Point Of Departure

It’s possible to acknowledge an individual’s technical and creative skills while at the same time vilifying them as human detritus. 

Leni Riefenstahl literally created the visual vocabulary of sports cinematography with her documentary Olympia but she’s still a God damned Nazi sac of human excrement no matter how hard she tried whitewashing her involvement in the decades after the war.

Find her grave
and piss on it.

It’s also possible to acknowledge when an individual makes an important social or cultural breakthrough that will benefit literally millions of others directly or indirectly while at the same time correctly observing they’re a vile criminal rapist.

Very few African-American performers were allowed to interact equally with white performers in the pre-civil rights era.

Oh, certain sassy characters were permitted, but only in the context of straight talking household servants or employees, not equals.  Eddie “Rochester” Anderson was beloved by millions of Americans of all ethnicities, but his character was allowed to take liberties with Jack Benny’s character only in the context of Benny being a poor put-upon schnook for whom nothing went right.

Suffering the indignity of a mouthy chauffer who was right more often than not was just another part of the Benny schtick.  (Benny, to his credit, treated Anderson in real life as an equal and came down hard on anyone attempting to discriminate against him.)

So when Bill Cosby began cracking the stand-up comedy circuit in 1961, what made him unusual and appealing was his ability to create a commonality with all audiences, black and white.

For those who didn’t live in the cusp of the civil rights era, this was an incredible thing.  The divisions between black and white were far more rigorous and stratified than they are today (and they ain’t that good today).  That Cosby could reach audiences from a far different background as his own showed a remarkable talent and ability, and it’s not at all overstating the case to say he provided some much needed oil to allow entrenched whites to move however slightly in their positions, and a sturdy foundation to African-Americans who might otherwise feel overwhelmed.

Bill Cosby was a very funny fellow…right?

Cosby mined his childhood to great effect, reminding all segments of his audience of their childhoods, and richly enjoyed the popular success he garnered.

But as we all know, there was a sociopathic side to Cosby as well.

While it’s fair to call out hypocritical behavior, we can still acknowledge consensual behavior between or among fully informed adults shouldn’t be regarded as a crime, and if one member of a relationship can live with the other’s philandering, hey, ain’t nobody’s business if they do.

But from various credible accusers and witnesses, Cosby’s pattern of abuse can be documented back to 1965.  I knew people in 1978 who worked closely with Cosby, and they all cautioned never to mistake the public performer for the actual person.

It strikes me that the first inkling the public got of Cosby’s dual nature was his 1968 comedy album, 200 M.P.H., his follow up to the same year’s To Russell, My Brother, Whom I Slept With.

While the latter is totally in the spirit of Cosby’s earlier albums celebrating the universality of childhood, 200 M.P.H. is something different. A lengthy comedy routine in praise of self-indulgence and an open indifference to the safety of others.

It’s about Cosby splurging on high priced / high powered cars and accruing a string of speeding tickets as a result.

A far cry from the guy who waxed nostalgic about playing buck-buck on the streets of Philly as a kid.

Now, it’s absolutely fair if not crucial for a creator / performer to try out new things, to attempt to expand their repertoire.

Cosby already broke out of the stand-up mold by co-starring in 1965’s espionage-adventure show I Spy in which he played a secret agent working undercover as Robert Culp’s tennis trainer.  As the first African-American cast as a white character’s equal in a regularly recurring TV series, I Spy like his comedy albums proved a cultural game changer.

In and of itself it made little direct impact of American racial mores, but as part of the ongoing culture shift it marked a significant milestone.

In a less problematic performer’s oeuvre, 200 M.P.H. would be hardly noticeable, an unusual and atypical turn but not especially noteworthy.

For Cosby, one needs to wonder if it was the first open sign of a deep rooted problem he’d successfully hid from the public and would continue to hide for decades to come.

It’s a funny album -- Cosby could do no wrong comedically at this point in his career -- but as cited it moved Cosby out of the realm of commonality and into that of entitlement (he’s not the only one; look up David Letterman’s automotive problems).

While Cosby poked fun at himself for buying such an over charged monster, at the same time he removed himself from the streets and set himself up on a pedestal:  Look at me!  I’m rich!  I’m famous!  I’m entitled.

1965 marked a significant year in Cosby’s career:
His groundbreaking role in I Spy but also the first known accusations against him re abusive behavior.

One can’t help but wonder if Cosby always exercised his abusive inner demon and just got away with it because he was an honored athlete in high school and the US Navy in the late 1950s and thus protected by the system, or if traveling the world to film I Spy offered him heretofore unavailable opportunities and temptations.

1968 also marked a significant year for Cosby:
Not only both To Russell, My Brother, Whom I Slept With and 200 M.P.H., but also his leaving Warner Bros, the label for whom he made all his groundbreaking albums, to co-found Tetragrammaton Records.

Tetragrammaton, of course, refers to the ineffable name of God, and with what we know today, that sure looks like a sociopathic narcissistic self-identifier.

In hindsight, I think it’s safe to say 200 M.P.H. represents a point of departure, of Cosby consciously or unconsciously acknowledging he was leaving the real world and heading off into one of his own.

The object of this post is not to continue flogging a self-confessed rapist, but to point out how easily we overlook otherwise overt clues in just about everything.

What seems painfully obvious now was virtually invisible back then.

Keep your eyes and ears open, folks.

We may not be able to stop some things from happening, but we can sure see ‘em coming.

© Buzz Dixon