Motown Girl Group Martha And The Vandellas Not Only Recorded An Anthem For The Civil Rights Era – They Fought For Fair Pay And Proudly Called Themselves Divas

BY AUSTIN MCCOY

ASSISTANT PROFESSOR OF HISTORY,

WEST VIRGINIA UNIVERSITY

The CBS television show “It’s What’s Happening Baby” aired a music video featuring Martha and the Vandellas performing their hit song “Nowhere to Run” to kick off its national broadcast dedicated to Detroit on June 28, 1965.

In the video, the Detroit-based trio sang about how they could not escape missing an ex-lover after a breakup while sitting in a white Mustang moving slowly down the assembly line in the Ford Motor Co.’s River Rouge plant.

As a cultural and labor historian, I see the “Nowhere to Run” video as an iconic testament to Detroit’s reputation as the “Motor City” and the role of the autoworker in the American imagination.

Motown founder and CEO Berry Gordy, Jr. worked on the Ford assembly line and used it as inspiration for Hitsville U.S.A., the famed headquarters and music recording studio that served as a space to train performers and perfect the “Motown sound” for the masses.

Martha and the Vandellas were part of Motown’s illustrious roster of artists in the 1960s. Initially comprised of Martha Reeves, Rosalind Ashford and Annette Beard, and with members changing over the next three decades, they helped establish the Black “girl group.” They presented themselves as working class in videos like “Nowhere to Run.”

Their classic anthem “Dancing in the Street” reflected the revolutionary mood of civil rights protesters, especially Black Americans in the 1960s. As lead singer, Reeves also emerged as a pioneering R&B “diva,” helping pave the way for Black female solo vocalists like Whitney Houston, Janet Jackson, Mary J. Blige and Beyoncé.

A patient path to stardom

Martha Reeves was born in Eufaula, Alabama, on July 18, 1941. Soon after, her family moved to Detroit’s east side. Music occupied a central place in her life from childhood.

Reeves writes in her 1994 memoir, “Dancing in the Street: Confessions of a Motown Diva,” about her father serenading her mother with his guitar while she was pregnant with Martha. Her mother, Ruby, also sang. Reeves’ parents passed their love for music to her, and she sang in her church choir and aspired to a life of performance.

“At that young age I was already hooked on pleasing the crowd with my singing,” Reeves wrote.

Reeves graduated from Northeastern High School. As a teenager, she used fake IDs to get into night clubs to watch singers perform, and she sang in open mics and talent shows. She scored her first break after earning a three-night performance at the 20 Grand, a popular Detroit night club located on 14th Street and Warren Avenue.

It was after one of those performances when she met William Stevenson, Motown Records’ executive for discovering new talent. Stevenson invited Reeves to the label’s headquarters.

Reeves came to the studio, but she didn’t audition for reasons that aren’t entirely clear today. Instead, Stevenson told her she could answer the phones. That’s how she got a job in the A&R Department and began working with other Motown artists.

In 1957, Reeves joined her first group, the Del-Phis. Formed by Edward “Pops” Larkins, the Del-Phis also included leader Gloria Jean Williamson, Rosalind Ashford and Annette Beard.

Reeves soon caught another break. In September 1962, Stevenson called for her to fill in for Mary Wells in a Marvin Gaye studio session. Reeves enlisted the other Del-Phis, and they performed so well that they became the supporting vocal group for Gaye.

After the Del-Phis toured with Gaye and recorded “I’ll Have to Let Him Go,” Gordy offered Reeves, Beard and Ashford a recording contract. The group also took on a new name, Martha and the Vandellas.

Martha and the Vandellas enjoyed commercial success soon after, with songs like “Come and Get These Memories,” “Quicksand” and “Heatwave.”

An anthem for revolution set to a groove

“Dancing in the Street,” written by Gaye, Stevenson and Ivy Jo Hunter, was released in the summer of 1964 and became a signature hit for Martha and the Vandellas.

Reeves wrote in her autobiography that she did not like “Dancing in the Street.”

However, she made it her own, and Reeves later acknowledged that the song embodied the spirit of civil rights protests.

“It became the anthem of the decade,” Reeves wrote.

She was right.

At the time of the song’s release, the Civil Rights Movement was in full swing. Black Americans in Harlem took to the streets to protest the killing of 15-year-old James Powell by an off-duty New York Police Department officer.

The 1960s set off a string of “long, hot summers” as racial tensions intensified. Black folks in the Watts neighborhood in Los Angeles in 1965 protested in the streets in response to police violence.

More than 100 protests were organized in response to Martin Luther King Jr.’s assassination in 1968, from Chicago to Washington and Baltimore.

Detroit erupted a year earlier, in July 1967, after Detroit police officers raided a “blind pig,” or an unlicensed bar, on 12th Street.

The iconic opening lines of “Dancing in the Street” announced a new attitude among Black folks: “Calling out around the world/ Are you ready for a brand new beat?”

The high-octane, optimistic song is laced with slogans interpreted as invitations to take action. Martha and the Vandellas’ declaration that “Summer is here and the time is right for dancing in the street” reflected Black Americans’ willingness to not only march, but to take measures in their own hands and fight for equality and justice.

Battle for fair pay and recognition

The late 1960s and early 1970s were a time of transition for Reeves and the Vandellas. The Supremes were on the rise and threatened to displace them as the most prominent girl group on the Motown label. Reeves also experienced creative differences with Motown executives and struggled with drug addiction. Then, in 1972, Gordy moved Motown to Los Angeles so he could try his hand at filmmaking.

Martha and the Vandellas broke up later that year after the release of their album, “Black Magic.” However, Reeves continued as a solo artist, releasing five albums, including her self-titled debut “Martha Reeves” in 1974, “The Rest of My Life” in 1976 and “We Meet Again” in 1978, among others.

Martha Reeves and the Vandellas, along with many Motown artists, experienced a resurgence in popularity during the 1980s. Motown Records’ 25th anniversary show in Pasadena, California, in 1983 launched them back into the mainstream. The group reunited and started performing again in 1989.

Also, Reeves and the group sought to resolve their old conflicts with Motown Records. Reeves and various members of the Vandellas sued Gordy and Motown in 1989 for unpaid royalties. Motown Records settled the suit in 1991 for an undisclosed amount.

Four years later, the B-52s inducted Reeves and the Vandellas into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame.

The diva archetype

Martha and the Vandellas played a vital role in laying the foundation for future all-Black female groups like En Vogue, TLC, SWV and Destiny’s Child.

They helped set the standard for turning songs about the trappings of love and heartbreak into anthems. Reeves embraced being an “R&B Diva” long before music critics applied the persona to singers like Mary J. Blige and Beyoncé. Reeves was not just a larger-than-life vocal presence; she showed future generations of Black female vocalists that, to be a diva, one must have control of one’s own career.

“We became the Vandellas and with me being the only lead singer, my name was put out there because I did all the work,” Reeves said in a 2020 interview. “I did all the singing … I managed to just come up with my own destiny, with my own future in show business.”

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As The Oscars Approach, Hollywood Grapples With AI’s Growing Influence On Filmmaking

BY HOLLY WILLIS

PROFESSOR OF CINEMATIC ARTS,

UNIVERSITY OF SOUTHERN CALIFORNIA

I teach a course on AI and filmmaking at USC’s School of Cinematic Arts, and lately, rather than planning each session well in advance, I’ve been structuring the class the night before. I’ll browse platforms like X, Substack and YouTube, selecting the most provocative articles and video clips to present the following morning.

It’s a testament to how quickly artificial intelligence’s relationship to filmmaking is evolving: Each week brings new – often startling – developments.

The next morning in class, my students and I debate the ethics, aesthetics and the storytelling changes taking place in these collaborations with AI.

And we’re not alone: Throughout Hollywood, everyone – aspiring actors and filmmakers, stars, screenwriters and studio execs – seems to have a take on what’s coming next. But I think three trends in particular are going to be hot topics of conversation at this year’s Oscars parties.

Nothing uncanny about this clip

In February 2026, a 15-second AI-generated video clip of Tom Cruise battling Brad Pitt on a burned-out highway overpass went viral.

Depending on the viewer, the video elicited either admiration, outrage or existential hand-wringing.

Created by Irish filmmaker Ruairi Robinson via a generative-AI tool called Seedance 2.0, the video marked yet another milestone in the propulsive growth of AI tools.

Seedance 2.0 – which was developed by ByteDance, the Chinese company behind TikTok – is now one of the many AI tools available to create short-form video clips. But unlike most AI-generated videos, Pitt and Cruise don’t look creepy, uncanny or animated in the clip, which almost perfectly mimics live-action footage. The appearance of two A-list stars in a fairly realistic scene created by a relatively unknown director using stolen likenesses jolted the industry.

The backlash was swift. Disney sent a cease-and-desist letter, claiming that the video was generated from a dataset that most likely includes Disney’s copyrighted characters. The actors’ union, SAG-AFTRA, pointed to the video’s “blatant infringement” of the actors’ likenesses, as well as their voices.

“SAG-AFTRA stands with the studios in condemning the blatant infringement enabled by Bytedance’s new AI video model Seedance 2.0,” the guild wrote in a statement. This practice, the guild added, “undercuts the ability of human talent to earn a livelihood,” while disregarding “law, ethics, industry standards and basic principles of consent.”

In class, after watching the video, we explored the ethics of using someone’s likeness without permission, the challenges facing actors who build careers based on their unique ability to embody characters, and what the future holds for our understanding of acting.

If filmmakers can prompt fake actors to deliver precise performances, where does that leave human actors?

In with the old

Since 2023, the skyline of the Las Vegas strip has been dominated by an illuminated orb called the Sphere: an entertainment complex featuring a 360-degree LED screen covering 160,000 square feet (14,864 square meters). The Sphere recently surpassed 2 million tickets sold for a reimagining of the classic 1939 film “The Wizard of Oz.”

The film, which premiered in August 2024, was shortened, its color was enhanced, and it was stretched to expand across the interior of the dome. AI was used to transfer the imagery from the film’s original, modest aspect ratio to the giant dome. This required generating new imagery around the edges of the original shots in what’s known as “AI outpainting.” The technology was also deployed to boost the original film’s resolution and to enhance certain scenes.

Some critics fretted that this fairly radical augmentation of the original classic would offend viewers. Instead, it has drawn them in droves to the Sphere, where they’ve been willing to shell out between US$100 and $200 per ticket.

Not bad for a movie about a girl from Kansas made in 1939.

Given the resounding success of “The Wizard of Oz,” experts expect producers to plumb the film archives for other potential hits and enhance them with AI before screening them in venues as varied as IMAX theaters and Cosm, another 360-degree dome with locations in Los Angeles, Dallas and Atlanta.

Or AI can simply be used to create material that was never completed for a historic film.

In fact, The New Yorker recently profiled AI media entrepreneur Edward Saatchi, who is working to recreate and reincorporate lost footage from Orson Welles’ 1942 feature “The Magnificent Ambersons.” While Welles was in Brazil shooting a documentary, executives at RKO Radio Pictures reedited the film without his approval after a poor preview screening. They cut around 45 minutes, replaced the original ending with a happier one and destroyed most of the footage that had been removed.

Saatchi’s idea is to build a dataset that includes the existing film, as well as scripts, notes, images and even new performances by actors. Then he plans to use his AI platform, Showrunner, to create new scenes from this data.

While Saatchi hopes to honor the director’s creative vision by producing the film he originally intended, his efforts open up some thorny questions.

Is it appropriate to take an existing artwork and revise it without the creator’s input? Isn’t there something sacrosanct about a film, the intentions of the director and the performances of the actors in a film’s original form? To what extent should these questions be overlooked if refashioning old movies will introduce them to new audiences?

Fewer opportunities?

There’s also an undercurrent of anxiety in my classes. What will happen, my students often wonder, once they graduate?

They’re worried that within a year or two, AI will have replaced entry-level film industry jobs, from concept artists to apprentice-level editors, before they’ve even had a chance to enter the workforce.

They have reason to fear.

In 2024, the Animation Guild published a sobering report claiming that by 2026, “creative workers will be facing an era of disruption, defined by the consolidation of some job roles, the replacement of existing job roles with new ones, and the elimination of many jobs entirely.”

Some of those predictions have borne out: 41,000 jobs in film and television have disappeared in Los Angeles County alone over the past three years.

But I’ve tried to counter the hard statistics with some stories of thoughtful practices.

For example, filmmaker Paul Trillo at the AI studio Asteria has talked about how he seeks to keep artists at the center of the process. When he detailed the company’s work on a music video for the singer-songwriter Cuco, he was keen to highlight the number of artists working on the project. Yes, AI tools were used. But they were integrated in a way that replaced the tedious work, not the creative practice.

“Rather than removing [artists] from the process, it actually allowed them to do a lot more so a small team can dream a lot bigger,” Trillo explains at the end of the video.

In January 2026, the management consulting firm McKinsey published a report that largely echoes Trillo’s positive outlook. It forecasts more adoption of AI throughout the industry. But it also points to ways that the technology could lead to different kinds of work and open up new possibilities. For example, as AI-generated scenes become commonplace, studios will need technicians who know how to blend real footage with digitally created worlds. And as AI lowers the cost of producing polished films and shows, it could allow more “micro-studios” and independent filmmakers to create professional-quality content.

At the same time, the report also quotes a studio executive who concedes that AI could represent “a more significant platform shift than we have ever seen before in our industry.”

So it’s no wonder my students, along with varied critics, commentators and industry professionals, are nervous.

However, from where I stand, I’m convinced that the industry will weather this radical disruption. It’s adapted to big changes in the past: the addition of sound in the 1920s, the threat posed by videotape in the 1980s and streaming in the 2000s.

In the end, people will always crave new, artfully told stories. While the filmmaking tools and job market may be in transition, that core need for storytelling is not going away.

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Netflix Is Buying Warner Brothers. Is This The End Of The Cinema?

Sinners has become the highest grossing original film at the US box office in years. Warner Bros. Pictures via AP

BY LIAM BURKE

ASSOCIATE PROFESSOR AND CINEMA

AND SCREEN STUDIES DISCIPLINE LEADER,

SWINBURNE UNIVERSITY OF TECHNOLOGY

The world’s dominant streaming service, Netflix, has announced its planned acquisition of Warner Bros with a deal valued at US$82.7 billion (A$124.5 billion).

The acquisition has provoked criticism from film fans, the creative community and the United States government, including concerns for the future of filmgoing. News of the acquisition was also followed by a hostile bid (a bid that goes directly to shareholders, not the board), from Paramount Skydance.

Jane Fonda described the Netflix deal as “catastrophic”, saying it “threatens the entire entertainment industry”.

Since emerging as the global leader in streaming, Netflix has avoided acquisitions while its competitors have bought up legacy assets, like Amazon’s purchase of MGM in 2022. Rather than buy existing intellectual property, Netflix sought to build new brands such as Stranger Things and Squid Game.

However, it is rare that a 100-year archive like Warner Bros – which ranges from Looney Tunes cartoons to Emmy-magnet The White Lotus – would come up for sale. The deal would bolster Netflix’s library and save expensive licensing costs. There’s no need to pay for ten seasons of Friends if you own the company.

The acquisition raises questions on the consolidation of streaming services. But one of the most immediate concerns is the impact on filmgoing.

Do we still go to the cinema?

Cinema attendance has been falling since the rise of global streaming. This decline was exacerbated by the pandemic: 2025’s global box office will be down 13% from pre-COVID times.

Netflix occasionally releases films in a handful of theatres for extremely limited runs to qualify for awards such as the Oscars, which require a cinematic release. But Netflix co-CEO Ted Sarandos has repeatedly stated Netflix’s priority is at home rather than theatres.

While blockbusters from the Warner Bros studio like Batman and Minecraft are likely to still be released in cinemas under the new super-company, original and mid-budget films may not get the same opportunity.

Ironically, the proposed deal is coming at a time when Warner Bros is having a very successful run of auteur-led films in theatres, such as Ryan Coogler’s Sinners and Paul Thomas Anderson’s One Battle After Another.

Commenting on the deal, Sarandos said Netflix would look to make the time between films being exclusively in cinemas and available at home more “consumer friendly” – meaning the company will look to have short cinema runs and a quick pivot to streaming services.

Theatrical windows have been shrinking. The original Top Gun is often credited with starting the home video revolution when it sold a then-record 2.9 million VHS cassettes in 1987, but that was ten months after it had been a hit in cinemas.

Even in 2010, when the Walt Disney Company sought to shorten the home video release window of Tim Burton’s Alice in Wonderland to 12 weeks, the British theatre chain Odeon threatened not to exhibit the film. Today, blockbusters like Wicked can fly to premium video on demand in a few weeks.

Many theatrical films earn the majority of their box office in the first two weeks of release, and so longer exclusive windows are arguably a case of diminishing returns. However, this doesn’t always hold true.

Earlier this year, Warner Bros’ vampire movie Sinners opened modestly in cinemas. But the film sustained its audience over several weeks on its way to becoming the highest grossing original film at the US box office in years, taking in over US$260 million (A$390 million).

Cinephiles argue original films like Sinners need time to find a cinema audience, and the film’s many musical and horror setpieces are amplified by the communal experience of the theatre.

Challenges ahead

Skydance is also looking to add the studio to its growing portfolio, after its recent purchase of Paramount.

Skydance owner David Ellison has demonstrated his commitment to cinemas by promising Paramount will release 30 films in theatres a year with “healthy traditional windows”.

The deal will also come under regulatory scrutiny due to antitrust concerns. It unites top streamers Netflix and HBO as well as the film studio, removing a significant buyer from the market. Such anti-competitive rationale was used under the Biden administration to successfully block the proposed merger of book publishers Penguin Random House and Simon & Schuster.

One note of optimism is that Netflix has recently demonstrated a willingness to deviate from its founding principles. When the streaming service first launched, it positioned itself in opposition to broadcast and cable television by dropping all episodes of a season at once, not streaming live content or sport, and shunning advertising. Netflix has rolled back these three tenets in recent years in response to the shifting marketplace.

Perhaps the service’s stubborn refusal to embrace filmgoing is another long-held principle it will abandon if audiences are eager.

New research shows young people are craving in-person entertainment, still a novelty for digital natives.

This appetite for experiences has fuelled the recent success in cinemas of A Minecraft Movie, Taylor Swift concert films, and KPop Demon Hunters sing-along – months after it was originally released on Netflix.

If cinema’s reassert themselves as a lively communal space, perhaps this is one experience the newly diversified Netflix will buy a ticket for.

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The Incredible Impact Of Ozzy Osbourne, From Black Sabbath To Ozzfest To 30 Years Of Retirement Tours

Ozzy Osbourne photographed in London in 1991. Martyn Goodacre/Getty Images

BY LACHLAN GOOLD

SENIOR LECTURER IN CONTEMPORARY

MUSIC, UNIVERSITY OF THE SUNSHINE

COAST, QUEENSLAND, AUSTRALIA

Ozzy Osbourne, the “prince of darkness” and godfather of heavy metal, has died aged 76, just weeks after he reunited with Black Sabbath bandmates for a farewell concert in his hometown of Birmingham in England.

His family posted a brief message overnight: “It is with more sadness than mere words can convey that we have to report that our beloved Ozzy Osbourne has passed away this morning.”

John Michael Osbourne changed the sound of rock music and leaves behind a stellar career spanning six decades, numerous Grammy awards, multiple hall of fame inductions – and a wave of controversy.

An agent of change

In 1969, from the ashes of various bands, Geezer Butler (bass), Tony Iommi (guitar), Bill Ward (drums) and Osbourne formed the band Earth.

Realising the name was taken, they quickly changed their name to Black Sabbath, an homage to the 1963 Italian horror anthology film.

With the Summer of Love a recent memory, Black Sabbath were part of a heavy music revolution, providing an antidote to the free loving hippies of the late 60s period.

Despite making their first two albums cheaply, Black Sabbath, released in February 1970, and Paranoid, released September that same year, they were a global success.

Their approach was laden with sarcasm and irony. American audiences mistook this for satanic worship, positioning them as outsiders (albeit popular ones).

After Black Sabbath’s early successes, they were managed by the notorious Don Arden, whose daughter Sharon Levy was the receptionist. More than any musical bond Osbourne had in his life, Sharon would be the most influential character throughout his life.

Osbourne recorded eight albums with Black Sabbath (some to critical acclaim) and was then kicked out (by Sharon) due to his troubles with drugs and alcohol.

Ozzy solo

Osbourne’s solo career has always been managed by Sharon. While recording his second solo album, Diary of a Madman, guitarist Rhodes died in a tragic light plane crash. Osbourne was close to Rhodes and fell into a deep depression, after never having lost someone so close.

Sharon and Osbourne married only months after this incident. His struggle with drug use did not stop him from making further solo records alongside various guitar players, continuing with moderate success throughout his career.

On the road, Osbourne put the John Farnham’s last tour trope to shame.

He held his last ever gig more times than one can count with names like No More Tours (1992–93), Retirement Sucks (1995–96) and No More Tours 2 (2018–19).

This lament for touring led to the most successful era of Osbourne’s career. After being rejected for the 1995 Lollapaloza festival bill, Sharon (and their son Jack) started Ozzfest; initially an annual two-day multiband festival headlined by Osbourne, held in Phoenix, Arizona, and Devore, California.

Subsequently becoming a national – and then international – tour, Ozzfest led to a successful partnership with MTV, which led to the reality TV show The Osbournes premiering in 2002. Here, his previous and ongoing battle with drugs was obvious, proudly on display – and ridiculed – to huge global audiences.

The spectacle of a rich rockstar and his family featured a constant barrage of swearing, battles with lavish TV remotes, canine therapy, never-ending chaos, and Osbourne constantly yelling “Sharrrooon” like a twisted maniacal loop of A Street Car Named Desire.

Struggles and controversies

Osbourne suffered multiple health conditions over the years, rarely concealing the state of his physical or mental wellbeing.

Notably he’s struggled with drug and alcohol abuse his whole career with drug recovery centres using Osbourne as an exemplar. In 2007 he disclosed he suffered from the Parkinson’s adjacent condition Parkinsonian syndrome. In 2019 he was diagnosed with Parkinson’s disease.

This resulted in him being unable to walk for his final Back to the Beginning show in Birmingham on July 5 2025.

And Osbourne’s career had more than its fair share of controversy. He bit the head off a dove and a bat (celebrated with a commemorative toy), and urinated on the Alamo cenotaph. He was taken to court multiple times, but was never convicted.

Ozzy and me

As a white middle-class boy growing up in the Brisbane suburbs in the 80s, heavy metal music appealed to my testosterone and pimple filled body.

Exploring the secondhand record shops of Brisbane, I would’ve bought my first copy of Black Sabbath around 1985. The sound of thunder and a distant church bell before the first drop-D riff enters seemed like the antithesis to sunny Queensland and 80s pop.

As my life became obsessed with the recording studio and the vociferous music scene in Brisbane in the post-Joh era, and those drop-D riffs influenced a new style that swept the world in the early 90s.

Osbourne’s influence was huge and through grunge, his sound was reborn. Grunge was a marriage of the Sabbath-like drop-D riffs with the energy of punk and the melody of the Beatles.

Listening to Black Sabbath and Ozzy records, equipped me with a sonic palette ready to capture the wave of alternative music emmerging from the Brisbane scene.

While Ozzy’s death is no surprise (except for those who never thought he’d last this long), we should take pause and remember an icon with an endless energy for entertaining, a passion for music, and changing the expectations of popular culture for more than 50 years.

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Jazz Commentary: John Coltrane’s “A Love Supreme” Turns 60 — A Homage

COMPILED BY BILL MARX

“I believe that men are here to grow themselves into the best good that they can be.” – John Coltrane

This year marks the 60th anniversary of the release of John Coltrane’s magisterial album A Love Supreme, which has meant so much to so many. Some of the magazine’s jazz writers wanted to express what the music meant (and still means) to them. Their reactions are below.

ALLEN MICHIE

It was years after I discovered Coltrane’s A Love Supreme that I learned I was listening to part of it all wrong.

I confess I didn’t look too deeply into Coltrane’s “Dear Listeners” letter and the “A Love Supreme” poem included in the album’s gatefold. I knew the music had an intensely spiritual dimension, but I thought I didn’t need to study the fragmented religious catchphrases in the poetry to have a deeper appreciation of it. The words didn’t strike me as being particularly literary or original.

What my eyes skimmed over in Coltrane’s “Dear Listener” letter was the line: “the fourth and last part is a musical narration of the theme, ‘A Love Supreme,’ which is written in the context; it is entitled ‘PSALM.’” My mistake was that I didn’t take this literally.

Coltrane does something in the fourth movement that he had never done before and never did again. I can’t think of another example of it in jazz before that enchanted recording date of December 1964. Coltrane read his poem, syllable by syllable, through his tenor saxophone. You’re supposed to read the poem as you listen to the music. Unlike musicians playing the written melodies to standards, where you can “hear” the familiar lyrics you already know, Coltrane was freely improvising his melodies. He invented and then built his solo around recurring musical motifs structured by recurring phrases in the words, such as “Thank you God.”

It’s not a gimmick. The effect is powerful, and I encourage you to take the time to give it your full attention. For those who sometimes struggle to “get” Coltrane and understand the logic behind what appears to be his chaotic musical approach, this is an excellent place to start.

In order to follow the natural cadences of speech, Coltrane limits the range to the middle of the tenor saxophone to match that of an adult male’s voice. When the voice rises and breaks with emotion, as it does at 2:52 over the lines “Have no fear…believe…thank you God,” you can hear a new level of sincerity of expression, free of cliché or overdramatization. Simple lines like “God is. He always was. He always will be. No matter what…it is God” at 1:14 are expressed as a moment of quiet but uplifting discovery.

As the entire A Love Supreme suite builds to its conclusion, at 5:27, Coltrane’s stately incantation rises to something a human voice would strain to do. It is a disciplined cry, part sorrowful at losing some of our past self, and part ecstatic that a rebirth is underway. “He will remake us…He always has and He always will. It is true—blessed be His name—thank you God.” The music descends to the line “so gently we hardly feel it,” then ascends triumphantly, step by step, through the words “ELATION—ELEGANCE—EXALTATION.”

If you have journeyed with Coltrane this far, the reward is yours as well.

STEVE ELLMAN

John Coltrane had worked the territory before – modality and the blues – but never with such an explicit agenda. What if the music had appeared without its famous title, without the chant of “a love supreme” that surprised so many when they heard it for the first time? But that’s pointless: it is impossible to separate the music of A Love Supreme from its purpose. Coltrane said it was “a humble offering to Him,” and I have always heard it as a seeking, as well – hands and horn uplifted to a non-denominational divine.

“A Love Supreme” is the expression of the first giant step in that musical journey. Coltrane was in good company – the heart of A Love Supreme is like that of Moses on reaching the summit of Mount Horeb; like that of Jesus of Nazareth as John the Baptist was lifting him from the water of the Jordan; like that of Siddhartha Gautama in his final seconds of meditation under the bodhi tree before achieving enlightenment; like that of the prophet Muhammad in the moment the angel Gabriel said, “Recite.”

The search is in Coltrane’s liner notes: “I perceive . . . His OMNIPOTENCE, and of our need for, and dependence on Him. . . . In all ways seek God everyday. . . . No road is an easy one, but they all go back to God. . . . I have seen God. I have seen ungodly . . . He will remake us . . .”

Coltrane revisited A Love Supreme in live performance (notably with Carlos Ward and Pharoah Sanders added as solo voices, in Seattle in October 1965). The original themes and improvisations have been reexamined and reinterpreted by Branford Marsalis’s quartet, by Wynton Marsalis in a large-ensemble version for the Lincoln Center Jazz Orchestra, by violinist David Balakrishnan for the Turtle Island String Quartet, and by Jeff Scott in his Passion for Bach and Coltrane (Fuse review), along with others of much less renown, like the sacred steel group the Campbell Brothers, Catalan drummer Vicente Espí, Hungarian guitarist Juhász Gábor, and the big band led by French composer Christophe Dalsasso and saxophonist Lionel Belmondo.

Individual movements of the suite have inspired reimaginings by (among many others) saxophonists Kenny Garrett, Eric Alexander, and Lakecia Benjamin; Alice Coltrane, with Frank Lowe, Leroy Jenkins, Reggie Workman and Ben Riley; singer Kurt Elling, in a vocalise version setting philosophical words to Coltrane’s solo on “Resolution”; guitarists Carlos Santana and John McLaughlin; keyboardist-producer Robert Glasper; and Canadian pianist Andy Milne, in a symphony arrangement for Carlos Simon’s Coltrane: Legacy for Orchestra (Fuse review).

Even though the reinterpretations vary widely in sound and quality, they all share an astonishing continuity of reverence for the original, as if A Love Supreme were a cathedral, striking its visitors into awe and contemplation.

In all his music, consciously and unconsciously, Coltrane sought to fill the emptiness of a hollow world. The yearning of A Love Supreme touched something universal, and the musical expression of that yearning touched the souls of millions. Its power will not be diminished by time.

STEPHEN PROVIZER

Other Arts Fuse writers will no doubt discuss the creation of A Love Supreme and place it in a broader jazz context. My contribution is a personal story, inspired by the only slight exaggeration that this album saved my life. Twice.

My sister Marlene gave me the album for my 15th birthday the year it was released, 1965. She had no idea at the time, but days before, the girl I loved had told me she no longer wanted anything to do with me. I was devastated and took to my bed, crawling out only for an occasional meal. When Marlene brought me the LP, I could only muster a pro forma thank you.

My family’s record player was a console that sat in the dining room—a Sylvania. At that point, I had heard Coltrane’s Live at the Village Vanguard, so I knew he was going in new directions, but I was not prepared for what I heard. I put the record on and lay under the dining room table to listen. I was more than confused by what I heard. In fact, my breathing momentarily stopped. By the time the record was over, my spirits had lifted and I knew I would never hear or play music the same way again. Life seemed not so dire and perhaps, I thought, love might find me again.

My obsession with Coltrane was such that when I went to college, I finagled a grant to study his life. At nineteen years old, and wearing a fedora in an attempt to look older, I hit the road to North Carolina, Philadelphia, and New York City; I interviewed as many of the people who knew him as I could. Some of this material was published, but I didn’t write a biography because Alice Coltrane’s lawyers wouldn’t let her speak to me unless I had a publisher, and I couldn’t get a publisher until…

To frame the second life-saving incident, I will remind people that this was the era of the Vietnam War. In 1969, the Selective Service lottery was held and my number was 132. I was clearly going to be drafted — I was not interested in going to war. I was called for my physical. I didn’t quite manage to get under the minimum weight for my height, although carrying my trumpet and devising some interesting sexual inclinations did compel the shrink to write on my form that I had “overt character disorders.” I knew I needed to apply for conscientious objector (C.O.) status. And this is where A Love Supreme reappears.

You have to submit a written statement to your draft board that establishes your religious and/or ethical claim to be a conscientious objector. I am Jewish and was bar-mitzvah, but my claim was not based on that. Instead, I included a copy of the liner notes of A Love Supreme and explained that this was the basis of my spiritual beliefs. When I went to my draft board in Brookline’s Coolidge Corner, I brought a man with me—a well-known town guy who umpired softball games. He testified to my sincerity and helped to ground my esoteric claims. I explained the basis of my application to the board: I was granted C.O. status and then declared 4-F. Thank you, John Coltrane. Because of you and A Love Supreme, I never had to see the jungles of Southeast Asia.

STEVE FEENEY

I had an early introduction to the music of John Coltrane by way of a gift from a friend—a double vinyl album that included two Miles Davis releases: Workin’ and Steamin’ from the 1950s. Wow, that tenor sax player in the group had a powerful, distinctive sound. But it was my later introduction to Coltrane’s own A Love Supreme that really opened my ears, which at the time was otherwise accustomed to a diet of psychedelic jams.

As we listened to the disc, a member of my group of young friends nearly threw me off by insisting on singing along in a peculiar way to the spiritual chant at the start of the album. She insisted on changing “A Love Supreme, A Love Supreme” to “I Love Ice Cream, I Love Ice Cream.” The memory of that somewhat amusing, but nonetheless supremely annoying, irreverence still freezes my brain for a moment when I play the album.

In any event, I was, and remain, more focused on the instrumental music that followed the chanting. “Pursuance” is the section (or movement) in the four-part work that still blows me away. It contains the most intense jazz quartet music I have ever heard. I use the qualifier ‘jazz,’ but really, it holds up against any serious quartet music.

The mix of joy, humility, and African American roots in A Love Supreme makes for a triumphant recording, a testament to the chemistry of the leader, pianist McCoy Tyner, bassist Jimmy Garrison, and drummer Elvin Jones. I think I’ll stick the disc in the CD player (I still have one) in my car and head for a visit to the outer reaches of this great music— maybe taking some time out for a quick stop somewhere for a cone.

MICHAEL ULLMAN

In January of 1965, Impulse Records issued John Coltrane’s quartet record, A Love Supreme. I bought my copy soon after. I was already an engaged, teenaged Coltrane fan. I had heard Trane with Miles Davis and also in the Coltrane records I had already acquired—among them, Coltrane Plays the Blues, My Favorite Things, and the more recent Crescent. But my response, and that of others, to A Love Supreme was nonetheless different from our reactions to previous Coltrane performances and perhaps from any previous jazz record. I remember, in the fall of 1967, walking across the green at the University of Chicago and crossing paths with a young man who was chanting, “a love supreme, a love supreme.” Abruptly, it seemed my semi-private obsession with middle and late Coltrane was now widely shared, at least among hip Ivy League types.

A Love Supreme changed the public’s perspective on Coltrane. From 1965 on, his image was surrounded by an air of piety, especially following his premature death in 1967. After Trane, some jazz was increasingly seen as an expression of a spiritual force. No one then was surprised when Pharoah Sanders issued records like Karma and Wisdom Through Music, or when he chanted, “The Creator Has a Master Plan.” Alice Coltrane continued in Trane’s path with records like Lord of Lords. On the other hand, people were startled when they saw a photo of Coltrane smiling: he was typically seen as sober as an old-fashioned judge. His music reflected his seriousness. With its long, almost placid lines and out-of-tempo feel, the introduction to the title cut of Crescent may have been a musical precursor to A Love Supreme. But the latter album came with a poem, and the piece was made up of four movements—“Acknowledgement,” “Resolution,” “Pursuance,” and “Psalm.” This setup suggested the path of an effortful but ultimately successful spiritual awakening. Listeners believed that his music offered them a healing journey, an escape from a war-torn political scene and an increasingly agitated racial climate.

In his notes, Coltrane wrote about his own journey: “During the year 1957 I experienced, by the grace of God, a spiritual awakening which was to lead me to a richer, more productive life.” He backslid temporarily, he said, but had come back to his chosen path. A Love Supreme was his way of saying thank you and also suggesting a way for the rest of us to follow. The way wasn’t meant to be tedious: he ends his poem by telling us what God had vouchsafed him: “ELATION—ELEGANCE—EXALTATION.” “Acknowledgement” begins with a splash on Elvin Jones’s gong and a fanfare from Coltrane, who withdraws as McCoy Tyner fills in and then seems to dwindle away in anticipation. The introduction ends with Jimmy Garrison’s repetitions of the four-note theme that A Love Supreme will always be known for. Coltrane returns, interjecting the straightforward force of his playing as he moves from overblown high notes to the depth of his tenor. He plays short phrases that seem to move with their own harmonic logic. At his most intense, he travels higher in his horn, swirling around an imagined center. Eventually, of course, he chants “a love supreme.”

After one acknowledges the omnipresence of God, there is “Resolution,” which precedes the action suggested by the following movement, “Pursuance.” The theme of “Resolution” is just as attractive as its predecessor. Here, though, McCoy Tyner solos at length with his own pounding, two-handed force: he plays a whole chorus of thumping chords. Jones is given the opportunity to open “Pursuance.” Coltrane ensures that every quartet member gets his feature time—still, the saxophonist dominates with his sometimes shrieking intensity. The concluding movement, “Psalm,” is a proclamation, perhaps of well-earned serenity. A Love Supreme has been treated by critics as Coltrane’s signature album. I don’t think he thought of it that way, as if its significance was set in stone. The next day, he re-recorded several movements, and in his next session he recorded “Chim Chim Cheree” from Mary Poppins. His ears remained open and his musical spirit playful.

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Sly Stone Turned Isolation Into Inspiration, Forging A Path For A Generation Of Music-Makers

The charismatic front man of Sly and the Family Stone died on June 9, 2025, at the age of 82. Michael Ochs Archives/Getty Images

BY JOSE VALENTINO RUIZ

ASSOCIATE PROFESSOR OF MUSIC

BUSINESS AND ENTREPRENEURSHIP,

UNIVERSITY OF FLORIDA

In the fall of 1971, Sly and the Family Stone’s “There’s a Riot Goin’ On” landed like a quiet revolution. After two years of silence following the band’s mainstream success, fans expected more feel-good funk from the ensemble.

What they got instead was something murkier and more fractured, yet deeply intimate and experimental. This was not just an album; it was the sound of a restless mind rebuilding music from the inside out.

At the center of it all was front man Sly Stone.

Long before the home studio became an industry norm, Stone, who died on June 9, 2025, turned the studio into both a sanctuary and an instrument. And long before sampling defined the sound of hip-hop, he was using tape and machine rhythms to deconstruct existing songs to cobble together new ones.

As someone who spends much of their time working on remote recording and audio production – from building full arrangements solo to collaborating digitally across continents – I’m deeply indebted to Sly Stone’s approach to making music.

He was among the first major artists to fully embrace the recording environment as a space to compose rather than perform. Every reverb bounce, every drum machine tick, every overdubbed breath became part of the writing process.

From studio rat to bedroom producer

Sly and the Family Stone’s early albums – including “Dance to the Music” and “Stand!” – were recorded at top-tier facilities like CBS Studios in Los Angeles under the technical guidance of engineers such as Don Puluse and with oversight from producer David Rubinson.

These sessions yielded bright, radio-friendly tracks that emphasized tight horn sections, group vocals and a polished sound. Producers also prized the energy of live performance, so the full band would record together in real time.

But by the early 1970s, Stone was burnt out. The dual pressures of fame and industry demands were becoming too much. Struggling with cocaine and PCP addiction, he’d grown increasingly distrustful of bandmates, label executives and even his friends.

So he decided to retreat to his hillside mansion in Bel Air, California, transforming his home into a musical bunker. Inside, he could work on his own terms: isolated and erratic, but free.

Without a full band present, Stone became a one-man ensemble. He leaned heavily into overdubbing – recording one instrument at a time and building his songs from fragments. Using multiple tape machines, he’d layer each part onto previous takes.

The resulting album, “There’s a Riot Goin’ On,” was like nothing he’d previously recorded. It sounds murky, jagged and disjointed. But it’s also deeply intentional, as if every imperfection was part of the design.

In “The Poetics of Rock,” musicologist Albin Zak describes this “composerly” approach to production, where recording itself becomes a form of writing, not just documentation. Stone’s process for “There’s a Riot Goin’ On” reflects this mindset: Each overdub, rhythm loop and sonic imperfection functions more like a brushstroke than a performance.

Automating the groove

A key part of Stone’s tool kit was the Maestro Rhythm King, a preset drum machine he used extensively.

It wasn’t the first rhythm box on the market. But Stone’s use of it was arguably the first time such a machine shaped the entire aesthetic of a mainstream album. The drum parts on his track “Family Affair,” for example, don’t swing – they tick. What might have been viewed as soulless became its own kind of soul.

This early embrace of mechanical rhythm prefigured what would later become a foundation of hip-hop and electronic music. In his book “Dawn of the DAW,” music technology scholar Adam Patrick Bell calls this shift “a redefinition of groove,” noting how drum machines like the Rhythm King encouraged musicians to rethink their songwriting process, building tracks in shorter, repeatable sections while emphasizing steady, looped rhythms rather than free-flowing performances.

Though samplers wouldn’t emerge until years later, Stone’s work already contained that repetition, layering and loop-based construction that would become characteristic of the practice.

He recorded his own parts the way future DJs would splice records – isolated, reshuffled, rhythmically obsessed. His overdubbed bass lines, keyboard vamps and vocal murmurs often sounded like puzzle pieces from other songs.

Music scholar Will Fulton, in his study of Black studio innovation, notes how producers like Stone helped pioneer a fragment-based approach to music-making that would become central to hip-hop’s DNA. Stone’s process anticipated the mentality that a song isn’t necessarily something written top to bottom, but something assembled, brick by brick, from what’s available.

Perhaps not surprisingly, Stone’s tracks have been sampled relentlessly. In “Bring That Beat Back,” music critic Nate Patrin identifies Stone as one of the most sample-friendly artists of the 1970s – not because of his commercial hits, but because of how much sonic space he left in his tracks: the open-ended grooves, unusual textures and slippery emotional tone.

You can hear his sounds in famous tracks such as 2Pac’s “If My Homie Calls,” which samples “Sing a Simple Song”; A Tribe Called Quest’s “The Jam,” which draws from “Family Affair”; and De La Soul’s “Plug Tunin’,” which flips “You Can Make It If You Try.”

The studio as instrument

While Sly’s approach was groundbreaking, he wasn’t entirely alone. Around the same time, artists such as Brian Wilson and The Rolling Stones were experimenting with home and nontraditional recording environments – Wilson famously retreating to his home studio during “Pet Sounds,” and the Stones tracking “Exile on Main St.” in a French villa.

Yet in the world of Black music, production remained largely centralized in institutionally controlled studio systems such as Motown in Detroit and Stax in Memphis, where sound was tightly managed by in-house producers and engineers. In that context, Stone’s decision to isolate, self-produce and dismantle the standard workflow was more than a technical choice: It was a radical act of autonomy.

The rise of home recording didn’t just change who could make music. It changed what music felt like. It made music more internal, iterative and intimate.

Sly Stone helped invent that feeling.

It’s easy to hear “There’s a Riot Goin’ On” as murky or uneven. The mix is dense with tape hiss, drum machines drift in and out of sync, and vocals often feel buried or half-whispered.

But it’s also, in a way, prophetic.

It anticipated the aesthetics of bedroom pop, the cut-and-paste style of modern music software, the shuffle of playlists and the recycling of sounds that defines sample culture. It showed that a groove didn’t need to be spontaneous to be soulful, and that solitude could be a powerful creative tool, not a limitation.

In my own practice, I often record alone, passing files back and forth, building from templates and mapping rhythm to grid – as do millions of musical artists who compose tracks from their bedrooms, closets and garages.

Half a century ago, a funk pioneer led the way. I think it’s safe to say that Sly Stone quietly changed the process of making music forever – and in the funkiest way possible.

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Global Culture Crossroads: Okonkwo Vs Idris Elba

BY FEMI AKINTUNDE-JOHNSON

Idris Elba is a name synonymous with global stardom. Whether it is his nuanced performance as Nelson Mandela in ‘Long Walk to Freedom’, or his chilling portrayal of Commandant in ‘Beasts of No Nation’, the actor has proven himself capable of embodying larger-than-life characters. But can he do justice to the towering figure of Okonkwo, the tragic protagonist of Chinua Achebe’s Things Fall Apart? That question has stirred a storm of controversy, reflecting broader concerns about cultural authenticity, representation, and Hollywood’s expanding influence on global narratives.

Achebe’s 1958 novel remains one of the most pivotal works in African literature, dissecting the cataclysmic encounter between the indigenous Igbo people of Nigeria and British colonialism. Okonkwo stands at the heart of this narrative, a man so tethered to his cultural identity that the forces of change render him a tragic relic of a dying era. Bringing such a character to life on the silver screen is no small feat, and casting decisions are vital to preserving the integrity of this narrative. The rumored casting of Elba (52), while exciting to some, has opened a Pandora’s box of cultural and artistic dilemmas.

There are many compelling reasons to support Idris Elba’s portrayal of Okonkwo. First and foremost is his undeniable talent and ability to convey the emotional complexity that Okonkwo demands. Okonkwo’s tragic flaw – his fear of failure and his dogged clinging to outdated ideals – calls for an actor capable of walking the fine line between stoic pride and vulnerable fragility. Elba, with his commanding presence and well-honed versatility, has repeatedly demonstrated the capacity to navigate the moral ambiguity required of such roles.

There is also the practical consideration of marketability. Hollywood’s inclination to cast well-known actors in significant roles is not merely an artistic choice – it’s a financial imperative. Idris Elba, with his international acclaim, could serve as the bridge that connects this deeply Nigerian story with a global audience. In a world where African cinema still struggles to gain mainstream recognition, casting a star like Elba could ensure that Things Fall Apart transcends the ‘foreign film’ niche and garners the widespread attention it deserves.

Yet, this argument is where the cultural fault lines begin to form. As African literature scholars and Achebe enthusiasts argue, Things Fall Apart is not just any narrative that can be globalized for the sake of profit and fame. It is a profound exploration of a specific cultural moment, anchored in the traditions, language, and experiences of the Igbo people. The nuances of the Igbo worldview – expressed in their proverbs, customs, and communal way of life – are integral to the novel’s power. Casting a non-Nigerian, particularly a non-Igbo actor, in the role of Okonkwo risks diluting this cultural specificity, reducing the story to a pan-African narrative that overlooks the deep roots from which it springs.

“There’s a tendency for Hollywood to paint Africa with broad strokes,” noted Nigerian author Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie. “But Africa is not a country. Okonkwo is not just any African man. He is an Igbo man, steeped in a very particular tradition and history.” For many, casting Elba, though African, could symbolize another chapter in the West’s tendency to flatten the rich tapestry of African cultures into a monolithic narrative. Elba’s broad appeal and recognizability might attract audiences, but at what cost to the story’s authenticity?

Hollywood often equates star power with marketability, and Elba’s presence undoubtedly brings a level of global recognition that could draw a wide, diverse audience. This is crucial for a film like Things Fall Apart, which, while celebrated in academic and literary circles, may not naturally appeal to mainstream Western audiences. Elba’s acting chops combined with his international acclaim could help bridge that gap.

Idrissa Akuna Elba, OBE, born to Sierra Leonean and Ghanaian parents, is African but not Nigerian. For some, this fact alone disqualifies him from portraying Okonkwo. While Elba is undeniably talented, there is a belief that only a Nigerian actor, someone steeped in the country’s cultural landscape, can truly inhabit the role.

The decision also raises the broader issue of representation in global cinema. If Elba is cast, it may reinforce the troubling precedent of relying on foreign actors to tell indigenous stories. This practice can overshadow local talent and deprive Nigerian actors of opportunities to portray characters that are their cultural birthright. Nigeria’s film industry, Nollywood, is the second largest in the world, and there is no shortage of homegrown talent capable of delivering an authentic portrayal of Okonkwo. To cast outside this wealth of talent might be seen as Hollywood’s endorsement of the notion that African actors lack the capacity to carry a major production – an idea that perpetuates the very colonialist thinking that Things Fall Apart critiques.

Financially, the project is rumored to be a massive undertaking. Several reports suggest that Hollywood studios are in discussions with Nollywood producers, potentially involving African production houses to ensure a sense of cultural ownership. This consortium would pool resources, aiming for a budget exceeding $50 million (over ₦80 billion in today’s exchange rate), with plans to shoot on locations in Nigeria and utilize both local and international crews. The involvement of African producers could mitigate concerns about cultural erasure, ensuring that the film’s portrayal of Igbo society remains respectful and accurate. But, as always with such partnerships, there’s a fine line between collaboration and co-optation. If the project is too heavily influenced by Western investors, the danger of diluting the narrative for mass appeal looms large.

The stakes are high. Things Fall Apart is more than just a story – it is a cultural touchstone, a lens through which the complexities of colonialism and cultural identity have been analyzed for decades. A misstep in its adaptation could have lasting implications for how African stories are told on the global stage. We have seen examples of literary works from other cultures being adapted for international audiences, sometimes with mixed results. ‘The Kite Runner’, based on the novel by Khaled Hosseini, was one such example that, despite its success, faced criticism for its oversimplified portrayal of Afghan culture. More recently, Disney’s live-action adaptation of ‘Mulan’ received backlash for flattening Chinese history into a palatable fantasy for Western viewers, despite its attempts to honor the original.

However, there have also been instances where adaptation has been handled with care. Ang Lee’s ‘Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon’, for example, succeeded in telling a distinctly Chinese story while captivating a global audience. It maintained the depth and dignity of its cultural context while still appealing to viewers unfamiliar with the traditions it depicted. The key to its success was respect for the material – an understanding that a global audience need not come at the cost of cultural authenticity.

The question that hangs over Things Fall Apart is whether such a balance can be achieved. Can Idris Elba, with all his talent and charisma, embody Okonkwo without overshadowing the Igbo essence that defines him? Can Hollywood adapt a distinctly African narrative without stripping it of its soul?

As Achebe’s Uchendu says, “The world has no end, and what is good among one people is an abomination with others.” This sentiment resonates as filmmakers face the task of translating Achebe’s world to the screen. The contemporary world is watching, waiting to see whether this adaptation will honor the cultural heritage that Achebe so brilliantly captured, or whether it will fall victim to the very forces of commodification and cultural flattening that Things Fall Apart warns against.

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Despite Its Big Night At The Oscars, ‘Oppenheimer’ Is A Disappointment And A Lost Opportunity

Christopher Nolan

BY NAOKO WAKE

PROFESSOR OF HISTORY

MICHIGAN STATE UNIVERSITY

With 13 Oscars nominations and seven wins – including best picture – “Oppenheimer” was the star of the 96th Academy Awards.

Christopher Nolan’s blockbuster, which told the story of the making of the atomic bombs that were dropped on Hiroshima and Nagasaki, added to its awards season haul that includes five Golden Globes and seven BAFTA awards.

But as a historian whose research has revolved around the survivors of the bombings, I cannot help but be disappointed that, yet again, the dominant narrative of the bombs chugs along.

This narrative has long informed how Hollywood and the U.S. media have addressed nuclear weapons. It paints the bombs’ creation as a morally fraught but necessary project – an extraordinary invention by exceptional minds, a national project that was a matter of life or death for a country mired in a global conflict. To use the bombs was a difficult decision at a challenging time. Yet it’s important to remember that, above all, the bombs saved democracy.

There is something that strikes me as so inward-looking to this narrative – it is so focused on the stress over losing an arms race, on fears of making a mistake, on anxiety over what would happen if bombs were to one day be dropped on the U.S. – that it drowns out what actually did happen after the bombs were detonated.

A barren cultural landscape

When Nolan was pressed over why he chose not to show any images of Hiroshima, Nagasaki or the victims, he said, “less can be more” – that the subtext of what’s not shown is even more powerful, since it forces audiences to use their imaginations.

But what images from popular culture do audiences even have to pull from?

From the 1950s to the 1980s, many Hollywood films explored the fear of a nuclear apocalypse. Only a few depicted mass deaths on the ground – “The Day After” comes to mind – but virtually none showed survivors who looked or sounded like real survivors.

Instead, films such as “Dr. Strangelove or: How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love the Bomb” simply showed mushroom clouds and bird’s-eye views of the bombs from above. When cameras did zoom in on the ground in films such as “Panic in Year Zero!” and “Testament,” they revealed Americans bracing for or panicking about the bomb being dropped on them.

Watching these films, it’s easy to believe that if a nuclear attack had ever occurred, it must have been in a U.S. city.

This genealogy of films also includes collective biopics of a sort, in which a nuclear drama unfolds among scientists, military officials and politicians.

In the 2024 book “Resisting the Nuclear: Art and Activism across the Pacific,” one chapter describes how Oppenheimer and Albert Einstein reenacted the Trinity test in “Atomic Power,” a 1946 film that celebrates the role of science in U.S. military might. They note that in the film’s outtakes, Einstein seemed unfocused while Oppenheimer appeared stilted.

Clearly, the two scientists were uncomfortable with their newly assigned role as promoters of a mesmerizing, dangerous technology. If “Oppenheimer” expands on this personal discomfort, the film keeps firmly in place the disconnect between the bombs’ creators and the destruction they wrought.

The bombs didn’t discriminate

In the end, films like “Oppenheimer” offer few, if any, new insights about the bombings of Hiroshima and Nagasaki and their repercussions.

More than 200,000 people perished, and the lives lost included not only Japanese civilians but also Koreans who had been in Japan as forced laborers or military conscripts.

In fact, 1 in every 10 people who survived the bomb were Koreans, but the U.S. government has never recognized them as survivors of U.S. military attacks. To this day they struggle to get access to medical treatment for their long-term radiation illness.

Moreover, about 3,000 to 4,000 of those affected by the bombs were Americans of Japanese ancestry, as I have shown in my book about Asian American survivors of the bombings. Most of them were children who were staying with their families, or students who had enrolled in schools in Japan prior to the war because U.S. schools had become increasingly discriminatory to Asian American students.

These non-Japanese survivors – including many U.S.-born citizens – have been known to scholars and activists since at least the 1990s. So it feels surreal to watch a film that depicts the bombs’ effects purely in the context of the U.S. at war against its enemy, Japan. As my work shows, the bombs didn’t discriminate between friend and foe.

It is not that Christopher Nolan ignores the bombs’ power to destroy.

He gestures toward it when he depicts J. Robert Oppenheimer, the nuclear physicist played by Cillian Murphy, imagining a nuclear holocaust when giving a celebratory speech to his colleagues after the bomb was dropped on Hiroshima.

But what Oppenheimer sees in this hallucination is the face of a young white woman peeling off – played by Nolan’s daughter, Flora – not those of the Japanese, Korean and Asian American people who actually experienced the bombs. Later in the film, Oppenheimer looks away from the images of Hiroshima’s ground zero when they’re shown to him and his Manhattan Project colleagues.

I wondered, as I watched this scene, whether this decision encourages the audience to look away, too.
Global reverberations

Even if this film is seen purely through the lens of entertainment, Nolan could have chosen to recognize why the bombs are such a galvanizing subject to begin with: They have done much, much more than make white, middle-class Americans feel anxious or guilty.

Their blasts reverberated across the globe, tearing apart not only America’s wartime enemies but also colonized peoples and racial minorities.

Cold War nuclear production disproportionately hurt Native and Indigenous Americans who worked at uranium mines and the residents of the Pacific Islands chosen as the sites of several dozens of U.S. nuclear tests.

For those on the receiving end, the effects of the nuclear explosions are not a thing of the past. They are a daily reality.

And the effects of radiation continue to plague not just humans but the environment. Scientists still don’t know what to do with highly radioactive nuclear waste, whether it’s from nuclear power plants or former nuclear test sites that remain off-limits because they are too contaminated to inhabit.

As global conflicts increase the possibility of nuclear war, it’s certainly important to talk about the ongoing legacies of the bombings of Hiroshima and Nagasaki.

But to create a more balanced understanding of nuclear weapons, it would be helpful if talented filmmakers like Nolan made more of an effort to look beyond the narrow immediacy of a mushroom cloud.

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From SZA To The Stone Of Scone, The Words That Help Tell The Story Of 2023 Were Often Mispronounced

THE ASSOCIATED PRESS

FILE - SZA arrives at the 64th annual Grammy Awards, April 3, 2022, in Las Vegas. (Photo by Jordan Strauss/Invision/AP, File)

BY JAMIE STENGLE

Some of the words tied to this year’s hottest topics were also among the most mangled when it came to saying them aloud, with stumpers ranging from the first name of “Oppenheimer” star Cillian Murphy to the singer SZA to the name of a sacred slab of sandstone used in the coronation of King Charles III.

This year’s lists of the most mispronounced words in the U.S. and Britain were released Thursday by the online language learning company Babbel, which commissions The Closed Captioning Group in the U.S. and the British Institute of Verbatim Reports in the U.K. to identify the top words that news anchors, politicians and other public figures have struggled with.

Going through the lists provides a bit of a year-end review that ranges from scientific discoveries to entertainment to politics. Babbel teacher Malcolm Massey said the diversity of the words struck him, with words coming from several different language.

“I think a lot of it is due to how close our cultures have become because of how globalized things are,” Massey said.

SZA, who leads in nominations for the upcoming Grammys and whose “Kill Bill” was the second most-streamed song on Spotify this year, made the U.S. list. Her name is pronounced SIZ-uh, according to the experts at Babbel, who say the first name of another entertainer on the list, the Irish actor who starred in this summer’s hit as physicist J. Robert Oppenheimer, is pronounced KI-lee-uhn.

New Netflix Thriller Tackling Theme Of Justice In Nigeria Is A Global Hit And A Boon For Nollywood

A man reads messages on his cell phone under a poster of the film The Black Book in Lagos, Nigeria, Friday, Oct. 20, 2023...(AP Photo/Sunday Alamba)

BY CHINEDU ASADU

ABUJA, NIGERIA (AP) — A Nigerian action thriller that tells a gripping story of corruption and police brutality in Africa’s most populous country has reached record viewership numbers on Netflix charts globally. It’s a reminder of the power and potential of Nigeria’s rapidly growing film industry.

“The Black Book” has taken the streaming world by storm, spending three weeks among the platform’s top 10 English-language titles globally, peaking at No. 3 in the second week.

It garnered 5.6 million views just 48 hours after its Sept. 22 release and by its second week was featured among the top 10 titles in 69 countries, according to Netflix.

“Films are made for audiences, and the bigger the audience for a film, the better the chances of your message going out,” producer Editi Effiong told The Associated Press. “The reality for us is that we made a film, made by Nigerians, funded by Nigerian money, go global.”

Nollywood, Nigeria’s film industry, has been a global phenomenon since the 1990s when it rose to fame with such films as “Living in Bondage,” a thriller with Kunle Afolayan’s Aníkúlápó released in 2022 and peaking at No. 1 on Netflix’s global chart. It is the world’s second-largest film industry after India based on number of productions, with an average of 2,000 movies released annually.





Nollywood’s latest blockbuster, “The Black Book,” is a $1 million movie financed with the support of a team of experts and founders in Nigeria’s tech ecosystem and is Effiong’s first feature film.

It tells the story of Nigeria’s checkered past, spanning a period of 40 years from when military regimes killed and arrested dissidents at will until the present day, when police brutality and abuse of power remain rampant.

The film opens with the abduction of family members of the head of the Nigerian oil regulatory agency, aided by corrupt police officers working for top politicians.

To cover their tracks, the police kill a young man framed as the suspect in the kidnapping not knowing he was the only child of a former special operative who abandoned his weapons for the pulpit.

In his prime, the character of ex-officer-turned-pastor Paul Edima — played by Nigerian movie icon Richard Mofe-Damijo — was known as Nigeria’s “most dangerous man” with a past punctuated by assassinations and involvement in several coups across West Africa.

Portrayed as a repentant man who has turned over a new leaf after being inspired by his favorite Bible passage 1 Corinthians 5:17, Edima feels compelled to take revenge for his son’s death after failing to convince authorities his son is innocent.

The issue of delayed justice is not new in Nigeria. Many on Friday remembered the deadly protests of 2020 when young Nigerians demonstrating against police brutality were shot at and killed. Three years later, rights groups say many victims of police abuse still haven’t gotten justice.

For Edima, justice for his son comes at a cost. One by one, he hunts down the officers behind his son’s death, leading him to the army general behind the plot — coincidentally his former boss.

“It is a fictional narrative but this is what Nigeria was,” Effiong told the AP.

He believes Nigeria is not doing a good job of teaching its history in the schools and letting young people understand how the country’s past is shaping the present.

“A society must be changed positively by art, and so there was an orientation on our part to, through the film we are going to make, reflect on this issue (of police brutality),” Effiong said.

While a government-commissioned panel of inquiry investigated the protest shootings in Nigeria’s economic hub of Lagos in 2020, Effiong attended its meetings and provided live updates via his page on the social media platform X, formerly known as Twitter. At the same time, pre-production for the movie already had begun.

“We must tell the truth in spite of the circumstances,” he said. “Justice is important for everyone: the people we like and the people we do not like — especially the people we do not like,” he said.

Some have said the movie’s plot is similar to that of the American action thriller John Wick. It is a surprising but flattering comparison that also testifies to the movie’s success, Effiong said.

The movie also has been lauded as signifying the potential of the film industry in Nigeria as well as across Africa. The continent’s streaming on-demand video (SVOD) market is expected to boast a robust 18 million subscribers, up from 8 million this year, according to a recent report from market intelligence firm Digital TV Research.

According to a Netflix spokesperson, entertainment with local stories remains the core of the platform’s main objective in sub-Saharan Africa. “Africa has great talent and world-class creatives, and we are committed to investing in African content and telling African stories of every kind,” Netflix said in a statement.

In Nigeria, the movie industry is at “the point right now where the world needs to take notice,” Effiong said.

He said that’s because “The Black Book is a film by Black people, Black actors, Black producers, Black money 100%, and it’s gone ahead to become a global blockbuster.”