I went to see Precious on opening weekend. Word was, Precious takes its cues from this book that makes Oz and The Wire look like spin-offs of The Magic Garden. I’ve never read Push, the book by poet Sapphire that the film is based but I was already nervous, anxious, horrified and so excited about the premise and promise of this flick. You see I believe a lil’ shock therapy is necessary to keep us emotionally in tune with all of our future and past selves. Balanced.

So I sat there for almost two hours– laughing, crying, wincing and finally exhaling. This movie, like its protagonist, and much like the actress who brings her to life—Gabourey “Gabby” Sidibe, is fat, Black and all that! I loved Precious! I loved where it took me (deep and low) and how it exposed and crushed me feel while I just sat, hand in popcorn. At times I found myself being quite nostalgic. I’m a native New Yorker who was around the same age in 1987, the year this movie takes place, as Claireece Precious Jones– the lead character. I was living in the Bronx, but would hangout in Harlem some weekends– at The Mart, on 125th bartering with the African street vendors and yeah, like Precious, I even ate fried chicken at M&G’s.

The scenes with Precious at home left me shook. Make no ham bones about it, the physical and sexual abuse that Precious endures is cruel, cold and beyond sadistic. When I was 10 I knew a Precious Jones except her name was Danielle and she lived near White Plains Rd. Truth is there’s some Precious flowing in the veins of my own life history. I was beat-up damn near every week in elementary school and during summer breaks, the girl next door, kept the beat-down fresh. I was called a big-lipped baboon; a tall goofy doofus; ugly. I was chased home by a boy wielding a big leather belt trying (and sometimes succeeding) to lash and whip me. But unlike Precious, when I got home, there was love and support from both my mother and father. There was a home cooked meal waiting for me on the stove. There was peace and calm in my home. So I could relate, but then I really couldn’t.

Although most of the reviews have been positive, there’s also been mad drama too. Juan Williams (WSJ) considers Push to be gangster lit—“poorly written (and) poorly edited.” If Push is gangster lit then so is The Bluest Eye. Armond White (NY Press) really goes off the deep-end in his review calling “Precious” an “orgy of prurience” that demeans Blacks just as much as Birth of Nation. And wait, there’s more. In a fit of looney-tunesque insanity Mr. White names some “excellent recent films with black themes” that have been ignored while Precious with its “ethnic stereotyping” gets all the hype. His idea of “excellent” is “Norbit” and “Little Man.” Instead of seriously engaging with Gabby’s portrayal of Precious he declares, “she’s so obese her face seems bloated into a permanent pout.” And later calls her “hippopotamus-like.” Yeah for Armond, a Black man, the more realistic depiction of the life of an obese Black woman is one wearing a fat suit and decidedly male.

Other writers, along with White, think the fantasy scenes are sentimental manure promoting “materialist fantasy” as motivation. Others see Precious’ desire to be white and have a light-skinned boyfriend as self-hatred. Folks, this movie is shot in the 80’s from a teen’s POV when Madonna, The Material Girl ruled the airwaves and MTV, and when the Huxtables with their Black artwork and brownstone bourgie bravada was boss. And every girl I knew including my sister and I, was deep in puppy love with Al B! Sure, Prince and Christopher Williams. The light skinned boys got all the love back then! But certainly this did not mean we hated our darker skinned selves. We were products of our environments where high yella negroes were glamorously featured in everything from Elle to Soul Train to the movie Flashdance. Precious doesn’t hate herself. Did you notice how she always rocked a beaded necklace that would match her shirt, which would match her eye shadow? Her bangs were tight everyday! She took pride in making herself up. I’m reminded of The Notorious B.I.G.’s rap, “Hearthrob neva/ black, ugly as ever,” Precious Jones knew she wasn’t pretty. But please recognize she definitely didn’t hate herself either. Precious like Biggie had heart.

This Call-to-Arms for context is also one argument that I don’t get. Why do I need a history of why Mary Jones, Precious’ mother, is on welfare and why she is constantly trying to bamboozle the system? Why must Lee Daniels, the film’s Director include a historical back story on slavery and racism to explain why she allows her man to rape her daughter? Clearly there is a lack of love. And more importantly, viewers like me watching the movie are smarter than a first grader. We come to the table with experience and information. It’s deep to me that Black visual artists like Basquiat and Kara Walker can leave things open for interpretation– trusting the power of imagination and inference, but Lee Daniels another type of visual artist has to include a key for understanding discrimination and capitalism. Our imagination, education and creativity as Black viewers and as Black producers of content are constantly underestimated and undersiege from within the community especially when we are asked to breakdown the historical relevance and meaning of every gesture and every shot of pigs feet.

There is a popular criticism though that I do believe is fair and that is with the movie’s casting. Why are all the supportive, kind-hearted, loving characters– Mariah Carey, Lenny Kravitz, Paula Patton– light skinned or white when Precious, her demon of a mother and her nasty disgusting cold-hearted father are all dark-skinned? It does create this subconscious battle of the Wannabees and Jiggaboos, Evilene vs. Lena Horne, good vs. evil. This could have been better handled, but it does not make me hate the entire movie.

At the end of the day I think Precious is shocking, tragic but with hopeful promise. It interrogates us and forces us to really look hard at even our most disgusting selves and engage. Eyes open or eyes closed it’s there and it will not cease to exist.

Please check out my thoughts on Precious from WBAI radio’s Wake Up Call.

I’ve had a press & curl, box braids, a relaxer, a texturizer, an afro, Bantu-knots and now I’m rocking long cornrows– $20 synthetic hair in the back and real afro-kinky hair for bangs. I know about Black hair– the good, the bad and the ugly. My hair has been two inches short and about 10 inches at its longest.  I cut it, tease it, straighten it, extend it and twist it. For me hair is adventure and accessory, but clearly I may be in the minority after reading and hearing the rage from Black women over Good Hair.

Last week I went to see Chris Rock’s documedy for myself and found it funny, insightful, superficial and disturbing all at once.  It was already clear to me from watching his segment with Oprah that Chris’ issues with Black women and our hair are kinda deep.  His amazement and delight with being able to run through Ms. Winfrey’s weave-free coif was akin to my seven-year old niece’s fascination when combing the silky strands of her Dora doll or better yet, like this white woman’s curiosity with my long knotty dreadlocks five years ago. Clearly Chris needs to get out of Alpine a lil’ more often. But that’s Chris Rock’s shtick: In-the-pocket-going-outta-bounds. He’s totally hilarious one minute then forgets himself (and his audience) and tends to go way left. You do remember what he said about Michelle Obama in Kill The Messenger?

I don’t know what people expected from Chris Rock’s gander at why some Black women spend thousands of dollars on weaves and have to have the “creamy crack” every four weeks. Nah, I take that back. I do know what they expected. Black women who say that Chris Rock has made a mockery of Black women, has disparaged the Black race and is celebrating rape, clearly must have forgotten that Chris Rock is the same Negro whose most memorable, if not outstanding, role in Black Americana is playing a crackhead named Pookie.  Chris Rock is no Dick Gregory, heesh he ain’t even as political as Ellen DeGeneres and she’s a judge on American Idol.  Going in to see the movie I thought Pookie’s gonna separate the Yaki-Yaki from the Afro-Kinky and I hope it’ll be funny. I was not looking for enlightenment, inspiration, empowerment or exegesis.  And before I continue, let me share that when I was eight, maybe even nine years old I would take my Baby Alive mint green baby blankey and tie it around my head and pretend I was Cher, Irene Cara or whoever had the long good-hair ponytail at the moment. So I know first hand about the desire and the beauty standards that oppress and confused Chris Rock’s daughters and so many young Black girls the world over, but I also know not to get my medical prescriptions filled at the local Laundromat.  I understand there is a history of slavery, Black Power movements and discrimination that has defined Black (self) love, but never did I presume Chris Rock would be all bell hooks on that subject. And quiet as it’s kept I did not want him to go there. Just like I don’t want Tyler Perry to go there with “For Colored Girls”. Comedians need to stay in their lane.  And yeah, I know, white people are buying tix to see Good Hair and now our bidness is on the streets. SO WHAT?!? Our bidness been on the street. Have you seen Frankie & Neffe or Meet The Browns? Guess what? More non-Blacks are watching these Stepin Fetchit scenarios of Black life than viewing Good Hair. Believe that and be mad at that!

3 Reasons (if you must) Be Mad at Good Hair:
1.) For not interviewing his wife Malaak who wears a major weave or his daughters whose images are throughout the doc. Let’s see and hear from your original inspirations.
2.) For those way too long scenes in the barbershop.
3.) For wasting so much film and my precious time on the uber boring, coon-atrics of the Bronner Brothers Hair Show.

3 Reasons To Not Be Mad:

1.) We already know this is good hair!!! (Thanks dream!)
2.) For his look at the hair trade in India and the scenes of girls getting their waist length hair shaved off as a sacrifice to God.
3.) If you weren’t outraged at Ken Burns’ foray into jazz– a quintessential Black art form, then lay off of Pookie. If it’s intolerable for a man to talk about woman’s hair, then surely it must be just as reprehensible for a white man to discuss Coltrane. Sounds kinda ridiculous? It kinda is.