It’s not just “Selma”: Hollywood’s history problem
Again and again, from "John Adams" to "Lincoln," romantic truthiness supplants historical truth on-screen
Tom Wilkinson as Lyndon B. Johnson, and David Oyelowo as Martin Luther King Jr., in "Selma" (Credit: Paramount Pictures)
On
a recent CBS Sunday Morning, the generally insightful David Edelstein
defended the film “Selma.” He imagined, as one can almost understand,
that by reading a biography or two of Lyndon Johnson, he could establish
the degree of historical accuracy in this much-heralded Hollywood
production. He reached the conclusion that “90 percent” of the film was
accurate. He was comfortable in stating that the filmmakers’ decision
to portray LBJ, for dramatic effect, in a historically irresponsible
way–as one who stood opposed to voting rights–was of minor concern
only. Revising the record did not undermine the larger historical
message meant to be conveyed by the movie. Or so Edelstein judged.
But
it’s time to stop claiming that films are history when they are stories
meant principally to entertain and inspire. Our point is not to
diminish the daring of Dr. King, but to call attention to the claims
made by those who credit imaginative filmmakers with the power to
capture historical truth–when professional historians are themselves
conflicted, even after reading scores of deeply researched texts,
listening to White House tapes, and interviewing veterans of the civil
rights movement. We want to understand MLK. But is this the way?
The
King estate refused to give the filmmakers the rights to any of Dr.
King’s speeches, a fact that should not go unnoticed. The
writer/director Ava DuVernay–who was (not inconsequentially) trained as a
publicist–liberally recast Dr. King’s words after inheriting a complete
script composed by the white British screenwriter Paul Webb. She
admits that she did not like how Webb emphasized LBJ’s leadership, and
wanted a more African-American-centered story. At the same time,
though, she refuses to believe that she has sacrificed historical truth
in her reconstruction of events, recently expressing confidence that she
“knew the history” when she embarked on the project. DuVernay
rationalized that because her mother works in Selma today, she is
herself somehow–mystically–connected to the city’s past. In the end,
having criticized Webb’s script as a “traditional biopic” that needed
revision, she in fact produced a different “traditional biopic” that
showed King on his best day instead of Johnson on his. And that is not
history. LBJ intimate Joseph Califano and the LBJ Presidential Library,
among others, have pointed out how DuVernay’s vision is badly skewed.
In
a story of this magnitude, living participants will invariably
disagree. But are we not supposed to care that there are widely
divergent LBJ biographies? Some revel in his proactive style of
governance, while others paint him as an ogre, a crude power-monger, and
make claims about his motives that still other historians have proven
wrong. Rather than tackle these core elements of the story, “Selma”
offers a singular caricature of Johnson. Hollywood will not complicate a
story by declaring multiple heroes.
Movie
scripts of this kind are bound to follow a particular sequence. Drama
unfolds in a well-timed, circumscribed manner, which history does not
do. That is the flaw of “Selma” and like-minded films that compress the
past. As brilliant as Daniel Day Lewis’ portrayal of Lincoln was, it
focused on a tiny slice of one possible Lincoln, while leaving the
desirable impression that Lincoln’s personality was in some way
“knowable” to us. We can like the acting, and feel a sense of
communion; that’s art. But it’s certainly not history.
Of
the myriad works by professional historians, the brains behind
“Lincoln” gave credit to a derivative book of questionable authority for
its inspiration. “Team of Rivals,” by popularizer (and research
outsourcer) Doris Kearns Goodwin, had lifelong Civil War historians
grumbling as soon as it was published–which, nevertheless, did nothing
to hurt sales. An earlier example, with race as its subject, is Alex
Haley’s blockbuster book and miniseries “Roots.” To this day, few are
aware that for all its success, “Roots” was decisively proven to be a
complete concoction by a self-promoting dreamer. Haley’s outright
fantasy of his family’s noble African heritage was, in his mind alone,
sustained through acts of will and thoughts of pride over decades of
enslavement. It was a desirable kind of history, easy to champion, but
nonetheless a grossly inaccurate one. There was no evidence that Kunta
Kinte was his ancestor
Such abuses are
more common than the majority of Americans realize, and they deserve
better. The screenwriter behind HBO’s John Adams miniseries said he
based his production on David McCullough’s “John Adams.” Like fellow
bestselling author Goodwin, McCullough was not trained in the discipline
of history, nor did he contribute a single new interpretation of any
Adams-related event. The deeply flawed Adams miniseries fictionalized
key moments–e.g., Adams cradling the dying African-American martyr
Crispus Attucks in his arms after the Boston Massacre, when he wasn’t
even there and exhibited none of the modern liberal sentiments we now
demand of our forebears when it comes to racial sensitivity;
furthermore, the HBO writer used artistic license to bring Dr. Benjamin
Rush back from the dead to perform surgery on John and Abigail’s
daughter.
Let’s be ironic for a moment.
In a way, “Forrest Gump,” the overtly fictionalized historical
caricature, tells it like it really is in Hollywood. In that film, Tom
Hanks’ character is everywhere at the moment history is being made.
Without intending to say so, it is the one film–a melodramatic
farce–that captures the reality of how the film industry abuses
historical reality while pretending to convey a functional truth.
Despite
the fine acting of Paul Giamatti, the award-winning HBO series on the
Adamses made John and Abigail into the heroes of a Forrest Gump-like
saga. Where they went, American history followed. They were the
essence of the zeitgeist, as inspired by McCullough’s love-poem of a
putative biography. See the pattern here? Romantic truthiness
supplants history. Alex Haley plagiarized a part of his book from the
work of an anthropologist. Doris Goodwin admitted to having plagiarized
two of her earlier books, too. Both authors had high-placed friends in
the industry; their appealing faces were familiar to TV viewers, and
they were allowed to carry on and prosper. They had talents. But they
never deserved to be hailed for their essential grasp of historical
truth.
That’s the legacy we need to
contend with when discussing “Selma” today. It’s not that the film
deserves no praise. The issue is strictly whether we can be honest
enough to acknowledge it as Not Exactly History. Any historian will
tell you that great historical moments are not micromanaged by single
individuals. The very idea that David Edelstein sees fit to put a
percentage (90 percent!) on the accuracy of this biopic is
ludicrous–mind you, our observation is not so much a dig at the CBS
critic as it is evidence that we as a society have been reared to
believe that “based on actual events” films are approximate
representations of historical truth.
If
there is a Hollywood film that adheres to historical standards of
honesty we can’t think of it. The very act of making a major studio
film leads to distortion. For one, scripts are obliged to reduce
complex moments to a limited number of characters. They also,
simplistically, turn characters into heroes and villains. Facts are
left out in order to make the story fit the operative fable–usually it’s
the triumph of humanity, and who doesn’t want to shell out twelve bucks
to feel that? Then, screenwriters are called on to impose a false
dramatic climax on the narrative.
And,
lest there be lingering doubt, directors almost never listen to actual
historians. Remember the comic vehicle, “Sweet Liberty” (1986), in
which a college professor (Alan Alda) sees his script about a
Revolutionary War battle mangled by the filmmakers? If a director wants
to manipulate the story to inject sex or violence into the film (so as
to make for a seductive trailer), then historical nuance be damned. A
film is a business investment dependent on audience emotions.
Therefore, it becomes an exercise in myth making.
At
one time, viewers thought D.W. Griffith’s deeply racist blockbuster
“The Birth of a Nation” (1915) was history; the then critic-in-chief
Woodrow Wilson fulsomely praised it. Griffith inserted historical
reenactments into his epic, to give the film the feel of a history
lesson. In 1935, after seeing T”he Scarlet Pimpernel,” an adventure set
during the French Revolution, the historian Louis Gottschalk insisted
to the screenwriter Samuel Marx: “No picture of a historical nature
ought to be offered to the public until a reputable historian has had a
chance to criticize and revise it.” Hollywood was not listening to the
reputable historian then, nor is it doing so now.
Special
assistant to the president Joseph Califano’s opinion piece in the
Washington Post is on target. He wants to know what’s wrong with
Hollywood. Why, he posed, did the filmmakers think they had a better
story than the “true story that didn’t need any embellishment”? Why did
they accuse LBJ of using the FBI to discredit Dr. King? Why did they
“feel no obligation” to track down essential facts?
We
love what film can do. Let’s just accept that Hollywood thinks of
something as “great history” that falls well short of being that. And
awards follow. Let’s label it historical fiction, because that’s what
it is. Remember when TV wrestling wouldn’t admit it was fixed, and the
wrestlers wouldn’t admit to being entertainers? At least we don’t do
that anymore. So why do movie critics go on pretending that
screenwriters are expert interpreters of the past? Not everyone who
tells stories–or reads a biography or two–is a historian. You don’t
turn pro after you’ve taken a few tennis lessons. A film that captures
scenes from history can be called “gripping” or “glamorous” or a
“romantic” vision of the past, but don’t try to persuade the public that
it’s truthful.
There is no such thing
as historical truth by percentages. If you’ll just stop calling it
history, then we pointy-headed historians (and key participants like
Califano) will not have to call Hollywood’s bluff.
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