On the Whiteness of Dark Fantasy and Moving Away from Tim Burton

You may not be able to tell at first glance, but one of the inspirations behind my artwork is Tim Burton. It’s easier to see once I show you my work from five or six years ago when all my characters had gaunt eyes and sallow cheeks. And although my present work has traded in the cartoonish style in favour of realism, the extra shading around the eyes and the cheekbones still persists. Burton’s stories were always dark, twisted and gothic—yet still quirky and beautiful. I enjoyed the contrast and took a lot of influence from that throughout my development as an artist.

I’ve never cared that Tim Burton’s films didn’t feature people of colour (POC). In fact, I hardly noticed, given that he tends to cast the same actors for all his projects. What resonated with me was the narrative of the outcast—people who were different from those around them and learned to find beauty in their Otherness.

But when Burton was asked to explain why his newest film lacked racial diversity in a cast of over 20 actors (with the only black person cast as the villain), his answer was more than disappointing. It was offensive.

In an interview with Bustle, Burton says:

“I remember back when I was a child watching The Brady Bunch and they started to get all politically correct. Like, OK, let’s have an Asian child and a black. I used to get more offended by that than just... I grew up watching blaxploitation movies, right? And I said, that’s great. I didn’t go like, OK, there should be more white people in these movies.”

There are so many things wrong with this statement but I’ll just go over three.

First, Burton outright says he was offended by the inclusion of POC characters among a white cast, as if the effort to diversify the cast somehow tainted the experience of the show. Second, blaxploitation films were made in response to black people’s exclusion from mainstream (ie. white) media and recognition, so Burton doesn’t get any cookies for not thinking to whitewash them. And lastly, POC are tired of seeing themselves in stereotypical roles—as villains, as mammies, as maids, as thugs, as slaves, etc. We’re ready to see ourselves in fantasy and sci-fi and quirky films. Why is that something to resent?

If he had never said any of this, I would have just kept watching his movies uncritically. But what I’ve learned from this interview is that his exclusion of POC is not by accident.

It’s conscious and intentional. And at this point in my life, I’m no longer surprised to learn that some of the people I once admired harbour prejudices that would isolate me and a good chunk of their fanbase. I’m always disappointed but, ultimately, glad that I’ve learned where they stand so I can direct my admiration (and my dollars) toward films that make an effort at representing people like me.

So with that in mind, here are three beautifully directed dark fantasy films featuring Africans that I’ve really enjoyed.

This list was admittedly difficult to come up with, so if you know of any others I should check out (and not limited to just Africans, but featuring a diverse cast--and yes, that includes white people too), please leave a comment below!

To Catch a Dream

A short film by the Nest Collective about a grieving widow trying to rid herself of a nightmare

Kati Kati

A feature-length film by Mbithi Masya about a woman in the afterlife desperate to learn how she died

Umkhungo (The Gift)

A short film by Mannequin Pictures about a young boy with psychic abilities seeking survival amidst traumatic events

Exploring Cultural Hybridity and Belonging in Daughters of Diaspora

Whether we were born here or there, many of us have grown up in two or more distinct and sometimes conflicting cultures. With pressure to assimilate to the customs of our new land and desire to connect with the languages, traditions and people of our homelands, we are caught in new and complicated territory: we are hybrids. I’ve always been taught that being a hybrid means you are a combination of the all the things that make you, equally belonging to each of those identities. But in practice, I often feel that I am neither--not enough of here and not enough of there. In 2014, I began "Daughters of Diaspora" as an attempt to make sense of the multifaceted identity that arises from being a Third World daughter in a First World country.

The intersection of being black, Nigerian and Canadian has led me through a unique experience of Otherness.

As I shifted through these spaces, I learned that I was never enough of any single identity to wholly and indisputably belong. As such, I’ve used art as the vehicle to create a new space for myself and others alike.

“Daughters of Diaspora” was illustrated on toned paper with acrylic paint, art markers, chalk and pens. The collection enables me to celebrate the beauty of various features, while challenging what it means to “look African”.

In May 2016, I published here and there: Daughters of Diaspora, an art book consisting of the first twenty portraits, creative prose and a foreword by SUNU Journal founder and editor Amy Sall. Collectively, these written and visual pieces explore the complex interactions between race, cultural identification and assimilation. 

Photographs by Art of Effah.

Lemonade, Black Female Solidarity, and the Responsibility of Representation

Last weekend, Beyonce released her highly anticipated album Lemonade. In just a few short days, the twelve-song short film (which I’m sure was strategically released to make her eligible for the Grammys, Emmys and Oscars) has generated countless think pieces, memes, reactions and debates. Most of these debates—which I won’t give the dignity of naming here—are based in oppressive structures that work to continue the silencing of black women’s experiences of pain and overdue celebration of our complex intersecting identities (black, women, queer, Muslim, etc.). However, there is one legitimate piece of critique I have read—that Lemonade renders fat black women invisible—that prompts me to unpack the privilege and responsibility of representation.

Lemonade is bursting with political messaging and has clearly been interpreted in a number of ways by many. But as a black, African, cisgendered, thin, able-bodied woman, the most potent message I saw in Lemonade was the pressing need for black female solidarity. Black women (bearing the weight of sexism, racism, and other oppressive structures) make endless sacrifices for their families and communities daily, yet are undeservingly degraded, violated and humiliated. Oftentimes, this is done in comparison to women of other races in order to make us feel inferior for our uniquely black characteristics (our “bad” hair, dark skin, big lips…you get the idea). Lemonade was about more than just Beyonce’s marital strife. 

It was that realization that every black woman will come to at some point in her life: that nobody is protecting us and it’s time we took care of ourselves, together. I felt that Beyonce was able to convey this very strongly and beautifully while incorporating many other creatives of the African diaspora.

But did Beyonce represent every black woman? No, not at all. I think that is nearly an impossible task and to hold anyone to that standard is impractical. I agree that it would have been incredibly powerful to include all those that were left out, especially since Lemonade is being described as a universal black female anthem. But it’s not universal and it shouldn’t have to be. It is only one of many diverse stories black women have to share.

What we need to question is who has the privilege to share their stories and is it their responsibility to speak for those more marginalized?

I won't pretend to have the answers to that question. Privilege is a complicated thing and those that are afforded the privilege to speak out need to do so with as much consciousness and humility as possible. But, personally, I would refrain from expecting any other person to speak for me. Nobody can tell your story but you. And in the spirit of Lemonade, it’s up to each and every one of us to create a space where all our stories are heard, welcomed and valued.