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MORE than a few eyebrows shot up when the British film director Steve McQueen, fresh from the triumph of 12 Years a Slave, announced a couple of years ago that his next project would focus on Paul Robeson. Some of the bewilderment revolved around the question of why he would pick such an obscure subject.
There was a time when Robeson was anything but obscure. During the 1930s-40s, he was arguably the best-known African American on the planet. But when he died 40 years ago this week, it can safely be said that his name did not ring a bell for most Americans. This outstanding athlete, actor, singer and political activist had been effectively written out of history. This was almost exclusively a consequence of the way in which he used his tremendously powerful voice.
Robeson could have served as a poster boy for the American illusion that it did not have a serious race problem. After all, he had graduated from Rutgers University with honours, having made his mark on the sporting field as a formidable footballer, whereafter he obtained a degree in law from Columbia. He had, however, experienced racial prejudice every step of the way.
There was a time when Robeson was anything but obscure.
Robeson was proud of his colour, increasingly aware of what his fellow African Americans were up against, and intrigued by his African heritage. Amid a growing political awareness, he dedicated himself to the performing arts. The gift of a golden voice stood him in good stead both in the performing hall and on the dramatic stage, where starring roles in plays by Eugene O’Neill beckoned soon enough, and before long he was a star of the screen as well.
The deeply unsatisfactory roles he was offered persuaded him and his wife, Eslanda Goode Robeson, to relocate temporarily in the late 1920s to London, which they found considerably more congenial than their homeland. Critically acclaimed appearances on West End stages were accompanied by film offers that he hoped would accurately reflect the richness of African culture.
Robeson was generally disappointed on that front. There was at least one exception, though: The Proud Valley placed him among Welsh miners — and it was this unlikely connection that first piqued the interest of a 15-year-old McQueen.
London also afforded the Robesons the opportunity to learn firsthand about colonial struggles for independence from the likes of Jomo Kenyatta, Kwame Nkrumah and, not least, Jawaharlal Nehru. The acquaintance with Nehru and his sister, Vijaya Lakshmi Pandit, developed swiftly into a lasting friendship, especially for Eslanda. She was appalled when, in 1949, Paul refused to meet Nehru on the latter’s first visit to the US as prime minister, on account of the impression that Indian communists were being repressed.
There was eventually a reconciliation, and during the 1950s Nehru was active in the campaign to have Robeson’s passport restored to him. The US State Department, meanwhile, leaned heavily on New Delhi in an effort to thwart planned celebrations of Robeson’s 60th birthday by a committee headed by justice M.C. Chagla and bolstered by the participation of Indira Gandhi.
Robeson’s stay in London also led him to accept an invitation from the film director Sergei Eisenstein to visit the Soviet Union. This was a crucial turning point in his life. Robeson refused to relinquish his infatuation with the Soviet Union when the wartime alliance between the US and the USSR made way for the Cold War. That sufficed to render him an unperson.
When one of his typically belligerent interrogators at a House Un-American Activities Committee hearing in 1956 asked him why he did not stay in Russia, Robeson responded: “Because my father was a slave, and my people died to build this country, and I am going to stay here and have a part of it just like you. And no fascist-minded people will drive me from it. Is that clear?” The inquisition was rapidly brought to an end when Robeson thundered: “You are the non-patriots and you are the un-Americans, and you ought to be ashamed of yourselves.”
Two years later, Robeson’s passport was restored. He was able to keep a commitment to play Othello at Stratford-upon-Avon. But the persecution had taken its toll physically and psychologically. After returning to the US in 1963, Robeson lived as a recluse amid failing health. He was unable to attend a 75th birthday concert, but sent a message assuring his well-wishers that he was the same Paul, dedicated as ever to human equality and peace among nations.
If even an iota of his spirit can be resurrected via McQueen’s film, it will be a worthwhile endeavour. Many of today’s performers could do worse than heed Robeson’s admonition, delivered in the thick of the Spanish Civil War in the 1930s: “The artist must elect to fight for freedom or for slavery. I have made my choice. I had no alternative.”
Published in Dawn, January 20th, 2016
