desegregate
the
Armed
Forces
in
1948,

and
the
film
shows
men
of
various
ethnicities
and
cultural
backgrounds
training

happily
alongside
one
another.
However,
when
the
film’s
protagonist
remarks
that

he
had
joined
the
Navy
believing
that
Black
sailors
were
merely
glorified
waiters,
he

is
met
with
a
counterpoint
from
a
superior:
“You
may
call
them
that,
but
they’re

fighting
men
too.
Between
battles
their
work
is
rather
dull.
But
somebody
has
to
be

a
waiter,
or
a
cook,
or
a
storekeeper.
Everybody
can’t
be
captain
on
a
ship.”
This

199

monologue—intended
to
be
uplifting
and
morale-‐boosting—actually
exposes
the

limitations
of
upward
mobility
and
success
that
had
been
resecured
on
Black
bodies

during
WWII…
even
in
an
integrated
America.
The
chaos
of
war
reestablished

“order”
in
the
United
States—it
allowed
the
country
to
regain
a
financial
and

political
prowess,
but
it
also
reordered
and
resituated
white
dominance.

Black
defiance
and
subversive
methods
of
claiming
full
social
citizenship

would
continue
ebb
and
flow
in
film
for
decades
following.
Sidney
Poitier’s

emergence
in
the
1950s
would
challenge
dominant
white
ideologies
by
introducing

a
patient,
well-‐spoken,
intelligent,
and
boundary-‐crossing
Black
man
into
film

culture.
The
Blaxploitation
era
of
the
1970s
made
figurative
attempts
to
dismantle

the
system
by
taking
on
“the
man.”
The
1990s
saw
the
rise
of
the
“hood”
film
in

which
Blacks
truculently
displayed
the
effects
and
brutality
of
long
term
and

systemic
inequalities.
And
the
late
2010s
has
placed
us
in
the
midst
of
Black
cultural

and
artistic
resurgence—a

new
and
evolved
Black
renaissance
in
which
Black

people
are
again
telling
their
own
stories,
demonstrating
the
varied
diversity
of
the

Black
experience,
and
showcasing
the
beauty
and
cultural
specificity
of
the
Black

Aesthetic.
With
television
shows
like
Atlanta
(F/X,
2016),
Insecure
(HBO,
2016),

Random
Acts
of
Flyness
(HBO,
2018),
successful
movies
such
as
Black
Panther

(Coogler,
2018),
Get
Out
(Peele,
2017),
and
Moonlight
(Jenkins,
2016),
musical

projects
like
Beyoncé’s
Lemonade
(2016)
and
Homecoming
(2019),
not
to
mention

the
various
podcasts
and
social
media
sites
that
cater
to
Black
content,
the

expression
and
representation
of
contemporary
Blackness
is
open
and
available
to

the
mainstream,
but
no
longer
seeking
acceptance
from
it.
“Unapologetic
Blackness”

200

is
the
new
vogue,
the
current
challenge
to
white
ideological
practices,
and
the

modern
method
of
stoking
Black
morale.

In
1925,
Alain
Locke
wrote
that
until
that
point,
“the
Negro’s
‘inner

objectives’
[had
been]
an
attempt
to
repair
a
damaged
group
psychology
and

reshape
a
warped
social
world.”
11

In
her
May
2010
New
Yorker
article
on
Duke

Ellington,
Claudia
Roth
Pierpoint
claimed
“that
being
black
in
this
country
mean[s]

approaching
difficult
issues
in
strategically
different
ways.”
12

The
early
Black
short

film
became
one
such
strategy
for
Blacks
to
repair
and
reshape,
and
ultimately
to

reclaim
their
personhood.
Yet,
as
sites
of
racial
and
cultural
collision,
the
Black
short

provides
not
only
cinematic
representation
of
rare
Black
perspectives
and

psychology,
but
also
exposes
the
complications
of
the
greater
American
psyche.
The

Black
short
film,
beneath
all
of
its
surface-‐level
propaganda
and
commercialism,
is

perhaps
one
of
the
most
enriched
and
brimming
forms
of
American
cinema
in

existence.

Notes:

1

In
1937,
RKO
released
Murder
in
Swingtime,
a
strange
and
zany
short
featuring

bandleader
Les
Hite
and
singer
June
Richmond.
The
film
takes
Hite’s
band
from
the

stage
to
a
courtroom,
in
which
everyone
speaks
in
rhyme
and
the
band
members

must
all
play
solos
to
a
judge
to
prove
their
innocence
in
a
murder.
Les
Hite
was

affiliated
with
Sebastian’s
Cotton
Club
in
Los
Angeles.

2

Alain
Locke,
“The
New
Negro”
in
The
New
Negro:
Voices
of
the
Harlem
Renaissance,

ed.
Alain
Locke
(New
York:
Touchstone,
1997),
7.

3

Graham
Lock.
Bluetopia:
Visions
of
the
Future
and
Revisions
of
the
Past
in
the
Work

of
Sun
Ra,
Duke
Ellington,
and
Anthony
Braxton
(Durham:
Duke
University
Press,

1999),
109.

4

Koszarski,
407.

5

Richard
B.
Jewell.
The
Golden
Age
of
Cinema:
Hollywood,
1929-‐1945.
(Malden,
MA:

Blackwell,
2007),
32-‐33.

201

6

Thomas
Schatz.
Boom
and
Bust:
American
Cinema
in
the
1940s.
(Berkeley:
UC
Press,

1999),
178.

7

Joseph
A.
Henabery,
Before,
In,
an
After
Hollywood,
ed.
Anthony
Slide
(Lanham,
MD:

Scarecrow
Press,
1997),
296-‐97.

8

Bruce
Torrence,
Hollywood:
The
First
Hundred
Years
(New
York:
Zoetrope,
1982)

174-‐178.

9

See
George
Raynor
Thompson
and
Dixie
R.
Harris,
The
Signal
Corps:
The
Outcome

mid-‐1943
through
1945)
(Washington
DC:
United
States
Army,
1966),
573-‐574;
“4

Days
of
Films
Recall
Army’s
Astoria
Studio,”
The
New
York
Times,
October
29,
1982;

https://www.kaufmanastoria.com/our-‐legacy/

10
Claudia
Roth
Pierpoint,
“Black,
Brown,
and
Beige:
Duke
Ellington’s
music
and
race

in
America,”
The
New
Yorker
(May
17,
2010):
102;
Charles
Merrell,
“Cinema
Sings

the
Blues,”
Cinema
Journal
17,
no.2
(Spring
1978):
7.
JSTOR
(1225487).

11
Locke,
10.

12

Pierpoint,102,

202

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Abstract (if available)

Abstract “Flickers of Black: Short Films and the Black Quest for Social Citizenship in America before WWII” examines mainstream Black representation in short film from cinema’s inception until the onset of World War II, and the ways in which these short films created a rare platform for Black boundary crossing and subversive confrontations of dominant white American ideologies. It argues that these films—often overlooked in surveys of film history—extend the historical trajectory of progressive representations of Blackness and Black culture on the front end of cinema history, offering nuanced, and defiant representations of Black culture to the masses before WWII. The dissertation investigates the ways in which these films—traditionally seen merely as uninspired documentation, or “low brow” industrial filler—did important work to usher Black Aesthetics and culture into the mainstream, while simultaneously working to destabilize and expose racist white ideological constructs of Blackness during the Jim Crow era. ❧ “Flickers of Black” draws from various theoretical approaches to expose overlooked moments of Black collaboration, representational ownership, and socio-cultural defiance in mainstream film before WWII. It also incorporates relevant works from the Harlem Renaissance as means of positioning the short films within the larger Black artistic movement and history of Black Aesthetics. Finally, it works to demonstrate how the combination of studio business practices, music, and celebrity created a unique mechanism that allowed Black subjects uncommon access to the cinematic foreground in early film history. Once these Black subjects were moved into the foreground and given agency over their cultural representation in mainstream cinema, an unexpected platform for subversive sociopolitical messaging was created. Relaying previously unexplored context regarding the Black community’s expectations around equality, opportunity, and social enfranchisement before WWII, these historically disregarded short films serve as a benchmark for Black voices permeating into the pop cultural mainstream.

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Asset Metadata

Creator Perry, Kwynn (author)

Core Title Flickers of Black: short films and the Black quest for social citizenship in America before WWII

Contributor Electronically uploaded by the author (provenance)

School School of Cinematic Arts

Degree Doctor of Philosophy

Degree Program Cinematic Arts (Critical Studies)

Publication Date 09/18/2019

Defense Date 07/24/2019

Publisher University of Southern California (original), University of Southern California. Libraries (digital)

Tag African American,band,Black,Black Aesthetic,Cab Calloway,Cinema,Citizenship,Duke Ellington,film,Golden Age,Harlem Renaissance,Hollywood,Jazz,Louis Armstrong,Military,movie,Music,musician,Negro,OAI-PMH Harvest,representation,serviceman,servicemen,short,shorts,soldier,studio system,Urban,urbanity,World War I,WWI

Language English

Advisor Acham, Christine (committee chair), Connor, John D. (committee member), Stern, Julia Ann (committee member)

Creator Email kwynn.perry@gmail.com,psydra@aol.com

Permanent Link (DOI) https://doi.org/10.25549/usctheses-c89-218043

Unique identifier UC11673232

Identifier etd-PerryKwynn-7819.pdf (filename),usctheses-c89-218043 (legacy record id)

Legacy Identifier etd-PerryKwynn-7819.pdf

Dmrecord 218043

Document Type Dissertation

Rights Perry, Kwynn

Type texts

Source University of Southern California (contributing entity), University of Southern California Dissertations and Theses (collection)

Access Conditions The author retains rights to his/her dissertation, thesis or other graduate work according to U.S. copyright law. Electronic access is being provided by the USC Libraries in agreement with the a...

Repository Name University of Southern California Digital Library

Repository Location USC Digital Library, University of Southern California, University Park Campus MC 2810, 3434 South Grand Avenue, 2nd Floor, Los Angeles, California 90089-2810, USA