FEATURE: Lee Daniels, Pop Art for TV and EMPIRE

Lee Daniels pulls off the kind of balance no other contemporary director seems able to.

He sets out to make socially relevant, lavishly realized and – here’s the most important element – extremely popular film and television. From Precious to The Butler to now the Fox TV phenomenon Empire, the Oscar nominee bridges the gap between critics and audiences. Precious made over six times its budget, while also nabbing Oscar nominations for Best Picture, Director, Actress and, for which it won, Adapted Screenplay. The Butler made just under six times its budget, and drew strong reviews including a rave from the New York Times’ A.O. Scott. And now Empire, the ultimate example of transcendence, is TV’s biggest network hit in decades, and seems destined for awards glory come summer.

But accolades and acclaim are secondary for Mr. Daniels, who approaches his work with an intent to provoke, stir and engage. He wants people to see his work, and to grapple with his ideas. That doesn’t mean to say other artists don’t share the same goal, but it’s safe to say that Daniels makes artistic choices in line with what gets attention. This is a director who revels in excess – in the assaultive, grimy environment of Precious; the sweeping, celebrity-filled White House of The Butler; the soapy, backstabbing machinations of the Empire dynasty – and knows it. Precious was accused of being exploitative by many, but – without determining the merits of that argument – Daniels managed to squeeze his camera into a world and a cast of characters very real and yet totally peripheral in the mainstream. He brought it to life for audiences without compromising. The Butler, between absurd celebrity cameos and agreeably corny dialogue, actually concluded with a fairly bold statement about radicalism’s essential place in the fight for progress. Finally, Empire is shining a blindingly bright light on the kinds of bigotry, homophobia and racism enduring and manifesting in contemporary American culture. His methods are never clean – sometimes, as in The Paperboy, they get as dirty as Nicole Kidman peeing on Zac Efron – but they’re always pointed and undeniably effective. He’s our resident pop filmmaker.

Daniels functions in a heightened reality; the absence of realism and subtlety in his work alternates between frustrating and enlightening. When tasked with directing either The Butler or Selma, he ultimately chose the former – he was more suited to it. Unsurprisingly, despite a more aggressive marketing push and stronger Oscar standing (and better reviews) for Selma, which was eventually directed with grace and precision by Ava DuVernay, The Butler wound up making twice as much money domestically. Though initially positioned as zeitgeist-probing gamechanger, Selma’s legacy rests as an under-rewarded critical darling that deserved more than it got. It blew away those who saw it, but that number was unexpectedly small. The Butler, conversely, wouldn’t be called great by many, and its methods and ideas weren’t quite as essential as those in Selma, but it had some useful things to say – and people went, and listened.

Though the nature of Daniels’ directorial approach is obvious and gluttonous, there’s a surprising, consistent resonance in his work. He sketches out characters and relationships as outlandish as they are true. A lot of this has to do with casting – Daniels has as good an eye as any when it comes to matching actor to material. In Precious, the monstrous – often, downright diabolical – mother to Gabourey Sidibe’s “Precious” was played by Mo’Nique, a comedian with little experience in dramatic roles. Her performance, so big and vicious and emotional, turned intensely tragic as she textured the character with unyielding demons and an incontestable soul. In The Butler, what could veer into absurdly weepy biopic territory stayed aching and wistful in the hands of Forest Whitaker. As such a calm and honest presence, the Oscar winner grounded Daniels’ flashy docudrama, and sparked some rich interplay in scenes with David Oyelowo (of Selma), who played his radicalizing son.

From Revenge to Nashville to dozens of others, the effort in the past decade to reignite the nighttime soap has been, for anyone not named Shonda Rhimes, a dismal failure. You look at Empire and ask what’s different. It may be the drawing in of black and women viewers, as others haven’t been able to. But even among old-fashioned, 18-49 white men, the show is a hit. And though Empire is very good, critical acclaim was even stronger when, say, Nashville started: that drama’s ratings crater actually preceded its creative descent. 

Of course, we’re seeing a multitude of factors related to timing, tone, quality and diversity coming together. But it’s also about resonance, and about connecting to the material. With every episode of Empire that I see, no matter how ridiculous it gets, I’m beyond moved by the performances. Much has been made of Taraji P. Henson’s breathtakingly expressive work as Cookie, and rightly so. But what she does with the character – taking a Diva-ish, endlessly-quotable archetype and digging into her psyche as a mother, a betrayed lover and a street-smart ex-con – reflects what all of Empire’s actors do. Daniels’ template is vague enough where these characters could fit into grossly-insubstantial stereotypes, but the actors transcend the material and dive into their roles with specificity. Terrence Howard is a surprisingly effective antihero, playing the dying Lucious Lyon’s bigotry and regret with gritty sensitivity; the kids are equally, immensely good. Jussie Smollett’s work as Jamal, Cookie and Lucious’ gay son, is best exemplified in his exhilarating coming out performance, while Bryshere Gray infuses the outspoken Hakeem with volatile insecurity. These actors do fantastic work within their characters, and though Daniels’ story is dense with murder, adultery and secrecy, there’s a penetrating human element to every Empire moment.

A sizable chunk of Empire is drawn from Daniels’ experiences, growing up gay with an unaccepting father. There’s a personal element to his work here, one that’s galvanized a conversation about the fluidity of sex and the pervasiveness of homophobia that’s been largely ignored in mainstream culture. Empire is not the best, tightest show on TV, but it’s impossible not to see that this show is having an impact. Here is the clearest example of Daniels’ unique and increasing value as a filmmaker and TV producer: he makes good stuff with a distinct perspective, and he does so in a way that gets people paying attention. But if 20 million Americans gather weekly to watch a nuanced and confrontational take on race and sex and gender, you’re looking at a breakthrough. And Empire, in all its sudsy, sexy, soapy specificity, is exactly that. It’s the best kind of phenomenon we could ask for. And it’s also, lest we forget, an infectious piece of entertainment.