THE LAST BLACK MAN IN SAN FRANCISCO: A Rumination On the Cultural Marginalization of Minorities
A24“My grandfather built this!”, shouts Jimmie Fails (playing himself in the film) from the balcony of an old Victorian-style house situated in a leafy part of San Francisco referred to as ‘The Harlem Of The West’. He utters these words to correct a Segway-mounted tour guide who has just told a group of disinterested and half-asleep tourists that the house in question was built in the 1800s and likely owned by middle-class Japanese Americans before they were rounded up into concentration camps during World War II. The two proceed to have a bit of an argument where the guide tries to persuade Jimmie the architectural nuances of the house clearly point to its older age. But Jimmie retorts by stating the house wasn’t built by an architect, but by his grandfather with his own two hands, and that the architectural quirks of the house are not related to the alleged period of its construction. The tour guide loses interest in continuing this debate and scoots away together with his little flock of dazed followers.
This is one of a few key scenes in The Last Black Man In San Francisco, Joe Talbot’s debut feature that earned him a Best Director prize in Sundance last year, crucial to understanding its central message. Co-written by Talbot and his childhood friend Jimmie Fails, this film — already somewhat forgotten and criminally underseen — can be deconstructed from a multitude of angles: as a commentary on the demographic fluctuations and gentrification in San Francisco and many other cities, a nostalgic love letter to its turbulent history, and — perhaps most importantly (now even more so!) — as a well-articulated critique of one of many subtle ways in which black communities have been kept marginalized and disenfranchised.
What is most pivotal to this scene’s importance in this context is the simple fact Jimmie’s claim is completely fabricated; his grandfather did not build the house, though it is true his family once lived there. They moved in after the war, but eventually lost it and had to move out. This manufactured claim of ownership on Jimmie’s behalf is an exceedingly clever way of touching upon a mechanism by which the American society still retains stark racial heterogeneity. By asking the viewer to process this strange lie, Talbot and Fails are trying to illuminate the sad fact these historic injustices will not dissipate any time soon because entire swathes of Americans have been kept culturally homeless for centuries. Sure, they have been granted certain freedoms by their overlords and have since played the vicious game of catch-up. A game they will never finish because in contrast to descendants of explorers and European expatriates, their ancestors were brought to America in shackles.
The Last Black Man In San Francisco asks a very important question: how is anyone supposed to develop a sense of cultural belonging when they have been consistently denied an opportunity to put down roots? Although one would like to consider this matter resolved because all Americans technically enjoy the same rights and freedoms, the film gently suggests this is not the case at all. Of course, this isn’t a ground-breaking revelation, as such filmmakers as Spike Lee, Ava DuVernay, Steve McQueen or Barry Jenkins have been consistently reminding their audiences the quest for equality between races in America is still far from completion. In fact, their pleas are better characterized as screams of righteous fury.
Talbot’s film isn’t keen to join this raging chorus and instead opts to internalize its angst while keeping the melody of its message recognizable to anyone familiar with Spike Lee’s artistic output. It is thus best seen as a more cultured counterpoint to Carlos López Estrada’s Blindspotting in its commentary on how vast swathes of black Americans are forced into certain stereotypes by virtue of being born into destitution, having to grow up in challenging familial circumstances or ghettoized communities. All this comes back to a simple fact their grandfathers did not get the chance to build or own their houses.
And now it’s too late because – as another key scene illustrates – the game is rigged against them. People like Jimmie will never level up if they play by the rules because the gap between what they can afford and what they need to catch up with the rest of the peloton is widening ever faster. Talbot illustrates it perfectly when Jimmie shows up at a bank to have a chat about applying for a mortgage to buy his family house. He knows he will never afford the multimillion-dollar price tag. Even the down payment alone is exorbitant enough, but he appeals to the banker’s conscience and promises to pay back every single cent, in the event if he is given that loan. Of course, this is a pipe dream. Jimmie is perfectly aware of that. The question remains, however, why does he subject himself to this embarrassment if he knows the outcome of the conversation? Is he hoping for a miracle?
Jimmie (and the film as a whole) is making a statement. He humiliates himself at the bank so that the viewer would understand the gravity of this problem. The odds are insurmountable and for people like Jimmie to succeed they would have to pull themselves by their bootstraps so hard they would begin levitating. And this is physically impossible. When the game of American Dream is shown to be rigged against ethnic minorities, one is presented with two alternatives: flip the table or walk away from it and refuse to play the game. While many filmmakers would champion a violent upheaval, Talbot’s film seems to lean towards the latter of the two. After all, it’s just a house and what makes it a home is its inhabitants. Thus, The Last Man In San Francisco turns this commentary on its head and suggests that Jimmie’s choices in life do not have to be dictated by the past, whatever it is. He doesn’t have to slot into any preordained stereotypes to feel culturally at home, nor does he have to pursue a pipe dream of reclaiming what he feels is rightfully his. Instead, Jimmie can find his own American Dream elsewhere and build a house his own grandchildren will know as a home.
Arguably, this could be read as a defeat because, as the film ends, Jimmie chooses to leave San Francisco for good. It is undoubtedly unfair to be pushed out of one’s home and forced to abandon neighbourhoods built by one’s ancestors. But the film doesn’t bog itself down in righteous martyrdom. This is encapsulated in the last crucial scene where Jimmie overhears a conversation between two young women on the bus, who loudly express their disdain towards San Francisco. And although it would seem that Jimmie shares their view based on what he went through over the course of the film, he buds in and reprimands them. “You don’t get to hate San Francisco,” he says. “You don’t get to hate it, unless you love it”.
This succinct statement gives the movie a whole new dimension, or rather a subtle tint of optimism which recontextualizes its take-home message. As a result, Jimmie is no longer defined by generational oppression inflicted upon him; he rises above it. He may no longer feel welcome in this city or even feel at home in his own country, but he knows he is not defined by how he is perceived externally; he is defined by the content of his character. This is what The Last Black Man In San Francisco is really about: the idea of staying true to one’s values and retaining the moral high ground in the face of overwhelming systemic adversity. The filmmakers describe the sense of cultural and patriotic belonging not as an attachment to buildings made of stone, but as an ineffable feeling of being home – even despite being told otherwise.
