A film about exploitation and reconciliation can move people to tears; to action; together.

The 13th Annual Sedona Film Festival in early March abounded with documentaries moving the viewer to unfamiliar territory, of the globe and the heart. From child refugees of the horror in northern Uganda rehearsing for a national music competition (War/Dance) to Beyond the Call (“A Mother Teresa meets Indiana Jones adventure”), following modern-day white knights who deliver direct-action disaster relief, documentaries involve us in worlds otherwise unknown.

Prescott once strongly identified itself with the Smoki, as evidenced by these placards still hanging from utility poles all over downtown Prescott. RIH photo/Art Merrill

Think globally, film locally  

One Sedona entry focuses right here. Prescott’s Smoki Museum Board wanted to move in a new direction, welcoming in the Native American voice, as befits a museum dedicated to teaching about the first people here. Shadowed by some sensitive history, this move would take healing, reconciliation. Museum Director John Tannous called hometown filmmaker Jerry Chinn to document the crux of the controversy, the Smoki People—the museum’s founders. Chinn’s film, Raindance in a Storm: Arizona’s Controversial Snake Dance, gives voices and pictures a chance to illuminate all the story’s sides.

A fraternal organization unique to Prescott, the Smoki People grew out of a lighthearted cowboys-and-Indians burlesque, “Way Out West,” in the 1921 Fourth of July parade. People loved it. The next year Yavapai Club businessmen, choreographed by a Prescott woman who had lived in Hopi, performed a dance based on the Hopi snake ritual as a rodeo fundraiser. The performances morphed into an annual extravaganza, the Smoki Snake Dance and Ceremonials. Wildly popular, they drew tourists from everywhere. Prescott historical museum founder Sharlot Hall pitched in, writing poems and even a Smoki “creation myth.”

Community heart 

Chinn’s reminiscing Smokis reveal the group’s heart, in a different world and time. It was more than just dancing. Believing they were preserving elements of disappearing cultures, they pored over details of costumes and dances. Performances became elaborate, labor-intensive. Smoki quickly evolved into an organization the “best folks” belonged to, involving whole families—in short, a community. At one point, one in ten Prescott families were Smoki. There were markers of belonging—the small tattoos on members’ hands, the initiation. Fundraising financed group entertainments, the Arizona St. meetinghouse and eventually the museum it housed. Artifacts gathered by members seeded the museum’s collection.

And the dancing itself? “No words can express the excitement and the heart-pounding effect of all this, hearing the drums going and everything,” one Smoki recounts. The shows permitted these men to do things their prosaic lives as, bankers, plumbers, mayors (Gail Gardner), senators (Barry Goldwater) would never allow: to get nearly naked, paint their bodies, and show off, dancing. In public. With their lips wrapped around the neck of a bull snake and the snake’s body wrapped around their arms, or with a horse tail whisking over their posteriors.

As a matter of fact, we do mind

Smoki lasted 70 years. After the first five years, in 1926, Hopi and other tribal peoples repeatedly lodged their objections. Chinn’s Hopi and Navajo interlocutors speak eloquently of their outrage at vital, sacred ceremonies rendered as spectacle by these white people, for money.

Leigh Kuwanwisiwma, of the Hopi Cultural Preservation Office, learned of the Smoki dances in the’80s. In 1989 he accepted the first direct invitation for a Hopi group to view the performance. His wry phrase “shock and awe” conveys their uncomfortable blend of amusement and offense. Hopi protest demonstrations followed, supported by Zuni, Navajo, Apache and Yavapai. Tribal people requested the performances end; they received no reply, but the 1990 event, also protested, was the last. The Smoki People disbanded in 1991, dissolving their corporation a decade later. In the final interview, a member calls the day they burned the stage sets “the saddest day of my life.”

When you don’t mean to give offense, it’s hard to accept that you have. Chinn says some Smokis acknowledged the performances needed to stop—off camera. On film we see people who never meant any disrespect. Still, how does a living, breathing member of a culture overlook the condescension in the “disappearing” label, the presumption of cultural preservation by conquerors? Especially one whose parents had to practice their religion, banned by the invaders’ law, in secret?

Pictures moving people

The Museum commissioned Chinn’s documentary precisely to present the complexities, seeking help from both Smoki People Advisory Council and the native community. Gaining trust and support took time. They formed a Native American Advisory Council, and both groups helped compile an exhibition, also featuring clips from the film.

With luck, it will help people understand, be gentle, move toward each other. Preceding Chinn’s film at Sedona, a documentary short, Sinew, traced the hard life and courage of Betty Cooper, a Blackfeet, who was present that night. Afterward Jerry overheard her talking with a Smoki woman, who appealed for understanding of “the feeling that came over us” in their performances. Seeing straight through to the need that drew the Smoki People together, I heard Betty say something like: I can understand that your ceremony did for you what ceremony does for us. Maybe you called some of our spirits into your dances. Maybe with time, with healing, you’ll release these spirits again.

Maybe a picture like Raindance in a Storm can move people together.

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