(Kasi Lemmons, USA, 1997, 108 minutes)
"The summer I killed my father, I was 10 years old."
--Eve Batiste
Before she made her 1997 directorial debut with Eve's Bayou, Kasi Lemmons had worked as an actor for nearly 30 years. She appeared in national commercials, top-rated television programs, like Murder, She Wrote, and in over a dozen studio pictures, including cult hits, like Vampire's Kiss, Spike Lee joints, like the HBCU musical School Daze, and John Woo action extravaganzas, like Hard Target with Jean-Claude van Damme.
Her talent, charisma, and fresh-faced good looks made her a natural, and she could have continued down that path, but she wanted to direct, and when she was ready, she made the pivot. She's never looked back since–Lemmons even married an actor, Chicago Hope's Vondie Curtis-Hall, who has also directed feature films, like 1997's Gridlock'd with Tupac Shakur.
At her peak as a performer, she appeared in two movies that would become immortal; inspiring sequels, prequels, remakes, hours of impassioned --and sometimes heated--discussion, and in one case, an Academy Award for Best Picture: Jonathan Demme's 1991 psychological horror thriller Silence of the Lambs and Bernard Rose's 1992 supernatural horror chiller Candyman.
She's very good in both, but there's a catch. She plays the best friend of leads Jodie Foster and Virginia Madsen--both great--and there's nothing wrong with that; in fact, it was a step in the right direction, though Nia DaCosta's 2021 Candyman sequel took things even further, since it was produced, directed, and populated by Black talent, including the late, great Tony Todd. If the original Candyman started out as white take on a Black legend; now it was an all-Black production.
In each of the original films, though, Lemmons' characters are doomed. They support their friends, but their proximity to the central malevolence extracts a fatal cost, which encourages the protagonists to commit even harder to solving the mysteries driving the narratives and setting things right. Along the way, though, Lemmons' unlucky friends get forgotten.
It wasn't racist per se–if anything, Demme was known for his sensitivity to race–but it was par for the course. Black actors in genre pictures up until fairly recently were always the first to die.
I have no idea if these sorts of roles encouraged Lemmons to tell Black stories, let alone Black stories centered around women, but I can't imagine that they didn't play a part.
Left: Lemmons in Silence of the Lambs; as beautifully shot by Tak Fujimoto
And that's exactly what she did in Eve's Bayou, a supernatural-tinged melodrama, set in 1962, about a successful Louisiana family coming apart at the seams--Lemmons filmed on location and it shows. Unheralded Hustle and Flow cinematographer Amy Vincent brings out the beauty in every unique face and every haunted space, but without overly-prettifying anything. About meeting Vincent for the first time, Lemmons told American Cinematographer's Brooke Comer, "There was a spark right away."
Lemmons presents the story from the perspective of 10-year-old Eve (Jurnee Smollett, most recently of Justin Kurzel's The Order), a spirited girl who loves her beautiful mother, Roz (an elegant Lynn Whitfield), and venerates her handsome father, Louis (an especially excellent Samuel L. Jackson, who also produced), the town doctor. And incorrigible ladies man.
The movie begins with a house party where the alcohol flows freely, the ladies are dressed to the nines, and everyone is feeling fine, but two things happen that will threaten to split this proud Creole family apart: Aunt Mozelle Delacroix (a warm, earthy, radiant Debbi Morgan) will lose her third husband (sax player and composer Branford Marsalis) in an accident and Eve will fall asleep in the garage only to wake up to an alarming sight: her father doing things he shouldn't with town flirt Matty Mereaux (Lisa Nicole Carson), who is married to the hotheaded Lenny (Roger Guenveur Smith).
There were already signs of trouble.
At the party, Louis makes a show of sharing a dance with Cisely (a very fine Meagan Good), his eldest daughter. From the look on Eve's face, it's clear that she isn't just disappointed, but that she knows her more conventionally attractive and emotionally compliant sister is daddy's favorite. In fact, everybody does. Like Mozelle and her younger brother, Poe (Jurnee's brother, Jake Smollett), Eve has curly red hair, whereas Roz and Cisely have the straight, shiny hair associated with the moneyed classes.
When Eve tells Cisely what she witnessed, Cisely refuses to believe her, and even tries to convince her that she misinterpreted the situation. While her deceitful father and willfully naïve sister continue to disappoint Eve, leaving her level-headed mother in the middle, she grows closer to Mozelle, who understands her frustration. She's loved and accepted by her family to be sure, but also considered cursed since she can't have children and has lost three husbands in a row–her rival calls her a black widow–and viewed with suspicion by some townsfolk, because she has the gift of second sight.
Lemmons takes Mozelle's visions seriously–depicting them as B&W impressions of things otherwise un-seeable–not least because she's never wrong, even as she laments that she's "blind to my own life." Clients pay their money, describe the mysteries eating away at them, and walk away with answers, some of which were what they were hoping not to hear.
Mozelle's no fuss, no muss approach to clairvoyance stands in opposition to voodoo practitioner Elzora (a thoroughly deglamorized Diahann Carroll, having the time of her life), an older woman who runs a market stall, lives in a rickety shack by the swamp, and traffics in cat bones and other eccentricities. She and Mozelle view each other with suspicion, but her humor, pragmatism, and unflappability provides another port in the storm of Eve's young life.
All of these conflicts build upon each other until things come to a head and someone else ends up dead. Evie and Cisely learn some hard truths about their family, and even about themselves, and they finally reunite at the end.
At its best, melodrama is about eliciting an emotional response, and not about recreating reality. Even if you don't believe that second sight is real, Mozelle is undeniably perceptive. A self-described psychic counselor, she listens attentively, empathizes with those who seek her counsel, including her wayward brother, and genuinely wants to help. For all her immaturity–she's only 10 years old after all–Eve shares similar traits. As Mozelle tells her confused niece, "All I know is most people's lives are a great disappointment to them and no one leaves this earth without feeling terrible pain. And if there is no divine explanation at the end of it all, well... that's sad."
Granted, Jurnee Smollett's performance is rough around the edges--though her side-eye was already on point. Meagan Good wasn't much older, but she was already a more polished performer; it doesn't really matter, since Eve isn't a polished kid, though her excitability contrasts with the adult actors, who bring more shading to their performances, even as their characters can be just as immature in ways less forgivable in grown men and women.
Eve's Bayou isn't autobiographical, though Lemmons drew from her own background for some of the details. Eve's powers of observation, her willingness to speak her mind–no matter the cost–and her critical thinking skills are valuable qualities for actors and directors alike, and I wouldn't be surprised to find that she was a lot like Eve in her younger years.
By building on these thoughts and memories of a different time, she crafted a lovely film filled with beautifully-lit, elegantly-dressed people amidst atmospheric locations, and it's a magical one, too, in ways both literal and figurative, since Lemmons takes the supernatural as seriously as she takes the feelings of a child. Like Julie Dash's 1991 Daughters of the Dust, she offers a vision of Black life light years away from the male-directed movies of the time, and their emphasis on guns, drugs, masculine posturing, and decorative women, and that's no knock on John Singleton, but some of the lesser lights that emerged in the wake of 1991's Boyz N the Hood.
Lemmons would go on to tell other Black stories, including 2013 Langston Hughes adaptation Black Nativity, in addition to biopics about notable figures, like radio host Petey Greene (a perfectly-cast Don Cheadle) in 2007's Talk to Me, abolitionist Harriet Tubman in 2019's Oscar-nominated Harriet with Wicked star Cynthia Erivo, and pop phenom Whitney Houston in 2022's I Wanna Dance with Somebody, but Eve's Bayou remains her most celebrated work to date.
In 1997, Roger Ebert named it the best film of the year. In 2018, the Library of Congress added it to the National Film Registry, ensuring its preservation, and in 2022, The Criterion Collection brought out a 4K restoration--including both theatrical and director's cuts--and yet the film, which made back its cost nearly five times over, received zero Oscar nominations. Go figure.
Though it definitely stands alone, in some ways it serves as an answer or sister film to Charles Burnett's 1990 To Sleep with Anger with a perceptive, take-no-prisoners Mary Alice and a dangerously seductive Danny Glover as a Southern gentleman just as mired in the bad old ways of the past as Samuel L. Jackson's Louis Batiste. They try to fool, manipulate, and control women, but their days are numbered. In Eve's Bayou, the future is truly female.
Eve's Bayou plays Northwest Film Forum Nov 22 - Dec 1. Images: the IMDb (Kasi Lemmons in Candyman and in Silence of the Lambs), YouTube (Jurnee Smollett), UPTOWN Magazine (Meagan Good and Smollett), Screen Rant (Samuel L. Jackson), and Rotten Tomatoes (Don Cheadle in Talk to Me).
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