Hollywood Loves Indians. They Really, Really, Really Love Indians
September 25th, 2007 by Carole LevineHey, I learned something very important watching the Emmy’s. Besides the fact that Sally Field is a virtual scion of global peace—who knew?! Glory be, maybe it’s not just her post-menopausal bones that are losing density in old age.
Errr…back on point. Yes, I learned something very important indeed.
Hollywood loves Indians. They really, really, really love Indians.
I know this to be true, because they proved it by bestowing the OUTSTANDING MADE FOR TELEVISION MOVIE honors to HBO’s adaptation of Dee Brown’s book, Bury My Heart at Wounded Knee. It has everything Hollywood relishes. White guilt and brown people as victims. Even a victim who overcomes by joining the heroes in their quest to help his fellow victims—what could be better!
So what if HBO tinkered with the facts a bit….mmmm…a lot, like taking the life of Santee activist Charles Eastman and planting him at battles he never fought in, situations he was never involved in, and assuming that’s it’s boffo because, well, it “served a higher purpose.”
And what is that, pray tell? Oh, let’s see; how about feeding the entertainment beast’s insatiable hunger to prove just how progressive, impressive, provocative and evocative they are. Nothing quite as satisfying than a couple of hours of the pillaging powerful, preferably in government and the military (Wait! Do I whiff a present-day metaphor?) to warm the heart of those on George Soros’s speed dial.
Errr…back on point. Which is, I learned something very important indeed.
Hollywood—the directors, producers, writers and hangers-on—subsist on creating a nirvana where kumbaya acceptance rules the day unless you happen to be Red State, redneck, Baptist, virgin, Marine, homely, corporate, old, suburban, Republican, Nascar fan, WalMart shopper, or fat.
Yes, that Hollywood. They love Indians. They really, really, really love Indians.
Indians as victims, who lived long ago and who know that the real stars of a movie, even a production about Native America, are the white characters who swoop down in valiant glory to save them. Indians who are noble and spiritual; Indians who ACT INDIAN, dammit, which is to say, noble and spiritual and very wise. And stoic; gotta be stoic.
That’s why Bury My Heart at Wounded Knee was chosen as the absolute OUTSTANDING MADE FOR TELEVISION MOVIE from the Academy of Television Arts & Sciences. It’s perfect. It’s HBO, the same network that's won countless awards for portraying 'dem Italians thugs and brings us self-effacing Jews and the sexcapades of shallow urban women. Cachet never smelled so craven.
It’s Hollywood. Can you feel the love? (I bet Sally does.)
As for Natives speaking for themselves artistically? Well, fugettaboudit. The industry will continue having Natives carry tomahawks rather than movie cameras; ride pintos instead of space shuttles, perform ghost dances and not stand-up comedy. That’s the Indian that won the Emmy last week. That’s the Indian Hollywood loves.
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