There are films that shout. There are films that listen. And there are those that endure. You may not know the name Michael Roemer. You should.

Mr. Roemer passed away this week at the age of 97, after teaching for fifty years at Yale and making a handful of films. One of those films is transcendent. It is the 1964 film NOTHING BUT A MAN, starring the great Ivan Dixon and the great Abbey Lincoln. Yes, transcendent. One of the most soulful, unvarnished portraits ever committed to American cinema, in my opinion.

Michael Roemer wasn’t born in the South, where the film takes place. He wasn’t even born in the United States. He fled Nazi Germany as a child, was put on a train by his family to escape hate and evil.

Years later, as a grown man, he got on another train. This time heading to Mississippi and Alabama. Riding what he called an “Underground Railroad in reverse.” He moved through Black communities with his writing partner Bob Young, watching, listening, learning, absorbing. What came out of that journey was NOTHING BUT A MAN.

It’s not a protest film on its face. On its face it’s just about… a man. Trying to keep a job. Trying to love a woman. Trying to look her father in the eye. Trying not to break under the weight of poverty and caste.

The main character is Duff Anderson, played by Mr. Dixon. He’s a railroad worker. Josie Dawson, played by Ms. Lincoln, is a teacher and the local preacher’s daughter. Duff and Josie meet at a revival service and there’s a subtle spark. She brings him home. Her father disapproves. They marry anyway. Duff loses jobs for refusing to bow his head. Josie stands by him. There’s a child from his past. A father with a bottle. A broken home. And still… they build something. Not perfect. But theirs.

The film is about a man and a woman choosing each other. A Black love story, yes. And a protest film afterall… gently confronting all that was absent from cinema at the time.

There’s a moment I come back to often: Duff stands outside a gas station, humiliated. You feel the fire in his body. In his silence. In his restraint.

Another moment: Josie, luminous, smiles across the dinner table, saying nothing. But her presence says everything. The love. The risk. The waiting.

Mr. Roemer saw these people. He honored them. Without caricature or pity or polish or pretense. He made them real.

The film struggled to find distribution and was barely seen in its time (although Malcolm X was said to be a fan). Yet, it has quietly endured, becoming one of my most cherished. I return to it often. It reminds me what cinema can do. What it should do.

Michael Roemer didn’t make many films. But he made NOTHING BUT A MAN. And for those who know, it is enough. It is now celebrated in the National Film Registry and in the hearts of film fans like me who continue to learn from it. What honesty looks like. What humility feels like. What independent cinema can dare to do and be.

Roemer’s legacy isn’t measured in volume, but in vibration. And, in what echoes from one film made with everything the filmmaker has to give.

Thank you, Mr. Roemer. For showing us that being “nothing but a man” is not a small thing. It is everything. It endures.

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