Coonskin

What is it that makes a work of art “ageless”? What precludes the inevitable dynamics of the zeitgeist, fashion, mores? Some works seem to be relevant no matter what the climate, even if certain artifacts within seem dated. Perhaps it is that the protagonist is hammering away on an IBM Selectric rather than a wafer thin laptop. Or, the attitude of the writer, director, composer, etc. seems to be “narrower” than our more pluralistic times are comfortable with. Some artists saw far ahead, refusing to tow some imaginable line of what was considered appropriate. Too many to name, but I’m thinking Samuel Clemens, Aldous Huxley, Phil Ochs, Jean Luc-Godard, Philip Glass, that bunch. Infuriating to some, liberating to others.

Animator Ralph Bakshi may also claim membership to the above club, arguably. Once a team artist behind Mighty Mouse and others, Bakshi went on to realize vulgar, gross canvases of theatrically released “cartoons” that were certified with restricted ratings. FRITZ THE CAT (1972) was perhaps the first X-rated animated feature to play in respectable movie houses. Audiences observed that psychedelic hipster feline from R. Crumb’s 1960s comics in a series of obscene misadventures chock full of naughty language, drug abuse, violence, and human (and non-human) nudity. It was shocking to many. To many more, the irreverent, often amoral attitude signaled both a sign of the times and a loud raspberry to the Establishment. And it was a cartoon, for pete’s sake.

Several other celluloid shockfests (to varying degrees) followed in the 70s and 80s. HEAVY TRAFFIC, HEY, GOOD LOOKIN’, AMERICAN POP, others. Somewhere in between, Bakshi tried going PG, with a take on Tolkien’s LORD OF THE RINGS and the apocalyptic WIZARDS (an interesting memory for me as my father yanked my 8-year-old self out of the theater after a mere five minutes or so of it). An attempt at a comeback was seen in 1992’s unsuccessful COOL WORLD. The most unusual and daring on the Bakshi resume to me is a number from ’75 called COONSKIN.

Unique is really the best descriptor. That covers it, whatever your personal taste may dictate. Once again, Bakshi combined live action and animation in trashily vibrant and undeniably creative ways to tell his story. Narrative? Somewhat, but mainly a commentary, a visual essay on the African-American’s role in American society: politically, spiritually, as victim, aggressor, perceived aggressor. From Harriet Beecher Stowe to blaxploitation. Actual history to art. It’s all covered in one way or another. Vignettes portray personifications of the black man through all manner of phylla, distorted human shapes and animal kingdom, as rabid hounds who chug malt liquor in segregated saloons while slapping around their white cupcakes. Well, at least one white woman wields here power as no less than the U.S. of A. herself. Short stories are told, then overlap with the next one as we follow three convicts after their jailbreak and into the urban landscape. We see the principals first in live action (Phillip M. Thomas, later Tubbs on Miami Vice, the famed raspy crooner Barry White, and that classiest of the class acts of a charcater actor himself, Scatman Crothers, who also sings over the opening credits), then as the aforementioned shapes, acting out history like I've certainly never seen.

The film was a powderkeg upon original release. The NAACP didn't ban it but called it a "difficult satire." The studio yanked it. A few years later it was given a marginal video release and absurdly retitled STREETFIGHT. This didn't help its revenue potential, and it became a curiosity. No official DVD exists yet (ever?).

COONSKIN is expectedly ribald, tasteless, crude, like other Bakshi flicks. The ugliness is again smeared across the screen to drive home points, but this time the director manages to convey larger, more thoughtful observations through quieter satire as spot on digs at Disney’s SONG OF THE SOUTH (itself long since banned in the U.S. for its controversial caricatures) are played out. We hear Scatman as he sings and narrates the Desperate Plight as he and his compadres saunter the jungles of the human soul. Through storms of ignorance and fear, all set to often uncharacteristically sunny melodies. Art can be very effective with the incongruity of the bleak and the rosy. But make no mistake, there may be roses of insight, but they’re still floating in a grandiose cesspool, kinda like what Frank Zappa did a lot of the time. You puts on your wetsuit and googles, and yous occasionally find the gems in the mire after swimming through miles of shit. Whether or not the swim is worth your breath is something you have to decide for yourself.