cally identified). But the plot revolvesnaround a highly fictionalized attemptnby two FBI men, winningly played bynGene Hackman and Willem Dafoe, tonfind the bodies and bring the killers tonjustice. There’s a disclaimer at the tailnend of the closing credits: “This filmnwas inspired by actual events whichntook place in the South during then1960’s. The characters, however, arenfictitious and do not depict real people,neither living or dead.” Which not onlynreduces the possibility of lawsuits butnallows Parker to serve up a headynmixture of fact, gripping violence, andnimaginary episodes, like a made-upnthreatened castration, in the servicennot only of Mammon but morality.nOnly the most conscientious moviegoernis likely to have stayed in his seatnlong enough to see the disclaimer, andnthe film itself has already ended with andocumentary-style montage of names,nconvictions, and sentences; since a lotnof people don’t read reviews, onenmight presume that many of those whonsaw it thought it was a faithful recreationnof the case, and a genuine slice ofnMississippi life.nIn tune with received opinion as itnwas, Mississippi Burning neverthelessngenerated considerable controversynwhen it was released late in 1988. Butnthe main criticism came from peoplenwho thought Parker and his writer,nChris Gerolmo, hadn’t been politicallyncorrect enough — that while they werenself-consciously on the side of thenangels as far as racial justice was concerned,nthey shamelessly glorified thenFBI and didn’t pay enough attention tonthe black heroes, sung and unsung, ofnthe 1960’s civil rights battles in thenSouth.nThat may in fact be true. But thenblacks in Mississippi Burning — andnthere are numerous black characters —nare depicted with great sympathy, asncourageous people with a quiet dignitynthat is emphatically denied to whitenMississippians, almost all of whom, inn1964, seem to have been either homicidalnKu Klux Klansmen or their acquiescentnfellow travelers.nThere are two sympathetic Southernnwhite characters: the Mississippibrednbut reconstructed redneck playednby Hackman — the FBI agent Anderson—andnan equally fictihous Mrs.nPell, the troubled wife of one of thenguilty Klansmen. Anderson eventuallyn56/CHRONICLESnsweet-talks Mrs. Pell into spilling thenbeans about the bodies (the actualninformant is believed to have been anKlansman bribed by the FBI), andnMrs. Pell pays dearly: her husbandnbeats her mercilessly as his friends innthe Klan goad him on. But later, on thenmend, she gets to give a speech tonAnderson about what it’s like to grownup in Mississippi. Mrs. Pell also saysnthat she’s staying in town becausen”there’s enough good people aroundnhere know what I did was right.” Thatntakes about four seconds of a two-hournfilm in which we haven’t seen any ofnthose good people, only maniacalnKlansmen of unsurpassed villainy, corruptnlocal lawmen and politicians, andndumb stereotype yahoos spoutingnwhite supremacist dogma.nOddly enough, one of the complaintsnabout the movie, from a blacknformer civil rights worker named JamesnMcPherson, suggests that some ordinarynhumanity might have existed evennin the heart of darkness. There’s ansequence in the movie where Klansmennattack a black church; a young boyndrops to his knees in fearful prayer, andnone of the Klansmen comes up, givesnhim a savage kick in the head, cursesnhim, kicks him again, in the stomach,nand leaves him prostrate and writhing.nIn fact, according to McPherson, thencharacter of the boy is based on anwoman named Beatrice Cole, who,nabout to be beaten by the Klan, asked ifnshe could kneel and pray. “The Lordnwas there,” he quotes Mrs. Cole asnsaying later, “because then the mannsaid ‘Let her alone’ and he looked kindnof sick about it.” McPherson concludesnthat “this Klansman, behind hisnmask, apparently had a slight moralnsense.”nMcPherson was not, of course,ndoing p.r. for the Klan; his essay, onnthe op-ed page of the New York Times,nwas making a different point—that bynfocusing on the violence of “the relativelynfew poor Anglo-Saxons in thenKlan,” the movie camouflaged thendepths of (continuing) racism amongnwhites in general. That’s a hard thesisnto defend, given the way MississippinBurning trashed (Southern) whites inngeneral. But whether or not McPhersonnhas a point, his account of thenKlansman and the praying black womanndoes suggest a rule of thumb for thisnkind of moviemaking: that is, take allnnnthe barbarity you can find in the record,nand if it’s not barbarous enoughnto drive home your point — well, doctornit up until it is.nIt’s interesting to compare a feverishnbroadside like Mississippi Burningnwith an eariier work that doesn’t pretendnto be factual: To Kill a Mockingbirdn(the book and also the movie,nwhich was a generally faithful adaptation).nHarper Lee’s 1960 novel, alsonset in Mississippi, but in the 1930’s,nwas another passionate indictment ofnracial injustice: a decent black man —nadmirable in fact—falsely accused ofnrape by a young white woman, convictednby an all-white jury that has tonknow he’s innocent but doesn’t haventhe courage or moral fiber to go againstnthe code. And the episode ends withnthe desperate black man shot to deathnwhile trying to escape. Not a story tonlet anybody off the hook, and thenspecific racial issues it addressed werenstill very much to the point when itn’ appeared in 1960. But in its clear-eyednhumanism — with many decent whitenas well as black characters — this worknof honest fiction presents a far morenconvincing version of the segregatednSouth than the “based-on-fact” moviendoes, a portrait of a tragically flawednbut by no means monstrous societyncoming face to face with the moralnimperative for change.nHow far the arts have come sincenthen. Honesty on matters of race — annapproach that actually explored today’sncomplexities and ambiguities — wouldnof course mean giving the Zeitgeist ansharp kick in the shins. Far easier —nand far safer—to give us tracts likenMississippi Burning, to go on dredgingnup bitter, violent memories of a bygonenAmerica, obsessively and tendentiouslynpicking away at yesterday’s scabs, makingnsure that old, half-healed woundsnare kept open and bleeding.nArt and journalism both go whoringnoff in dubious directions all the time,nand always have, but they both stillnmanage, occasionally, to fall back onntheir birthright: to speak the truth. Toonbad that the pious pretenders of popularnentertainment think they have anfranchise to barter that birthright awaynfor a pot of message.nLorrin Anderson is a former editornand producer for WNBC-TV News innNew York.n