Django Unchained as Historical Allegory

STACKJ

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Jan 23, 2013
Django Unchained as Historical Allegory
Since Django Unchained came out on Dec. 25, 2012, I’ve been frustrated to find that even reviewers who praise the film discuss it primarily as revenge fantasy instead of a historical allegory. In my opinion, the movie subverts white culture’s collective memory of the Civil War and slavery using metaphors related to the historical record and our common cultural heritage. It is an artful historical allegory rather than straight history; a film about America’s collective memory, not a study of the actualities or lived experience of slavery.

Django Unchained is a visually stunning, highly stylized film that confronts slavery and its place in American culture with satire, energy and nerve. A single shot is worth the price of admission. The ex-slave Django shoots a sadistic slave overseer in a cotton field. The camera zooms in on a blooming cotton plant. Stage blood spatters across the white cotton. The spray is beautiful and horrific. What a way to envision the reality articulated by John Brown in 1859: “[T]he crimes of this guilty land will never be purged away but with blood.”

A word about my cinematic tastes: I am not among those who like Tarantino movies because of their “cool,” action and ultra-violence. I’m generally bored by the “action” genre, and tend to watch horror and violence through clenched fingers. For me, Die Hard films and Spaghetti Westerns are tedious macho revenge fantasies that hold little appeal.

I like Tarantino because his mix of genres, biting humor, and original imagery challenges the intellect and imagination. His movies allow for a variety of interpretations, but I invariably see his jarring violence and emblematic action as commentary on culture and history. His 2009 film, Inglourious Basterds, was both a revenge WWII fantasy and a parody of insular America’s “exceptionalist” identity. This representation of internationally naïve American soldiers providing WWII with an “alternate ending,” satirizes the simplistic “good guys vs. evil doers” vision of history embraced by many Americans today.

Django Unchained is also a revenge fantasy. An ex-slave exerts violent revenge on various Southern slave owners. On one level this action relates to contemporary race relations. Pent up resentments dating back to the days of slavery still simmer in the United States. This modern relevancy has led some critics to declare that the film incites violent passions in a fragile racial environment. Such criticism usually comes from right-leaning folks who may also flinch at the way Tarantino inverts Western revenge fantasies. Black people rarely appear in traditional Westerns, a tendency Mel Brooks mocked in Blazing Saddles. Moreover, some Westerns specifically celebrate neo-Confederate “heroes” like Jesse James and the outlaw Josie Wales. With Django, Tarantino encourages the macho whites in his audience to see the nascent Confederates as villains. In the title role, Jamie Foxx out “Eastwoods” Eastwood as a cool macho hero.

Yet the film’s greatest contribution comes not from its revenge fantasy, but from its evisceration (pun intended) of the “Lost Cause” historical vision of slavery and the antebellum South. Filmmaker Spike Lee refused to see the film, stating that “slavery was not a Sergio Leone Spaghetti Western. It was a holocaust.” If Lee watched the movie, he would see that Tarantino visualizes a holocaust. Django’s violence is less an alternate history than a metaphor for the brutality of slavery and the bloody Civil War that resulted from the South’s refusal to allow the institution to be undermined or extended by the federal government. Tarantino insists, as did John Brown, that violence was the only way to uproot slavery.

It is likely no accident that the film takes place during the period of “Bloody Kansas” and John Brown’s raid on Harper’s Ferry. At the film’s onset, text identifies the year as 1858 (three years, not two, before the Civil War–sorry Mr. Tarantino). The setting is a dry, rocky landscape “somewhere in Texas.” This location not only connects the film with the Spaghetti Western tradition, but also with America’s pre Civil War history. Texas was the last state to join the Union as a slave state. Its entrance in 1845 signaled the possibility of the extension of slavery into the West, re-igniting national debate on the issue. In 1858 it had been a state for less than 15 years.

In the first scene, slave traders march enslaved men across this Western landscape. The shackles and guns reflect the white men’s fear of their captives’ escape and a potential rebellion. During a cold night, the group encounters a German immigrant, the dentist-turned bounty hunter, prophetically named Dr. King Schultz (Christophe Waltz). Here the clash of cultures is emblematic of demographic and geographic tensions of the 1850s. Old money Southern interests tried to import slavery westward but were hindered by (among others) a new wave of American immigrant settlers who were uncomfortable, if not hostile, to the institution. The clash between Germans and pro-slavery factions helped ignite pre-war tensions in some states, my own state of Missouri being perhaps the best example.

Schultz purchases Django (Jamie Foxx), then kills one slave trader and wounds the other. The German doctor then gives the remaining slaves the key to their shackles. They proceed to free themselves, killing their remaining oppressor. The doctor then promises to free Django if the latter will help identify a trio of criminals with lucrative bounties on their heads. Once Django is free, Schultz recognizes his companion’s talent as a marksman, and recruits the former slave as a partner in the bounty-hunting business.

The two go to Rocky Mountains to hunt for bad guys. The vast untamed land, filled with buffalo, elk, and beautiful vistas, represents the potential of America. Here is a landscape that inspires. Uncorrupted by slavery, it represents the grand possibilities of American freedom (the issue of Indian rights is not addressed).

Here Tarantino’s epic landscapes recall those of Thomas Moran or Albert Bierstadt, 19th century painters of the West who embraced and celebrated the idea of American manifest destiny. On a political level, this desire for a grand, indivisible United States stretching across the continent clashed with threats of secession from the South. With the Kansas-Nebraska Act of 1854 and the Dred Scott decision of 1857, pro-slavery forces became increasingly insistent on the westward expansion of slavery. The newly formed Republican party, with the support of most German Americans, was equally insistent on a free West.

It is in the West that Django gains strength. He becomes a remarkable gunslinger, practicing his marksmanship against a very white snowman (a bit of foreshadowing). He and Schultz bond, as we learn about Django’s desire to save his wife Broomhilda von Shaft (Kerry Washington) from bondage. According to Tarantino, Broomhilda is both the cinematic ancestor and descendent of the titular character in the 1970s film Shaft. She also shares her first name with the legendary Norse heroine in Wagner’s opera. Wagner’s Broomhilda is rescued from a mountain encircled in fire by Siegfried (more foreshadowing). Once Schultz connects the story of the former slave with his own cultural heritage, he declares that he will help Django free Broomhilda.

It is now 1859. Django and Schulz travel to the deep South. While slavery seems violent and horrific in Texas and Tennessee, in Mississippi it is grotesque. The financially lucrative institution is culturally entrenched among obscenely rich plantation owners. Broomhilda is held captive by Calvin Candie (Leonardo di Caprio), a charming monstrosity who calls his plantation “Candyland.” This name links the unhealthy noxiousness of slavery with sugar-coated Southern chivalry.

At Candyland Tarantino takes a jab at America’s twenty-first century sense of moral superiority. When Schultz flinches at Candie’s casual and violent murder of a runaway slave, Django (who is posing as a mandigo expert) subdues his inner disgust. The ex-slave apologizes for his German companion’s lack of experience with Americans. With this scene, Tarantino criticizes the smug “American exceptionalism” championed by many, exposing the shame and horror of the nation’s heritage. The director reiterates this concept later in the film when he casts himself as a slave overseer. Like most Americans, Tarantino’s ancestors likely participated, supported, and/or benefited from slavery. The director kills off his 19th century alter-ego. One can interpret this act as a reflection of a shared need/desire of white Americans to confront, destroy and overcome their heritage.

This self-referential episode in Django is one of the many aspects of Tarantino’s stylized historical drama that manifests Faulkner’s famous line: “The past is never dead, it’s not even past.” The legacy of slavery and the Civil War haunt twenty-first century politics, culture, and society at every turn. While many directors create an artificial illusion of historical accuracy, Tarantino makes no apologies for his artifice and anachronisms. For example, some critics have complained that mandingo fighters, dynamite, and the KKK did not exist in 1859. This criticism reflects a disinterest and/or misunderstanding of the aesthetics of emblematic action. For example, the KKK-esque night riders in the film’s funniest scene foreshadow the results of black empowerment, itself prefigured in the person of Django. The mandingo fighters make reference to the 1970s blacksploitation film, Mandingo, in which slaves are forced to fight to the death. No evidence survives that such fights occurred, nevertheless, this kind of merciless, inhuman exploitation is an apt metaphor for the horrific realities of slavery. Finally, dynamite is also emblematic, a universally recognized instrument of demolition, detonated in cartoon-like explosions that destroy slavery’s enablers.

The co-existence of past and present is particularly conspicuous in Tarrantino’s choice of Samual L. Jackson to play the slave Stephen, a character that subverts the “Lost Cause” myth of the dutiful slave. Stephen supervises Candie’s household, projecting a subservient Uncle-Tom persona to whites who believe “good” negroes are happy and servile. The audience, however, recognizes Stephen as intelligent, menacing, and very powerful.

Samuel L. Jackson might have played Django 20 years ago (the actor asserted as much in a recent interview), and Tarantino fans will recognize the “Sam Jacksonesque” qualities in Jamie Foxx’s portrayal of the title character. Jackson’s “Stephen” thus provides an interesting foil for Django. Like the younger man, he is a powerful force whose agency determines the course of events. In his first scene, Stephen signs his master’s name on a check, indicating his passive-aggressive power at Candyland.

The elderly slave initially resents the assertive Django. Stephen sabotages the young freeman’s attempt to buy his wife’s freedom, and menaces Broomhilda. Yet the old slave seems to have unstated respect for Django. During most of Stephen’s seventy-six years, black men exercised almost no power outside the slave system. By 1859 slavery was under attack. Django and Schulz embody this threat. In Django, Stephen may recognize the freeman he might have become had he been born at a different time. This identification might explain the old man’s decision to spare Django and endanger the slave culture (Candyland). Ultimately, it is through Stephen’s influence that Django survives to exact revenge.

The “Samuel Jackson” inside Stephen aids in his own destruction. When Stephen intervenes to stop Django’s execution, the old man explains his actions in a monologue that recalls an Uncle Remus tale. Stephen describes the gruesome ways Candyland whites proposed to kill Django. With each suggestion, the elderly slave claims he interjected, “The slaves we sell to the Le Quint Mining Company have it worse than that!” (don’t throw Django on the briar patch!). Finally, the white folk, who “never had an idea in their lives” propose that Django be sold to the mining company. Stephen and the audience know that this reprieve will allow Django to escape.

As menacing as Stephen is, perhaps even more disturbing is the quasi-allegorical manifestation of the institution of slavery, Calvin Candie. Leonardo di Caprio plays the decadent Candie with sinister panache. His boyish good looks, which worked against him as the macho hero in Gangs of New York, play to great advantage here. Candie’s beguiling charisma and flamboyant southern style seduce visitors and viewers alike. The camera lingers on his person and his possessions. The elegant architecture, beautiful objects, lavish meals and extravagant clothing of Candyland reflect the slavery-fueled excesses of the Old South. Like Candie himself, this elegance seems overindulgent; an attempt to imitate European aristocracy that becomes repulsive when we remember that it was built upon the sweat and blood of enslaved people.

Candie’s illegal speculation on mandingo fighters is analogous to his legal, slavery-dependent business dealings. Slaves have made him rich. While he exhibits the courtly and gracious manners associated with Southern hospitality, at heart he is a brutal monster, intent on perpetuating slavery and making money.

In a powerful scene towards the end of the film, Candie commands an audience with Shultz and Django. He begins a soliloquy (Hamlet anyone?) by pulling the skull of a former slave out of a box, preserved like a serial-killer’s relic. He then proceeds to desecrate this skull in an attempt to prove the ridiculous phrenological assertion that the bones of black people reflect an inherently submissive nature. This fundamental belief in **** is the foundation for his world view.

In the process of making this point, Candie cuts his hand. He proceeds to manhandle Broomhilda, smearing blood across her face. She is his property and will be murdered, he threatens, unless Schultz purchases her for $12,000. Here the slave owner’s blood can be seen as a symbol of the wicked wages of the institution, sullying the Southern façade of chivalry. Candie’s blood defiles everything it touches, even the enslaved people he exploits.

Schultz and Django watch this performance in horror. They agree to Candie’s conditions, and are treated to more sham hospitality. As Shultz and Candie formalize Broomhilda’s paperwork, Candyland slaves serve white cake and a harpist plays the Moonlight Sonata. Listening to this performance, Schultz gradually becomes agitated. He objects to the playing of Beethoven’s music in connection with the human degradation and implicit violence of the situation (A Clockwork Orange reference?)

Schultz then confronts Candie about his co-option of European culture without its more civilized values. Candie laughs off the insults and insists they conclude their business dealings with a gentlemanly handshake. Shultz refuses to participate in this pantomime of chivalry. The resulting bloody conflict can be interpreted as a prefiguration of the Civil War in which the “crimes of a guilty land” are “purged with blood. “ After massive casualties on both sides, the defenders of slavery win the first round. Ultimately, however, Django obliterates the literally and figuratively blood-soaked plantation.

In 1859, a former slave who destroyed a plantation would likely have met the same fate as John Brown. However viewers leaving Django Unchained intuitively realize that the film’s violent conclusion is metaphorical. This movie addresses the issue of slavery and its abolition with visual punch and palpable immediacy. In 2007 Tarantino discussed this idea with London’s Daily Telegraph,

[I want] to do movies that deal with America's horrible past, with slavery and stuff, but do them like spaghetti westerns, not like big issue movies. I want to do them like they're genre films, but they deal with everything that America has never dealt with because it's ashamed of it..."

Django Unchained is a realization of this desire. The film makes a convincing cinematic argument that slavery was so ensconced in Southern culture that it could only be abolished with violence. The bloodshed has meaning, as Tarantino’s exploding plantation foreshadows the results of the Civil War. We may not be entirely comfortable with the carnage that led to slavery’s demise, but for many the ultimate outcome, like the finale of Django Unchained, was both justified and satisfying.


-Joan Stack, 2013
 
A single shot is worth the price of admission. The ex-slave Django shoots a sadistic slave overseer in a cotton field. The camera zooms in on a blooming cotton plant. Stage blood spatters across the white cotton. The spray is beautiful and horrific. What a way to envision the reality articulated by John Brown in 1859: “[T]he crimes of this guilty land will never be purged away but with blood.”

The film makes a convincing cinematic argument that slavery was so ensconced in Southern culture that it could only be abolished with violence. ....We may not be entirely comfortable with the carnage that led to slavery’s demise, but for many the ultimate outcome, like the finale of Django Unchained, was both justified and satisfying.


-Joan Stack, 2013

Personally, catsup on cotton doesn't have the same impact as a pile of amputated arms and legs, the sight familiar at every battle. IMO, the cotton boll visual bit doesn't have the same impact as the scenes from "Glory" of the aftermath of Antietam. In fact, zooming in on the cotton telegraphs what's coming. (For once, Tarantino failed to shock.)

As regarding the argument that slavery "could only be abolished through violence", well, what about the historical record? It was abolished peacefully everywhere else in the western hemisphere except for Haiti. And for carnage to be considered "satisfying".....please. Is anyone satisfied with the suffering of the survivors of Hiroshima or all the German women revenge raped by Soviet soldiers?

Disclaimer: I am NOT a fan of QT. I find his films are violent ****ography posing as art.

Second Disclaimer: I've been in court and am in an exceptionally cranky mood. I apologize if I turn you off to the forum. Please don't let me. It's a great place.
 
The mandingo fighters make reference to the 1970s blacksploitation film, Mandingo, in which slaves are forced to fight to the death. No evidence survives that such fights occurred, nevertheless, this kind of merciless, inhuman exploitation is an apt metaphor for the horrific realities of slavery.

Actually, I don't think it is. Pitting the strength of blacks against blacks was not a central mindset of slavery. Despite the outlying examples I've run across where whites used blacks to exploit blacks, I just don't see a widespread theme like that. Blacks may have divided into their own cultural levels like people do, house servants feeling superior to field hands, lighter-skinned blacks feeling superior to darker ones, etc. But I just don't see an overarcing theme of whites keeping blacks enslaved by pitting them against each other as a regular psychological technique. The exploitation of course was real, but it took other forms.

It seems to me that the reference to a 1970s film is just that--and not a statement about 1850s slavery.
 
I haven't seen the film myself, but thanks for the interesting theory; it made me intrigued to see it now. Also, welcome to the forum!
 
I think movies like this twist history in a way where kids will come out thinking it happened in a way like this, where it was all "good fights evil". Same as Inglorious Bastards, it paints Southerners as a bunch of racist slave owners, just as how Inglorious Bastards painted all Germans to be some brainwashed Nazis out to kill all Jews. That makes history look like it was all black and white, good and evil, when there is simply no "good side" and "bad side" in history. When there was evil going on, a lot of innocent men and women did no wrong, and had to suffer through war when they had nothing to do with say slavery or Nazi Germany's atrocities.
 
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