Review: Across 110th Street

[The following review contains MAJOR SPOILERS; YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED!]

Recently, I read The Devil Finds Work, a collection of essays by James Baldwin in which the famed author, poet, playwright, and activist expresses his personal opinions on cinema, with a particular emphasis on mainstream Hollywood’s oft patronizingly simplistic depiction of race relations in America. In the book’s most scathing section, he thoroughly dissects the filmography of Sidney Poitier—intellectually dishonest stories that, in his unflattering estimation, utilize the basic language of progressivism in order to reinforce the very status quo (i.e., prejudice, discrimination, segregation) that they purport to defy. He argues, for example, that the conclusion of In the Heat of the Night rings hollow: the two protagonists return to their respective communities—Rod Steiger’s rural sheriff to his sleepy small town and Poitier’s Mister Tibbs to the bustle of the big city—ostensibly transformed for the better… but has the culture of hate and division surrounding them truly changed in any meaningful capacity? Ultimately, Baldwin concludes that such movies are superficial at best and outright harmful at worst, too naïve and deluded in their ambitions (due to their narrow perspective on the subject matter—the producers were, of course, predominantly Caucasian) to actually say anything of substance.

I don’t know if Baldwin ever analyzed Across 110th Street, but I’d be interested to hear his thoughts, because it feels like a direct response to many of his criticisms. This is a bitter, pessimistic tale that offers no false promises of relinquished privilege, unlearned bigotry, or reconciliation between the hypothetical repentant oppressor and his erstwhile victim; such cathartic fantasies have no place in its bleak philosophy. It deconstructs virtually every trope and cliché implemented in the service of assuaging white guilt; behold: a buddy cop drama in which the reluctant partners despise each other from start to finish, and have only just barely developed a grudging tolerance by the time the climax rolls around; a police procedural in which the authorities range from corrupt to ineffectual to indifferent, and are consistently a step (or several) behind the criminals regardless of where they fall on that spectrum; a tragedy in which the sympathetic “villains” aren’t Machiavellian masterminds or amoral monsters, but rather poor, destitute, disadvantaged ex-convicts desperate enough to rob the mafia and foolish enough to believe that they might get away with it.

Yaphet Kotto plays the darkest possible interpretation of the Virgil Tibbs archetype: a relatively young, hungry, college educated detective eager to prove his worth, yet adrift between worlds: his fellow officers dismiss him for the color of his skin, while the denizens of Harlem see his badge and condemn him as a traitor to his people. Anthony Quinn is equally superb as his foil/counterpart, sinking his teeth into the role of the cynical, street smart, seasoned gumshoe that resents being paired with an “upstart” for what he perceives to be “political reasons.” Despite the obvious challenges of portraying such flawed, volatile, potentially problematic characters, both actors navigate their sprawling complexities with aplomb, effortlessly elevating the material: Kotto embraces the inherent contradiction of a well-intentioned crusader for social justice nevertheless tacitly supporting a fundamentally broken system that has traditionally subjugated his brothers and sisters; Quinn likewise lends a welcome degree of nuance to a performance that, in lesser hands, could easily have veered into the realm of shallow caricature (it is, after all, tempting to pretend that racists lack any redeeming qualities whatsoever; unfortunately, this is rarely the case in real life—which is precisely what allows reactionary ideologies and regressive values to perpetuate). Good thing, too, considering the narrative revolves around their relationship more so than their investigation; indeed, the primary conflict essentially resolves itself while our alleged “heroes” are busy bickering—which is probably the most blunt and blatant thesis statement I’ve ever encountered.

Bolstered by exquisite cinematography (the urban decay of New York has seldom looked so grotesquely gorgeous), razor-sharp editing (the blood-soaked introductory montage—which rapidly cuts between images of money, guns, and frantically darting eyes—is especially captivating, evoking Sergio Leone’s sun-drenched Westerns), and Bobby Womack’s irresistibly funky title song (so catchy, in fact, that Quentin Tarantino repurposed it for Jackie Brown’s opening credits sequence), Across 110th Street is as immaculately crafted as it is thematically rich—a certified classic that transcends genre, standing head and shoulders above its comparatively conventional blaxploitation contemporaries. What a deliciously nihilistic experience! I wonder if Baldwin would have appreciated its painful emotional authenticity…