You Ain't Seen Me, Right? - Shadows (1959)

Welcome to another dose of hefty brain-knowledge, as You Ain't Seen Me, Right? presents another little-known film sweetcorn nugget in the otherwise vast array of cinematic sewage and effluence.

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Shadows (1959)

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John Cassavetes is rightly acknowledged as the godfather of independent cinema. His body of work laid the groundwork for everything we now recognise as the ‘indie' sensibility. His influence permeates the work of successive generations, with everyone from Scorsese to Jarmusch singing his praises. Taking what he'd learned as an actor during the golden age of live TV, Cassavetes' seminal directorial debut married the playful vérité of the French ‘Nouvelle Vague' with Beat Generation vibrancy. But Shadows is not some quaint artefact to be condescended to by a knowing modern audience. It retains the power and relevance it had half a century ago.

Billed as ‘an improvisation', Shadows follows the lives of three siblings. Hugh (Hugh Hurd), a struggling singer reduced to opening for strippers, Ben (Ben Carruthers), a shiftless musician more concerned with seeking pleasure than perfecting his craft, and Lelia (Lelia Goldoni), an aspiring writer trying to ingratiate herself with the literary crowd. While Hugh retains the darker pigmentation of his African heritage, Lelia and Ben are light-skinned, which insulates them from the prejudice encountered by Hugh, but brings with it a different set of problems.

Shadows set out the much-imitated Cassavetes aesthetic, comprising of minimal lighting, naturalistic sound, conversational dialogue, long takes and simple camera set-ups; stripping away the layers of artifice to create a loose, unobtrusive structure. Cassavetes abandoned the rigid three-act precepts of Hollywood in favour of a free-wheeling narrative that owed much to the deconstructive approach of European auteurs like Godard and Truffaut.

With Shadows, Cassavetes endeavoured to test the limits of screen authenticity; to discover just how ‘real' cinema could be, interweaving fact and fiction in his pursuit of the space between the two. He took whatever he needed from his unknown cast to locate the truth in every scenario, using elements of their actual lives and personalities if need be. Though none of his ensemble was particularly gifted, it is a tribute to Cassavetes' skill as an actor's director that he was able to put the neophytes at their ease and draw from them largely unaffected performances.

While Shadows is a meditation on the complexities of race relations, it hits its points with a subtlety that is missing from most other films of the era exploring weighty social issues, challenging hypocrisy without grandstanding, inverting the audience's expectations by approaching the subject from an oblique angle. While Hugh's station and expectations are set by his skin colour, Lelia and Ben are buffeted between acceptance and rejection, unable to assimilate fully into either community, aspiring to a life that will never be wholly available to them.

Imbued with the restless spirit of Jazz, Shadows presents a gritty, brutally honest take on the everyday, offering no neat resolutions, dismissing the idea of lessons being learned. Bloodied but unbowed, the characters hope against hope that things will improve. Cassavetes made more accomplished films in his career, but none had the impact of this cinematic landmark. Shadows is essential viewing for anyone interested in the evolution of the medium.
And therein ends another encyclopaedic entry in the annals of film clever. More from You Ain't Seen Me, Right? next week.