Nationtime—Gary (1973)

        Some documentaries are such useful historical artifacts that quibbling about their artistic or technical shortcomings misses the point. Such is the case with Nationtime—Gary, a record of the first National Black Political Convention, which took place in Gary, Indiana, circa March 1972. Organized at a fraught moment when the Black Power movement, the Civil Rights movement, and resistance to Nixonian conservatism saw African-Americans gain ground culturally, economically, and politically, the convention pursued a noble goal of unifying various factions of Black activism. The effort was not successful, and apparently the follow-up event (held two years later in Arkansas) exacerbated problems. Nonetheless, the attempt was important, and therefore we’re lucky that Black documentarian William Greaves filmed the proceedings and edited his reportage down to feature length. Unsurprisingly, Greaves’s work was considered too provocative for wide release in 1973, so only a heavily truncated version was available for decades. In 2020, the full 80-minute doc was digitally restored.

          As journalism, Nationtime—Gary is undisciplined. The picture distills the three-day convention into a (more or less) chronological highlight reel, and some of the editorial choices are perplexing. Letting Jesse Jackson’s centerpiece speech run for a full 20 minutes doesn’t leave much room for other speakers to expound. Clipping performances short (including Isaac Hayes’s rendition of “Theme from Shaft”) seems arbitrary. And the presentation of a key debate is murky—we see moderator Amiri Baraka trying to get a platform adopted, which sparks friction between delegations from Michigan and New York, but Greaves neglects to convey the substance of the platform, so the quarrel is bewildering. Luckily, the convention’s core messages permeate Jackson’s speech, during which he explores such topics as the need for proportionate representation by Blacks within the Democratic Party. Making a different sort of impression is Dick Gregory’s edgy standup routine, and Nationtime—Gary features a handful of effectively wordless moments, for example an onstage appearance by Coretta Scott King.
          Some sequences feel almost impressionistic because of the way Greaves juxtaposes footage from inside the convention hall with (poorly recorded) audio of Harry Belafonte and Sidney Poitier reciting poetry and/or explaining what’s happening onscreen. Based on the number of shots marred by iffy lighting and shaky focus, it’s apparent this film was made with a meager budget. However, because Nationtime—Gary is inherently a subversive political statement, perhaps a slick presentation would have undercut the endeavor. In sum, Greaves reached for more than he could grasp—as did the organizers of the convention—but he still managed to capture a lot. FYI, when the documentary was restored, its title was confusingly abbreviated in marketing materials to Nationtime even though the full original title appears onscreen.

Nationtime—Gary: GROOVY

Robert Redford, 1936-2025

          Even though he’s inextricably linked to the 1970s—the period during which he was, almost inarguably, Hollywood’s biggest star—Robert Redford’s cultural impact spans decades. His ascension from promising romantic lead to white-hot movie star, a process that began with small parts in the late ’50s and culminated with Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid (1968), describes a singular career path. Never satisfied with coasting on his gleaming Californian beauty, Redford simultaneously developed formidable acting chops and learned the mysterious art of romancing movie cameras, so once he found his first perfect role in the Sundance Kid, he already had an irresistible combination of natural gifts and nurtured skills. It appears Redford recognized early that a huge component of successful movie acting is participation in the storytelling process; while he was unquestionably conscious of his best angles and the moments that supported his iconoclastic persona, he was usually a responsible steward of narrative priorities.

          An argument could be made that Redford’s glorious ’70s run actually begins with Butch Cassidy, which has a forward-looking style, and continues with the bleak character study Downhill Racer (1969). Concurrently, his ’70s run has missteps, including the unmemorable buddy picture Little Fauss and Big Halsy (1970) and the relatively vapid star vehicle The Electric Horseman (1979). But given the spectacular peaks of Redford’s ’70s run, a few false notes are of little consequence. The Candidate and Jeremiah Johnson (both 1972). The Sting and The Way We Were (both 1973). The Great Waldo Pepper and Three Days of the Condor (both 1975). And then Redford’s first unassailable masterpiece, as actor and (uncredited) producer—All the President’s Men (1976). Redford willed the picture into existence, suggesting that Woodward and Bernstein transform their Watergate reporting into a book, and Redford assembled the stellar team that crafted one of the finest films in Hollywood history.

          Rare is the box-office champion without naysayers. Redford was no exception. His notorious tardiness was perceived by many as a power move. Like most major stars, he sparked frustration and outright despair by flirting with projects only to step away at the final moment before committing. He chewed up his share of directors and writers, and his treatment of Oscar-winning scribe William Goldman was particularly shabby—after Goldman wrote three films for Redford, including Butch Cassidy, the actor steamrolled his friend on All the President’s Men, even surreptitiously hiring additional writers, then spent decades downplaying Goldman’s contributions. (Weep not for Goldman, who got a second Oscar for his troubles.) Redford’s relationship with one of his most frequent collaborators, director Sydney Pollack, was fraught to the extreme of periodic estrangement. By all reports, Redford was deliberately confounding and intimidating—he followed his impulses and left some emotional wreckage in his wake.

          Conversely, stories of his empathy for fellow performers are countless, from his ingenious weaponizing of Mary Tyler Moore’s previously hidden dark side to his careful protection of a juvenile Scarlett Johansson in one of her first major roles. And his decades-long commitment to elevating Native American voices continued through to the end of his life; Redford’s last onscreen role was a cameo in the Native-themed series Dark Winds, which he helped produce.

          By any measure, Redford's best work is extraordinary. Beyond the titles mentioned, he notched occasional acting triumphs in the 1980s and beyond. The Natural (1984). The Last Castle (2001). All Is Lost (2013). A pair of lovely victory-lap chamber pieces, Our Souls at Night (2017) and The Old Man & the Gun (2018). Spanning the same period, of course, was Redford’s acclaimed directorial career, which achieved a spectacular launch with Ordinary People (1980), the project that netted Redford’s only competitive Oscar, for Best Director. (Amazingly, he received only one acting nomination, for The Sting—it remains a blight on the Academy that he was overlooked for All Is Lost.) And then there’s the other reason acting became a side hustle for Redford after the ’70s, his involvement in such nonprofit activities as the Sundance Film Festival and the Sundance Institute. A case could be made that Sundance is the man’s true cinematic legacy because it’s provided a launching pad for decades of new filmmakers.

          It’s customary in appreciations of this sort to mention a personal connection if one exists. My interaction with Redford was brief but memorable (for me, not him). Circa the late ’90s, Redford was shooting The Horse Whisperer in the coverage area of a periodical for which I wrote, so I participated in an intimate press conference lasting about 20 minutes. By random circumstance, I was the only reporter at the event who specialized in film, so I asked most of the questions. Afterward, the movie’s publicist shared Redford’s remarks upon leaving the event—words to the effect of “that guy knew his stuff.” I don’t get the impression Redford issued compliments lightly. I should add another nuance to fill out the picture—while I’m not especially prone to feeling starstruck, I have never in my life experienced personal charisma as powerful as the aura that Redford exuded during my brief time in his presence. I thought I understood magnetism before sitting a few feet away from Redford, but I had no idea.

          The arts generally, the cinema specifically, and our national conversation—especially concerning the dignity of indigenous persons—was enriched for decades by Redford’s work. His influence will outlive him, as will the virility of the performances he gave and the sensitivity of the stories he told. We should all aspire to a fraction of that significance.