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Jiggle in My Walk: The iconic power of the Big Butt in American Popular Culture
“During that era, there are earlier images of Black folks, and they are stealing chickens and eating watermelon and getting smoked out of their cabins. And stereotyping that came from the minstrel tradition,” says Stewart. “And what we see in this footage are two finely dressed Black people showing affection and fun. And it’s a revelation to see that that early on.”
“We see the richness of Black performers, not just playing mammies and butlers as they were during their time in Hollywood since they were not afforded full representation at that time,” says co-curator Doris Berger. “They should have and could have been, as we see in this parallel film history.”
“There were people working in front of and behind the camera that were advocating and fighting and pushing forward and using this new technology and this art form to really create these vibrant, rich stories that highlight the complexities and the full humanity of Black people and looking at sort of American history through the lens of African-Americans,” Combs says.
Dumb-blonde jokes can be traced back as far as the 18th century, but it was Marilyn Monroe’s portrayal of Lorelei Lee that cemented them in modern pop culture. During this big dance number, Monroe’s iconic look, bleached-blonde and adorned in a thick diamond choker with a tight bright-pink dress, creates the prototype for a dumb blonde. She needs to be flamboyantly feminine, and speak softly and vapidly. As she says in the movie, “I can be smart when it’s important, but most men don’t like it.” Monroe’s quick quips of feigned ignorance are supported by the groundedness of Dorothy Shaw, played by Jane Russell, in a rare-for-the-time female comedy duo. Helmed by Howard Hawks, a director famous for his “Hawksian” tough-talking woman, the movie demonstrates comedy through the actress’s use of sexual agency. Monroe’s femininity is not an object but a tool to get what she wants — famously, diamonds. The sheer size of Monroe’s performance defined this fundamentally American archetype. Without her, there would be no
This is actually the single joke the entire episode had been building toward for 20 minutes. Rob and Laura have just brought home their newborn baby, Richie. Rob, through a few moments of miscommunication, convinces himself that they have brought home the baby of the Peters, the couple in the room next door. Eventually, Rob convinces the Peters to come over, with them not knowing that they’re about to walk into a confrontation with Rob. That is until they step into the room and the audience sees that they are a black couple. CBS was initially nervous about offending African-American audiences, but creator Carl Reiner argued that the joke wasn’t on the Peters, as later in the episode Rob remarks that the Peters’ kid has straight-A’s while Richie is nothing but mediocre — a subversive comment at the time. This ability to execute an episode-length joke that is so specifically rooted in character and is also socially conscious highlights the level of quality and sophistication
Early comediennes couldn’t rely on jokes alone, and much like today, a woman’s appearance had a big effect on how audiences interpreted her act. Phyllis Diller pioneered women’s stand-up with the help of outlandish makeup, dresses, and wigs to make fun of herself. Joan Rivers picked up the self-deprecating torch, but did so as an attractive, thin, and well-put-together lady. Rivers’s contemporary Totie Fields struck a balance that would have a lasting impact on women in comedy: She made fun of herself — her actual self, overweight and short at only four-foot-eleven — with the honesty and self-satisfied confidence of a female Don Rickles. A bawdy, no-nonsense broad who thrived in nightclubs as much as she did in her many
The most influential magazine of its era left a mark on every other: complicated tiny typography, kitschy clip art, little floating heads as illustrations, charts and graphs analyzing everything it covered, and big memorable stories told with an ironic sensibility and unironic rigor. But clearly its single device with the longest legs was the compound hyphenated pejorative epithet, an update of the old
You watch Jackie Chan in his prime and you see a little bit of all the physical comedy masters: Buster Keaton, Harold Lloyd, Charlie Chaplin, Chevy Chase, etc. What is incredible is he’ll embody all of them, while also executing a precisely choreographed fight scene. Chan has done some big stunts in his career — especially when he started working with American directors — but he’s at his best in scenes like this, where he can offer a more nuanced comedic performance. Chan’s greatest trick is giving himself a handicap in a fight scene — in this case, he must get increasingly drunk as he goes — effectively grounding him as a Lloyd-esque underdog just trying to persevere. Then, coming from the position of an everyman, he’s able to get laughs throughout with almost vaudevillian facial expressions. After a few false starts (like the much-unappreciated
It was clear, from the first big introduction to Trey Parker and Matt Stone’s little Colorado mountain town, that the world they were building was already fully formed and entirely crazy. In what is officially the second stop-motion animated South Park short, four potty-mouthed little white kids escort a newly returned Jesus to the mall — where Jesus’s arch-nemesis, Santa, awaits. The two father figures of the holiday season argue about the commercialization of Christmas, fight
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