Why Aren’t We Talking About “Rustin?”
I have taught a high school course in Peace Studies for over twenty years, and my students and I have come across many inspiring figures: Gandhi, King, Dolores Huerta, Francis of Assisi. But there’s one person I make sure to teach about whose story is so fascinating it always prompts students to perk up and ask, frequently with indignation, “Why haven’t we been taught about him before? Why haven’t they ever made a movie about him?” That man is Bayard Rustin.
Now that movie has finally been made, and with it, the opportunity for lifelong learners of all ages to discover an icon of intersectionality and democratic ingenuity. “Rustin” is sensational as an introduction to this strategic genius and the hero at its center has been brought to life by Colman Domingo in a performance you never want to see end; in a year of very long films, it’s the rare film you may wish was longer, the better to savor Domingo’s galvanizing work.
The breadth of Bayard Rustin’s life and talents could barely be contained in one volume of a biography, let alone a mid-budgeted film.
Born in 1912, he was raised by his grandparents (his mother was passed off as his older sister!) in a prosperous household that hosted Black intellectual and spiritual leaders. Rustin became an anti-racism activist at an early age, decades before what we think of as “the Civil Rights era,” followed Quaker and pacifistic teachings, became an accomplished cafe singer, medeival instrumentalist (he played the lute!) and recording artist, was part of the effort defending the Scotsboro Boys, served two years for objecting to war, worked to protect Japanese-Americans sent to internment camps, organized labor and racial justice marches, pioneered bus desegregation and was beaten by police for it, spent time on a Southern chain gang as a prisoner of conscience, traveled to India to study nonviolence, was arrested in California for homosexual activity in an era when it was stigmatized as a mental illness and criminalized, became a mentor to Dr. Martin Luther King and a friend to his family, organized the March on Washington, had politics that ranged from radical to neo-conservative, had several affairs with closeted men, lived long enough to be considered a sellout by Black nationalists and a role model to others, worked as a labor organizer, fought on behalf of Soviet Jews and against Russian aggression, testified on behalf of gay rights in the 1980s and found a late-in-life stable relationship with Walter Keagle, who, in an indication of the times, he was forced to adopt in order to give him legal protection. Consistent in this wild ride of a life spent for and with others are many accounts of Rustin’s powerful skills as an orator, peacemaker and his ability to befriend a wide range of allies and foes. If ever there was a life that justified an entire streaming series, or a long cinematic epic with an intermission instead of a Netflix feature with a standard running time, Rustin’s would be it.
Instead, the film “Rustin” chooses to focus on one momentous chapter in his life, constructed with hope it sheds light on the whole. Director George C. Wolfe and screenwriters Justin Breece and Oscar-winner Dustin Lance Black (all queer artists) start the film with a contextualizing montage of indignities heaped upon Civil Rights pioneers Anne Moody, Ruby Bridges and Elizabeth Eckford as they endure racist harassment just for eating at a diner or going to school, despite legal rulings against segregation. The shots in this sequence–an image of a racist woman’s silent screams reflected in Eckford’s sunglass lens is captivatingly disconcerting– promise a visual stylization that never quite arrives when the film settles into a more conventional visual vocabulary, but they still set the tone by displaying in color and slow-motion what we’re so used to seeing in black-and-white news photos. “Rustin” finds other ways to stay vibrant and lift us out of any seen-it-all-before, history-lesson complacency; we’ve certainly never seen this story, about a queer Black Civil Rights icon, before.
“Rustin” expects you to keep up. It plunges you immediately into a tense moment several years later when Rustin (Colman Domingo) and Ella Baker (a stirring Audra MacDonald) seem to be successfully convincing Martin Luther King (Ami Ameen) to march on the 1960 Democratic convention in LA. They want to pressure likely nominee JFK and other liberals who preached racial brotherhood in speeches but continued to put anti-racism legislation on the backburner so they could carry the South in elections.
Such a protest could be seen as an embarrassment to Black Democratic congressman Adam Clayton Powell (the ever-welcome and wide-ranging Jeffrey Wright, brilliant here) and an indictment for not doing enough, or, at minimum, a sign of division within the party. As King and Rustin solidify their plans at an early diner scene, we witness Rustin’s advocacy of the cafe’s grits as evidence of his powers of persuasion and symbolic of his mentorship of King in deeper matters. It’s also a jaunty but telling display of Colman’s ability to match Rustin’s famous gift for spellbinding, loquacious charisma, in matters minor and major.
Powell’s cruel and opportunistic defense is to threaten a whispering campaign implying King and Rustin are lovers. Rustin is sure that his mentee will defend him when he takes a principled stand, but in a stunning reversal is betrayed by King, who in a moment of ostensible compromise acts cowardly. After so many portrayals of King as the epitome of conscience, it’s startling to see him back away from someone who is not only a friend to him but to the entire movement of racial justice, and it’s an important corrective. In an instant, this wakes us up from other “Important Civil Rights Movies” and shows us why stories like Rustin’s are so valuable. King is a hero but had his failings, making him all the more human and interesting than common hagiographic portraits allow. For this reason, depictions of Rustin’s experiences aren’t just alternative, but essential.
Three years later Rustin attends a New York apartment party in which we not only get a glimpse of Black joy and soulfulness, but experience a cinematic alternative to the white “Breakfast at Tiffany’s”-type Manhattan cocktail gatherings in depictions of the early sixties. (A small quibble: the song the partiers dance too is “Shotgun,” not only an overly familiar choice but one which wouldn’t be released until two years later.)
We meet one of Rustin’s paramours, the young white organizer and ally Tom Kahn (whose life could use a movie of its own, played with intense focus here by Gus Helper) and see Rustin as he glides between the party guests, glimpsing even among these guests the fracturing happening within the Black rights movement, as members of CORE, SNCC, the NAACP and followers of Malcolm X bicker and posture against each other with aggressive macho bravado. It’s here, among several places in the film, we observe what co-screenwriter Justin Breece calls a “third sight”, the ability queer people of color have to observe not only the double-consciousness caused by racial anxiety, but also the triple-consciousness that develops when we see the artificial theatricality of gender role-playing that straight men enforce on each other and society. (I identify as a queer person of color; I understand this concept of “third sight.”)
Sensing the urgency of unifying the Black community at a critical moment, Rustin’s inspiration, perhaps impacted by his own previous experiences organizing for the Fellowship of Reconciliation, is the creation of the March on Washington, a vision for Black people and allies to assemble and camp on the National Mall in the backyard of Congress, attracting national attention and exerting a visible pressure for meaningful anti-racism legislation.
Despite Bayard’s formidable passion, the NAACP is skeptical, and their dismissal of the March is layered with homophobic smugness. (Historical records show that even acclaimed Civil Rights leaders would call Bayard “Sister Rustin” behind his back.) A. Phillip Randolph stands behind Rustin, and Glynn Turman essays him with supreme moral clarity and dignity; it’s a great match of veteran actor with veteran activist role. By this point, Rustin’s major opponent becomes Roy Wilkins, NAACP Executive Secretary who doesn’t hide his disdain. (Played by Chris Rock, this is the one unfortunate bit of casting in a movie studded with gems. He’s distractingly recognizable and declamatory.)
True to history, the potential for the March’s realization indicates the need for Rustin to put aside his hurt and reconcile with King, spelled out powerfully by MacDonald as Baker. When Rustin accedes and boards a bus to Georgia, flashbacks to his previous public transportation activism show us the true meaning of the oft-misunderstood fundamental of nonviolence: Christ’s teaching of “turn the other cheek.” Rustin is beaten, but in accepting the suffering, confronts the white perpetrators with their inhumanity. Thus, the famous maxim is revealed to be a strategy of strength and power, not, as it is too often mistaken, passivity.
When Rustin visits King, the filmmakers weave in some of Rustin’s colorful personal details; his ability to sing, his theatricality, the mutual affection he inspired with Coretta and the King children. The craftsmanship of the film is highly evident as King and Rustin reunite; the cinematography bathes the two former friends in shadows and light, the set design is accurate yet pleasing to the modern eye and frames them with the possibility of windows. Rediscovering their affection, one idealistic visionary is persuaded by another.
When King signs on, the March begins to take shape and Wilkins is outwitted into accepting Rustin as chief organizer. Here the film’s tone and Wolfe’s direction takes on a delightful lightness. In moviegoing terms, we get the exciting feel of a “let’s put on a show” movie or a caper, but of course, the stakes couldn’t be more life-and-death. The quickness with which a Black man’s life can be extinguished is seen with the news of the murder of Medgar Evers, who we’ve seen speaking up at a meeting only a few scenes before.
Colman’s performance becomes even more liberated as Rustin’s depiction in the story goes from oppressed supplicant to Man-in-Charge. Young activists are gathered, as is the stately Dr. Anna Hedgeman (a magnetic CCH Pounder), displaying intergenerational bridge building; a humble office becomes a hive; commands are shouted and landline phones are staffed, ringing off the hook. Seldom has the logistical consideration of planning of a peaceful event ever been portrayed so thrillingly, but considering what they are staging will be one of America’s greatest moments, even discussions of train routes or latrines carries weight.
Breece and Black, to their credit, don’t back away from Rustin’s sexuality, but in terms of plot, even here Rustin’s sexuality is viewed, curiously, as a problem. In a brief, almost throwaway moment, Bayard, as he’s issuing orders, drafts the young Tom, with whom he’s previously been romantic, to stay with him and keep him “out of trouble.” A quick moment in the rush of the scene, but deserving of pause in 2024. Is it meant to indicate that the repressive conditions of the time contributed to a compulsory element in Rustin’s erotic behavior that he had trouble “controlling”, or that Rustin had internalized homophobia and agreed with the view that his romantic and sexual pursuits were “trouble” — this longtime organizer wasn’t capable of two aspects of his life at once? Clearly he’s fulfilling some kind of agreement of celibacy here so that any discovery of his sexual identity won’t be used to discredit the March, but we know that bigoted slandering will happen, and already has happened anyway. A film with more time and complexity would perhaps explore the reality that several of the men who want to discredit Rustin because of his sexual attractions and actions, including King and Powell, themselves engaged in sexual affairs that would be viewed as morally discreditable from the same era’s puritannical lens.
And of course, viewed from another angle, the small scene is an indication of either a queer sophistication (Bayard and Tom are able to put their romantic past aside in order to keep the elder’s cruising in check) or a shading of how even Rustin could be casually cruel (Bayard enlisting a still smitten Tom’s help to keep him from other paramours, painful to Tom as indicated later when he does in fact discover Rustin engaged in an affair that was fictionally created for the film.)
Whatever the film’s intentions (the director and writers are gay), there’s a layer of complexity that should engage contemporary audiences in self-questioning: is Rustin more noble, or more comfortable to us, if he is effectively sexually neutered for the sake of a “greater good”, and do we apply those same standards to great heterosexual figures of the past?
A scene of Rustin being treated with icy contempt by the Washington Mall’s capitol police is beautifully photographed contrasting paradisiacal blue skies and the ironic blinding whiteness of the Lincoln Memorial, revealing Wolfe’s eye for framing. Colman again fuses with Rustin here, making it seem as though Rustin’s sharp retorts to the officers are fueled by the talent of a great intellect with a gift for theatrical improvisation.
As the March grows nearer and more threatening to both white supremacist and white liberal politicians who want to shirk from its challenge and prevent its potential power, “Rustin” demonstrates how focused its titular character was on the dream of the march’s strategy, and the depths of public degradation of Rustin his vilifiers sank to. Senators impugned Rustin from the congressional floor. (I think the film would have been more powerful had they shown these verbal assassinations visually, instead of as disembodied radio voices.)
So many films have shown us the strategizing that goes into war, “Napoleon” being only the latest example; so few have been about the planning of nonviolent action, with all the attendant in-fighting, tactical disagreements and moments of courageous vision–”Selma,” “Gandhi,” and “BPM” are some of the few that come to mind. What “Rustin” adds is sexual and racial intersectionality to this small canon and how tragically homophobia pervades communities which themselves already know the evil of oppression; the repeated twisting of the knife Bayard Rustin had to endure came even from those he fought for.
Perhaps the most emblematic sequence of Colman Domingo’s fusion with Rustin’s leadership and his pain at being targeted for being his authentic self occurs when the radio blares an attack on Rustin for his “immorality.” Domingo’s face conveys everything: his remaining shame, panic, fear of the impact on the March, incredulousness at the persistent bigoted stupidity and finally his resolve. It’s a remarkable task for an actor, who is already bearing the burden and privilege of portraying a real historical figure. Domingo’s artistic imagination inhabits his countenance’s rapid flickers of emotion, breaking down and eventually reassembling into a visage of dignified power through his sheer talent. These are the moments of cinematic greatness that will always surpass anything CGI or AI could ever convey; this is real-life but nonviolent “Avengers assemble!”
This scene also is why the film deserves much stronger support from communities of color, today’s young nonviolent activists and the LGBTQ community: while any school kid can tell you about MLK’s “I Have a Dream” speech, so very few can tell you about the man who, along with a peaceful army of volunteers, made it possible for him to deliver it.
And yet, in the moving final scenes, the hint that Rustin will be erased from history for decades is conveyed in a simple, telling detail indicative of his fundamental characteristic humility. Rustin grew up a Quaker Christian; his ability to exemplify servant leadership after achieving a historic victory is far more Christ-like than any of the purported, self-glorifying moralists who seeked to condemn him, then and now, and while it may not be a completely factual ending, it’s an original and highly poignant solution to indicate Rustin’s deletion from textbooks and curriculums. Thus, “Rustin” speaks to the present moment: these “faith-based” judgmental moralists are still found today not only on political podiums, but in school board meetings and typing underneath Instagram posts.
In a year when many actors have conveyed the near impossible–Margot Robbie and Emma Stone as doll-like women come to life–or shown us the banal underbelly of evil, like DiCaprio in “Killers of the Flower Moon,” Colman Domingo still rises above the hugely talented crowd. His performance as Rustin is not just a standard portrayal of the real Rustin’s fierce and hungry mind, but of his boundless compassion and sense of justice and his romantic and self-wounding complexities.
Domingo makes “Rustin” sing: his line readings are as jazz-inflected as Branford Marsalis’ fresh and celebratory score, full of charismatic sycopation. One minute he’s gravel and gravitas, the next he lilts with flirtation, the next he summons forth the resonance of a general. In this time of understandable cynicism, rising fear, and reflexive verbal and physical violence, Colman Domingo, though truly heroic effort and with the tremendous support of the gifted filmmakers and cast (I’ve barely had time to also mention the great Da’Vine Joy Randolph or Bill Irwin; puzzling why this ensemble was ignored by the SAG cast nominations) transforms himself into the embodiment of Bayard Rustin’s spirit, and with it, the embodiment of human potential and hope.
Right now online movie chatter and social media would tell you the most noteworthy film talk in 2024 should center on the calculated scandals of “Saltburn” or the “foregone” pre-eminence of “Oppenheimer” (to my mind, a recessive and lesser achievement, a failure of true peacemaking potential) or of typical red-carpet whisper campaigns.
Here’s a film, imperfect like others but reaching for greatness, that can finally center a man typically seen in the background of photos of the Great Man as we post about him on the MLK holiday weekend. I would have loved a bolder film that was as experimental aesthetically and encompassing as Rustin’s life, a cinematic explosion as radical as he was. But what we have here is intelligently, elegantly written and performed and highly moving as an introduction to a man whose previous and continued erasure makes us poorer. We are all poorer when we keep others down. Who knows what oppressed people could contribute to the common good if we gave them soil to grow, instead of a shovel to bury their gifts?
In an era when we seek joy and profess to be weary of relentless violence, when we say we care about children but so seldom give them true illumination, when so many queer people focus their attention on current events but convey impatience in coverage of their own history, when we are seeing theories of trauma inflicted by intersectional oppression now proven by scientific research, when we internalize complexity but hold up umbrellas to deluges of toxic simplicity, when we say we care about democracy but too timidly experiment with its imaginables: Why aren’t we talking about “Rustin?” And with it, Colman Domingo’s titanic offering of light?
