Son of the South (2021)

 Score: 3 / 5

Despite some of the simplistic movies about the fight for civil rights in recent years, which often turn the dynamism of revolutionary politics into melodramatic character studies, I still think these movies are important viewing. Though they often work as morality plays dressed up as biopics, in which two vastly different and antagonistic people end up becoming unlikely friends in their quest to make the world a better place. Schlocky and trite at worst, these films seem catered to white audiences, knowing as they must that nobody who voted for 45 would likely pay good money to sit in on these Hallmark-esque dramas hoping to have their lives changed. But just because the people who need to see these movies probably won't doesn't mean they aren't valuable in general.

It's all about Bob Zellner this time, a young, white Alabama man in the early '60s. We are first introduced to him as he is about to be lynched as a "race traitor" before we flash back a few months to see how this came about. Of course, the underlying expectation we have of his downfall from racist grace makes it a little difficult to appreciate the realities of Bob's optimistic youth. As he prepares to graduate from college, he visits a local church to interview Rosa Parks and Ralph Abernathy (Sharonne Lanier and Cedric the Entertainer, much to briefly) for his final on race relations. It's the fifth anniversary of the Montgomery Bus Boycott, and Bob has been warned by his German professor to avoid the scene. But Bob's precocity won't be dimmed, even as he is nearly arrested and expelled. It helps to have an influential daddy (a Methodist minister who reformed from racism in a climactic flashback).

Bob soon joins up with white liberals partly due to his education, no doubt, but we see so little of that that we are left with only one other clear reason. Well, other than that Bob is so shallowly written; played by the reliable if stock performer Lucas Till, Bob is never particularly compelling as a protagonist, even if his antics are enough to be written in memoir and produced for the screen. This movie, though, suffers most as it dips into sentimental territory: Bob is perhaps most intentional in his quiet independence when confronted by his grandfather (Brian Dennehy in one of his final roles), an outspoken KKK member who will never forgive his son for forsaking the cause. That, combined with Bob's girlfriend Carol Anne (Lucy Hale), who after initially supporting Bob's convictions eventually breaks up with him, provide the apparently relatable, white melodrama to round out Bob's character enough for us not to ignore him.

What's interesting to me, though, is the way this movie works hard to make Bob grounded and helpful, rather than a leader. Though any movie about civil rights that focuses on a white man will surely draw criticism, this one feels more than a little different. Bob is certainly privileged, most evident when he joins SNCC (the Student Nonviolent Coordinating Committee) and trains to be its secretary. His approach is expectant, almost entitled, assuming (arguably rightly) that the Black-led chapter needs white people to join in a visible capacity. When he's questioned on the phone for his white-sounding voice, or questioned by a woman at a march about his ability to pass (who is laughably surprised when she realizes he's just white), it feels meant to make us laugh. But why? Are we supposed to feel that the prejudices of Black people are silly, indicating partial blame for poor race relations? It's dangerously ambiguous, though thankfully these moments are fleeting.

And yet writer/director Barry Alexander Brown does one thing very well: he never makes Bob a white savior. This is implicit in several ways, as when he defers time and again to Joanne, a fiercely intelligent and firebrand woman who becomes a romantic interest. Played by Lex Scott Davis, the thinly written character feels important when she's on the screen, and one might have preferred a movie about her more than about Bob. Similarly, Shamier Anderson plays Reggie, a veteran who is suspicious of Bob's presence and intentions, isn't really treated like an irrational paranoiac as he so easily could have been. Explicitly, though, one scene stands out: an irritated Bob asks Carol Anne "what would Jesus do" to defend his public behavior, and she pointedly tells him, "We both know you're not anyone's savior." Though we aren't really meant to like her, in the end, that little nugget of wisdom is one filmmakers would do well to remember the next time a historical movie is made about civil rights.

When all is said and done, I don't think this will be seen by many, and for those who do watch it, I don't think Son of the South will mean much more than others of its ilk that came earlier and had more urgent, intersectional, or complex messages on their minds (if ever so slightly), like Green Book and The Best of Enemies most recently. Though it's notable that Spike Lee produced this movie, the story it presents -- and the style in which it is delivered -- doesn't feel up to his usual scratch. But it does have something to say, something that hits a little bit differently if only because Zellner is still alive. The history dramatized here is far too recent for this film to be ignored, even if its particular delivery leaves plenty to be desired.