'Rizing' Above?

Renowned fashion photographer David LaChapelle's maniacally-engaging new documentary, Rize, has received a warm reception from critics across the country. Many have lauded LaChapelle's breathtaking cinematography (nearly every frame is bright and beautiful enough to hang in a gallery) and the incredible skill of the young dancers he follows in the film.

Rob Nelson of The Village Voice declared LaChapelle's efforts "infectiously energetic and inspiring," while Rolling Stone's Peter Travers deemed Rize "A knockout! A visual miracle." And Salon's Heather Havrilesky opined about the film: "The breathtaking, animated, at times even aggressive movements you see these kids perform are a bold expression of the pain and suffering they've experienced living in a place where drugs, gun violence and hopelessness can crush the dreams of even the most optimistic."

The trouble with Rize is something most of the above critics neglected to mention: that along with being a movie about dance, Rize is a movie about race. Nearly all of the subjects LaChapelle gives face time to are young African-Americans living in poverty -- many of them men. And some of the disturbing questions LaChapelle brings up -- but fails to answer -- aren't as pretty as his camera work.

Rize is LaChapelle's first film -- an extension of his 2004 short, a Sundance smash called Krumped. The movie documents the evolution of a frenetic, lightning-fast form of dance ("Krumping") born in the drugs-, gang- and violence-addled neighborhood of South Central Los Angeles. Its dancers are primarily black youth, ranging in age from five to 20-something, who practice Krumping as a unique mode of self-expression, and as a way to release pent-up anger, frustration and pain.

The dancers see Krumping as far removed from the "bling-bling," bullshit world of mainstream hip-hop. They take pride in their dancing, exhibiting a healthy sense of ownership over it because they created it by and for themselves. Though insanely talented, the dancers aren't particularly interested in getting rich and famous.

LaChapelle chronicles the trend as it grows bigger, trailing some of its most talented proponents, day by day, as they rehearse, hang out in friends' bedrooms, pray at church, and, much of the time, dance.

In one of the film's first scenes, the dance's unofficial founder, Tommy the Clown (aka "Big Tommy") prepares for a day of entertaining by slowly painting his face clown-white. It's a disturbing image -- a chubby, middle-aged African-American man putting on "Whiteface" to enter the working world -- but it goes unexplored. One wishes that LaChapelle would have provided viewers with some background information -- a quick historical overview, perhaps, of the social and political implications of "Blackface" and "Whiteface." It's not as simple as putting on a costume, though Tommy just considers it part of the clown business.

A local hero of sorts, Tommy prides himself on his strong relationships with South Central youth. He knows everyone by name, and he encourages local kids to train with him in clowning instead of succumbing to the ever-present lure of money and status via drugs and gangs. He is über-positive and supportive -- a father figure to neighborhood children. Late in the film, Tommy breaks down in tears after discovering that his house has been robbed. As he cries, he wonders aloud who would do this to him, considering all of the time and commitment he's given to his neighborhood.

While working with local kids, Big Tommy developed his own form of dance, called "Clowning," in which dancers wore loud costumes and colorful face paint while performing explosive, jerky movements to hip-hop and dance music. The dance was created, in part, as a physical reaction to 1992's L.A. race riots.