‘Marshall’ turns Thurgood into the contemporary hero Americans want, but ignores the one he was Not enough of the real NAACP lawyer shows up in Chadwick Boseman’s portrayal

Marshall, the new film from director Reginald Hudlin about the late Supreme Court justice Thurgood Marshall, comes from a production company called Super Hero Films.

It’s an appropriate moniker, given that the star of Marshall is Chadwick Boseman — or, as he’s sure to be known after February, Black Panther. But it’s also appropriate given the way Marshall presents the man once known as “Mr. Civil Rights” as a swashbuckling, arrogant, almost devil-may-care superhero attorney barnstorming the country in pursuit of justice and equality.

Written by Connecticut attorney Michael Koskoff and his son, Joseph, Marshall is not the story of the first black Supreme Court justice’s entire life. The movie takes place decades before Marshall was ever nominated to the court. Instead, Marshall provides a snapshot of young Thurgood through the course of the Connecticut trial of Joseph Spell (Sterling K. Brown), a black chauffeur who was arrested in 1940 for the rape, kidnapping and attempted murder of his white boss, Eleanor Strubing (Kate Hudson).

Marshall, at the time an attorney in the NAACP’s civil rights division and seven years out of Howard University School of Law, travels to Connecticut to defend Spell. When the white judge presiding over the case refuses to let Marshall be the lead lawyer on the case, Marshall enlists a local Jewish attorney, Sam Friedman (Josh Gad), as the puppet for his legal ventriloquism. Marshall feeds Friedman his strategy, arguments and ideas and sits on his hands as he watches Friedman clumsily make his way through them.

Hudlin ends the film with an image of Marshall after he’s pulled into a train station in the Deep South. A mischievous smile creeping across his face, he grabs a paper cup to get a drink of water from a whites-only water fountain. Marshall tips his hat to an older black gentleman who’s watching, clearly astonished, and continues on his way.

The scene exposes how Marshall is more of an exercise in reflecting contemporary black attitudes about race and rebellion than it is connected to the way Marshall enacted that rebellion in his life as an NAACP lawyer, solicitor general under Lyndon Johnson, and then as a member of the Supremes. It’s certainly ahistorical. The real Marshall was a skilled politician, which made him an effective courtroom lawyer. He was charmingly persuasive, according to those who knew him, able to persuade white Southerners to do his bidding even against the wishes of fire-breathing racist sheriffs.

“He wasn’t an activist or a protester. He was a lawyer,” Marshall’s NAACP colleague, attorney Jack Greenberg, said in a 1999 documentary that asserts Marshall always followed the rules of the segregated South during his many trips there.

In any fictive portrait based on true life, a certain amount of interpretation is expected. But Marshall fundamentally changes our understanding of Marshall as a person and a real-life superhero. Thanks to accounts from family, colleagues and biographers such as Juan Williams, we know Marshall was smart, strategic and conscious of preserving his life and safety so that he could live to fight another day.

Hudlin superimposes modern conceptions of black heroism onto a period courtroom drama. He’s not the first to do so, of course. Both the 2016 adaptation of Roots and the now-canceled WGN series Underground told historical stories calibrated for a modern audience that wants and deserves to see black characters exhibit agency over their fates. Combined with the decision to cast the dark-skinned Boseman and Keesha Sharp as Marshall and his wife, Buster, Hudlin’s choices feel reactive to the colorism and racism in modern Hollywood. That choice ends up flattening an aspect of Marshall that certainly had an effect on his life: his privilege as a light-skinned, wavy-haired lawyer who grew up as the middle-class son of a Baltimore woman with a graduate degree from Columbia and a father who worked as a railway porter.

If ever there was a couple who fit the profile of the black bourgeoisie, it was Thurgood and Buster Marshall. Casting Boseman and Sharp may be a way to thumb one’s nose at the screwed-up obsession with skin tone that pervaded the black elite in the early 20th century and continues to block opportunities in modern-day Hollywood, but it also erases part of our understanding of how Marshall moved through the world.

Marshall possessed a terrific legal mind and used it to hold the country accountable to its founding ideals. He was a pioneer for daring to think that equality could be achieved by challenging the country’s institutions, but he also expressed a deep reverence for and faith in them. He would have been seen by whites in the South as a Northern agitator, and he knew it — the real Thurgood slept with his clothes on in case a lynch mob decided to confront him in the middle of the night. Altering Marshall so much in a movie meant to celebrate him ends up cheapening the gesture. It’s like making a biopic about Barack Obama and turning him into Jesse Jackson. He just wasn’t that type of dude.

It wouldn’t matter so much that Boseman’s Marshall strays so far from the real man if it wasn’t for the fact that Marshall tends to exist now mostly as a Black History Month factoid (even though multiple biographies have been written about his life and work).

Thurgood, a 2011 HBO movie starring Laurence Fishburne, goes too far in the opposite direction. Clips of Fishburne show a stiff and overly reverential character better suited for a museum video re-enactment or a Saturday Night Live sketch.

I sound like the story of Thurgood Marshall is a Goldilocks conundrum. Fishburne-as-Marshall was too stiff. Boseman-as-Marshall was too loose. Maybe a third attempt will get it just right.

Every time I see a film by a black director or that stars black people and I love it unreservedly, I experience a mélange of awe, reverence and respect that comes from witnessing an amazing work of art. And then comes the wave of relief.

Because the stakes are so high — every so-called “black film” must succeed to secure another! — you feel some kind of way about having to type all the reasons a film doesn’t work, knowing that those words have consequences but still need to be expressed. In short, it’s the feeling of “I don’t know if I like this, but I need it to win.”

I hate this feeling. If ever there was a selfish reason for wishing the film industry would hurry up and achieve racial and gender parity, this is it.


Hudlin’s directorial oeuvre is squarely commercial. His gaze is unfussy, with few stylistic flourishes, likely influenced by his past 15 years directing episodic television. His last movie was Wifey, a TV movie starring Tami Roman. His last feature was the 2002 romantic comedy Serving Sara, starring Matthew Perry and Elizabeth Hurley, but he’s probably best known for Boomerang, House Party and The Ladies Man. Thus it’s no surprise that Hudlin directs Marshall as a crowd-pleaser, but the nuances of Marshall’s life get lost.

What’s disappointing about the way Marshall is translated for the big screen is that real-life heroes come in a variety of forms. They’re complicated. They’re not saintly, nor are they all hot-headed crusaders. And that’s OK.

One of the most admirable aspects of Loving was that it was a historical drama with the patience to tell the story of Richard and Mildred Loving, portrayed by Joel Edgerton and Ruth Negga, as the quiet, country people they were. They seem as unlikely a pair to make civil rights history in the film as they were when they lived. But Loving came from the Focus Features division of NBCUniversal, a production house known for unconventional work. Marshall is not an art house film, and I don’t think it needed to be to tell Marshall’s story. Hidden Figures was another historical drama meant for wide consumption. It’s not perfect, but Hidden Figures was so full of charm that it overcame the white saviorism added to Kevin Costner’s character, which didn’t exist in Margot Lee Shetterly’s book.

The shortcomings that separate Marshall from Hidden Figures and Loving are the same ones that give it the feeling of a TV movie. Aside from focusing on one specific area of Marshall’s life rather than the whole of it, Marshall does little to escape or subvert some of the most irritating biopic tropes.

For instance, the screenwriters jam Boseman’s mouth full of exposition about his accomplishments rather than demonstrating them. He rattles them off to Friedman in the form of a verbal resume.

The movie includes a nightclub scene that functions as little more than a non sequitur to shout, “HEY, THURGOOD MARSHALL WAS FRIENDS WITH ZORA NEALE HURSTON AND LANGSTON HUGHES. DID YOU KNOW ZORA AND LANGSTON HAD AN ICY RELATIONSHIP? BECAUSE WE DID!”

The three aren’t around long enough to discuss anything substantive. Their interaction doesn’t serve as foreshadowing for some other part of the movie. They’re just there because they all lived in Harlem. It’s little more than fat to be trimmed in a nearly two-hour movie.

But the most obvious weak point may lie in the flashbacks to the interactions between Strubing and Spell, which are filled with so much melodrama that they’d be perfectly at home on Lifetime. It’s not that those tropes don’t have their place. It’s just not on a screen that’s 30 feet high.

Boseman, as watchable as ever, makes Marshall a winking, confident wisecracker with a disarming smile. He’s full of smarts and bravado, communicating the real off-hours aspects of Marshall’s ribald sense of humor.

In the future, though, I hope screenwriters and filmmakers have more faith in the capacity of audiences to appreciate all kinds of heroes. As tempting as it is to superimpose modern politics onto historical figures, it can be more edifying to simply let them breathe so that we can appreciate their efforts within the context of their own times. Such context allows us to more fully understand the cost of their struggles and celebrate them all the more for winning.

‘Burning Sands’ shows pledging and heinous abuse — but not much brotherhood The film is a necessary but flawed act of tough love

Burning Sands is an act of bravery.

Gerard McMurray, making his directorial debut, is a member of one of the most popular — and boisterous — of the nine black fraternities and sororities, Omega Psi Phi. The organization is home to such notable figures as Langston Hughes, Steve Harvey, Jesse Jackson Sr. and Jesse Jr., Shaquille O’Neal and Michael Jordan. Omega, like the other frats, is known for brotherhood, service and activism. And it’s especially known for stomping in combat boots whenever George Clinton’s 1982 “Atomic Dog” blasts from speakers. But this movie isn’t about Omega Psi Phi. It’s about black Greek life as a whole, for better or worse. And mostly worse.

McMurray’s drama, Burning Sands, is about pledging a black fraternity and it’ll be a hot topic from the moment it hits Netflix servers on March 10. Because, much like the pledging process itself — when it’s done the right way — Burning Sands, shot in 18 days on a limited budget, is an exercise in tough love. Using graphic, even chilling imagery, the film has a simple message: stop hazing.


Five young men are pledging “Lambda Phi” fraternity at the fictional Frederick Douglass University. Burning Sands was actually filmed in and around Virginia State University in Petersburg, Virginia, and the movie takes place over a week — “Hell Week” — or the most strenuous hazing portion of the pledging process.

In the film’s first scene, Zurich (Trevor Jackson) and his five “line brothers” (one of whom quits at the end of this scene) are jogging in place in a forest. Suddenly, Zurich has to do push-ups while a hazer — an older member of the fraternity — viciously kicks him in the ribs. It’s a brutal scene.

Soon, the five pledgees — students with diverse backgrounds and personalities ranging from nerdy to aggressive — find their grades are suffering. Their relationships suffer. Perhaps it’s because they’re beat to bloody hell for the duration of the movie, including another brutal scene in which pledges are taken to a barn to get punched in their ribs, hit across their feet with coat hangers and forced to eat dog food. Jackson, though, sees the film as a balanced look at black college life. “The movie isn’t pro or against the choices the kids make,” he said. “I take away perseverance from the movie. I take away unity. It’s a balanced movie.”

Pledges are taken to a barn to get punched in their ribs, hit with coat hangers across their feet and forced to eat dog food.

McMurray, who was a producer on 2013’s acclaimed Fruitvale Station, is going to face backlash from members of the Divine Nine, young and old, who believe he’s betraying closely held black Greek life secrets and painting a negative picture of the pledging process. But he’s trying to preserve black Greek organizations by preventing the consequences associated with hazing. “This movie puts a mirror up,” said McMurray via phone. “It questions, Why are we hazing? We need these organizations, and hazing is threatening them.”

Black Greek life is a cornerstone of the African-American college — and professional — experience. For some black college students, especially those at historically black colleges and universities (HBCUs), deciding on and pledging a fraternity or sorority is almost as important as figuring out a major. Black Greek-letter organizations represent community, college education and a network of professionals united by common bonds, and attacks on them are usually met with fierce resistance. And any attack on them perpetrated by a black person — especially one who is a member of one of these organizations, is most often seen as an act of betrayal.

It’s a bit of an exaggeration to make this point, but Burning Sands could, in theory, do for black Greek life what Upton Sinclair’s 1906 The Jungle did to save lives by exposing the dangerous conditions of laborers in America’s meat-packing industry. The movie could do what Frederick Douglass’ autobiography did for slavery, revealing the horrors of institution. At the very least, Burning Sands may cause members of the Divine Nine to rethink their policies on hazing — which is actually very strict, and denounces any form of hazing.

The thing is, when this anti-hazing policy was enacted in 1990, some chapters began going “underground” with violent pledge practices. As a result, hazing became more violent and also unsupervised by the usual graduate members and regional officials. There’s even a culture of shame surrounding people who weren’t hazed, as they’re called “paper” and often seen as being less deserving of membership if they weren’t at least paddled — but there’s no way to truly justify the practice’s continuance.

McMurray wants organizations to challenge the status quo, and challenge traditions, And while he wants to save lives, he said, his film is not personal. “This,” he said, “is not my biopic. This is not my life story. I love my fraternity, and I want to see it to continue to be great.”


“People who haven’t seen the whole movie have passed judgment,” McMurray said. “Burning Sands is a tale of brotherhood. It’s not an indictment of fraternities and sororities.” McMurray is, quite frankly, being too optimistic. The entire act of pledging a black fraternity or sorority is a demonstration of secrecy. No one knows who’s part of an incoming line of members until a big reveal, or a “probate,” and nobody is to know what happens during the pledging process.

Hazing is commonplace in Greek life — as it is in with some marching bands (black and otherwise) and some athletic teams (black and otherwise). But most who have gone through the process speak about what they went through in vague, nonincriminating terms. Burning Sands removes the shroud of secrecy, exposing abuse.


In 2010, Prairie View A&M University disbanded the Phi Beta Sigma chapter after attempting to cover up the group’s involvement in the death of 20-year-old Donnie Wade Jr. Wade suffered from acute exertional rhabdomyolysis, a rare disease in which strenuous activity results in sudden death. Instead of calling an ambulance, the pledges drove Wade to a hospital 30 miles away. He was dead on arrival. The tragedy is alluded to in Burning Sands.

The members of my fraternity who pledged me made sure I had an enlightening experience. For me, the pledging process was about learning more about Phi Beta Sigma, getting to know my line brother and forming a lifetime bond with him and gaining a deeply profound appreciation for the organization I’d be a part of for the rest of my life. I was also 19 and young enough to drive 20 miles north at any time of night. When I talk to friends in other organizations and even to members of my own, they talk about endless violence and fear. For them, Burning Sands may ring truer. A general and very nonscientific consensus around the pledging process is: I don’t regret it, but I wouldn’t do it again. No matter what anyone’s personal experience is, we should all be able to agree to end hazing.

Burning Sands is the most in-depth look at black Greek life in cinema. It has an important, if didactic, message that could save black fraternities and sororities. I just wish Gerard McMurray had shown more of the beauty that these organizations represent. Flaws and all.