Close Up (Jul-Dec 1929)

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CLOSE UP need to bother, that we are only at the outer edge of seeing. Fetchit waves loose racial hands and they, like life, touch everything that the world contains. They are startling with what nobody meant to put into them, but which is all too there — histories, sagas, dynasties, Keatsian edges off things make a voiceless trouble back of the eye and the recording mind. Only afterwards you really are beset by them. They are not Fetchit's hands, they are the big step we have not yet taken. First of all these so utterly not incantationish gestures are unselfconsciousness, perfectly inherited greatness of race and of race mind. It only begins there. We can scrap every trained toe waggle of a ballerina for the very least of these movements. Making this greatness articulate for the cinema is the fascinating pioneer work of somebodv. Ourselves we should be dubious of white man's patronage. White man's patronage is apt to end in credos. The negro is apt to be overlooked in the hullabaloo of me being distinguished by shaking my brief for him under your nose. Constraining, alas, people like Wyndham Lewis to be stung into Palefaced and paler gutted repudiation. And where if you please is the negro all this time, other than in his own world and among his own people, unaware he is being broken like bun in the twittering fingers of so many hundred thousand drawing room tea fights. Glory be is only your maiden aunt's shudder the other side up. The negro is not here to be thus not understood and let go. Glory be helps him no more than nothing and solves nothing. Analysis has not begun 3^et. Big issues are at once opened up. In being dazzled by the hands of Fetchit do not let us overlook the head of Fetchit 88