Django Unchained: the interlocking of fact and fiction.

Hi all, its been a while! I watched Django Unchained a couple of weeks ago, but haven't had a chance to blog about it yet, and realise I'm well behind the times! Now, my parents watched Django before me, and gave it a mixed review (too much gore, apparently), so I was skeptical. However, going against my parents judgement, I unequivocally loved it. 

I've recently been completing a module on American Literature, and the course has included some slave narratives, i.e. The Narrative of the Life of Fredrick Douglass (an amazing, disturbing, fascinating read). I was amazed to see how Django was both a departure from, and remarkably accurate homage to such narratives. The film begins with a troop of slaves being lead through the dark, nearly-naked, chained before Dr. King Schultz (Christopher Waltz) bursts onto the scene, selecting Django (Jamie Foxx) for - as-yet unknown purposes - and murdering one typically repugnant, white slave driver brother, and leaving the other to be ripped to shreds by the remaining slaves. This first scene perfectly blends the fundamental elements of Tarantino's film: violence, historical accuracy, drama, and spectacle. These elements will be drawn out, massaged and elaborated as the film develops. 

Frederick Douglass

We quickly learn that Shultz is a German bounty-hunter, and Django is a slave separated from his beloved wife Broomhilda (Kerry Washington), and the quest that follows fulfills both their aims: Shultz's desire for his bounty, and Django's for his wife. The pair travel the south, collecting bounty's, and on one occasion return to a sprawling, white plantation where Django kills the brother's who whipped Broomhilda when they attempted to escape together. This scene is highly evocative, and highly accurate. In his narrative, Douglass describes the brutal, bloody whippings white slave-owners would perform upon his helpless aunts, or other slaves. Each crack of the white man's whip is a sickening reminder of the atrocities, truly, enacted in American slave plantations. I particularly like how Tarantino makes use of flashbacks to highlight the direct, corollary link between initial crime, and retribution: throughout the film, Django is not sporadically, senselessly killing white men, but selectively pinpointing the perpetrators who have caused him or his wife harm - or those intimately connected to those perpetrators. In this sense, Django Unchained is not merely a gratuitous, frivolous blood-bath, but a revenge tragedy - like Hamlet, or The Spanish Tragedy - that just happens to enact, and repeat revenge in the same gory forms that the initial wrongdoing took. The idea that events are circular, and that revenge accords to crime is perfectly encapsulated in Django's inversion of the white man's 'I like the way you beg, boy', to 'I like the way you die, boy' as he kills him: Django not only wrests the physical, violent power from the driver, but also his vocal power - appropriating action an language, he is the ultimate victor. 

The duo now travel to Mississippi, where Schultz discovers that Broomhilda's owner is the notorious Mr. Candie (Leonardo DiCaprio). The pair first meet Candie when he is watching a 'Mandingo fight', where two black men are pitted to fight until death, in a disconcertingly sumptuous apartment. Mr. Candie is a francophile, yet Schultz is informed not to speak to him in French, as he does not know any, and it will embarrass/ anger him. This subtle fact embodies the hypocrisy, contradiction - nay madness - of the Southern plantation owner: they are wealthy yet deal in the unsellable (flesh), they have luxurious furnishings in which to watch blood-fights, they are extremely courteous, formal, charming even yet spit racist vitriol at their 'possessions' (the list is endless). Tarantino gives us a simultaneously stomach-churningly graphic and aesthetically-tuned view of the fight - two glistening black bodies writhing and slamming by a fire - which is extremely uncomfortable to watch. Yet, it is completely necessary - highlighting how 'bodies' were, quite literally, employed for sport, exploring the blurring of the boundaries between human and plaything that occurred in decadently-lit salons across America: and, most importantly of all, giving us a insight into Candie's simultaneous delectation for entertainment, and blood. Another of Candie's passions is cold hard cash, and the pair devise a plan to make a 'ridiculous offer' for a Mandingo (with Broomhilda thrown into the bargain) that Candie just cannot refuse. 

Candie is, of course, instantly attracted by this offer, 'you had my curiosity, gentlemen, now you have my attention' he drawls in a simultaneously honey-smooth and sinister Southern twang. Off they travel to the seat of 'Django's' action - Candyland. The dynamic between Django and the other men on the ride to Candyland is extremely interesting. As a 'free' slave (Schultz purchased his freedom when he appropriated him from the Schleck brothers), he feels superior to the Mandingos, and unlike them, rides a horse; as a man with integrity, he also feels superior to the repulsive, poor white slave owners - yet, he is however, not. This complex highlights the liminality felt by freed slaves (which Douglass, in his narrative, eventually is): they obviously enjoy greater liberty that their 'brothers in bonds', yet are not - and will not be for at least two centuries - equal to white men. In this situation, Django alienates himself from the black men, and the white: to some extent, he emerges almost race-less - or, at least, estranged from both races - and we are given the sense that he is a man on a sole mission, unlike any other, exempt, outside, ostracised from the slave world, but not yet immersed in another, freer one. This implacability is again highlighted when they reach Candyland and are met by Stephen (Samuel L. Jackson), Candie's fiercely loyal, senior house slave. Stephen is a complex character, and Jackson portrays him perfectly; he is obstinate, petulant, almost sycophantic in his praise of his master, and - strangely - seems to believe he is white. He, more so that Candie or anyone else, is outraged that Django rides a horse (this was banned by law), and (rather comically) informs him so. He persistently refers to Django as nigger, and almost refuses to allow him in the house, to sleep on a bed. Stephen has become so completely, immovably indoctrinated in a lifetime of service, that he has absorbed the prejudices of Candie and others, and seems to forget his own 'heritage', or alliance to his race: with him, there is no such thing as brothers in bonds. I really admire the way that Tarantino does not specify the root of Stephen's behaviour/prejudice; does he think himself superior because he is a house slave? has he forgotten that he is 'owned' by Candie? does his hatred for Django come from a love of white people (see the old insult Uncle Tom), does he detest the thought of freedom, or merely the way Django acts when free? These questions about as we watch the film.

As the group sit down for dinner, we may verge on believing that Stephen has merely been indoctrinated in his beliefs, as he parrots everything Candie says. However, the embittered way he treats Broomhilda and other slaves, and, more-so, the calculated, clever manner by which he works out Schultz and Django's plan shows that he is not just a simple, unthinking old slave: he is sensitive, perceptive, and has far more cunning and sense that his supposedly 'superior' owners. He is however, completely dedicated to them, and informs Candie of the plan. I find this aspect of the film hard to process (but that is not a bad thing). Candie seems to think he has the answer to the question of slaves loyalty (i.e. why his father's barber did not seise the opportunity to slit his neck), using some hazy, obviously non-medical and unfounded phrenological argument which posits an excess of a 'servile' quality, ignorance, trust etc. That however, as we can appreciate, isn't quite it. Stephen is not 'built', or inherently constituted to serve Candie: Django isn't the exception, Stephen is. I believe here Tarantino makes us torn between hating Stephen, and pitying him; on one hand he frustrates us because he thwarts Django's plan and chooses to remain loyal to the repugnant Candie, yet on the other hand, what actual choice does he have? He has been brought up this way, fed into it, seeing no way out and - arguably - if you must obey him, it is better to love your master than hate him, isn't it?! Loyalty is a respectable quality, is it not? In a way, Tarantino uses Stephen as an embodiment of the many complex, conflicting questions that surround and constitute the slave trade. To go into them all now is beyond my capacity (and word length), but I hope to have set the spark alight for some of them. 

Now, on to DiCaprio. People have said he deserves his long awaited oscar for this performance, and I hate to follow the crowd but I can't help but agree! This isn't his usually attractive role. Candie is slightly podgy, (ironically) with rotting teeth, and a quasi-incestuous relationship with his sister Miss Lara. He is his most charming when his most menacing, consistently blending barbarism with Southern eloquence and etiquette: and this paradoxical combination makes for a simultaneously captivating and horrifying character. In this respect, as well, Tarantino plays upon real-live accounts of plantation owners. The white men that fill Douglass's pages are brutal and vindictive, barely concealing their inhumanity - or perhaps accentuating it - through an external layer of compliments, charm, convolution, elongated words and drawling lyric sentences. In the dinner-table scene where Candie reveals his knowledge of the plan (handily given to him by Stephen), DiCaprio is intense, captivating and forceful. There is a rumour bandying around the internet that DiCaprio was not actually supposed to cut his hand in this scene, yet carried on regardless. Whether pre-orchestrated or spontaneous, this move is extremely effective, Candie exerting his dominance and ownership in the ultimate act of possession: smearing blood on Broomhilda's shaking, terrified face (or should I say Washington: if this move was sporadic the blood would be as shocking for her as for her character). Here, DiCaprio is in his element.

Following the dinner-scene, there is the 'agreement' scene, and here, the Southern etiquette which I have alluded to costs Candie his life. I love how the hypocrisy we first witnessed in Candie's character reemerges in this scene. I felt genuine pathos for Schultz, as he attempts to reconcile the beautiful, melodious arias of Beethoven with the despicable violence of the parlour, that plays on his mind through flashbacks: how can a monster such as Candie enjoy or even deserve to hear Beethoven's beautiful music? Schultz again cannot digest the injustice of Candie's desire to shake hands - in a gentlemanly fashion - in regards to the sale of flesh. Here, Candie and Schultz begin to transcend their lineal characterisations, Candie representing an abstraction of false-hospitality, the south, evil, and Shultz representing honesty, transparency, the north, morality. We have witnessed wars of the flesh in Django Unchained, but this is a war of the mind. Although we may be frustrated with Schultz for refusing to concede to a simple handshake (his concession could have instantly resolved the situation, and Django would have walked free with Broomhilda), we appreciate that it is, again, not just a handshake but an emblem, a symbol of morality falling to the overarching power of evil, goodness lapsing to necessity, difficulty giving way to ease: in terms of the film's structure and message, Schultz cannot shake hands with Candie, and he does not.

Following this mental victory (resulting in the physical death of both Candie and Schultz), we are shown a sustained, gory war of the flesh once more (shot and orchestrated with great skill). It would be easy to say that the gore here is unneeded (and it does occasionally veer that way), but I see what Tarantino is attempting to do. It would not be enough for Candie to die, Django has to kill those related with him, the white men who pour to the house, who loyally walk into their own death for him: simultaneously obliterating every shade of 'Candie', and making Django's crime graver and graver, blacker and more heinous (whilst also showing off his excellent gun skills. Tarantino deals in extremes: Django has to commit the worst crime, in order to receive the worst punishment, in order to escape that worst punishment and be the ultimate victor. There is a chain, there is succession, and there is logic in Tarantino's design (despite superficial appearances). As Django is chained (again), upside-down and naked, he is taunted by a white man (Crash) who he had a previous clash with, who threatens to chop off his member. Although Django is clearly afraid here (who wouldn't be), this is not the most frightening interaction he has. The true psychological difficulty coincides with Stephen's reappearance. Candie is now dead, but Stephen's loyalty isn't (it was not, then, a circumstantial, situational affection): if this is a case of Stockholm syndrome, it is one that continues after death. Here, again, Stephen seems to show his intellectual (or at least sadistic) superiority over the white men, claiming that the have devised a series of physical torments for Django, where as it is he who comes up with the psychological torment: Django will be sent to a mine, where he will hammer rocks repetitively, will have no name no freedom no right to speak, and be tossed in a pit when he's dead like an old, broken tool. If Stephen hates Django for behaving like a white man, than he is going to remind him exactly what he is: a black slave, with no rights and no voice. As Stephen passes his judgement, however, I can't help but think that he embodies the very thing he claims to hate: Candie dead, he fills his place, more white and more hate-filled that him, able to execute the role better, perhaps, because of his close observation of it. 

After this scene, I feel that the film loses pace slightly. There is a lot of comedy in Django's gulling of the Australian slave drivers (with Tarantino in one of the roles), comedy which mirrors the Klu Klux Klan scene (which I'll talk about in a moment) where white men are revealed to be stupid and greedy; additionally, there is pathos and beauty as Broomhilda and Django are reunited. The film only springs into its own again, however, in the last few shots. Django returns to the house (while the family and slaves are at Candie's funeral), and enacts the perfect moment of transgression and re-appropriation: dressing himself in Candie's clothes. This act is not just actually, but symbolically and ideologically subversive: as he reclaimed the words used against him (see above 'I like the way you beg, boy') he reclaims and refashions the garments of studied hypocrisy, of fine brutality, of respectable injustice, and on them they lose those connotations - they look new, they look handsome, majestic even. When they return, he (literally) occupies the highest plain. I believe that here, who he allows to live, and who is deigned to die is particularly interesting. The white men are killed yet the two black women are allowed  to go. In this respect, one might argue that Django works by binary opposites - killing because they are male, and white, releasing because black, and women. However, his shooting of Miss Lara complicates matters. We begin to realise that, as I argued earlier, to some extent, Django sees through race, he also sees through gender. The black women are saved not because they are black and female, but because they are blameless: Miss Lara's gender doesn't save her - she is evil or does evil actions, so in Django's mind, deserved to die (how complicit she is is contestable, as I am aware that indoctrination is also colourblind). We also learn that race is not a saviour: Stephen is Django's final victim, and to the last, he remains pejorative to Django and loyal to Candie. Although I respect that in this cinematic sphere this is justice - Stephen, like Miss Lara is a bad person regardless of race or gender and should die. But, as I did with her, I question his complicitness. I feel that the questions I raised earlier complicate the sense of 'victory' in this killing: there is neatness, circularity (crime answering crime etc), but his death did not make me happy. There is the great sense as the film concludes that, although one Stephen is dead, there were (are) many Stephen's - complicated, hard to judge characters - still out there. It is a bittersweet justice, a justice you half-want and half-eschew (ah Tarantino you do confuse me so expertly).

My previous statements do not mitigate my appreciation of Django's ending. The house is blown up, effectively answering and silencing Stephen's claim that 'can't no n***** destroy Candyland' (they can, he just did), and Django walks away, master of spectacle, master of events, the master. In the final seconds of the film, I felt a respect for Django (Foxx's performance is consistent, sustained, sometimes unbelievable, but often witty, funny, likable, admirable), yet also a fear that correlates with my statement about the 'many Stephen's' still out there. Broomhilda and Django, two slaves on the run, still in the south, face the same danger and prejudice that Douglass and his new wife experienced when he was newly escaped. Tarantino effectively juxtaposes fantasy and reality in these final moments; fantasy in the massive explosion, like the fallacy and fictionality of this select story, and reality in the touching human tenderness of husband and wife, like the reality of those impossible - almost unbelievable - yet true stories like that of Frederick Douglass. I guess a pictorial representation is never fully accurate, but Tarantino's - in its blend of accuracy and inaccuracy, fiction and reality - actually, paradoxically, perfectly encapsulates the life of the escaping slave: your slave-life is one of a real pain that is almost fictional in its brutality, your escape involves true danger, but must be fantastical in order to succeed.  

Douglass in old age

Other notable parts of the film which I may have missed in this chronological review are:

1. The scene where Southern Klu Klux Klan members storm Schultz' dentist wagon. I was, at first, truly terrified by the scene - men charging towards the tiny, vulnerable wagon on horseback with flames and, by now, well-known costumes, with hooves clashing, disturbing whooping sound etc. - fearing that Django and Schultz truly were in danger. However, Tarantino creates a wonderful bathos, when their discussion of tactics descends into a petty, childish squabble over the inadequacy of their costumes. I love how Tarantino highlights the dual aspects of the KKK; these men were noxious and terrifying, they murdered black people across America for centuries (and this is, largely, how they are remembered in history books), however, they were also acutely stupid, uninformed, ignorant, poverty-stricken men - more often than not - with nothing better to do that make the lives of others a hell akin unto their own. Tarantino obliterates the abstract, quasi-mystical, fictionalised picture of a Klu Klux Klan member: they were not inhuman killing machines (although their actions were inhuman), but human, fallible - cheat-able, conquerable - mortals, who gained power not through true superiority or strength or cunning, but through the circumstantial historic climate, money (if not much of it), and the sheer mass of them. Pit 10 white men against 1 black man and its obvious that the minority will often be the losing party. This paradoxically light, and rich, scene is perhaps one of my favourites of the film. 
2. The reunification scene between Broomhilda and Django. There is all sorts of dramatic irony going on here. Miss Lara, and Broomhilda believe Schultz has sent for her to have sex, and her fear and frustration are evident. The fact that the scene is spoken in German heightens both the sense of danger, and tension. As Schultz talks he dresses - rather than undresses, figuring the opposite of the process which Broomhilda is used to (she is used for sex by Mandingos and others). We cannot help but admire Django's love of 'spectacle' (he is, so often, the object of other's entertainment, you can't blame him for wanting to re-appropriate glamour, and orchestrate a drama of his own), but the tension is near-distressing. The door opens, Broomhilda faints: it is, in its own way, the perfect reunification.
3. I love the slow shot of the blood splatter on cotton. It seems apt in so many ways.

JEM.