A funny thing happened on the way to the Kodak Theatre on Sunday night, Feb. 27, 2005. Situated in the heart of old Hollywood, at the historic corner of Highland Avenue and Hollywood Boulevard, the theatre was supposed to be the site of the 2005 Academy Awards.
But, guess what? A hip-hop adventure broke out right in the midst of what has mostly been, over the years, a staid and steady affair featuring conventional tuxedos and very expensive, albeit borrowed, designer gowns and jewelry.
Chris Rock warned us that this was the 77th n and possibly last n Academy Awards show. His opening monologue was vintage Rock. Immediately taking a deep breath, without letting us catch ours, he went straight for the jugular. In true hip-hop fashion, he left no stone unturned, no reputation unscathed, and diminished the most celebrated and heretofore untouchable icons. He even had Oprah squirming in her seat.
He was particularly brutal toward young screen heartthrob Jude Law. Contrasting Law to Clint Eastwood n a “real star” n he said Law is nothing more than a “popular person.” Following his destruction of Law’s tenuous hold on artistic respectability, he went after Spider Man star Toby McGuire, referring to McGuire as nothing more than “a little boy in tights.”
And so it went into the evening. When the traditional keepers of the vote tally, the Price-Waterhouse accountants, were introduced, two young, black giants emerged from behind a curtain, looking like Biggie Smalls on steroids, with briefcases attached by lock and key to their humongous wrists. The crowd went wild.
Only Sean Penn, evidently feeling the need to defend his buddy, Jude Law, seemed to object. Penn’s dour moment at the podium only served as a foil for Rock, who stepped around him like an elite NFL running back shakin’ and bakin’ a befuddled defensive lineman and then preceded to direct Penn toward a later and more intimate meeting with his “accountants.”
After the fiasco of the half-time show at the NBA All-Star game, when the hip-hop nation was bumrushed by commissioner David Stern and forced to endure the likes of Lee Ann Rimes and Big & Rich n nothing personal, but it didn’t work; it didn’t even pretend to work n the arrival of the hip-hop aesthetic as the creative force at the oldest and most prestigious awards show in the world marks a sea change in development of this thing we call American culture.
Whether it knows it or not, the land of the free and the home of the brave has finally fallen to the beat of human digital resonance, rappin’ and roarin’, and thinkin’ in a different way.
True, there were no hardcore rap artists performing or even featured in the show. But the stunning prescence of Beyonce, performing not once, not twice, but three times, is, to my limited knowledge, unprecedented in the history of this awards show. And she looked and sounded goooood!
Jamie Foxx’s Best Actor award, Don Cheadle’s nomination for the same award, Morgan Freeman’s victory in the Best Supporting Actor category and Sophie Okonedo’s nomination for Best Supporting Actress have deeper, much deeper implications. Some of these implications are economic and some are political. As usual, they are positioned just below the surface of the cultural matrix.
Jay Z was sitting, prominently, in the audience. P. Diddy was a presenter. The documentary about the life of Tupac Shakur, Tupac Resurrection, was nominated in the Best Documentary category. What does this mean?
Could it be possible that, besides the overwhelming creative force that hip-hop has brought to the mix, there is money to be made and a new audience to be captured by incorporating this energy into the body politic? Could Jay Z’s, Beyonce’s, P. Diddy’s, and Tupac’s people be on the verge of being absorbed into the larger American audience? Remember, ABC is awake 24-7. We have to sleep at least eight hours a day.
In the 1940s, Jackie Robinson’s arrival as the first black Major League Baseball player had a profound effect on the culture of American sport, and this extended to every part of the society. One of the profound effects of his integration into the “national pastime” was the incorporation of his audience, or his people, into the body politic and economic base. They left black baseball to support and cheer their hero.
Black baseball was destroyed. It was abandoned by its formerly loyal and captive audience. Next, came the talent drain. The Major Leagues began to sign talented players of color. This created a more mobile and accessible society, but the greatest economic rewards went to the owners of Major League Baseball. And the greatest political dividends went to the corporate and political class; they presented baseball as the epitome of fair play and America as its liberal mentor.
In the 1970s, Hollywood found itself in a terrible economic crisis. One of the answers was the rise of the so-called blaxploitation film. By creating films like Sweet Sweetback’s Bad Ass Song, Coffee, Superfly, Shaft and Blacula, the studios either directly or indirectly found an untapped audience n a black audience n which became the economic savior of the industry.
In an interesting (and perhaps prophetic) segment of the awards show, Chris Rock found himself in the lobby of the Magic Johnson Theatre, in the Crenshaw area of Los Angeles. As he moved through the lobby, he interviewed theatregoers, asking them if they have favorite movies. They do. But none of their choices had a damn thing to do with the critical darlings that Rock was presenting at the Kodak.
The people like black films. They like horror films. They like those films in which Tyler Perry stars. This was a brilliant skit that allowed “just folks” to snub the red-carpet set. Their films are not “good” films; they’re not critically intact or in place. But, they all make money. They make loads of money. Tyler Perry is an ascending multimillionaire. He’s about to make Jude Law look underexposed.
Beyonce, Jay Z, P. Diddy, Tupac and Chris Rock bring their people with them when they get into the game. They are the creative engines driving a new cultural renaissance that manifested itself so profoundly last Sunday night in Hollywood.
Grab a seat, baby. The show’s about to begin.
K. Curtis Lyle, a nationally renowned poet and performer, is culture critic for the American.
