Frederick Wiseman’s frequent forays into the minutiae of institutions are less about their particular objectives than their ability to serve as circumscribed microcosms of dysfunction and human folly. His subjects are often depressing (Near Death and Multi-Handicapped
Wiseman’s New York films stand apart from the others; he seems enlivened and energized by the city because its vastness and multifariousness confounds him, and because, contrary to the usual dysfunction of his subjects in the face of an imposed order of one kind or another, New York City manages to operate, constantly adapting, jury-rigging its own rules, in the face of total chaos and every possible impediment. Chaos is freedom, after all, and so in a sense, the system, or absence of one, works. Until recently, Central Park best embodied this celebratory aspect of Wiseman’s work, but his latest masterpiece In Jackson Heights, about the Queens neighborhood that is “the most diverse community in the world” may be his most exhilarating film of all.
If there is an institution being chronicled in In Jackson Heights, it isn’t the eponymous neighborhood, but American capitalism, the specter of which haunts nearly every interaction in the film. For a large portion of the running time, Wiseman chronicles the demise of the Roosevelt Shopping Center, home to fifty small businesses, owned by largely non-white owners, who are being forced out by Manhattan real-estate developers under the guise of the 501(c)6 non-profit “Business Improvement District,” who will, of course, replace them with “a bigger tenant like The GAP or Dunkin’ Donuts…Manhattan is already packed. Big Corporations are looking to Jackson Heights, a place they never heard of before.” The irony, which is clearly not lost on Wiseman, is that Jackson Heights today resembles Manhattan as it used to be—a city of immigrants—but will eventually resemble the whitewashed, condo-ized, homogenous Manhattan of today. This is doubly ironic because Jackson Heights was originally designed as a suburban retreat for upper-middle class Anglo-Saxon Protestants looking to escape Manhattan.
In Jackson Heights repeatedly shows us the painful contradictions in the American Dream, an ideal that cannot be attained but which appears to be on full display in Jackson Heights. A white woman coaches a group of recent immigrants preparing for their citizenship exam: “The easiest thing to say is ‘I want to vote’ because it means you understand the democratic process.” Nobody knows what she’s talking about, least of all her, yet many scenes show people of varied backgrounds, including many recent immigrants, organizing on behalf of their community and proving the woman’s point despite her condescension. Later, a cantankerous 98-year old woman at a senior center complains that her life is lonely and meaningless. “You’re a rich lady, why don’t you pay people to talk to you?” another woman asks her earnestly. “If you pay you can have anything.” The woman is right, money can buy anything, and yet, as the older woman scoffs at the advice, she knows that her money is worthless.
Despite many heartbreaking moments, In Jackson Heights remains a joyful portrait of one of New York’s greatest neighborhoods. Wiseman’s camera—marred by dirt on the lens in many scenes—seems dazzled by the dizzying array of sights and sounds, the litany of languages (167 of them) and the cross-pollination of ethnicities. Wiseman does not find tiny basements used as mosques, windowless rooms used for support group meetings, poultry slaughterhouses on the bottom floors of apartment buildings and restaurants nestled under the elevated 7 train to be depressing and repressive, but rather a testament to human resourcefulness. The 130,000 citizens of Jackson Heights are forced to share, make do and adapt in their limited space. In fact, it is Wiseman himself who seems willing to concede the overwhelming nature of his subject. At one point, he weaves together an aural montage of digital noises—air horns after a Colombian World Cup match, police sirens, electronic door chimes and semi-trucks backing up. There are enough musical performances to qualify the film as a musical. It is also the only Wiseman film I can recall which includes a montage of bongs, but lest you get too enticed, there’s also a handy maxim for Jackson Height’s cab-drivers-in-training for remembering the cardinal directions: (N)ever (E)ver (S)moke (W)eed.
