3 minute thoughts: In the Heat of the Night

My Black History Month watch along continues, on the marquee tonight is the provocative 1967 Best Picture winner (along with a slew of other awards and accolades) In the Heat of the Night. Starring Sidney Poitier as a Philadelphia detective who stumbles into the backwoods of Mississippi, the murder plot he soon uncovers takes us through a deep examination of race and societal standards in the American South. 

Although tested and disrespected by his surroundings, the film never leans into the “angry Black man” stereotype that prevailed for decades. It smashes conventions. The brilliant Sidney Poitier, the first Black thespian to ever win Best Actor, plays it ice cold; his cerebral wit as a homicide expert speaking for him. That being said, he does backhand a cotton plantation owner square across the jaw with his pimp hand. As the legend goes that part of the scene was not originally in the novel, but Poitier demanded in his contract that it be included or he would not do the film. *Applause break 

Rod Steiger, a man with a prolific career spanning decades, offers the perfect foil to the cool, educated, and reserved Poitier. He even nabbed Best Actor for this. The small town sheriff who smacks on his gum with reckless abandon and maintains a consistent layer of sweat on his brow begins as your typical racist power trip. Slightly neurotic and repeating himself on occasion with that distinctive Mississippi drawl, Steiger’s nuanced performance pulls back the curtain on the loneliness that actually lies behind his badge. And by the film’s final moments you feel in your heart that this Black detective of completely opposite upbringing is truly the only honest friend in his life. 

I once touched on this a bit with Do the Right Thing where intense summer heat waves are intentional backdrops for stories dealing with racial tensions boiling over. The broken AC units, damp button downs, and sticky air is a constant reminder that we’re in the deep south. And it plays as a manifestation of the anger that sits heavy in the air like humidity. They don’t call heat oppressive for nothing. And how can I forget, the Quiney Jones scores this little number.