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My Sweet Charlie 1970. Patty Duke and Al Freeman Jr.
A White Girl, a Black Man, White Guilt, Black Rage,
Transcendent Art
There's a certain kind of movie that some people
never forget. Here's what they say
about this particular type of movie.
"It's
a film I saw years ago, when I was a kid. No one else was home. I just flipped
on the TV, not really planning to watch anything. I never caught the beginning.
I was too young to process all the film's implications; nevertheless, it moved
me deeply. I never saw it again. It's not famous and I never heard anyone
mention it. Every now and then, I'd think of the characters as if they were
real people I had met at a party or on a long night bus ride. I'd wonder how
their lives had worked out. Something would happen and I'd think, 'What would
she think of this?' Though of course she was just a fictional character. My
memory of the film faded, like an aged garment that had been washed too many
times and had developed holes, but there was still a recognizable shape there. One
day it occurred to me to use the internet to try to see if I could track down
the movie. I didn't even remember the title. I just typed in a rough
description of key plot points. That search brought me to this site, and now I
see that there are others who remember this film. I wish they'd bring it out on
DVD."
My Sweet Charlie is
a 1970 movie about Marlene Chambers, a white girl, and Charlie Roberts, a black
man. Each is hiding out at a remote lighthouse.
Below
are quotes taken from the International Movie Database, YouTube, and Amazon. Quote authors go by screen names like
"Shasta," "Bron-Tay," "txbardtobe" and "Carl
Brown from Ipswich, England."
- "My Sweet Charlie is one of the finest films ever made. It is
more than mere entertainment. This film is art. Patty Duke is letter
perfect and Al Freeman, Jr. matches her from beginning to end."
- "I saw this when I was young
and loved it. It made a big impression on me. No one that I know has seen
it, so no one to discuss it with."
- "I've been waiting for it to
air again for decades."
- "I'm desperate to get hold
of a copy. Please post a message if you are able to get hold of it on DVD.
Fiona, Melbourne Australia."
- "I had not seen this movie
since I was a kid. I had forgotten so much of it. However something about
the movie always reminded me that I wanted to view it again."
- "I saw its initial premiere
and was completely mesmerized. Duke won a well-deserved Emmy and Freeman
was nominated. This movie was so successful when it premiered on NBC that
it eventually earned theatrical release overseas."
- "Last summer we went down
the driveway and saw the family standing out there next to the huge iron
lighthouse. They looked at us for a second and then just turned around. It
was funny because I thought we would get in trouble but I guess a lot of
people do that."
- "I saw this on TV back when.
I never forgot it. I miss these kinds of intimate, sensitive stories with
no gimmicks or special effects. Story and acting."
- "Imaginative storytelling,
writing, directing, and acting without any gimmicks … The key ingredients
were simply art and talent."
- "Without political
correctness. Just some from the gut and heart human turmoil and genuine
connection."
- "One of the finest
two-character studies ever produced."
- "After watching this the
first time years ago as a child, I was never able to find it again, so
thanks for downloading. This was a great movie and I love both characters
and actors but I will say that I watch this up until the end and then turn
it off and make my own ending in my head."
- "I first saw it when I was
younger. I remember being shocked hearing the N-word. But I was blown away
with both actors' performances. This is a movie that should be in the top
250, and yet not many people have heard of it. I don't mind admitting it.
I have searched for this film for over 30 years. And it was only yesterday
a person who uses this website helped me find the film's title. That
person is ladyboss1717. I wish to thank that person in helping me find a
classic. Trust me! Please see it."
When
I was a kid, living at home with one black-and-white TV shared by eight people,
I saw My Sweet Charlie on TV. I
remember a woman hiding out and a black man coming along. I remember a kitchen.
It was stormy outside. There was danger of some kind – at least one gunshot. I didn't
like the ending. I remember being deeply moved, in spite of, not because of, a
didactic undertone. I did not remember what moved me. I just remember that –
being deeply moved.
The
other day, on a whim, I googled it. I rewatched the film for the first time in
forty years. Watching blotchy, postcard-sized YouTube images on my laptop, I
was as moved as I would be while watching a classic in a movie theater.
Two things I wish I could change about My Sweet Charlie
I
want to talk about how much I love this movie, but first I want to tell you two
things I would change, if I could.
The
director, Lamont Johnson, did a fine job. Still, I would love to see a My Sweet Charlie directed by Peter Weir.
Weir
made The Year of Living Dangerously and
Dead Poets Society. He has a gift for
capturing the ache of a human being out of place. His uprooted characters
endure disorientation as well as uncanny and ultimately transcendent epiphanies.
They hanker for the security of home, but must redefine home after being turned
inside out.
Weir's
Witness tells the story of Detective John
Book (Harrison Ford), who embeds with the Amish in order to solve a murder.
There's a brief scene of Amish people striding through an oceanic field of
grain. Maurice Jarre's hypnotic score sucks you,
through your ears, into the field – not just the crop and the soil, but the
soul and the vision that vivify the Amish world. Driving the hour or so from
Philadelphia to Lancaster County, Detective Book has entered a reality he has
never experienced before, a poetry he will want to understand, and a beauty he
will yearn to keep, but cannot.
The Way Back is
a gorgeous, gut-wrenching film about a Polish man who escaped from the Gulag
and walked across Asia. Weir captures how negligible a human body is when set
against limitless earth and sky uninvested in human survival, and how huge a
human soul must be to keep moving in the face of cosmic indifference. I wish
for that kind of cinematography, and that kind of scene, in My Sweet Charlie.
Marlene
and Charlie are human rejects. Around their lighthouse hideout, mud and water
stretch toward an empty horizon. I would have loved to have seen cinematography
that captured the Wyeth-like light of blond beach and lush, wind-turned marsh
grass, the changing hue of mud flats as they absorb rushing tides and then dry
in the sun.
The
landscape mocks Marlene and Charlie. It appears barren, and for their purposes,
it is barren. They are hungry. One
false move, and they could be dead. There is no transportation, no food they
know how to access, and no escape.
In
fact, of course, this liminal landscape where earth and water meet, embrace,
and, daily, in accord with the moon and tides, dominate or succumb to each
other, throbs with abundant opportunity and life: birds, fish, crustaceans,
grasses and flowers, currents that could whisk them away from their woes. This
is just not an environment that is inviting to Charlie and Marlene. They are out-of-place
both in human society and in nature. Water, water everywhere and not a drop to
drink.
Jazz
musician Gil Melle scored the film. Marlene attempts to escape from Charlie.
She runs, into the wild night, across sand and past palms undulating in a
cyclone, into grasses and shrubs. The scene begins with bass guitar, then snare
drum rim tap, then flute, then the train-like chugging of a harmonica, then a
very jazzy clarinet: the music of urban hipsters and smoky cafes.
I
would like to have watched this film with a soundtrack by Maurice Jarre.
There's something elemental about a man and a girl acting out ancient and
unsolvable tensions while surrounded by earth and water approaching and
retreating with each tide. Maurice Jarre's work for Lawrence of Arabia transmutes desert
into sounds. He gives us Russia's snows in Dr
Zhivago. Perhaps for My Sweet Charlie he would have captured water
as he does so well for The
Mosquito Coast.
Patty Duke and Al Freeman Jr
Patty
Duke, who stars as Marlene, had been in fifty different productions by age 12.
Her name appeared above the title on the marquee for Broadway's The Miracle Worker. Duke played Helen Keller
again in the movie and, at 16, was the youngest person, at that time, to
receive a competitive Academy Award. She starred in television's very
successful Patty Duke Show from 1963
to 1966. The book American Sweethearts: Teenage Girls in Twentieth
Century Popular Culture identifies Patty
Duke as one of the celebrities who helped define what it once meant to be a
teenage American girl: perky, spunky, sexy, but in a very safe and chaste way.
In
1988, in her memoir Call Me Anna, Duke
revealed that her childhood home in Elmhurst, Queens, was infested with bedbugs. Her parents
were blue collar, an Irish-German-American cashier and an Irish-American cabdriver.
Her mother suffered from depression and was sometimes violent. Her father was
an alcoholic. Her mother threw him out when Duke was only six years old. Duke
saw him only a few more times, usually at a bar, before he died. Her mother
handed her over to John and Ethel Ross, managers of child actors. They changed
her name from Anna Marie to Patty, controlled her life and squandered her
earnings. The Rosses refused permission for Duke's mother to attend the Academy
Awards. They gave Duke drugs and alcohol, and molested her.
Duke
suffered from anorexia, dropping to 76 pounds. She had relationships with men
both much younger and older than herself. Against Lucille Ball's wishes, Duke
dated Ball's son, Desi, when he was 17 and Duke was 23. One of Duke's marriages
lasted thirteen days. Her son Sean Astin (Samwise Gamgee in Lord of the Rings) did not know who his
father was until he took a DNA test.
After
The Patty Duke Show went off the air,
Duke's first major film role was in the 1967 The Valley of the Dolls. Michael Medved lists it as one of the Fifty Worst Films of all Time. Duke's costar was Sharon Tate. Tate would go on to
wed Roman Polanski. In 1969, the Manson Family murdered Tate when she was eight
and a half months pregnant.
It
is testimony to Duke's resilience as a human being and her gift as an actress
that she was able to give the performance she gave in My Sweet Charlie. At the Emmy Awards, hosted by the now-disgraced
Bill Cosby, Duke gave what is one of the most uncomfortable
acceptance speeches in Hollywood award history.
Patty
Duke attempted suicide at least five
times. "I wanted to be out of pain." "I didn't know how to be an
adult. I had no preparation." In 1982, at age 35, Duke was diagnosed with
bipolar disorder. She has since become a mental health advocate.
Patty
Duke plays a white girl interacting with a black man in My Sweet Charlie. One might assume that her character is rich and privileged,
contrasting with a poor, suffering black person. The movie, and life, is more
complicated than that. Those complications are reflected in Duke's biography. Her
youth included so much exploitation and pain that though my own life has been
no picnic, I would not trade my childhood for Patty Duke's.
Al
Freeman Jr (1934-2012) plays Charlie Roberts, the black man. Freeman was a stage, TV, and movie actor who appeared as Malcolm
X in Roots, the Next Generations, and
as Elijah Muhammad in Spike Lee's film Malcolm
X. He was the first African American to win a Daytime Emmy; he won for his
depiction of Ed Hall on the TV soap opera One
Life to Live. He taught theater at Howard University.
My Sweet Charlie Is Not a Politically Correct Lecture
My Sweet Charlie was
made in 1970. That's six years after passage of the Civil Rights Act, three
years after Guess Who's Coming to Dinner,
the Loving v Virginia Supreme Court decision and the Newark riots, two
years after the assassination of Martin Luther King, Jr, and one year after the
Star Trek episode "Let That Be
Your Last Battlefield" that depicted space aliens with half white and half
black faces fighting to the death. Given its context, one might assume that My Sweet Charlie is, metaphorically, black-and-white,
that is, a preachy exercise in white guilt and black power.
I'm
not the audience for Politically Correct agitprop. I first saw the PBS
miniseries Eyes on the Prize, about
the Civil Rights Movement, after I'd gotten back from spending 1988-89 in
Poland. I had participated in bringing down Communism. I met people like Jacek Kuron and Lech Walesa;
I faced off with water cannons, riot police, and tear gas. When I watched Eyes on the Prize – with its archival
footage of African Americans facing off with water cannons, riot police and
tear gas – I didn't feel that I was
watching their story – a story that
belongs only to black people. I felt that I was watching our story – the story of how people expand human freedom and dignity.
That
colorblind, universalist worldview is unacceptable to the rich white liberals
and black grievance industry professionals who now monopolize the microphone.
Whiteness per se is now blameworthy.
Andrew
Goodman and Michael Schwerner were two white men who were killed for their
Civil Rights activism. They are not unique; were it not for many white heroes
who supported Civil Rights, to the point of sacrificing their lives, the
movement would have failed. The 1988 film Mississippi
Burning dramatizes their martyrdom. David Sirota is one of many high
priests who instruct us to reject Mississippi
Burning. Sirota grew up in one of the wealthiest, whitest counties in the
country. He attended the oldest private Quaker school in the world, an elementary
Ivy. He has worked as Bernie Sanders' spokesman. He appoints himself to
instruct you in what movies you should value, and why.
"Oscar Loves a White
Savior" he mocks, in reference to Mississippi
Burning. Sirota also pillories Steven Spielberg's Lincoln for the same crime: dramatizing a white historical figure
who risked life and career to end racial injustice. In the 2011 film The Help, Octavia Spencer, playing a
black heroine, forces a white villainess to eat her feces. Spencer won an
Academy Award. Sirota denounces The Help
as racist. "It refuses to focus on black working-class struggle." The
film, Sirota alleges, by depicting white racists as bad people, lets non-racist,
nice white people feel good about themselves. We can't have that, because all
white people are the problem, and must feel guilty all the time.
Melissa
Harris-Perry is the daughter of two college professors. She taught at Princeton
and is an MSNBC star. She asks, "Why do people love Star Wars so much? … Darth Vader is a terrible
and bad and awful … black guy … who cuts off white men's hands!"
Rich
white liberals like Sirota and black grievance mongers like Harris-Perry monopolize
the microphone. They tell us whiteness is bad.
I
never see or hear anyone anything like my African American students or
neighbors in high-profile national productions about race. They are largely
hardworking people. They disdain welfare dependency. They want a better future.
They have white friends. They are eager to learn about, and to try, new
solutions, but they remain woefully uninformed about them. That's because black
conservatives like Shelby Steele and Walter E.
Williams are also excluded from the conversation.
Also
silenced: the vast majority of white Americans. Most white Americans do not
descend from slave owners. Most white Americans scoff at the concept of
"white privilege." Most white Americans have sacrificed for what they
have. Most white Americans have tragic histories of their own.
My Slavic
ancestors were such common items in the international slave trade that we gave
the world the word "slave." Muslim slave-traders took so many Slavic
slaves that they incorporated their word for us into their word for
"eunuch." Muslims routinely castrated male slaves.
We
were liberated from serfdom in the 1860s, at the same time African Americans
were liberated from enslavement. My friend John Guzlowski's parents were
two of the over a million Poles enslaved by Nazi Germany. Occupiers outlawed
our language and slated our culture for extinction. My grandmother learned of
her own heritage in secret meetings in a church basement. In this country, we
were shot if we
organized. Some were lynched. My mother, a
brilliant woman, cleaned houses. My dad did manual labor. Neither had a high
school diploma. Sirota and Harris-Perry must silence me; my mere existence
muddies their narrative.
There's
another reason PC silences working class whites like me. Their hate requires a
boogieman. We, rather than rich white liberals like Sirota, are the bad guys.
We are responsible for racism. But our parents and grandparents immigrants, we
were barely getting our footing in this country when the Civil Rights Movement
began. In Spike Lee's Do the Right Thing,
angry blacks don't rise up against a plantation-owning Imperial Wizard of
the Ku Klux Klan. Rather, angry blacks destroy a pizzeria owned by Italians.
This cinematic black-on-working-class-white-ethnic crime is a reflection of
real life events that occurred during the Newark Riots, that destroyed,
not rich white neighborhoods, but those of working class Jews and Italians.
PC's
worst boogiemen are poor white Southerners. Trailer trash, white trash,
hillbillies, rednecks, cracker: our very vocabulary tells the tale of how
unquestioned and universal is our contempt. We recognize poor white Southerners
as a culturally distinct group, and we have no single neutral term for them. "Inbred"
is a frequent insult. We unthinkingly attribute incest, an abomination in our
culture, to poor white Southerners.
No
David Sirota rises up to critique depictions of poor white Southerners in
American film. At least two high-profile films, The Prince of Tides and Deliverance,
hinge on scenes of poor white Southerners as anal rapists. In The Texas Chainsaw Massacre, poor white
Southerners are sadistic cannibal serial killers. Poor white Southerners are
the go-to, default population for unspeakable acts. Horror-movie scholar Carol
J. Clover writes that the "redneck has achieved the status of a kind of
universal blame figure, the someone else held responsible for all manner of
American social ills … anxieties no longer expressible in ethnic or racial
terms have become projected onto a safe target" – safe, she says, because
white.
If My Sweet Charlie were a product of rich
white liberals and black grievance industry professionals, I would have none of
it. It's not. It's art.
So Let's Talk About My Sweet Charlie
Marlene
Chambers (Patty Duke), is a poor, uneducated, white, Southern girl. She is pregnant.
Her dad throws her out; her boyfriend rejects her. Not knowing what to do, cardboard
suitcase in hand, she travels to a vacant home near a lighthouse. She breaks in.
We see Marlene carefully washing, drying, and putting away the dishes she has
used. We see her taking the very few single dollar bills she has out of her
purse and placing them under a lazy Susan, as payment for the food she has
eaten. Heartwarming guitar music strums as Marlene gathers driftwood for her
fire. She gazes toward her "home" and smiles as if suddenly catching
sight of a long-lost friend. We sense that Marlene has never had much autonomy,
and that playing lady of the house is her first chance to spread her wings. Before
falling asleep at night, she places her hand over her swelling belly, grimaces,
and simply blows out her candle – she is refusing to confront the consequences
of her actions.
Marlene
knows the world is full of rules and etiquette that she can't navigate. She attempts
to hitchhike. A VW van painted with flowers and slogans like "Peace"
and "Love" pulls over. These hippies, "peace and love"
notwithstanding, are no refuge. It's clear from their derisive comments that
they are inviting Marlene into their van only in the hopes of sexually
exploiting her naivety. "I'm not hitchhiking!" she lies. (One of the
men inside the van is Brent Spiner, who would later play Data on Star Trek.)
Marlene,
an isolated figure, strolls along an uninhabited beach. She builds a sand
castle. The score is upbeat as Marlene plays, but then the music segues into
minor key flute, ominous strings and a menacing oboe. This is the sound of a
horror movie. The sand castle collapses. The image of a broken home dissolves
into Marlene's body, shot from below, so that her breasts, covered only by a
slip, rising and falling with each breath, occupy center screen. She is splayed
out in bed under a window. The music stops. We hear what we do not want to hear
when looking at a nearly naked, vulnerable girl. The sound of footsteps right
outside the window.
Marlene
jerks awake. She investigates. "A nigger!" Marlene screams a word so
taboo we are not even supposed to spell it. Yet we don't hate Marlene.
I
detect no barrier between Duke's heart and my eyes. I feel, when I'm watching My Sweet Charlie, that I'm watching, not
Patty Duke, but Marlene Chambers, a real, live, terrified, dumb, pregnant
Southern girl. I see every flicker of her thoughts and emotions, her weaknesses
and her strengths. I feel like I experience more authentic humanity watching
Duke play Marlene than I experience in many a one-on-one encounter with a
flesh-and-blood human being.
I
have to wonder if Duke's history of mental illness is
not at play, here. I don't know if anyone fully sane could ever so
thoroughly access, and be, another human being. I don't know if anyone who has
a firm grip on consensus reality could be so naked, so vulnerable, so aware –
since so much of sanity is the demand that we close our eyes, not open them,
that we build walls so as not to overwhelm ourselves.
So,
this is the power – and the compassion – of My
Sweet Charlie. The lead character just said the ugliest word in the English
language, and we remain on her side – we don't approve of the word; we hope she
will learn and grow – and we hope that we will accompany her as she does. Too,
we know that Marlene has been taught to fear the mythic black rapist typified
in the 1915 D.W. Griffiths' film Birth
of a Nation. Marlene is
certainly unaware of Eldridge Cleaver's claim in his 1968 book Soul on Ice that he "consciously,
deliberately, willfully, methodically" raped white women as "an
insurrectionary act." We don't know if, like South Carolina author Mary Boykin
Chestnut, Marlene knows about white men's rape
of black women – but we do know that when it comes to the sexual politics
of historical power plays, Marlene, like most poor young women, is a bystander,
a pawn, or maybe a victim, but not an empowered actor.
Marlene
insists to the intruder she has labeled a "nigger" that this is her
home and her father will return from the "picture show" at any
minute.
The
man studies the house. There are dust cloths on the furniture. The man attempts
to switch on a lamp; nothing happens – no electricity. Marlene naively admits
that "there ain't no phone." He rapidly sizes up Marlene. "By no
stretch of the imagination do you belong in a decent house." He rapidly
surmises that Marlene has broken into the house just as he has.
We
know Marlene has concluded that the black, male intruder is a
"nigger" – a force to overturn the tiny, fragile civilization Marlene
has imagined into being in her playhouse. We know that he underestimates her as
"poor white trash." What do we, the viewer, make of him?
The
movie seems to want to confuse us. He is breaking into a house at night. He has
the grim, deadly focus of a killer. He grabs Marlene. He places his hand over
her screaming mouth. She runs; he pins her wrists; he is on top of her; she
writhes about, throwing open her housecoat to reveal her naked thighs. She runs
again; he chases, tackles her, downs her, and then slaps her across the face.
"A nigger hit me!" she screams.
But
he's wearing a suit. A good suit, also a tie and dress shoes. His speech is
pristine, and he has an exceptionally beautiful voice. She throws herself on
the bed and sobs convulsively, as only a bratty teenage girl can. Marlene
doesn't see this, but we do; the man looks at her, slouches, looks down, and
frowns. We can see that he's never hit a woman before, and he is as shocked by
his own violence as Marlene is. He reaches out and lightly touches her hair.
"I didn't hit you that hard," he says. She recoils. He locks her in
her room, and then falls asleep in a wicker chair.
We
quickly discover that whoever he is, he is not as easy to love as Marlene. My Sweet Charlie is not just about
blacks and whites. It's about males and females, adults and teens, the city and
the wild earth. Marlene is all heart, as hot, moist and fertile as the Southern
bottomland for which she yearns, "so rich you could eat it with a
spoon." Charlie is all head. And he is cold.
Marlene
calls Charlie a "nigger" twice in their initial encounter. She stops
herself from saying it a third time, but her courtesy is of no avail; the dead
silence – the audible blank space – where she would have said the word is
almost louder than the spoken syllables.
There
is no flicker in his eyes. I wonder if it was hard for Freeman to be called a
"nigger," even as part of a movie scene, and not flinch.
We
soon learn that his apparent lack of response is not evidence of passivity; whoever
he is, this is a man who knows the meaning of, "Revenge is a dish best
eaten cold."
"You
better not try anything," Marlene spits, her eyes narrowed and her lips
rigid and stern. She's trying to look the venomous snake when she's really just
a squishy little salamander.
"What?" he asks, incredulous.
"You
know what I mean," Marlene insists. "You know exactly what I mean."
"Well,
Little Miss White Lady, I wouldn't worry about that if I were you. Because,
have you looked in the mirror lately? You're ugly. Uuuuu gly."
Freeman
was twelve years older than Duke. Duke plays Marlene as if she were 15. It's a
powerful moment. He says the thing that any teenage girl dreads to hear,
especially from an adult man: you are too ugly to be attractive.
Many
an actor would be tempted to deliver that line with extra helpings of special
sauce. Freeman does not. His voice never rises. He speaks in an almost kind tone.
He could be saying, "Here, pet this nice puppy." I love Marlene
because Duke vivifies her with naked life. I love Charlie because Freeman
executes him with iron discipline. His brilliance gleams with the luster of
sharp steel. We get to know Marlene because Duke bares her. We get to know
Charlie because Freeman keeps us at arm's length. Exposing and concealing: both
aesthetic disciplines.
"That's
what you say," Marlene spits. "If my daddy wuz here – "
Charlie
cuts her off. His voice is gentle. His correction is scathing. "Were. 'If my daddy were here.'"
Marlene
is a high school student. She obeys an older man in a suit who knows more than
she does. She knows he knows more. Through clues, we learn that Marlene strives
for the dignity, command and societal respect that elude her. "If my daddy
were here –" she tries again.
Charlie
nods at her corrected grammar and her pliability; he produces the cold, shallow
smile of a slightly sadistic schoolmaster.
But
again Charlie cuts her off. "He'd sic the hounds on me. But he's not here,
is he? It's just you and me."
Freeman's
Charlie isn't anybody's stereotype. He's not
playing a "black man." He's playing a man. He's bringing to life a
human being, of above average intelligence, trapped in a Kafkaesque nightmare. His
blackness is not essential, any more than Marlene's whiteness; both their skin
colors are incidental. It's testimony to the power inherent in the script that,
with minor tweaking, it could work with the roles reversed.
In
the morning, Charlie brings Marlene coffee and promises her that he will leave,
if she will swear on a Bible that she will never tell anyone that she has seen
him. Whoever or whatever this character is, he is not what we at first had
thought. He's not the Sidney Poitier character from Guess Who's Coming to Dinner – that is, someone too good to be true.
He's not the dreaded "magical negro" who must
be superhuman to be palatable, and to avoid charges of racism. He's also not a
stereotypical villain; had he been one, he would not have slept in the wicker
chair.
Charlie
attempts to leave Marlene's requisitioned house. At this point there is a plot
contrivance that temporarily takes me out of the movie. Charlie complains of
the cold. He is desperate for a winter coat. The film was shot in Port Bolivar,
on Texas' Gulf Coast. Blinding sunshine, lush palm trees, flamboyantly
blossoming oleander and facial sweat are quite evident in several shots. The MacGuffin of Charlie
stealing a winter coat just doesn't work.
The
coat Charlie steals is sheepskin. I have to wonder if this is an attempt at
symbolism, if we place the emphasis on skin.
Sheepskin coats are, of course, "flesh tone," that is the color
of Caucasian skin. Is this a message of some kind? Dunno.
Charlie,
after leaving Marlene's hideout, enters Mr. Treadwell's store, steals a coat,
and is seen. Treadwell shoots at him. Charlie makes a narrow escape and returns
to Marlene's hiding place. He promises her he will leave on Christmas Day, when
the roads are free of traffic and he can avoid detection. This is another
contrivance; crowded roads before Christmas would better serve a fugitive
avoiding a lynch mob. The writer chose Christmas as the date for Charlie's
escape for symbolic reasons, as we shall see.
Charlie
and Marlene are imprisoned in the same cell: the house is not their trap; their
trap is their defiance of societal norms. They are both transgressors; they
have both sacrificed normal human relationships and are now outside anyone's
"universe of
obligation."
And
so they talk. Their every conversation is a wrestling match; who is on top or
bottom changes with each line. Their opposite features constantly vie: his
formal education and her earthy knowledge. His coolness and her heat. The North
against the South. "You northern people think you can come down here and
lord it over everybody."
He
uses the expression Q.E.D. "I know what that means," Marlene says.
"I learned it in geometry class." But there is so much this city boy
doesn't know. He panics when he hears a screech owl. "What was that?"
he demands.
"Ain't
you never heard an owl before?"
Though
Marlene is obviously just a kid, and as desperate and outcast as he is, Charlie
tosses heaps of stored up rage at her.
She
mentions that he looks as if someone has beaten him up. "Just because
somebody beat you up is no reason to act ugly to me. Wasn't me that did
it."
"Yeah,"
he replies. "But you'd like to, wouldn't you?"
She
hears him refer to himself as "Charlie" and asks if that is his name.
"We don't have names, Miss Scarlett, we're not bright enough to remember
them."
She
says she is a Christian, "Everybody is a Christian."
"How
would you know? Ever see a black face in your church?" he asks.
"You
people have your own churches," she replies.
"You
people burn them down."
"I
don't know anything about that."
"I
bet you don't."
"I
don't! Why are you always blaming me for everything?"
Charlie
badgers Marlene. "What's your name, Little Miss White Lady? After all, we've
lived together in the same house."
After
some resistance, tells him her name is Marlene.
He
immediately mocks her. "How did that happen? I thought you people went in
for Amy Lou and Sally Joe."
She
reports that she is named after her great-great grandmother who had a "big
place in Atlanta."
"I
never knew the name of my great-great grandmother. Probably 'Mammy'
something."
"Don't
blame me. It ain't my fault you're black."
As
ever, Freeman doesn't flinch; there isn't even a flicker in his eye. He merely,
coolly asks, "If I were white, do you think I'd be a better man?"
"You
sure couldn't be no worse."
This
all might sound very didactic, very paint-by-numbers. The angry black. The
defensive white.
It's
not the what – the substance of their
conversation. It's the how – the
actors' and filmmakers' artistry. I could rent a theater and spout, "To be
or not to be that is the question." No one would come. Theater-goers who
know Hamlet's soliloquy by heart are brought to tears when a great actor speaks
it in a way that brings it new life.
Freeman,
Duke and the filmmakers conjure magic. They speak these trite race-war talking
points as if no one had ever thought them before – as if they matter, intensely,
to Marlene, and to Charlie – as if their lives could be different in the next
moment depending on what is said, and felt, and understood. Because Duke and
Freeman are everything movie stars must be – intimate and yet larger than life,
unique and yet as familiar to you as your neighbor or yourself – these words
come to matter to you. They matter in the specific – would Charlie be any
better if he were white? And they matter in the universal – why has humanity
allowed superficialities like skin color to take on the power of life and
death?
Eventually,
Charlie notices Marlene's voracious appetite and expanding waistline. Charlie,
with cold calculation and sadistic relish, unleashes his rage.
When
I watch this scene, I identify with both Charlie and Marlene. I identify with Charlie, because I have been the
underdog who had to put up with insults from my social betters. I relish his
opportunity to sink the knife in to his tormentor. I identify with Marlene because
I was once a girl as vulnerable as she. That My Sweet Charlie invites me to share in the humanity of both of its
opposite leads, to identify with Charlie's triumph and Marlene's pain,
testifies to the power of its artistry.
Suddenly
realizing that Marlene is hiding out because she has, as they used
euphemistically to say, "gotten herself in trouble," Charlie says, "Here
all alone. As if you had no place else to go. Got ourselves pregnant, didn't
we? And I thought you were such an innocent little girl. Stupid, but innocent. My
apologies little mother. And here I thought you were too ugly for anyone to
look at. Somebody did more than just look, didn't he?" When he speaks
these lines, Freeman's eyes are diabolical, coldly boiling with subdued rage.
He is aiming a deadly weapon at the heart of the one he identifies as his
enemy. He is moving in for the kill. He will taste his revenge. "That
daddy of yours. Didn't he have a shotgun? Kicked you out, didn't he?"
Marlene
breaks down. She cries, "I hate you!" and runs outside to the
lighthouse. Unlike before, when he slapped her, and looked immediately
remorseful, here Charlie is merely cold.
A
teenage girl does not want to be told she is two things: ugly or a slut.
Charlie has called Marlene both, and also, of course, fat and stupid. He never apologizes.
He goes to the lighthouse. Marlene is dozens of feet above him, staring down. He
shouts up to her. He has stolen some potatoes from the house next door.
"Marlene,
you should eat!"
She
ignores him.
"All
right," he says. "You're not hurting me. You're only hurting
yourself, and your baby."
"I
don't want no baby! I ain't gonna have no baby!"
He
enters the house.
When
he hears Marlene sidling into the kitchen behind him, he wears a self-satisfied
grin, one we see but Marlene does not.
He
fondles the potatoes. He talks about them. How could they be cooked in this
kitchen?
Marlene
mocks his ignorance.
"How
am I supposed to know?" he asks, his voice high-pitched, like a helpless
little boy.
"You
don't like it when people talk to you the way you talk to them, do you?"
she challenges. She is one spunky girl.
He
concedes nothing. He continues to bait his trap. He verbally fantasizes a baked
potato, with sour cream.
She
sneers. "When our cream clabbered we threw it to the pigs."
Charlie
baits Marlene into bragging that she can cook French fried potatoes. "I don't
cook for no…" We know what word she was about to say, and did not say.
"If
you want to eat them you will," Charlie says.
"I'll
cook them if you peel them."
Charlie
suddenly looks atypically helpless. "Well, where's the … peeler?"
Charlie, like so many men, suffers from a peculiar blindness – he cannot find a
basic tool in a kitchen.
"If
you ain't the most helpless – " Marlene opens a drawer and takes out the
potato peeler.
He
has book learning about the Irish Potato Famine, and he shows it off. She has
none. He tells her she should not use the word "ain't." It makes her
sound ignorant. She replies that she may be ignorant, but "I know what
potato blight is, and rust and rot and pip."
"Pip?"
he asks, incredulous.
"Chickens
get it."
"Live
and learn."
Later
Charlie stands alone at the water's edge, among pier pilings. His back is to
the camera. Marlene approaches. She attempts to speak to him; he snaps at her.
"You don't have to jump down my throat!" she says. She has begun to
open up to his humanity; she has already forgotten that she just told him she
hates him. She asks why he is on the run.
He
doesn't want to tell her for her own good, he says. "I don't want to
implicate you."
Marlene
tenderly responds, "I don't mind if you impricate me."
"Implicate!" he corrects.
Charlie
had been a successful lawyer in New York City. He realized that other black
people were putting their lives on the line to make the world a better place.
He traveled south to participate in a protest. Whites assaulted the protestors.
Charlie, afraid for his life, fought back. He inadvertently killed a man. Charlie
is in agony as he relives the killing. It's the most emotion we have seen from
him.
Charlie's
story registers on Marlene's young face the way the wind is recorded on the
surface of the water. At its conclusion, she says, "My poor Charlie."
Charlie
and Marlene must collude to get more food. Charlie declares that the store is
too far for Marlene to walk, given her pregnancy. Finally Marlene, who has been
intellectually bullied by Charlie, gets back some of her own. She must tutor
Charlie in how to act like a Southern black man so that he can fetch food from
Treadwell's store.
"He'll
probably suspicion something," Marlene says of Treadwell.
"Suspect!"
Charlie corrects. "Suspicion is the noun. Suspect is the verb."
Marlene
tells Charlie what items to buy. She lists evaporated milk. Charlie repeats,
"Evaporated milk."
"Vaporated!" she says, giving the
word her pronunciation.
Charlie's
foray is successful. He gets food. But he can barely disguise his disdain for
Treadwell's barely disguised racism. This trip to the store has surely
foreshadowed some dreadful plot element to come.
Charlie
and Marlene are walking back from a failed attempt to catch fish. A couple in a
station wagon arrives to check on the vacant homes. Charlie grabs Marlene's
hand and pulls her down into oleander bushes. He quivers. He says he is going
to run and never come back. In a few, deft, impressionist flickers on Marlene's
face, we know: she doesn't want Charlie to leave. She wants to keep him. She
summons her animal cunning, and bursts from their hiding place, at a run.
Charlie stares, dumbfounded and terrified. What is this girl going to do? Expose
him? Turn him in? He does not yet realize that things have changed between
them, that Marlene has changed.
Marlene
greets the couple fearlessly. Marlene displays a human warmth and an animal
shrewdness that Charlie lacks. She is so affecting, innocent, and eager in her
greeting that the couple believes her when she announces that the homeowners
have delegated her to watch over the very home she has broken into. Marlene can
fool the neighbors, but Charlie could not fully fool Treadwell. Charlie watches
from the bushes, a smile beaming on his face. "Marlene I'm proud of ya!"
he says, the first time he compliments her.
Marlene
is wistful. With a far-away look in her eyes, she tells Charlie that "The
way he opened the car door for her, and called her honey," moved her
greatly. We know that no one has ever treated Marlene with such chivalry. Marlene's
back is to Charlie. She doesn't see this, but the audience does. Charlie
softens. Charlie cares. The cold rage is just not there in his face. He cares
about this girl and her stunted life. "I know," he says. "You
all right?" he asks, solicitously. Previously he had urged her to eat
perhaps because he felt guilty; perhaps because he wanted her to cook potatoes
for him. Now we know that he cares.
In
the time it takes Freeman to say "I know," Patty Duke does something
amazing with her face. She "says," without words, "You don't know. You think my yearning is for
the young stud who impregnated, and then disappointed me. It's not. You're the one I fantasize about opening
the car door for me. You're the one I want to hear call me 'honey.'" A viewer
trained on action films, explosions, and special effects would never catch this
seconds-long communication, and would never understand how rich this film is. That
viewer would watch all of My Sweet
Charlie "waiting for the action to start."
Later,
Charlie is comfortably sprawled across the wicker chair in the living room,
casually smoking a cigarette, ashtray perched on his bent legs. He is doing
what he has been doing during the entire film; he is watching Marlene. Before,
he had been watching her to find her weakest spot to plunge the knife in, or
out of the need to survive, and then from anthropological curiosity. Now we
sense that he is watching her in a different way. His posture is relaxed and
confident. He no longer looks like a hunted animal. We sense that this is
Charlie, the real Charlie, the Charlie he is at home. He had slept, that first
night, in this same wicker chair. The chair reminds us how much things have
changed between them.
Earlier
on this day he had been out scavenging for food when he took an ax and chopped
down a pine tree. He brought it into the house as a gift for Marlene. She is
decorating it now. She has fashioned paper and tin foil into ornaments.
Tinny,
instrumental Christmas carols sound from a transistor radio: "Silent Night,"
"God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen."
Charlie
comments on Marlene's improvised ornaments. "That's pretty good, ya know?
You're pretty clever with your hands."
Marlene
does not turn around to face him. She shrugs off the compliment. "It ain't
nuthin'. Just foolin' around. It don't amount to much." She is not used to
receiving compliments, and doesn't feel it would be proper to acknowledge them.
Charlie
will not be dissuaded. "I don't agree," he says, polite but
assertive. "I think it shows talent."
"I
do think about getting a job where I can make things. But first I want to get
my high school diploma. No matter what."
"Well
that's a good idea."
Marlene
is the yin to Charlie's yang. He knows grammar and vocabulary; she knows people
and beauty.
Marlene
wonders aloud what makes Christmas lights go on and off. She asks Charlie, who,
so far, has known everything that can be learned from a book. He fakes an
answer about circuit breakers. She grins. "You don't know neither!"
They share a smile.
She
tells a story on herself – she once thought the lyric to "Silent
Night" was "brown young Firgin," and "Firgin" was a
"colored girl" who did washing for the Holy Family. Charlie laughs.
It's
the same conversation they've been having all along. He is a know-it-all. She
is a racist. But now they are laughing, together, at their own foibles. It's
the resolution of Pachelbel's canon.
Are
Charlie and Marlene in love?
Posters
at the International Movie Database discussion boards disagree. Some say yes;
theirs is a love story. Others say that their relationship is a surrogate
father-daughter one. Others, that they are platonic friends.
In
her memoir Call Me Anna, Duke wrote,
"things develop between these two, from each not being able to stand the
other to the point where, without ever touching each other, without even
sitting next to each other, it's obvious that they've fallen in love … The
real-life relationship between me and Al Freeman, Jr … paralleled what was
happening in the piece." At first, Duke writes, "Al had a very
arrogant kind of attitude that put us all off. We were so paranoid that he was
going to think we were bigots that we overcompensated, even pandered to Al,
which made him even more arrogant … this man was simply a rude son of a
bitch."
Duke
walked away. Freeman went to her hotel room, apologized for being "a
prick," and talked to her for hours, "enrapturing" and
"dazzling" Duke with his brilliance and eloquence. Duke and Freeman
became allies, and they worked hard to make the film the best it could be.
Duke
reports that she developed a crush on Freeman. "I couldn't wait to get up
and go to work, to meet Al on the ferry going from Galveston to Port Bolivar
and have him talk to me about what he'd seen in the New York Times. The crush I had on him was really more for his
brain and his charm than wanting a physical thing, and gradually I realized
that I'd rather have the crush than the actual love affair."
Me?
I think Marlene has a huge crush on Charlie. I think Charlie would probably
enjoy having a girl of Marlene's passion and innocence having a crush on him. I
think he'd always yearn for someone as ambitious, intellectual, and, yes, as cold
and calculating as himself.
Marlene
is on her knees under the Christmas tree. "I wish you wouldn't go,"
Marlene says. We're used to seeing her fists in the air, her chest out, her
feisty attempt to survive her tough world camouflaging her tender girlhood. Now
she is soft and feminine. Her voice is not much more than a whisper. Her eyes
are cast down, using attention to her ornaments as an excuse not to make eye
contact with Charlie.
"I
have to." He tells her to go home. "You can't carry a grudge against
your father forever," he says.
"Why
not?" she challenges. "You carry a grudge against a lot of white
people."
"A
lot of white people deserve a … grudge."
"I'm
white," she whispers. "I want my baby to be like you." Her eyes
are down when she says this. His eyes are down. Both are silent. She asks,
"Charlie, did you hear me?"
"I
heard," he says. "Get some rest," he says.
Deferential
as ever – the movie never forgets that she is a child who has spent her life at
the bottom of the totem pole – she goes to her room and closes the door, the
door that he had locked his first night in that house. He stares at the door
for a long time. The viewer does not know how to interpret his stare. There's a
possible clue: while he is staring, the radio is playing the "comfort and
joy, comfort and joy" passage from "God rest ye merry
gentlemen."
Later
in the night, Marlene cries out. Charlie enters her room. She is in labor. He
offers to go in search of a doctor. No, she insists. You will put yourself at
risk. He insists. She begins to cry. She reaches her hand forward across her
bed. He does not take her hand. He reaches up and wipes a tear from her cheek.
He leaves.
Charlie
is shot to death by a police officer who is suspicious of an unknown black man.
Before he dies, Charlie does manage to ask Mr Treadwell, the storeowner whose
coat he had previously shoplifted, to send a doctor to Marlene. Patty Duke, in
her memoir, says that Marlene names her baby "Charlie."
Charlie
is murdered, of course, on Christmas Eve. He is trying to bring aid to an
outcast pregnant girl. He is a martyr, a Christ figure.
I
think some unhappy endings are earned. In Gone
with the Wind, after they've spent ten years together as the most famous
lovers since Romeo and Juliet, Rhett walks out on Scarlett. "Frankly my dear,
I don't give a damn," Rhett says. That's one of the greatest unhappy
endings in all of literature.
I
think an unearned unhappy ending is every bit as bad as an unearned happy
ending.
I
think My Sweet Charlie's unhappy
ending is unearned. The whole movie, before the ending, defies preachy
conventions. The ending is just so damn preachy. The movie is saying,
"There, white people. Now you should feel guilty. We gave you this black
character that you could love and admire and then we murdered him. All because
of your racism."
The
murder of Charlie reminds me of the fate of transgressive characters in
code-era Hollywood. It used to be a Hollywood rule: if someone broke some
societal taboo, for example by committing adultery, the movie had to punish
that character by killing her off.
Black
actors had to disappear for other reasons. Sidney Poitier was one of the
biggest stars of the 1960s. In film after film, this handsome, charismatic
black actor was paired with white women with whom he had palpable chemistry. In
film after film, that chemistry was either never consummated, or Poitier or his
leading lady had to leave town. In Lilies
of the Field, his leading lady, Lilia Skala, was a much older nun. Even
there Poitier had to leave town at the end of the film. In A Patch of Blue, his leading lady, Elizabeth Hartman, was both
blind and a victim of parental abuse. At the end of the film, she tells Poitier
she loves him. She must immediately leave town without him. In To Sir with Love, Poitier strikes sparks
with Judy Geeson, but he plays her teacher. Any romantic contact would be a
no-no. At the end of the film, she graduates. In Guess Who's Coming to Dinner, Poitier finally gets to marry his white costar, Katharine Houghton. But
then the couple must immediately fly off to Geneva. In the Heat of the Night features Sidney Poitier as a Philadelphia
homicide detective working a murder case in Mississippi. Poitier, as Virgil
Tibbs, teams up with local Police Chief Bill Gillespie, played by Rod Steiger.
Gillespie is clearly a bigot, but Tibbs' excellent police work wins him over.
In the final scene, Gillespie and Tibbs shake hands – before Tibbs gets on a
train, and leaves town.
My Sweet Charlie
has broken a taboo. Charlie is an angry black man who is also utterly lovable,
and he is loved by a white woman. So the movie kills him for it. I just hate
that.
The
movie also skips out on a storyteller's responsibility. I want to know: would
Marlene and Charlie relate in the real world, after their time-out-of-time in
the magical lighthouse? Would Charlie and Marlene be lovers, or even friends,
when she had a squalling baby on her hip, and he had to keep a lawyer's hours
in his tiny Manhattan studio apartment? As she cooked him Southern delicacies,
that no one outside the south wants to step in, never mind actually eat, like
biscuits and gravy? When she refused to buy his beloved sour cream? I'd really
like to see the meltdown of Charlie's mother when her prize lawyer son brought
home Elly Mae Clampett, bastard kid in toe, for Sunday dinner.
Patty
Duke and Al Freeman Jr were remarkably talented, charismatic stars playing rich
characters in an intriguing situation. There was so much yet to be said between
them. You don't squander characters or setups like that!
Confession:
during long walks in wild areas – well, a park in Paterson NJ, home of Lambert
Tower, which is the closest thing Paterson has to a lighthouse – I have
composed an elaborate fanfiction that continues the saga of Charlie and
Marlene. My fanfiction does not involve
Charlie being shot.
I am watching My Sweet Charlie now on DVD. Filmed in my area and stars frequented a club my dad ran. Found it on : https://www.ioffer.com/search/items/my+sweet+charlie
ReplyDeleteI am watching My Sweet Charlie now on DVD. Filmed in my area and stars frequented a club my dad ran. Found it on : https://www.ioffer.com/search/items/my+sweet+charlie
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