The kind of characterization of Oscar which Coogler and Jordan assemble, with internal contradictions, has the most sterling of pedigrees: Shakespeare was fond of it too. It is also poignant. In the dramatic world of the film, Coogler proposes that this day was different long before the BART train back from San Francisco pulled into the station; Oscar seems to have made a tacit New Year's resolution to straighten up and fly right. And this interpretation is apparently justified -- a Slate article cites statements by Oscar's loved ones which support the idea that Oscar planned to reform. In filmic terms, it is also supreme irony. The structure of the film is such that Oscar deals with various personal problems over the course of the first two-thirds of the film but reconciles with his girlfriend, celebrates his mom's birthday, and approaches 2009 -- soberly -- with hope for a better life. If you had never seen the headlines, you might be convinced there's about to be a happy ending.
What Coogler has crafted is a strong counter-narrative to the one pushed by so many whites from Middle America, who seize on whatever flaws they can find in the biographies of black men like Oscar and Trayvon. Fruitvale Station is a much-needed rebuttal to the myth of the "super-predator', a racist stereotype which, longtime social justice activist Tom Hayden makes plain in a recent article in The Nation, stems from a national propaganda campaign that dates from the 1980s -- a tainting of certain Americans (in other words, people of color) as so dangerous and bad at their core that society is in an "us or them' situation with them.
In order to continue to hold on to the racism that is so
near and dear to them, Zimmerman supporters and, I suspect, Mehserle fans,
yearned deeply to find a reason to justify murder. How upset they were at the
slightest doubt, at the merest whisper that Trayvon might not be a
murderous thug who had it coming. Coogler quietly dispenses with this element
of Oscar's story by staking out a clear position on what caused the fight that
led to the police being called in: a white man who frequently tormented Oscar
back in prison suddenly attacks him on the subway car. This is a significant
part of the story Fruitvale Station tells:
the only thing that Oscar does that leads to any trouble with the police on
Dec. 31, 2008 is that he fights another subway passenger in self-defense.
Eye-witness reports from the crowded and jostled passengers
who saw the fight before the train pulled into Fruitvale are contradictory. But
according to several witnesses, there was indeed a fight between Oscar and a
white man who'd been in prison with him. Coogler changes several names of
supporting characters who do wrong in the film, but Slate identifies the alleged pugilist as David Horowitch. (For the record, he denies being in
the fight.) The film shows him playing it cool on the train when the police
start dragging off the young black men -- thus illustrating how it never even
occurred to the cops to look for a white guy.
Self-defense is the million-dollar concept right now,
because Zimmerman's attorneys and cheering section have twisted things to try
to make us believe Trayvon had no right of self-defense. Yet the negation of
that right tends to be a red flag which reveals the underlying imbalance of
power. Ask Iraqis whether they had a right of self-defense when the U.S.
attacked them; ask Gazans where theirs was under Israel's bombardment.
Coogler's film lets us see that Oscar at least ought to have had the
right of self-defense.
That crucial prison flashback mid-way through the film is
extremely helpful in this area, especially when you think about it afterward.
It helps us to realize what Oscar must have gone through while in prison -- he
appears beaten up, and refuses to answer his mother's questions about it. When
the Horowitch character threatens him in jail (which happens in plain view with
guards watching) Oscar responds as if his very survival is at stake. This preps
us to understand Oscar's instantaneous transformation when the same guy
reappears much later and lunges at him -- how Oscar switches in one breath from
holiday relaxation to fierce defense mode.
And earlier in the film, Coogler had included another
exchange that also is part of the portrait of Oscar vis-a-vis aggression. So
different from media sound bites regarding the Zimmerman trial, this scene
illustrates what the concept of de-escalation and "retreat' might really mean.
When his former boss tells him he won't give him his job back, Oscar is humiliated
and desperate and reacts with an angry, ominous threat. The store manager
happens to be Latino, and that moment could easily have become a
racially-charged clash or power struggle. But the manager actually likes Oscar,
continues to employ his brother, and, probably most important of all,
understands where Oscar is coming from. He knows he's just upset. So he doesn't
bite. The whole situation is defused, and Oscar calms down.
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