By Alan Scherstuhl
By Stephanie Zacharek
By Carolina Del Busto
By Amy Nicholson
By Simon Abrams
By Kevin Dilmore
By New Times
By Amy Nicholson
In fact, Spielberg's film--about the 1839 revolt of 53 Africans aboard the Spanish slave ship La Amistad and their subsequent capture and trials in America--is designed to be uncontroversial. It's not a work of great imagination or depth or historical feeling; except in its opening scene, and a harrowing depiction of the Middle Passage, it doesn't try to offer up a view of race or slavery that might powerfully challenge audiences, particularly white audiences, to examine their consciences.
What it does instead is straightforwardly re-create an incendiary and relatively unremarked episode in American history, in which the captured Africans' cause is taken up by abolitionists and finally argued successfully by ex-president John Quincy Adams (Anthony Hopkins) before the Supreme Court. Amistad is not, by Hollywood standards, as hokey as most historical dramas, but it's still squarely in the Hollywood historical camp. Lavishly produced, it has a rehearsed dignity, as if it were intended as a superduper high school history curriculum teaching aid.
The one bit of real daring in the film is its opening: Joseph Cinque (West African actor Djimon Hounsou), an abducted Mende rice farmer enslaved aboard La Amistad and named by the Spanish, works loose his shackles and leads a revolt against the white Spaniards. It's clear what's going on even if we don't know why; horrifying as the scene is, it exists in a righteous, comprehensible framework. Cinque, photographed against a thunder-and-lightning night sky, his teeth bared, is a monster unleashed--and that's the point. Cinque here is a white man's nightmare of the avenging savage, and Spielberg doesn't deny the bloodlust of the moment, or the revulsion and estrangement audiences of any color may feel in watching it.
This sense of dislocation is what's missing from most racial dramas, especially historical ones. So much usually is made of how we are all brothers under the skin that we never get to experience the strangeness and alienation that also are part of the picture. Herman Melville's great short novel Benito Cereno, also about a slave-ship revolt, is the great American text of the horror of racial separateness, and it probably would be too incendiary to film even today (though John Huston and others, including Phillip Noyce, wanted to). Early on in Amistad, Spielberg ventures into Benito Cereno-style choppy waters only to paddle into the shallows of the civics lesson. Shackles are transformed into laurel wreaths.
The drama is set in motion when the mutinous Africans, set off from Cuba and numbering 39 survivors, are captured off the coast of Long Island and transferred to a prison in New London, Connecticut, a state where, unlike New York, slavery is still legal. Battle lines are drawn immediately. The abolitionists, headed up by the evangelical Lewis Tappan (Stellan Skarsgard), scrappy property lawyer Roger Baldwin (Matthew McConaughey) and ex-slave Theodore Joadson (Morgan Freeman), face off in the lower courts against the government prosecutor William S. Holabird (Pete Postlethwaite) and the Martin Van Buren administration's secretary of state John Forsyth (David Paymer).
Cranky and infirm, Adams resists the implorings of the abolitionists until Van Buren (Nigel Hawthorne), up for reelection and fearing the loss of the southern states, overturns the lower courts and appoints a new and supposedly more sympathetic judge--to no ultimate avail. Adams' argument for the Africans' freedom, which actually took in some four and a half hours of dense legalisms, is reduced to a grandstanding monologue before the Supreme Court in which he invokes the spirit of the Founding Fathers (including his own father, John Adams) and receives for his troubles the hearty handclasp of a grateful Cinque. It's black chief/white chief time.
Spielberg and Franzoni (with a hefty uncredited assist from Schindler's List screenwriter Steve Zaillian) work their way through the maze of pressure tactics both sides employed. It's to their credit that the various legal maneuvers--the early attempt by the abolitionists, for example, to characterize the Africans not as slaves but as "stolen goods"--come across without a lot of dumbing down. And yet what is missing from the film is the almost hallucinatory jumble of legal complications and wranglings that the Africans' trials engendered, and the way those complications heatedly divided the country. The problem with Amistad is that, in attempting to render its events lucidly, it loses the drama in what was inherently a legal, ethical and political crazy quilt.
The point of Spielberg's populist approach, of course, is that it was all quite simple: The Amistad case was about justice. Obviously. But so, in a sense, was the Civil War, and yet if one were to unclutter the issues of that war, the richness of its drama would be lost. The Amistad case was a prelude to that war; its crazy quilt is cut from the same zigzag weave.
What's downplayed in Amistad is the extent to which the Africans' trials were a crucible for the country's attitudes toward slavery. (The world's attitudes as well--Spain and Britain also were key participants.) Supporters of the Africans were careful to avoid the fire-and-brimstone trappings of abolitionism, hoping to bring moderates to the cause through a concerted appeal to moral decency. The timing was right. As Howard Jones writes in his superb, densely detailed Mutiny on the Amistad, "Cinque and his companions could not have known, but . . . the nation was experiencing a widespread reform movement that, on the surface at least, exalted the common man and emphasized equality of opportunity."
The Africans were an ideal test case for trying out abolitionist sentiments because, shackled, they posed no real threat; there were even among them three young girls. They didn't want to overrun the United States; they merely wanted their freedom--to return to Africa. The lack of threat allowed antislavery sympathizers to feel both righteous and paternalistic.
Spielberg tries mightily to avoid seeming paternalistic in Amistad by introducing the character of Freeman's Joadson, who unfortunately is given almost nothing to do except stand around and be black. (It's a waste of a great actor.) Most of the white characters, even the Africans' defenders, seem in varying degrees craven and compromised. Tappan, for example, is revealed as a closet racist when he ponders the notion of martyring the Africans to help the cause. Baldwin is played (in too "modern" a fashion) by McConaughey as a righteous opportunist with granny glasses, which is rather a slur on the actual Baldwin, a staunch antislavery advocate right out of law school who, according to Jones, had in 1831 confronted an angry mob resisting his attempt to build a black training school near Yale college.
On the other side, Van Buren, no supporter of the Africans, is rendered daffily: He is last seen in defeat, his sideburns tufted and his eyes vacant, tuning his harp with a tiny tinkly bell.
Even Adams, for all his creaky dignity, is padded out with silly bits of business--like tending to his prize African violets. (Get it?) It wouldn't do to show Adams from the start as a man of unwavering principle: First we must see him reject the abolitionists' repeated pleas to enter the fray. Adams in reality was a trusted adviser from the start, and his reluctance to fully join in had mostly to do with his infirmities. In Amistad, his crotchety coyness has an unintended effect on us: It looks as if he waited out the Africans' cause until it entered the big time--the Supreme Court. He's an opportunist, too.
Adams' big speech before the Court gives Hopkins a fine hammy opportunity, and he delivers in his patented, over-underplaying style. (Forty years ago, the role would have gone to Spencer Tracy.) It's an effective scene, but also somewhat dishonest: Adams invokes the Founding Fathers in his antislavery spiel without remarking that many of them were also slave owners. We're not meant to notice the omission. In civics-lesson movies, the first casualty is irony.
Cinque and the other Africans are ennobled; their (subtitled) speech, their chants, their rituals, are far more passionate than the prattle of the whites. Although Spielberg shows how Africans themselves participated in the slave trade, he still pushes the notion that Cinque and his band are representative of a more wholly spiritual and evolved man. (Hounsou, with his large presence and rich-grained voice, looks the part of a natural prince.) When the Africans' lower-court victory is overturned, Cinque can't understand why the white American system of justice "almost works." He wails, "What kind of place is this?" Did no one in his homeland ever welsh on a deal?
In a way, Spielberg is attempting to cast himself as the modern-day prototype of the white reformers in his movie. He, too, exalts "the common man." He may see it as his mission now, after Schindler's List, to use his unprecedented power in Hollywood to redress grievous wrongs and make the world a better place. (That is, when he's not making thrill-ride movies.) It's an admirable impulse, but it's the impulse of a politician, not an artist, though the two occasionally coincide.
One such occasion in Amistad is the depiction of the Middle Passage. The obscenity of what we're watching--in which black bodies are fed to the sea and mothers silently jump overboard with their babies--is matched by our realization that a mainstream Hollywood movie has never really depicted this Passage before. That's an obscenity, too. Normally when he goes into his righteous-reformer's mode, Spielberg betrays his sharpest filmmaker's instincts. Not here. Amistad is itself a movie in shackles. Stylistically, it's staid--weighted with import. But in his depiction of the slave-ship transit, Spielberg throws off the shackles. Be thankful for large favors.
Directed by Steven Spielberg; with Anthony Hopkins, Djimon Hounsou, Morgan Freeman and Matthew McConaughey.
Join My Voice Nation for free stuff, film info & more!