Pride

There is a part of us, some section of our brain that communicates to us that there is, somewhere in our hearts, compassion for the human race. We feel the injustice, we are enveloped in that sadness, that empathetic helplessness when someone is being grossly maltreated. We feel in ourselves that desire to better our person, to avoid being one of those people who dole out prejudice and bias, that urge to erase those people off completely.

I do not have black skin, I am not of African descent. Whatever discrimination and antagonism I get from other people where my race is concerned isn’t even half of what others get. But I feel. I empathize. I strive to make others feel as minimally pre-judged as possible.

I do resent the fact that films like Pride sensationalize something that some people have worked so hard to wipe out. Now that the Afro-Americans have it better going than ever before, these films relight that fire, that anger, that resentment. People have different reactions to success stories like these. Some might withdraw from a certain level of socializing with those that caused so much pain to their forebears, while others, as what the producers directors writers probably initially envisioned, use it positively: as a means to value their fortunate predicaments, their current status, to remember what they have fought for and not take it all for granted.

Still, I respect. I understand. Or at least I try. It can’t be easy.

I get a small taste of this pain every time I have to deny my nationality and state my fake Americanism. It’s all ok, only a means to an end, until I start believing the lies. It gets dangerous when I do forget who I really am and get sucked into a lifestyle, an entity that is really not mine.

I love all the undertones and overtones of this film. I especially love the feelings of determination and eventual success that it inspires. I feel like I can do anything. I feel like I can apply these things to my daily activities, to my job, to my health, to my family life. I love the splash of water as the swimmers dive into the pool, that perceptible muting of sound as soon as they are submerged, and the fight they fight as they swim for the win. It’s all very metaphoric.

I love the photography. I love noticing the subtle and the significant differences between still photography and movement. I love acknowledging and appreciating the fact that it took a lot of motivation, a lot of hard work to finish a piece of artful storytelling and showing such as this film.

I love watching Terrence Howard and that held-back aggression he possesses, the one that radiates from his oddly coloured eyes, from the set of his mouth, and his unsteady but no less strong voice. He was noticeably more fit in this film, and absolutely hotter than ever. I love his posture, and his walk, and his shoulders, his unrefined hands, his laugh. It’s amazing how much respect he inspires, just by being such a multi-faceted actor, a dynamic talent. He has so many faces, so many angles to his character: he can be a thug and a highly-educated black man at the exact same time.

This film moved me.