Shadows of Jazz

John Cassavetes’ Shadows (1959) is exactly that—shadows.  Film announces that what we are seeing is just an improvisation.  Perhaps. 

Cassavetes is now considered the “father of the independent film.”  He has pioneered a cinema verite approach to filmmaking.  His films are incredibly gritty and real and visceral.  You may think you’re just watching the film but in reality, you are fully involved in the film, in characters’ emotions.  You are not just a critic, or an observer.  Cassavetes invites you to become part of the rest of the humanity.  He invites you into the deep interiority of these broken people.  You can feel the grit, the grime of the streets is on your clothes, your jacket smells like nicotine, your pants have booze stains from last night.  Where am I, you ask.

Shadows is a film about racial relations and tensions.  It centers around Lelia (played by Lelia Goldoni) who is supposed to be black but because of her light skin, she could be considered white.  In any case, she becomes romantically, sexually involved with a man, who is white.  Upon learning that Lelia is black (after meeting one of her brothers, who has a very dark skin), he breaks off the relationship but feels remorse and most of all, interior conflict.

And yet, despite the themes of racial divide, Cassavetes does not make that the center of the film.  Noone is willified nor glorified.  We’re all in this together, and most of all, we are all human and guilty and flawed and self-centered and damn it, we also try.  We try our hardest to be good, even if it may hurt us.

In the midst of such a heavy subject, there is grittiness of New York and jazz scene.  Jazz sounds permeate the black and white moving images, and each image could be singled out as the most unique photograph.  At times, these images seem disorganized but it does not matter what the film is from a technical perspective.  At some point, it would seem that there were some issues with the sound.  But none of it matters.  I loved being thrown into such a world.

These young people are frustrated.  They have no direction.  They are perhaps even lost.  But what they do have is verve.  Passion is still there, even if it is mostly directed in anger.  No matter what, they seem to not be afraid.  They have accepted the grittiness of the city.  They revel in it.  They feel the world in some fashion or the other, even when they are trying to forget it all and become someone other than themselves.  They do not live in sterilized world but in the world of shadows that follow them around, and they are not even certain whether these shadows belong to them.  They experience the weight of the world and they wonder, how long will they be able to take it?  What is the option?

An improvisation?  Perhaps.  Jazz with its haunting and “disorganized” melodies enters into our consciousness and some call it improvisation.  Impossible, I say.  Jazz is bittersweet.  And so is life.  We improvise and yet we make clear choices in how we want our own improvisation to turn out.  We have the freedom to improvise and a freedom to feel everything, including the stains of the city.