A Nod to Cool or a New Blaxploitation?

In the late 1950s, author Norman Mailer wrote a provocative essay for Dissent magazine titled “The White Negro.” The piece attempted to pop-psychologize the white male’s need to feel and act “black,” specifically regarding the impact of jazz on the hippest sectors of the culture at that time.

Mailer’s sense of “the white Negro” has transcended the era in which it was originally written, and has recently mounted an impressive comeback, with Hollywood as its most visible proponent.

Some of the most popular movie stars of the moment now represent this rebirth of the cool--and that trend cuts across generational lines. Whether it takes the form of veterans like Jack Nicholson, Warren Beatty, John Travolta and Bruce Willis, or new jacks like George Clooney, Quentin Tarantino, Matt Damon and Ben Affleck, it is obvious that the white Negro is back on the scene . . . with a gangsta lean!

Though times have definitely changed since Mailer’s piece first appeared, the same questions he raised 40 years ago remain unanswered. Is this embrace of black culture exploitative or is it respectful of a culture that has long been one of the most influential in American life?

When Jack Nicholson strolled on stage to receive his Oscar for best actor earlier this year, he publicly acknowledged that he was not only a client, but the player president of the white Negro country club--and all the while bringing public attention to an idea that has long continued to exist but is seldom mentioned.

Once again, here was the Man, with his trademark dark sunglasses, his devilish grin, his methodically slow manner of speaking and the overall air he has so carefully perfected; youknow, the one that makes him appear to be high Todd Boyd, author of “Am I Black Enough for You?,” is a professor of Critical Studies in the USC School of Cinema-Television.

at all times. In rap circles, they call this his “steelo,” that is, someone’s overall disposition. Well, Jack’s steelo is so well known to us now that we don’t even need to use his last name when referring to him.

Upon accepting the award, Jack began the traditional “thank you” laundry list of names that normally accompanies such pomp and circumstance. His first “thank you”--and let’s assume that those names at the top of his list had some real meaning, and those closer to the bottom were simply professional courtesy--went out to Miles Davis.

Davis is, without a doubt, the coolest icon of the 20th century. Miles not only defined cool, he wrote a manual on it. So when Jack extended this shout out to Miles, the locus of Jack’s steelo had now been revealed. Jack has been so good at what he does that, over the years, most people tended to lose sight of the original reference and began to assume that the present image is, indeed, the authentic one.

But the reference to Miles put it all into perspective. For all these years, Jack has been a living, walking, breathing, example of Mailer’s “white Negro.” Yet as the datedness of the word “Negro” indicates, this idea resonated in a much older era and seemed to have died with the decline of jazz in the late ‘60s.

Well, it did not die, it simply went underground, only to reemerge, with Jack as our reminder. Jack, though, is but one of many, as a casual glance at recent trends reveals the phenomenon of the white Negro to have returned to popular culture, with a vengeance.

George Clooney’s hipness by association seems to be the latest example of the rebirth of the white Negro, as we watch him move so gracefully through the predominantly black world of “Out of Sight.”

It is interesting that a film so much about race seems somehow raceless, as Clooney’s whiteness manages to disappear into the scenery, due to the relative ease with which he can walk all sides of the color line. He even manages to run game on Jennifer Lopez, the woman destined to become the ‘90s version of Pam Grier.

Watching “Out of Sight” goes on to remind us that Quentin Tarantino--the Michael Jordan of white Negroes and the person most responsible for bringing this trend to the surface--has in essence created a whole new film genre that from here on out should be known as “white Negro cinema.” In Tarantino’s world, lower-class existence cuts across racial lines, a model for peaceful coexistence if ever there was one.

In “Bulworth,” Warren Beatty disappears from his uptight white world only to come back as a white Negro trapped in the world of hip-hop, striving to spread his newfound hipness to the otherwise stale white masses.

In “Good Will Hunting” Matt Damon and Ben Affleck infuse the screen with energy in a world where working-class South Boston meets up with hip-hop’s definition of masculinity in the ‘90s. One could argue that if we substitute South Boston with South-Central Los Angeles, “Good Will Hunting” could very easily be a white-faced version of “Menace II Society.”

Or check out the current popularity of John Travolta, a white Negro, on his second go-round, who has now spanned the spectrum from the ‘70s through the ‘90s. He started with that famous pimp walk at the beginning of “Saturday Night Fever,” a stroll undoubtedly influenced by the many brothers that Travolta grew up around and of which he once spoke reverentially to Bryant Gumbel on “The Today Show.”

This persona came full circle when Travolta played Chili Palmer, the fly gangsta in “Get Shorty,” a few years ago. (Interestingly “Get Shorty,” “Out of Sight” and Tarantino’s “Jackie Brown” are all based on novels by Elmore Leonard, a writer who lives around Detroit and has been heavily influenced by the black culture there.)

Bruce Willis, currently starring in “Armageddon,” has been on the white Negro trip for years. Some will remember Willis’ singing career, which began with a cover of the Staple Singers’ “Respect Yourself” and later included an appearance accompanying the Pointer Sisters, playing a harmonica.

Even though Willis has tried other vehicles, he has been most consistently successful in his role as John McClain in the “Die Hard” franchise. McClain, with his quick-witted retorts and relative nonchalance, brings his own kind of white Negro cool to the overheated action genre.

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But don’t let me be misunderstood; it is equally important to state, without question, that not all black men are cool. (See Clarence Thomas, Ward Connerly and Karl Malone, if you need proof.) To assume that all black men are cool simply by virtue of being black would be the same as assuming that all black men can rap and play basketball. But being cool is one of those stereotypes that people tend to embrace, as opposed to running away from. This is certainly the case in popular culture, and gangsta rap has made it an even more visible form of identity.

In any society, those people who are most oppressed tend to develop mechanisms that allow them to exist in the chaotic world they must inhabit. For black men in America, the sense of being cool has created a pleasant distance from an often unfriendly world. To be distant, aloof, showing little or no emotion, seemingly above it all, is one way of developing some leverage.

This public expression of coolness is often expressed through clothes, gestures and language, but these are simply props. What is most important in determining cool is what you see when you check out someone’s attitude as they navigate the world around them.

Coolness is about being on the outside, or at least choosing an identity outside the mainstream. For instance, Travolta, being an Italian American, is an outsider relative to the WASP culture that once held such sway in this country. By combining this sense of alienation with another major form of otherness--in this case the brothers he grew up around--gave Travolta his own style, one that allowed him to stand outside the status quo while still getting paid. It is somewhat ironic that the white Negro often gets away with the very thing that real Negroes tend to get criticized for.

What is equally interesting is the way in which those who are imitated often look to other places to augment their own sense of style. The two most significant films in the hip black canon happen to be about Italians and Cubans. Quotes from “The Godfather” and “Scarface” can be heard in more rap songs than can even be counted at this point.

This is also true of another major text that has informed rap’s mythology, the underground classic “The King of New York,” in which Christopher Walken’s character of Frank White could be considered the definitive white Negro of the post-Watergate era. The late Biggie Smalls frequently referred to himself as “the black Frank White.”

There has always been a thin line between appropriation and exploitation, between paying homage and stealing. If imitation is the highest form of flattery, then the return of the white Negro is a comment on the lasting significance of black popular culture and the importance of the individuals who created this culture for 20th century America. In this regard, it’s all good.

On the other hand, some would argue that this is some form of pop-culture colonialism; a kind of postmodern minstrel show in which those in power get to appropriate, while those who have little or no access to power get appropriated.

White men who act like black men are considered hip, while black men who act like white men are said to be selling out. This inequity was true when Mailer originally wrote his piece and remains true today. Until black men can appropriate whiteness in the same way that white men have blackness for all these years--and earning money, power and respect in the process--then a healthy suspicion will remain a part of this discussion.