Orrin Judd links out to an Atlantic article about the consistent draw of violent action movies where the violence is predominantly delivered by blacks on whites:

What has already appeared is of immense importance in the history of mass culture, even if it is aesthetically null. The film makers, whether white, or black, have sensed the audience's rage and its mood of revolt against insulting images of blacks in past movies and against the white man in general. The black cinema has discovered the profitability of revenge: the desires to make money and to erase a legacy of racial humiliation coincide perfectly in a cinema whose moments of purest audience joy consist of black men and women responding to white racism by killing oppressors. Movie audiences always wanted heroesfor fantasy release or just the basic pleasure of watching beautiful physical action, but this may be the first time an audience has demanded physical heroism in order to confirm an emerging sense of identity. The mood in the theaters is festive, alternating between admiration and mockery. If a white person wanders into one of these movies, he will have the novel experience of complete exclusion.

I actually have no problem with these movies, despite what the title of this entry might imply. There is a lot of rage out there against "the man" and movies are a healthier expression than many of the alternatives. There is the argument that this type of thing inspires young people to violence, but it's not an argument I've ever really bought into. But that's another post. The entry title refers to my experience with seeing such a movie. Since Orrin related his over there, I'll relate mine here.

When I was about seventeen or so, four friends and I went to the movie theater in the predominantly minority area of Greenspoint. The only movie that none of us objected to was one called Dead Presidents. Most of us had never heard of it. So we were the only five white people in a theater with about forty or so people in it. The plot follows a group of Vietnam veterans through (graphic images) of the war and their return to racism at home. The climax involves the death of about a dozen white guys (mostly cops and security guards) along with a scene at the end where the main character justifies the slaughter as the honest response to racial injustice.

Every time a white character would die (whether at the hands of one of the black heroes or the Vietcong) the crowd erupted in cheers. Terry, Alana, and Julia started joining in the cheers about halfway through. It was partly because this was the closest thing they had to a party to go to that night, partially a when-in-Rome sort of thing, and mostly a way to digest the horror (particularly of the devestatingly graphic Vietnam scenes) that was all too real in their LSD-induced haze (My date Presh and I were the sober caretakers). It was a little creepy at the begining, but in the end (particularly when our friends joined in) it became part of the experience. I also should note that it wasn't entirely racial. When the hero beat the crap out of his wife, they were cheering nonetheless.

In the end, I had a great time. I don't think I'll ever rent the movie though. Since I don't hang out with druggies anymore or have angry black friends, it just wouldn't quite be the same.