By Anna Merlan
By Lee Escobedo
By Alice Laussade
By Scott Reitz
By Claire Lawton
By Kiernan Maletsky
By Anna Merlan
More than just the Hollywood It Girl of the moment, Emma Stone is a real actress, and in The Help, she gets an ostentatious, Oscar-baiting Big Scene in which to prove it. Stone doesn't need this kind of relic of old-school Hollywood to show off her chops. But this is the kind of thing The Help is best at: forcing easy, organic charm to glimmer through a few layers of ancient dust.
A fast-talking, eye-rolling snarler, Stone wears a truly terrible perm to play the allegedly dowdy Skeeter, a smart but naive recent college graduate who returns to her family's Mississippi plantation in the summer of 1962. She is shocked to discover that, in her absence, not only have her school friends become the casually, cruelly racist white establishment, but her own beloved childhood maid (Cicely Tyson) has disappeared. Skeeter decides to write about her hometown from the perspective of the black women who work in every white household. Her ins to that world are Aibileen (Viola Davis), a dutiful maid who has a tendency to develop unusually intimate relationships with the white children she's paid to take care of, and Minny (Octavia Spencer), whose inability to become wallpaper/doormat while at work has cost her a few jobs, most recently and spectacularly in the home of the town's coolly despicable queen bee, Hilly (Bryce Dallas Howard).
The Help is so sincerely invested in the tenacity and nobility of Aibileen and Minny that to accuse writer/director Tate Taylor of pushing the dreaded Magical Negro button would be a low blow. These women are not merely the wisdom-spouting ciphers that so often exist as only devices to teach white movie characters lessons. They are that — they actually say things like, "Fried chicken just tend to make you feel better 'bout life," while pretty blond women look on, beaming — but they're not just that. They're also victims of fairly realistic character flaws.
Skeeter, of course, has her own, somewhat less urgent civil rights battle, signified by the fact that she's the only white woman in town with a job, while her commitment to her career guarantees her inability to get and keep a boyfriend. She's led to believe things are different in glam Manhattan, but even her long-distance New York City mentor, a short-skirted book editrix played by Mary Steenburgen, is shown business lunching with multiple men — and going to bed alone.
Maybe it's because her project is partially self-interested that Skeeter, and the film, neglect to answer what is at one point posited as the book-within-the-movie's key question: Why do white girls who are raised lovingly by black maids turn into racist assholes?
The psychology of this query is too complicated for a film so bent on jerking tears and capturing a wide audience. Instead, we get a Hollywood flattening of history, with powerful villains and disenfranchised heroes.
As a filmmaker, Taylor seems to be less interested in the stories of these working women than in the mechanics of storytelling — the ways in which reportage and gossip serve, er, separate but equal functions in shaping narratives. The Help is plainly a film about how talking becomes writing, which becomes activism, which turns into history. The characters are well aware of the portent of their story swapping, as is the film. The Help is able to transcend its own puffed-up self-importance in only those few moments when two people on the margins see their own struggles reflected in the other, their individual hardships fading into a shared compulsion to fight back.
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