Judas And The Black Messiah: Art As A Space For Protest?
Judas and the Black Messiah is the new film from director and writer Shaka King. It amplifies the life and death of Chairman Fred Hampton [played by Daniel Kaluuya], the collective revolutionary efforts of the Black Panther Party, and the struggle against the dominance of the white supremacist status quo. The film itself is a correction of the propaganda peddled against Chairman Fred Hampton and the Black Panther Party, dramatizing how the Party existed as a socialist group committed to the empowerment of the people.
It stands in defiance against the FBI’s audacious insistence on framing the Party as a violent military organisation. The film is told through the lens of Bill O’Neal [played by LaKeith Stanfield] who infiltrated and undermined the Black Panther Party – acting as an informant to the FBI – and played a substantial role in the FBI’s assassination of Fred Hampton. Chairman Fred Hampton was only 21 years old when he was killed.
Against what the title would suggest, Judas and the Black Messiah does not over-romanticise betrayal and sacrifice. It does not contradict the socialist ideals of the Black Panthers in favour of turning Fred Hampton into a Messianic figure. Judas and the Black Messiah speaks to the power of the people, proving that “you can murder a revolutionary, but you can’t murder a revolution.”
Amidst the many legacies of Chairman Fred Hampton, the Black Panther Party and revolutionary action, Judas and the Black Messiah also speaks to the multifaceted powers of arts and culture as a viable space for protest.
Clothes have and will always be an integral part of how we express ourselves as human beings. How people choose to dress themselves speaks volumes to their identities and how they go on to be perceived by those around them. When it comes to the Black Panthers, clothes fulfilled the same function as they continue to fulfil for people today. Charlese Antoinette-Jones, wardrobe designer for Judas and the Black Messiah, started her creative research for the film by watching documentary footage of Chairman Fred Hampton and the Black Panther Party. 80 – 90% of the wardrobe in Judas and the Black Messiah is vintage. Thanks largely to French documentarians who followed Chairman Fred Hampton as he was forming the Rainbow Coalition, there is a collection of moving images that have immortalised what the Black Panthers did, who they interacted with, and what they wore.
The Black Panthers’ legacy can be found not only in anti-capitalist pro-socialist ideology, but also on the impact they made on fashion – and arts and culture as a whole. When thinking of the Black Panthers, the first image that comes to mind is: Black people sporting their natural Afro-textured hair; fists raised in defiance; khaki military jackets; berets; and dark sunglasses. An aesthetic we may take for granted in 2021, but that – in and of itself – was a revolutionary act in the 1960s. The Black Panthers’ intentionality in wearing their hair naturally was in defiance of European standards of beauty, paving the way for the natural hair movement that has followed.
Despite the influence on fashion their clothing went on to have, the Black Panthers’ clothes had a purpose beyond that of just ‘looking cool’. As the war between the Black Panthers and the government waged on, many Black Panthers found themselves having to move to protect their families and needed to ensure a level of anonymity – thus the big, dark sunglasses and uniform. The military jackets they wore always had the US flag removed; this worked both as protest against the Vietnamese War and to show that there was an ongoing war on home soil between Black people and the government.
Berets, at the time, were the international symbol of revolutionaries. The Black Panther uniform existed to fulfil a practical purpose: it was a coalition of readily available materials that concealed individuals’ identities. Did the Black Panthers look cool? Yes. They showed that fashion can serve a political purpose whilst still being stylish. The uniform accurately reflected the identity of the Black Panther Party: a group of revolutionaries committed to collectivism, fighting against the oppressive confines of racist, capitalist systems. In many ways they were an army, fighting to bring power to the people through activism on a local and national level. And they made sure they looked the part. The Black Panthers show that fashion has always been one of many viable mediums for protest.
In a scene in Judas and the Black Messiah, Bill O’Neal [LaKeith Stanfield] attends an informant meeting with Roy Mitchell [Jesse Plemons] in what can fairly be described as a gauche green fedora. It is an incredibly fitting wardrobe choice for a man who infiltrated the Black Panther Party, undermining their integrity to give the FBI information that eventually led to the assassination of Chairman Fred Hampton. The green fedora stands in juxtaposition to the berets of the Black Panther Party, reflecting how Bill O’Neal’s individualism threatened the movements made by the Panthers – a community organisation committed to social action.
Moreover, Bill O’Neal’s green fedora can be seen as symbol for the greed of wealth; for Bill, individual material gain took precedent over the betterment of society for all people. That Bill O’Neal is also extravagantly dressed for a covert informant meeting in the scene may be a nod to his naivety – Bill O’Neal was only 17 years old when he agreed to working as an informant for the FBI. Scenes between Bill O’Neal and Roy Mitchell show them connecting over fine dining, fine cigars, and general over-indulgence. Bill O’Neal shows us all the dangers of being apolitical, whilst Roy Mitchell is a warning against the dangers of cosmetic change. Indeed, Mitchell’s political stance would have been considered somewhat centrist for his time.
Watching Judas and the Black Messiah, Bill O’Neal and Roy Mitchell’s behaviours should provoke us to ask: what is performative allyship achieving in the long run? Whether it is a black square on Instagram or turning up to join community organisers sporting a military jacket and beret, your actions are to no avail at best – counter-productive or violent at worst – if at the end of the day you replace your beret with a green fedora and continue to feed from the hands that kill the most vulnerable in society.
Emory Douglas, former Minister of Culture for the Black Panther Party, is infamous for the art he created during the Civil Rights Movement. His artwork reflected the Ten Point Programme of the Black Panthers and was a visual language for communication. Images of Emory Douglas’ art can be seen throughout Judas and the Black Messiah, pinned against otherwise empty walls in the Black Panthers’ Head Quarters. The function of Emory Douglas’ art, in his own words, was “to inform, to enlighten, and to educate.”
It is important that we all recognise the limitations of art as a space of protest. If we are informed, enlightened, and educated, but do not go on to act, then our protest exists in aesthetic alone. It becomes performative. The virtue signalling of black squares that flooded Instagram in the wake of the murder of George Floyd and the lack of meaningful progress since has taught us, yet again, that ‘protest’ without action will always be performative.
Whilst Judas and the Black Messiah amplifies the commitment of the Black Panthers to anti-capitalist pro-socialist ideals and thus succeeds in putting the Black Panthers back into public consciousness, it is right that we question the extent to which a Hollywood film can protest against the status quo. Art sometimes serves as a vehicle to protest; it is up to the audience to be informed, enlightened, and educated, and then to ask: ‘Where do I go from here?’
As of January 2021, 12 former Black Panthers remain incarcerated. Jalil Muntaqim, who was paroled in 2020 after 49 years of imprisonment, faces heading back to prison for allegedly attempting to vote. In a Prism Report Tamar Sarai Davis explains the hypocrisy of aesthetic signals towards revolutionary politics, whilst Black Panthers still alive in prison are left largely forgotten by the public. Davis writes:
“Muntaqim’s life story exemplifies how, at every stage, the carceral system is wielded to quell Black political activism: From the policing and incarceration of Black liberation organisers, the release of those leaders is only under the condition that they renounce their political allegiances, the stripping of their right to vote upon release, and the omnipresent surveillance of their bodies and behaviour while on parole.”
Progress does not require everyone to be a revolutionary. Progress simply requires that everyone do something. Ebonee Davis, model and activist, says: “We are in a time of revolution now – the revolution, for some, may look like rest.” Watching Judas and the Black Messiah may enlighten us all on the ways we can protest against prejudicial systems, but it is up to us to use our own agency and act upon what we learn in a meaningful way. The systems the Black Panthers committed their lives to challenging did not go away when the Black Panthers disbanded in 1982. No matter how big or how small, every one of us can protest against oppressive systems and commit to progress in some shape or form, for “you can murder a revolutionary, but you can’t murder a revolution.”
Written by Adwoa Owusu-Barnieh
Adwoa is a 22-year-old ex-Greater-Londoner, currently calling Birmingham home. She studied Classical Literature & Civilisation at the University of Birmingham. Adwoa is perpetually preoccupied with the limitations of language and knowledge when it comes to understanding the human condition and – ironically – commits a lot of time and language to expressing her knowledge (or lack thereof) of these things. Her aim is to curate space for more intentional modes of living, ritual, and understanding.