DISPATCH “We can love one another in other ways”: Collaborating with James Baldwin on a Screenplay of Giovanni’s Room Michael Raeburn Abstract The author discusses his personal relationship with James Baldwin, recounting their collaboration on a film script for an adaptation of Giovanni’s Room. Keywords: Giovanni’s Room, Michael Raeburn, James Baldwin, film, Paris, Marlon Brando, Robert de Niro, Saint-Paul de Vence, Steve McQueen It was a bright summer’s afternoon in the south of France on 2 August 1977. In the garden of his house below the ramparts of the village of Saint-Paul de Vence, James Baldwin was celebrating his 53rd birthday. He made a brief speech thanking his friends for coming. Then, much to my surprise, he announced that he and I had embarked on “an adventure” to write a screenplay of Giovanni’s Room (1956). He raised his glass to me; most of the guests raised theirs to us in hesitant celebration. The idea had occurred a few weeks before. It came from Jimmy; I cannot call him James, as to me, and to all his friends, he was Jimmy. His offer to collaborate on the adaptation had come out of the blue. Only a set of mutually shared circum- stances going back to our first meeting can explain his proposal which was pre- sented to me in these words: “We can also love one another in other ways: we’ll write the script of ‘Giovanni’s Room’ together.” To most outsiders we were the most improbable match: a young, novice film- maker from colonial Africa, and a world-famous African-American writer from Harlem. Part of this article explains how the author came to think that such an artistic process could be beneficial for both of us. In 1974 the novel If Beale Street Could Talk was launched in London by the publishers Michael Joseph. I arrived at the event late, invited by a journalist prom- inent in the women’s movement. The author was already introducing his book. James Baldwin Review, Volume 5, 2019, © The Authors. Published by Manchester University Press and The University of Manchester Library http://dx.doi.org/10.7227/JBR.5.9 This is an Open Access article published under the conditions of theDownloaded Creative Commons from manchesterhive.com Attribution- at 09/26/2021 05:25:20PM NonCommercial-NoDerivatives licence https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc-nd/4.0 via free access 130 James Baldwin Review 5 Figure 1 Launch of Michael Raeburn, Black Fire!, with an introduction by James Baldwin, The Africa Centre, London, January 1978. From left, Julian Friedmann (publisher), James Baldwin, Michael Raeburn. All rights reserved and permission to use the figure must be obtained from the copyright holder. I don’t remember what he said because I was fixated by him. Being from Africa, for me his head and face were like a Benin mask come alive. I was spellbound by such African beauty—the high forehead, the bulging eyes common to depictions of trance states—and by the energy of his delivery, too, which was more passionate than what is considered acceptable in northern cultures, yet maintained, in its seamless flow, an icy coherence. Drinks flowed after the formal reception. The author was enjoying fine -whis keys on the rocks. So was I. Guests filtered away, leaving a small group in which Baldwin was arguing with a Northern Irish Catholic whom he identified as belong- ing to a “repressed minority.” But when he went on to compare the situation of Catholics in Northern Ireland to that of the blacks in America, the other man indignantly rejected the comparison. The author’s reaction to this whiff of racism can only be described as hopping mad: his eyes grew so large I thought they would pop out and floor his opponent. I found myself vigorously defending Baldwin. He clutched my arm like a fellow comrade. Already it was apparent that despite the gulf between our backgrounds we shared a similar political spirit. The next day Jimmy invited me to lunch at The Savoy where he was staying. We began by talking politics. Luckily I was familiar with his work. He was interested to hear about my commitment to the liberation war in Africa against the British, and about my first film, Rhodesia Countdown (1969), that occasioned my enforced Downloaded from manchesterhive.com at 09/26/2021 05:25:20PM via free access “We can love one another in other ways” 131 exile by the white minority regime, an exile that endured until the country became Zimbabwe in 1980 after the first democratic elections. The struggle against racial repression in Africa and in America was to become a recurring subject for us. When it arose during the script collaboration, Jimmy confirmed that the class issue between Guillaume and Giovanni was a concealed metaphor for racial prejudice; as Giovanni explains, “When something has happened to humiliate him and make him see, even for a moment, how disgusting he is, and how alone, then he remembers that he is a member of one of the best and oldest families in France.”1 Our conversation at The Savoy veered off into literature. Being the unusual off- spring of an Italian-Jewish-Arabic mother, born in Egypt, I spoke several languages and had studied French literature at university. When I mentioned that I found Go Tell It on the Mountain (1953) to be “Proustian” with an African-American pulpit fluency and soaring choral rhythms, he laughed with his famous child-like spontaneity. It was politics and literature that first drew us together. From an early age Jimmy had read widely to survive his stepfather’s cruelty and to escape the “ghetto men- tality” of Harlem. I was surprised to find that he lacked friends with whom he could talk about his writing as an artist, instead of as a spokesman for civil rights. Art in its purity was his aspiration; his political destiny may have assisted his success as a writer, but it cramped his choice of content—that is how he saw it. His attempt to find a more congenial context in which to write and think was one of the reasons for his coming to France in 1948. Giovanni’s Room, his first book not explicitly dealing with issues of racism, was a product of this decision. Published in 1956, the novel was to some extent a present from him to the people of France who had openly welcomed him as a great writer . not as a black one, nor a gay one, nor a political one. The accuracy and eloquence of his descriptions of France and the French in Giovanni’s Room must have been behind the commit- tee’s decision to award him the Légion d’Honneur in 1986. Jimmy was truly hon- ored to receive it. I was among the group of his friends who celebrated the occasion at La Coupole restaurant in Paris. With Giovanni’s Room being set in France, but written in English, the French char- acters speak English with a Gallic intonation and phrasing, while David speaks American English with smatterings of French, and Giovanni speaks good English and French, throwing in bits of Italian. The result being that the reader gets a real sense of being in France. For Jimmy it was essential to carry this over into the film and never to get bamboozled by commercial pressure to have American English throughout. This technique is so well achieved in the novel that we transposed certain passages into the script pretty well verbatim, like the exchange in Guillaume’s bar between an outrageous “folle” and David: “Oh my poor friend, so young, so strong, so hand- some—will you not buy me a drink?” To which David vehemently responds, “Va te faire foutre!”2 Here, David’s French is understandable as a brutal dismissal, and the tone of the Frenchman speaking English would be sustained in the film not just by his accent, but by the stiff turn of phrase: “. will you not buy me a drink?” Our chance meeting in London had sparked an immediate friendship. But another and more spectacular incident was to raise it to another level that would Downloaded from manchesterhive.com at 09/26/2021 05:25:20PM via free access 132 James Baldwin Review 5 lead us to the adaption of his singular novel. I did not see Jimmy for over a year, during which I was in Tanzania making a drama-documentary called Beyond the Plains Where Man Was Born (1976). The edit of the film brought me to Paris in the summer of 1976. I was strolling on the left bank enjoying the sun on the Rue St. André des Arts. The road is full of nondescript restaurants, all of them, at the time, unfamiliar to me. But as I passed an unprepossessing one, I found myself wanting to go inside and find out what kind of people frequented the area. I entered through a red, thick-curtained corridor into the dining room . and there was Jimmy staring straight at me, despite being seated with a couple of friends. There is no “normal” way of explaining this—how does a mother know her child is in danger on the other side of the globe? We were both flabbergasted. From then on, until the last year of his life in 1987, I always knew when he had arrived back from America to his house in Saint-Paul de Vence: “Hi Baby,” he’d say, upon answering the phone, “I just walked in!” And I’d say, “I know.” Or when he traveled, unbeknown to me, to the States, I’d phone his mother or his sister’s residence in New York, and it would be the same thing.