Hello, and thank you for subscribing to, or stumbling upon, this semi-regular newsletter, which has now made it into its second month of existence—a milestone is a milestone! Before beginning in earnest, I would be remiss if I didn’t plug the program I organized for the Criterion Channel, “Roots & Revolution: Reggae on Film”, featuring 11 films, plus a newly filmed introduction from yours truly. It launched this week, and the Channel is available in the USA and Canada.
As per usual, a quick recommendation to kick off: Much like Vienna to Midge Ure, the ringlet-headed smooth jazz hornblower Kenny G—once as ubiquitous as air in the 1990s—means nothing to me. Or at least he didn’t until I watched the excellent documentary Listening to Kenny G, directed by Penny Lane (The Pain of Others, Hail Satan?), and commissioned as part of HBO’s Music Box series. I don’t want to say too much about it, because I went in completely cold and thoroughly enjoyed it. But I’ll say this: genuinely intelligent, subtly critical, and wryly funny music documentaries are pretty thin on the ground, and this absolutely hits those marks. It’s beautifully edited, too, so shout-out to Adam Bolt and Cindy Lee on scissors.
Back in 2020, I had the pleasure of writing about Small Axe, Steve McQueen’s film anthology series about Black British life from the late 1960s to the ‘80s, in a feature for the New York Times. For the piece, which needed to come in at 1500 words, I spoke to McQueen for around 90 minutes, Letitita Wright (who plays activist Altheia Lecointe-Jones in Mangrove) for 30 minutes, and John Boyega (who plays loner copper Leroy Logan in Red, White and Blue), also for 30 minutes. As the piece came together, it became clear that McQueen himself was the focus, and that the groundwork I needed to lay to make the series’ milieu legible to an American reader meant that I wasn’t going to have much room for quotes from Wright and Boyega.
It’s a quandary familiar to anyone who has written and reported for a living: I’ve done all this work and I can’t really use it, so what am I going to do with it? Or, as Quiz Kid Donnie Smith once said: “I really do have love to give. I just don’t know where to put it!” Sometimes, you suck it up. Sometimes, you’re lucky enough to wangle an extra commission from the Times (who kindly agreed to publish my interview with Wright, which landed just a few days before the actress courted controversy by sharing a rather curious vaccine-questioning video on her since-detonated Twitter account.) And sometimes, you start a Substack to house your offcuts. Here, then, is the transcript of my interview with John Boyega, a mere sliver of which made it into the finished Times piece. I think it was a good chat, even if we had an absolutely terrible line (a reporter’s nightmare), which gave Boyega’s gravelly baritone the occasional air of “Au Clair de la Lune” circa 1860.
Ashley Clark: How did you get involved in the project?
John Boyega: I received a call from my agent saying there’s an amazing opportunity to work in the UK again. The last time I was on British TV in this way was a good few years ago in My Murder (2012). I wanted to come back home and work on something to do with our history, our background. I always wanted to work with Steve McQueen. I loved his previous work. It was a no-brainer for me, and I was really excited to work with a director who I’d heard so much about.
How much of the history that Small Axe covers did you know previously? And how much of it was a learning process for you?
There was some discovery, but I had heard about a lot of it, although I didn’t learn about any of that stuff through education here in this country. I learnt about it from specific Black teachers who had lived through things like the New Cross Fire and the Brixton riots, and then also through my process in the theatre: research, preparation, meeting certain individuals along the line. Fundamentally, the show brings it all together in a way that is understandable, and from that I was able to gauge and learn things.
Small Axe is on the BBC, Amazon, screening at major festivals. It has a real presence. How big a deal is it that these stories are being told on this scale?
I think it’s a massive deal. In terms of our numbers, we [Black British people] don’t add up to the amount that’s in America, and so there’s a much bigger look at their stories and perspectives and their challenges. Nobody really knows as much about the challenges of Black British people, and for this to give it such a light is very, very important. People talk about the different types of racism we deal with, and a lot of times expect that the racism in America is quite outward and in your face whereas in the UK there’s subtlety to it, layers to it. To explore that, challenge that, and have that conversation in a healthy way is kinda cool.
Can you talk about working with the real-life Leroy Logan? Did you have good conversations?
We spoke and had a general meeting in Southwest London to get to know each other and get some background. I realized he’s intertwined with some of my history because he was working on the Damilola Taylor case. I grew up in Peckham, and we were able to relate about a lot of things, not just me playing him on a project. It was more like, “I know that area, I know that street.” I had a friend with me, and I didn’t know that she had been mentored by Leroy. We’d been intertwined in my life without me knowing. It was nice to experience and explore that, and then to just get perspective on how he felt. I had a lot of questions about him being in that position, having to go into the system, and playing the game in order to change it. That’s just very, very long, especially for a person like me. It’s good to get perspective on what he was thinking and what led to his decision.
How do you feel about reform versus abolition?
That was one of Leroy’s major concerns: that the police force had no organic connection with civilians. There weren’t people who represented civilians in the force to help ensure some kind of understanding and perspective, and that was something that he decided to handle head-on. His mentality was: one of us go into the system, then we can provide help, safety and support for those who are like us. Young Black British individuals may get arrested, and there’s a white officer who might not understand the challenges of growing up in that environment. With Leroy being an officer he would have empathy, and have other ways of dealing or handling with the situation without any violence or outright discrimination. And that’s a tactic of which I remain a critic of at this point. I don’t know. I sit on that and I try to listen to both perspectives because… the history and the way in which he protected our people at different times means something. For me it’s a learning and education thing.
There is an undeniable resonance with this year’s events: the murder of George Floyd, the international uprisings, and your public statements. What does it mean to you for this work to be coming out now? I often get irritated at overuse of the word “timely” to describe art that engages with intractable, long-term social problems, but in this case the relevance can’t be denied…
It’s been crazy. A lot of the times when I was asked what was doing next and I would explain what the story was about, they would ask if I got the role off of the protests! It’s funny when I tell them, “No no, actually, we wrapped way before the protests.” My mind has always been bubbling about these kinds of stories and how art can align with serious social issues. But I have the same irritation with the word “timely.” It’s not a definition point. What it’s supposed to do is explore the perspective of the suffering and struggles of the people that haven’t stopped for a long time.
Steve McQueen spoke about the idea of a “lost generation” of Black creatives, and this is something that the historian David Olusoga talked about too. Has it been tough for you not working with Black authors and talent in the UK?
It started at first in all honesty in ignorance. I just didn’t know. I didn’t know who was about. Everyone in front of me was white so I just didn’t know. I didn’t go through the mainstream system of drama school, or a drama school that is consistent, like RADA. I went to Identity Drama School which was part-time, so the rest of my life I was doing what I had to do. It was going for what you want, the jobs to find a comfortable life. I started at the Tricycle Theatre in Kilburn and it was mostly black casts and I thought leaving theater and transferring onto other things that it would be like that. And to find out that it wasn’t, and now having to do more research to learn who was there, who does what behind the scenes, that was a whole process for me. I got my first professional role when I was 17. I didn’t know about all the positions that were representing the realities of the industry. It just became apparent to me as I went through these experiences, and I think many people go through those revelations.
What was it like to work with Steve?
It was a unique experience. Steve talks to the man—he talks to who you are. He’s very flexible in wanting you to draw from your own emotions, to convey the truth in the character to really explore that. He would empty the set if the scene didn’t feel right—he would get the whole crew off set and have a conversation with me. I remember the hospital scene where Leroy goes to see his Dad for the first time after he’s been beaten up by the police. On that scene, we had done a few takes and I felt the first few had been a bit melodramatic, like what an actor does when they can’t reach the truth, but you have to show that you’re emotional about something. I said to Steve, “I need some kind of support.” He emptied out the whole set, and he told us a very personal story to him, a story that he had no business telling us, it wasn’t our business to know, but it related to the subject, to the situation, and from then I got it. He just fundamentally brought a message back to me. He speaks to who you are, in his style. At the same time he’s very charming, very jokey—he helped to keep a light, cool energy on the set. When it comes to scenes that are tough emotionally, he kept a very strict and disciplined environment, and the crew and the people we worked with are very much in the loop with that and on the same side. It really worked well.
It’s so important to have more diversity behind the camera as well as in front of it, isn’t it?
We need more of that. That’s why I’m a producer now. And I’ve had to get involved behind the scenes of my own production company, and make sure we find a way of sourcing this untapped talent. It’s very very important for us to be able to see truth in our representation and reality. And also it’s important to keep the collaborations across cultures as well. But at a time when there’s such a huge lack, it’s important to put more attention on that for now.
You mentioned earlier how people had misunderstood the timelines and asked whether you got the Small Axe role off the back of your presence in the summer’s protests. But how has the industry at large reacted to you?
There’s been massive support. I’m kind of a recluse in terms of industry. I live a very quiet life so I only hear what I expose myself to, or somebody else tells me. But it got a good response.
Something that struck me about Red, White and Blue was the tenderness in the family scenes. I laughed at the scene where your father is too embarrassed to play the word “SEXY” in a game of Scrabble even though it’s right there in front of him.
That was one of our best days on set, one of the happiest days because the plain excitement and joy you probably felt from that scene is what we felt on set. Obviously I’m not Caribbean, I’m from Nigeria, but we were on the same page. I had that awkward moment as a kid when me and my sister were watching Coming To America and there’s that part where Eddie Murphy’s in the bathtub and the woman comes up topless and says “the royal penis is clean”, and that’s the exact moment that our dad decided to settle down on the sofa behind us. I remember the feeling of anxiety of trying to figure out the numbers to CBN (Christian Broadcasting Network) on the remote control real quick! On set we were talking about it, once you put “SEXY” there, even having Dad’s reaction, it’s such a natural, awkward moment. I’m not sure that another director without that perspective would have been able to tap into that for the whole scene.
Did you have to steel yourself for some of the more violent, intense scenes?
For me it’s exciting. It’s my work and I’m very happy to do it. The anxiety comes when the cameras are rolling, and part of your consciousness is thinking about how these scenes are going to be seen by millions of people over the world with so many different opinions on it.
And what are you hoping that these people around the world will draw from Red, White and Blue and Small Axe?
That question comes up a lot. I don’t know. You put so much energy into the performance, to make it look good you forget about the audience. The audience aren’t there, and then you realize, “Oh crap, this has to get released.” I don’t really know. It’s coming out in a time… the way this year’s gone on so many levels, it’s like a horror movie that you want to stop. I don’t know what the next year will bring, but I feel like fundamentally what I want is definitely a chance for a true education, a true perspective on Black British history in this country and our relation to the police and our relation to white people—how it truly was, the stories we were told growing up, and perhaps why there might be a certain anger that stems from a whole lot of generational baggage. An education is the best way to approach this.
Small Axe is streaming on BBC iPlayer in the UK, and on Amazon Prime in the USA.
If you made it this far, I am touched. Thank you so much for reading. If you feel so inclined, please do tell a friend about this newsletter. See you next time.