[ILLUSTRATION OMITTED] If you're ever inclined to doubt importance of South to American movies--or vice versa--consider that David Wark Griffith's The Birth of a Nation (1915), foundation stone upon which whole edifice of American movie industry is built, and itself still perhaps (depending on whose figures you believe) most successful ever made, is a radically atavistic epic purporting to explain entire sweep of history. A key document of cinematic literature, it is set mainly in and was directed, brilliantly, by one native southerner (from writings of another, novelist-racialist Thomas Dixon Jr.), but was filmed in a place whose fame, at time, was yet to come: California. Thereafter, we have two imaginary kingdoms. One, the South, exists primarily in song, oral traditions and folkways, native art and literature. The other, Hollywood, creates mass-produced audiovisual entertainments for American and world audiences, and develops its own mythology. Occasionally, sometimes frequently, two kingdoms interact, but their relations are uneasy because they are not equals. colonizer, is happy to exploit tales, myths, culture, and sometimes great talents (see: W. Faulkner, screenwriter) of but invariably imposes its own language and concerns on raw material, feeling no particular obligation to get it right. For its part, South nervously contemplates resulting distortions of its self-image(s), though it will swoon (along with rest of world) at appearance of a romantic, Hollywoodized such as that in David O. Selznick's 1939 production of Gone With Wind (another with a claim to be history's highest-grosser). Among moviegoers, there are as many Souths as there are individual sensibilities to discern them in theater's darkness. Nevertheless, certain patterns become evident. For some viewers, as essays below indicate, films that impress derive from valued literary sources; here, Hollywood's translators have presumably not distorted those sources too greatly. Two writers, on other hand, find wonderment in films that come from pre-existing sources, a pop song and a best-selling novel, precisely because of way cinema's magic has transformed them; here, Hollywood is an unwitting agent of personal revelation. For one northern-born critic, there's a late-dawning realization of how movies confuse real South and its fictional apparitions; he confesses that two Hollywood films have long made him avoid region. And as if to prove that any southern film is ultimately personal, one writer names a quintessential New York-set simply because it offers a few glimpses of Florida, a place that many southerners don't even consider part of South. Finally, there's an essay that points us toward startling notion that, while most cinematic visions of South from The Birth of a Nation till now have come to us filtered through aesthetic/industrial lenses of they don't have to be. From time they began appearing 1970s, documentaries of North Carolina-born Ross McElwee have posited and exemplified an idea of as an equivalent of literature: personal, idiomatic, made from a native's point of view, untouched by Hollywood motives or money. If many of films discussed here belong to a past where movies in general were property of it could be that McElwee's work points toward a future in which some visions of South can genuinely be called films. [ILLUSTRATION OMITTED] ALICE WALKER ON COLD MOUNTAIN I was probably last person on earth to see movie Cold Mountain, but I finally saw it and valued it for three reasons: it cured me of my inability to feel compassion for soldiers who fought on Confederate side in Civil War; it made one young soldier come vulnerably alive, showing how important it was in those days for a family during winter to have a hog to kill and eat (they were like my own family); and it showed a wise woman living in woods with her goats and how she killed one of them while its head was in her lap and she was stroking and lovingly murmuring to it. …
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