Although Hollywood has been no stranger to cinematic portrayals of the Civil Rights movement, it has long avoided the prospect of tackling Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. head-on. And it’s clear why – his legacy is vast, mythic, and daunting. The cultural memory of King is generally as omnipresent as it is unspecific, forming his ghost through monuments, perfunctory history lessons, and yesterday’s federal holiday into a historical character defined (and limited) by select phrases from speeches as well as decontextualized ideas like “nonviolence.” As a cinematic presence, King has largely been relegated to the margins of other people’s biopics like The Butler and Ali, and is often presented in a fashion consonant with his mythic status – as a relic of history and a fountain of wisdom rather than an actual, historical person.
Ava DuVernay’s Selma pulls King’s legacy away from the conventional narratives of achieving certain equal rights – which often promotes historical simplicity and passive self-satisfaction – and instead focuses on the means by which rights have been fought for, with all of the rifts, risks, politicking, and mortal dangers in tow.
Selma accomplishes several astounding things. It presents a powerful alternative to the clichés of the biopic by honing in on one important moment in a major historic figure’s life. The film also pulls the style of the Hollywood Civil Rights history lesson away from the established framework of a white storyteller, thereby giving mass audiences access to a spectrum of black subjectivities and experiences. Admittedly, there exist rare but important recent precedents for both of these achievements in Lincoln and The Butler, respectively. But in doing both of these things, Selma lends a singular immediacy to Hollywood’s depiction of the Civil Rights era. Selma depicts in detail the on-the-ground tactics of nonviolent antiracism, thereby arresting historical events from the sense of inevitability and distance given by the ways that mainstream culture traditionally reflects on this era through today’s monuments and yesterday’s fashions.
Not only does Selma relieve the historical King from the phantom of his legacy by humanizing him – portraying King as an enormously talented, convicted, and charismatic activist, but also an actual person who carried vulnerability, temperament, doubt, and the burden of guilt surrounding the deaths and dangers of the movement’s practitioners – the film principally organizes this portrayal around King the political strategist. It is of no small importance that Selma opens with King reciting a speech in the mirror while expressing concern about how his presentation at a Nobel ceremony will affect the movement he represents, for the film depicts how the work of being a public figure can mobilize change if exercised arduously, sincerely, and deliberately. Selma is not about the myth of Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr., but the work of being Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr.
We have historicized King primarily through his speeches (or, honestly, very select moments from certain speeches), but what Selma understands is that, to really grasp this history beyond the romantic fog of hindsight, one must look at the speeches before they became speeches, the march before it became a march, and the verbal fisticuffs in the oval office before the Voting Rights Act was passed in order to see how history was consciously and strategically paved and pursued rather than simply enacted. And by highlighting one major step in a much longer fight, and part of a much greater personal and political legacy, Selma shows how history is made piecemeal rather than in grand strokes, with its actors rarely enjoying a full view in anticipation of the results it will bring.
One early scene in particular drives this aspect of the film home. Shortly after King and other members of the Southern Christian Leadership Conference arrive in Selma and meet with members of the Student Nonviolent Coordinating Committee. SNCC members James Forman (Trai Byers) and John Lewis (Stephan James) express skepticism at the SCLC, fearing that they are only interested in utilizing the space of Selma as a stepping stone for goals elsewhere – or, worse, a self-promotional opportunity – thereby undoing the long-term work SNCC has accomplished in registering black voters and engaging in consciousness-raising education. King makes it clear in no uncertain terms that, while he values this work, he is interested more in raising the consciousness of whites, of convincing those who already have access to the levers of power to bend their privilege and influence toward legislation and social practices that value equality and afford African-Americans the protection of the law.
DuVernay and David Oyelowo’s King – a character established by the film’s opening moments as acutely aware of the powers of perception and the importance of modern media – stresses that being on the front page of newspapers and having striking images of violent enforcement of white supremacy broadcast on the evening news are key in pursuing this goal, for the news media creates an artery between a regional protest and the concerns of the White House. By portraying the strategic decisiveness, the calculated deliberation, and the heated debate that went into implementing the Selma-to-Montgomery march, Selma reveals (throughout many moments like the one outlined above) that history is not made arbitrarily, but through a series of tactics that may not look like history at the present moment.
The ensuing “moment” itself, like many of King’s iconic speeches, tells only part of the story, and remembering only the latter part makes history abstract and free of context, unable to bestow its many relevant lessons.
And that’s why Selma offers us something that is often so lacking in our annual observations of King’s legacy: it provides a chance to ask what history can teach us, what lessons we still need to learn, and what historical ills we risk repeating. It breathes life into King rather than letting him rest as a stone monument with the most comforting excerpts from the “I Have a Dream” speech on repeat.
Selma illustrates how the United States has often looked like a battlefield for people of color who seek simply to participate within it as recognized citizens, as lives that matter. Selma reminds that nonviolent protest is not friendly or passive, but often takes the form of a radical disturbance of the peace in order to motivate others out of a tacit acceptance of an unjust system. Selma offers an opportunity to celebrate the accomplishments of generations before ours while, at the same time, not rest easily in the face of so much more left to be done.
