A celebratory incantation resounds: ‘yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah.’ A bare chested black man comes into view, his body a hoopla of contorted gyration, his face falsified to resemble an entertainer’s gurn. He doesn’t mean what he’s doing. He’s dancing for your silver, to make money and get paid. The camera pans. A man has a sack on his head. The black entertainer takes a bullet to it. The good vibes have been punctuated by a burst of violence. We have no time to dwell on this because the body has been removed quickly from shot. The gun though is taken in a towel, like a crown on a ceremonial pillow.
This is America: the land of opportunity - as long as you play by the rules. If you’re black and move well, you can have some screen time. If you’re a stiff, gunned down for being black, then we’re not interested. ‘This is America’ by Childish Gambino AKA Donald Glover is a work of art: media studies teachers could deliver a whole lesson on its allusions and parodies. Given Trump’s rhetoric of arming teachers, the video highlights the absurdity of America’s second amendment: this is a country that values the gun more than its citizens.
Donald Glover is a prodigious talent. Recently, he’s appeared in Solo: A Star Wars Story and is tipped to be the next Willy Wonka. As well as rapping and acting, Glover has created Atlanta, an American comedy-drama that cleaned up at last years Emmys. The second season has concluded in America, but its first has just premiered here. Fortunately, the BBC haven’t put in a graveyard slot like a lot of imports (see Seinfeld and The Wire), instead they’re airing two episodes a week.
When I first heard the news Atlanta was appearing on terrestrial screens, I was relieved. (As an FX production I guessed it would be on subscription services.) Sitting down to watch the first one a few weeks ago, I admit I was initially disappointed. Because the only thing I knew about the show was it had two comedy Emmys, I therefore assumed it would be a laugh a minute. You see, Glover was once a writer for 30 Rock and an actor in Community, a college-based sitcom. Both of these shows are heavy on the comedy with just a light dressing of drama.
Atlanta shouldn’t be seen as a conventional comedy; if anything, it’s more drama than comedy. After a few episodes I began to appreciate this and enjoy it more. Now six episodes in I see it having more in common with The Wire than Seinfeld. Although Atlanta isn’t a police procedural like The Wire, the two have things in common: the city is a main character with multiple locations being used; the cast is mainly black; the language is urban dialect; the attention to detail – verisimilitude – is sometimes toppled by surrealism.
The story revolves around the character of Earnest Marks, known as Earn and played by Glover. The name is apt as this is what the character desires: to earn and find fulfilment. A Princeton dropout and young father, he is effectively homeless. The baby’s momma, Van, has enough hassle supporting one mouth without having to support another, so only on occasions does Earn earn a place in her bed. Quite simply, Earn has to make paper and make it fast, otherwise his access to Van and the baby is at threat. Working a commission only job, there seems little hope he’ll make a roof there, so he turns his attention elsewhere.
Earn’s cousin Alfred is the up and coming rapper Paper Boi. He’s doing well on the underground rap scene, showing enough promise to make him a local celebrity. But he hasn’t got the book smarts to go with the street ones. Earn goes over to his cousin's house with a business proposal where he's soon greeted with a gun. (There’s more beef in rap than the slaughterhouse, a man has to protect his kingdom.) When Earn is eventually let in he meets Alfred’s mate, Darius, who’s hiding behind the door with a knife and plate of cookies, serving as symbolism for a character that has violent hands and gentle eyes.
Earn makes his proposal to manage his cousin, and this is the conversation that ensues:
Alfred: Manage? You know where the word “manage” come from?
Earn: Manus. Latin for “hand.”
Alfred: Probl’y, but I’m a say no for the purpose of my argument. “Manage” came from the word “man.” And, um, that ain’t really your lane.
Earn: My lane?
Alfred: Yeah, man. I need Malcolm. You too Martin. You know what they did to him? They killed him.
Earn: Didn’t they kill Malcolm, too?
Darius: No, no, they say that. But ain’t nobody seen the body since the funeral.
Earn: (Beat) That’s how funerals work.
The excerpt here is a litmus test as to whether you’re going to enjoy the show or not. There’s the highbrow Latin definition juxtaposed against the humorous misunderstanding. Along with that you have references to Martin Luther King and Malcolm X (black cultural references abound in Atlanta, some of sporting figures I just don’t get). Then, you’ve got that understated joke at the end. This is not the comedy of Kevin Hart where the joke is aggravated assault to the throat, rather it’s a blindside attack on the brain. Before you know it, you’ve been mugged of laughter with the assailant making off to the next scene.
What marks Atlanta out as unique as a twenty-minute comedy is its filmic quality. Under director Hiro Murai the show has a scope that is rarely found on television, never in comedy. The opening of episode 1 has an overhead shot that establishes all the faces of Atlanta: rich suburbs, poor corners, manicured lawns, gutted houses, the dull horizontals of the freeway; the bustling poetry of ‘the court.’ When in session, there’s a wooziness to the pacing, a trust that the viewer will ride with them, take in the scenery, and not dial-up a new driver.
Also, the social criticism of the show is worth commenting on. Episode two is centred in a police station, which is mainly populated by black people. In fact, it’s only when writing this did I reflect that no white characters are present. The whole thing feels like hell where Earn is denied sleep and food until his bail money comes forward. Whilst held in judgment, Earn surveys the chaos around him. First, a man talks at him with an accent so thick that his own momma would ask for an interpreter. Then, a man in hospital gown, clearly mentally unwell, takes his cup down to lavatory, fishing a drink from its river; Earn smiles at the crazy, but grimaces moments later when the man is beaten down for spitting it at an officer. Next, a conversation ensures between a man and a transgender man. Soon, there are transphobic slurs and recriminations. The police station is the fishbowl of inequality where the marginalised float and die in.
Like Master of None, the show isn’t afraid to sideline its central characters. In Master there was an episode where Denise came out to her mum; there wasn’t one shot of the lead character Dev. A recent episode of Atlanta has Van meet up with her friend: the first ten minutes is just a conversation between the two women. This shouldn’t be unusual, but in comedy it is. It’s even more surprising to have a tete a tete where the complexity of female friendship is unpeeled. Van’s friend is a glamorous success, whereas she is struggling to meet the rent. The writing is sublime, conveying gritted teeth tension with a documentarian’s eye.
Coming to my conclusion, I realise I haven’t even mentioned the trippy elements to the show. There’s a black character called Justin Bieber who to all extents and purposes is Justin Bieber, yet isn’t the real-life Justin Bieber. There’s talk about how no black person knows who Steve McQueen is. There’s a man on a contemporary bus dressed like a member of The Nation of Islam eating a Nutella sandwich. When Glover pitched the show, he said ‘if David Lynch or the Coen brothers made a show about Hip Hop culture’: the influence of these auteurs is evident in these inexplicable moments.
Black Justin Bieber
Atlanta then is not a traditional sitcom that you can watch whilst on your phone; it is a tragicomic portrait of black life: the richness of its dreams and music coupled with the poverty of a discriminated existence. Trump would do well to watch it. This, after all, is America.
Atlanta is on BBC Two, Sunday at 10pm. The series so far is available on iPlayer.
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