In the Time of Plastic Representation

Kristen J. Warner

From Film Quarterly Winter 2017, Volume 71, Number 2

On August 4, 2017, Jay Z released Moonlight, an eight-minute music video
culled from his album 4:44. Directed by Alan Yang, cocreator of Netflix’s critically
acclaimed series Master of None (Aziz Ansari, 2015–), Moonlight samples
NBC’s Friends (1994–2004) as its original source material. A pastiche of the
blockbuster sitcom, the video replaces all of the characters from the original
series with their black Young Hollywood counterparts. While the photography,
costuming, and mise-en-scène of the title credits are shot-for-shot identical to the
original, one change aligns with its “new” cast: it switches the iconic Rembrandts’
“I’ll Be There For You” (1995) for Whodini’s “Friends” (1994).
This Moonlight moves beyond being a superficial send-up when
the Friends filming halts and the cast walks off set for a break. Ross Geller’s black
counterpart, played by comedian Jerrod Carmichael, greets fellow comedian
Hannibal Buress and asks his opinion of the project. “Garbage. Terrible man.
Wack as shit. Episodes of Seinfeld but with black people. Who asked for that?”
Carmichael explains that “when they asked me to do it I was like alright this is
something subversive, something that would turn culture on its head.” Buress
lands the fatal blow asserting, “Well you did a good job of subverting good
comedy. You gonna do black Full House next? Family Ties?” Resuming
the Friends filming, Carmichael ultimately slips away from his character, too
aware of his real identity to perform any longer—just in time for his Rachel and
fellow actor Issa Rae to quietly whisk him away from the series and to an “exit”
door of sorts.

Hannibal Buress (left) and Jerrod Carmichael (right) in Jay Z’s Moonlight.
 This music video asks, even if it does not fully answer, critical questions
about the intersections of representation and employment for black actors. How
do they balance taking jobs that seem facile all the while attempting to imbue the
parts with depth through subversive performances that may not be as easily
perceived as intended? It is Buress’s query about “who asked for this?” that strikes
me as central, because his question presumes that there is a desire and an
initiative to remake existing source material with the least amount of changes to
attract different audience demographics. Swapping in and out racial groups with
little adjustment to the parts themselves retains the original work as the primary
driver and as a result marks the changes as superficial. The original work
maintains its universality in this instance by proving that “anyone” can be a
member of the Friends cast. As a consequence, the performances feel like hollow
experiments produced in a laboratory; they feel plastic.
It stands to reason that Jay Z and Yang’s desire in Moonlight‘s meta moment
is to create this response of discomfort, amid the realization that neither playing
nor watching white characters metaphorically dipped in chocolate on screen can
deliver the progress that was implicitly promised by watchdog groups like the
NAACP who for years have sought to strategically diversify the labor force in
meaningful ways. However, in this moment, when consumers of black media
proudly state that “representation matters,” disavowing (black) Friends-like texts
may be impossible because alternatives are few.

Representational Expectations

This season, “representation matters” is a catchphrase circulating in

conversations around diversity in film, television, and theater. From social media
campaigns—such as #representationmatters, in which parents attach the hashtag
to inspirational photos taken of their children dressed as fictional (and
nonfictional) black heroic characters, posing them against their onscreen
doppelgangers—to Mattel’s offering of a collector’s Barbie of Ava DuVernay—
complete with the mise-en-scène of a director’s chair to establish that all little
black girls need to see DuVernay’s image in tandem with a chair to believe they
could work in film—the weight of visual identification is being felt. Add to this list
the infamous and popularly cited #OscarsSoWhite, initially designed to poke fun
at the lack of diversity among Academy Award nominees, but now a seeming
catch-all for diversity deficits writ large, the impetus in each hashtag is to remind
and activate consumers to demand more representative visual imagery from the
entertainment industries.
Mattel’s Ava DuVernay Barbie.

To many men and women of color, as well as many white women,

meaningful diversity occurs when the actual presence of different-looking bodies
appear on screen. For them, this diversity serves as an indicator of progress as
well as an aspirational frame for younger generations who are told that the visual
signifiers they can identify with carry a great amount of symbolic weight. As a
consequence, the degree of diversity became synonymous with the quantity of
difference rather than with the dimensionality of those performances. Moreover,
a paradoxical condition emerges whereby people of color have become more
media savvy yet are still, if not more, reliant on overdetermined and overly
reductive notions of so-called “positive” and “negative” representation. Such
measures yield a set of dueling consequences: first, that any representation that
includes a person of color is automatically a sign of success and progress; second,
that such paltry gains generate an easy workaround for the executive suites
whereby hiring racially diverse actors becomes an easy substitute for developing
new complex characters. The results of such choices can feel—in an affective
sense—artificial, or more to the point, like plastic.

Black representation, as it’s been understood in a popular sense, has been

dominated by the circulation of mediated imagery yielding deleterious effects for
the groups depicted. The fear of the effects of such “poor” representation has
resulted in a set of binary, nonscientific, underdeveloped metrics—positive and
negative—that constitute a nebulous catch-all system wherein the characteristics
that define each pole on the spectrum shift depending on the era and the
expectations of the audience.1 What marks a representation as “positive” or
“negative”? Responses are often aligned with class (good job, education,
community minded), behavior (hypersexual, well-spoken, “woke”), or with
characterizations of character that either successfully assimilate into normative
culture or fail to do so. However, such a scale oversimplifies the complexities of
black identity that require audiences, pop-culture critics, and scholars to invest
in screen characters through experiencing nuances developed over time and
ironically reinforces the stereotypes that operate as industry shorthand.

If, then, stereotypes function as a kind of shorthand for building characters

and if the only additive needed to make the parts “positive” is to provide them a
respectable occupation, then whatever other problematic traits that were initially
associated with that stereotype can pass scrutiny unchecked. The result of such a
calculus is the production of thinly written characters of color with a mirage of
depth added by audience members and pop-culture critics who labor to thicken
the characterizations in public discourse.2 Discourse, for example, surrounding
their importance to film and television history gives these wavering
characterizations a steady platform to lean against and be perceived as solid and
weighty. Such a style of writing-by-stereotype-reversal also cannot include the
kinds of complex characterization that would offset colorblind casting, resulting
in another set of pitfalls that reinforce long-held tropes.3 Strategies that attempt
to overlap negative images with positive ones in a quest to present a respectability
of social imagery do not eradicate either.
The fight between these representational strategies is always at a stalemate,
leading to a third strategy with a simplified mantra: “representation matters.” If
this maxim appears to extract the value-charged attributes of positive and
negative representation in favor of appreciating all characterizations more
equally, upon closer inspection, it actually integrates those positive/negative
binaries into its new grid of characterizations. Representation “mattering” then
becomes a dual and dueling set of expectations for people of color. In the first
instance, every image deemed valuable must be accessible for identificatory
suture. In the second instance, each image must be counted as a signifier of
progress that affirms black importance and success.

The hunt for representational affirmation can lead to erroneous

interpretations. For example, after the release and inevitable success of Disney
and Lucasfilm’s Star Wars: The Force Awakens (J.J. Abrams, 2015), viral Internet
memes attributed a lion’s share of the film’s popularity to the fact that a black
man and a white woman were cast as leads. While technically true, the claim
obscures the larger fact that the actual star of this film—and a significant reason
why the producers did not have to pay these largely “unknown” stars significant
salaries—was Star Wars itself, and its status as Disney’s intellectual property. An
expectation of massive return on investment, given the profitable track record of
the Star Wars brand, is presumably the reason Disney bought it from George
Lucas in the first place. Perhaps it is precisely because the risks were mitigated to
such a manageable level that the producers could imagine diverse leads.
Viral internet memes circulated during the initial run of Star Wars: The Force
Awakens (J.J. Abrams, 2015).

Let me be clear: while I do not share the popular expectation for mediated
imagery to matter, its overdetermining of black images as the marker of societal
progress or regression makes any image acceptable on its face, obliterating
context and sidelining any consideration of depth. Thus have images in the era of
representation matters become hollowed, malleable signs with artificial origins.
Their artificiality connects to a condition that could be termed “plastic
representation.” Plastic, in the denotative sense of a “synthetic material…that can
be molded into different shapes,” supplies a useful starting point for unpacking
just how plastic representation operates as a place of synthetic
malleability.4 Plastic is an ever-shifting artificial material whose purpose is
shaped by its essence. There is no great depth in plastic, nor is there anything
organic.
Plastic Deliveries
My notion of plastic representation is connected to the colloquial musical
concept of “plastic soul,” originally coined by black musicians to describe white
artists singing soul music. David Bowie used the concept of plastic soul to self-
deprecatingly describe his approach to rhythm and blues music. In a 1976
interview, he asserted:

But let’s be honest; my rhythm and blues are thoroughly plastic. Young Americans,
the album “Fame” is from, is, I would say, the definitive plastic soul record. It’s the
squashed remains of ethnic music as it survives in the age of Muzak rock, written
and sung by a white limey.5

Bowie’s plastic soul is an artificial product composed of malleable fragments

of black ethnic music that, when sung through his voice, feel instantly familiar—
but only according to his terms and adaptability. In other words, plastic soul
approximates blackness enough to stand in as a superficial version of the real. In
the case of Bowie, his seeming awareness that plastic soul is the gap between the
artificial and the real, highlights the difference between setting out to make
plastic and accepting plastic as the standard. Thus, hiring Luther Vandross and
recording in Philadelphia added a specific flavor but not enough to overwhelm
Bowie’s style. Bowie’s interest in making an R&B record, then, signaled a move to
locate elements that recreated the sound of soul music while still adhering to his
own style.

David Bowie and Luther Vandross in the recording studio. Courtesy of NBC
Archives.
An operational definition of plastic representation can be understood as a
combination of synthetic elements put together and shaped to look like
meaningful imagery, but which can only approximate depth and substance
because ultimately it is hollow and cannot survive close scrutiny. Utilizing this
concept, I locate two types of minority visibility that exist both in front of and
behind the camera: a plastic representation that approximates a superficial
“visual” diversity and another that supplies a culturally specific contextual
version.

What does plastic representation look like in practice? For brevity, I focus
on one of its primary functions. Plastic representation uses the wonder that
comes from seeing characters on screen who serve as visual identifiers for specific
demographics in order to flatten the expectation to desire anything more. In this
instance, then, progress is merely the increase of black actors on screen in both
leading and supporting roles. The problem with such a line of thinking is that
quantifiable difference alone often overdetermines the benchmarks of progress
and obscures the multifaceted challenges inherent in booking roles as well as
securing work on writing staffs, directing gigs, or even reaching executive
gatekeeper status—thus privileging the visible (actors) over all other cinematic
and televisual functions. Employment, while a critical factor in the lives of
minority creative laborers, becomes the only gain when plastic representation is
the failsafe. Of course, skill sets and work experience matter and are part of what
is considered for these jobs in writing, directing, and in executive suites.
However, the cultural and historical experiences of the minority labor force
should be equally important contributions to how the work is produced.

When pressured, networks and studios can and do diversify their casts, just
as the Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences will expand their voting body
by inviting more people of color to the membership—until 2020, anyway. While
visual diversity is still not a regular occurrence, it’s not impossible to achieve. It
is always impressive to see that greater numbers of people of color are finding
employment and inclusive spaces within the film and television industry, but
greater numbers indicate, not necessarily progress, but rather a simplistic fix to a
systemic problem. For this industry, actual progress would involve crafting a
more weighted diversity, one generated by adding dimension and specificity to
roles, and achieved in tandem with diverse bodies shaping those roles at the level
of producing and writing.

When asked to share his feelings on the possibilities of diversity now

that Hamilton, the multiracial, colorblind cast musical in which he starred, had
become a critical and financial darling for Broadway, Tony-award-winning actor
Leslie Odom, Jr. asserted: “What we really need to pay attention to is the next two
seasons.” Speaking to the ways that plastic representation can become the default
for casting people of color, Odom continued, “Colorblind casting is great. You
know what’s better than colorblind casting? Roles that are actually written about
you. Roles that are actually written about your experience.”6 Odom posits that
colorblind casting (the practice of writing characters without including race in the
description) is a helpful start but not the realization of progress. It is an important
reminder that the practice, while certainly beneficial to people of color in terms
of gaining employment, ultimately produces normatively white characters who
happen to be of color. Again, there is a danger of valuing quantity more than
dimension, a dynamic that epitomizes the artificiality of plastic representation.
During the Television Critics Association summer tour of 2016, FX President
John Landgraf celebrated his network’s plan to increase diversity by encouraging
their predominately white showrunners to hire directors of color and white
women.7 Landgraf’s announcement, while signaling an excellent plan to further
racial parity in the television industry, still echoes the sentiments of the ease of
visibility. Keep in mind that it is less complicated to increase diversity in director
roles than in other areas of production, from showrunner to writing staff, because
directors work on a freelance basis and can be moved into the labor cycle more
easily. Moreover, his pledge to increase the number of marginalized directors for
FX series is contingent upon his predominantly white male showrunners agreeing
to buy into the scheme. Thus, part of the selling of this endeavor must be that the
identities and experiences of those hired for these jobs are not commensurate
with the task they’ve been hired to complete. Put simply, hiring a director who
discursively “happens to be black” reduces any anxiety that their cultural
experience will invade or reshape the way they do their work for a white
showrunner. Flattening directors of color into markers of quantifiable gains may
ensure their employment, but it also renders diversity as an artificial additive and
not a substantive contribution.

Jerrod Carmichael and Issa Rae in the music video for Moonlight.

Plastic representation operates as a system that reifies blackness into an

empirical system of “box checking.” It is a mode of representation that offers the
feel of progress but that actually cedes more ground than it gains for audiences of
color. When audiences, cultural critics, and even industry professionals buy into
the subtle but popular belief that social progress occurs when the focus of
representation is placed solely on the racially visible difference of above-and-
below-the-line talent, it means that for industry gatekeepers and executives, less
time has to be devoted to developing and appreciating the meaningful cultural
and historical differences of those bodies.

My aim here is not to disparage the joyous effect and identification that arise from
seeing a version of one’s self on screen; to the contrary, I believe the desire should
be expanded, not only to see a version of one’s self on screen but for that
identification to resonate and connect with the histories and experiences of the
culture that the character’s body inhabits. Pursuing and embodying the cultural
specificity of characters of color is harder work and requires a shift away from
thinking only in positive and negative evaluative terms. Resonant characters that
are complex and nuanced may not resemble the respectable characters so often
proffered as the social cover for racial integration and as proof that black lives
matter. The true indicator of the progress that is desired lies in showcasing how
all those specifically black lives exist and thrive as themselves, not as the ones
whom they happen to be cast to represent.

Returning to Jay Z’s Moonlight video, Buress’s question “who asked for
this?” takes on greater depth when interpreted through a plastic lens. The
demand for visible difference means that even if no black audience specifically
asked for a black Friends, the legitimacy of the text and the very clear casting of
the black counterparts reinforce for that audience that some measure of progress,
no matter how hollow, has been attained.
The pathos of such a victory is that in celebrating the overdetermining of
visual diversity as a substantial gain as opposed to the overly modest concession
it is, any meaningful progress is curbed; instead, the goal posts of expectation are
moved to more comfortable places for those in power who can make those
changes. The consequences of ceding the ground where black audiences and
critics once demanded meaningful representation are that, when an inch of
progress is returned, it feels like new. The most tragic consequence of all,
however, is that all the images in the world (so-called positive or not) cannot
overwhelm the centuries of work that has already been done to sear a regime of
racist representation that casts all black difference as savage, childlike,
heathenistic, asexual/hypersexual, atavistic, angry monsters into the cultural
imaginary. The rationale for solely demanding plastic representation is
understandable as a sanity-preserving tactic that can also build esteem and
confidence, but it is not nearly enough. Meaningful, resonant diversity is a more
difficult, underdeveloped approach that requires all stakeholders to think harder
about what on-screen difference looks and feels like. But if representation truly
matters, then it is an approach worthy of pursuit. Plastic is not enough; demand
more.

Notes
1. I have written previously about the pitfalls of the positive/negative trope. See
Kristen Warner, “They Gon’ Think You Loud Regardless: Ratchetness, Reality
Television, and Black Womanhood,” Camera Obscura: Feminism, Culture, and
Media Studies 30, no. 1 88 (2015): 129-53.
2. I have written previously about the ways black female audiences labor to create
a dimensional character with whom they can identify. See Kristen Warner, “ABC’s
Scandal and Black Women’s Fandom,” in Cupcakes, Pinterest, Ladyporn:
Feminized Popular Culture in the Early 21st Century, ed. Elana Levine (Urbana-
Champaign: University of Illinois Press, 2015).
3. I have written about colorblind casting as an industrial strategy to enable more
physical diversity at the level of auditions and the subsequent consequences of
the practice. In my book, I argue that while the casting practice of not writing race
into the roles for which actors audition is filled with good intentions, the parts are
often written normatively, that is hegemonically white. As a consequence, when
the part is not adjusted for the person of color who is hired, they become
vulnerable to unintended stereotypes and tropes attached to the cultural and
historical experiences tethered to their bodies. See: Kristen Warner, The Cultural
Politics of Colorblind TV Casting (New York: Routledge, 2015).
4. Dictionary.com, s.v. “plastic,” http://www.dictionary.com/browse/plastic.
5. Cameron Crowe, “A Candid Conversation with the Actor, Rock Singer and
Sexual Switch-Hitter,” Playboy, September
1976, www.theuncool.com/journalism/david-bowie-playboy-magazine/.
6. “Tony Actors Roundtable: 7 Broadway Standouts on Diversity and Rude
Audiences,” The Hollywood Reporter, June 1,
2016, www.hollywoodreporter.com/video/tonys-actor-roundtable-7-broadway-
898509.
7. Maureen Ryan, “FX CEO John Landgraf on the ‘Racially Biased’ System and
Taking Major Steps to Change His Network’s Director Rosters,” Variety, August
9, 2016, http://variety.com/2016/tv/news/fx-diversity-directors-hiring-ceo-john-
landgraf-interview-1201831409/.

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Header Image: Jay Z’s Moonlight, an eight-minute music video directed by
Alan Yang. Featuring (left to right): Jerrod Carmichael, Tessa Thompson, Lil Rel
Howery, Tiffany Haddish, and Issa Rae. ©Tidal