Because of Melvin

We love a good “Top Five” debate, don’t we? Favorite rappers, favorite albums, favorite movies—it’s part of the culture. But when someone asks me who my favorite actor is, I like to throw them off with a name they’re not expecting:

Fred Williamson.

That always gets a puzzled look—followed by, “Wait… why?”

I hit them with his own words:

“Because he always gets the girl, he wins all his fights, and he doesn’t die at the end.”

Now, that might sound shallow to some. But if you know the history of how Black people—especially Black men—have been portrayed in film, it hits differently.

Cultural critic Donald Bogle laid it out plainly: we were often reduced to caricatures—the mammy, the buck, the coon, the tragic mulatto. And even today, mainstream media still echoes the stereotypes set by D.W. Griffith’s infamous Birth of a Nation. That legacy didn’t disappear with time—it just adapted. From that film to Monster’s Ball, Hollywood has funded, maintained, and rewarded these distortions.

So when someone like Fred Williamson came along, who broke those boundaries and flipped the script, it meant something. It mattered. But none of that would’ve been possible without Melvin.

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The Alchemist Before His Time

Melvin Van Peebles was born in 1930s Chicago, at a time when Black storytelling in film had already been taken out of Black hands. The days of Oscar Micheaux’s independent films were gone. Hollywood controlled our narratives—and we weren’t the ones writing the scripts.

As a young man, Melvin was embarrassed by the same portrayals Bogle wrote about. And worse, he had to endure the mockery of white peers who watched those films and turned to him like he was part of the punchline.

So Melvin made a decision early:
He would tell our stories. On our terms. Without compromise.

But doing that in America? Nearly impossible. So he packed his bags and moved to France, where the government had programs to support aspiring filmmakers—if you immersed yourself in the culture and learned the language.

Melvin did just that. The result? His debut film A Three-Day Pass, a poetic story of a Black GI and a French woman navigating love and race during a short leave. That film opened doors for him in the U.S., leading to his next work—Watermelon Man.

Starring the brilliant Godfrey Cambridge, Watermelon Man follows a white man who wakes up one day as Black. The absurdity of the storyline is what made it so cutting. I remember my college roommates quoting it non-stop:

“Oh milk! Beautiful white milk! Cleanse me!”

It was funny, yes. But painfully true. That character thought bathing in milk could “fix” his Blackness—while real people in our community were bleaching their skin trying to be lighter. It was satire, but it was also a mirror.

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Then Came Sweetback

But Watermelon Man wasn’t Melvin’s masterpiece. That came next.

Sweet Sweetback’s Baadasssss Song changed the game.

Critics would later lump it under “Blaxploitation,” but that’s a misread. Melvin didn’t exploit the culture—he exposed how Black people were being exploited. The film was raw. Unfiltered. Radical. It didn’t have a Hollywood budget like Shaft or Super Fly—but what it lacked in money, it made up for in heart, culture, and truth.

Melvin didn’t just make films. He made cultural alchemy—taking our struggle and spirit, and transforming them into cinematic gold. His influence birthed a lineage: Spike Lee. Julie Dash. Mario Van Peebles. Ryan Coogler.

He made it possible for us to see ourselves fully—flawed, powerful, real.

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The Night I Met Melvin

On my 40th birthday, I went to see Nile Rodgers perform at Lincoln Center. (That’s a whole other story.)

As we were vibing, my girlfriend nudged me and pointed at an older man with six-pack abs and an afro ponytail.

She whispered, “Isn’t that your boy?”

“Who?”

“Melvin Van Peebles.”

I lit up. Ran toward him like I was 7 years old chasing the ice cream truck—but stopped just in time to play it cool. When I got close, I said, “I knew that was you.”

We chopped it up real quick, took some pictures. And in classic Melvin style, he even told me I was taking the photos wrong.

That night, I was floating. I had met two of my heroes: Nile and Melvin.

But the moment I’ll never forget?

As I was dancing in the middle of Lincoln Center, Melvin came up behind me, put his hands on my shoulders, and leaned in with these words:

“Everything we did in the ’60s and ’70s—we did so you could do this. What you’re doing tonight.”

That hit me.

Because he meant it.

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Thank You, Melvin.

How could you not love someone who loved his people that much? Who fought to tell our stories with dignity? Who made sure the world saw us not just as characters—but as full, free, vibrant people?

Thank you, Melvin.

For the stories.
For the resistance.
For the alchemy.

– King Esseen | Cultural Curator