Today, Paul Robeson seems impossible. How could one man have accomplished so much, commanded such respect, be so large and legendary, even during his lifetime?
Paul Robeson: Showing a Little Grit
by Cynthia Fuchs
PopMatters Film and TV Editor
I have never separated my work as an artist and my work as a human being. I have always put it even more strongly, that to me, my art is always a weapon.
—Paul Robeson, Pacifica Radio interview (1958)
He defined social responsibility, and above all, he defined artistic responsibility.
—Ruby Dee, Our Paul: Remembering Paul Robeson
Trouble is my buddy.
—Brutus Jones (Paul Robeson), The Emperor Jones
Today, Paul Robeson seems impossible. How could one man have accomplished so much, commanded such respect, be so large and legendary, even during his lifetime (1898–1976)? It sounds reductive to attribute his success to genius, too easy to call him destined for greatness. Even if they might be true, such stories leave out the sheer will it must have taken for Robeson, son of a runaway slave, to find himself in so many ways, and even more to the point, to make himself known—boldly, bravely, and magnificently.
Criterion’s new box set, Paul Robeson: Portraits of the Artist, offers multiple introductions to Robeson’s work, starting with new digital transfers of eight films (he appeared in 11 during his lifetime). These range from Oscar Micheaux’s 1925 silent film Body and Soul and Sanders of the River (Zoltan Korda, 1935), to the jazzily fragmented fiercely forward-looking Borderline (Kenneth Macpherson, 1930) and the socialist pro-union documentary he narrated, Native Land (Leo Hurwitz and Paul Strand, 1942), to a thoughtful, still defiant 1958 Pacifica Radio interview. In every performance, he refused to accept conventions and expanded options. This at a time when “Toms, Coons, Mulattoes, Mammies and Bucks”, in Donald Bogle‘s famous phrasing, were the common opportunities for black film actors.
Most certainly, Robeson demonstrated remarkable dignity and challenged expectations. As Sidney Poitier says in the Oscar-winning short documentary Paul Robeson: Tribute to an Artist (Saul J. Turell, 1979), “No one who has ever heard Paul Robeson sing “Old Man River” will ever forget it.” True, but he sang it many times and in multiple contexts. Poitier observes that when he performed the song during WWII, he turned it “from a song of lament into a song of political protest”, altering the lyrics to point out institutional racism and injustice, at least for those listeners paying attention (for example, “Git a little drunk,/An’ you land in jail”, for example, becomes “You show a little grit and/You lands in jail").
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