Sidney Poitier Proved In ‘Buck And The Preacher’ That Black Actors Deserved To Be More Than Small Parts In Someone Else’s Play

It was only this past October when Netflix released The Harder They Fall, a revisionist Western based on real life figures of the 19th century American West. One of the few films of the genre to ever feature a majority Black cast, Harder arrived with and earned considerable buzz for its thoughtful blend of dramatic tension, strong action scenes and well-timed comedy. Even though there was a spirited debate about colorism as it relates to the role of Stagecoach Mary (played by Zazie Beetz), the very idea that African-Americans were able to see themselves in a genre dominated and arguably created for white American men is a remarkable feat on its own.

Harder has been writing its history in real time for all to see, but as the modern adage goes, there was one particular film that walked so Harder could crawl. That film was Buck and the Preacher, the 1972 Western starring the late Sidney Poitier alongside Harry Belafonte and Ruby Dee. Written by Enrest Kinoy, Buck was also Poitier’s directorial debut.

Since the death of the legendary Poitier on January 7th, people have taken time to revisit some of his most iconic roles. Some of his best-known performances, including his trifecta of renowned roles in 1967, have been given more scrutiny than others thanks to the evolution (and sometimes de-evolution) of race and gender discussions over time. Case in point, Guess Who’s Coming to Dinner? doesn’t have the same aura 55 years after its silver screen debut, but it’s undeniable that Poitier’s brilliant performance challenged how America viewed interracial romance, live and in color. 

So when he took his turn behind the camera after many years of exclusively starring in front of it, one could have assumed his thinking was to bring a new narrative to the standard Western that would show what America actually looked and felt like for non-whites in those times.

In a lot of ways, Buck was no different than any of Poitier’s other acclaimed leading roles. With piercing stares and instant chemistry with whomever stood with him on screen, he was still in command of the camera — literally (as director) and metaphorically (as one of its three co-stars). And as the primary protagonist, Buck was another character in a long list of roles which Poitier would brilliantly draw out the film’s morality play. Here, he was a former soldier who led wagon trains of former slaves from Louisiana to “unsettled” land in Kansas not long after the Civil War.

Yet, there was a major difference between his previous roles and Buck; namely, the use of humor. With the emergence of Blaxploitation, there had been a growing sentiment that the roles that made Poitier famous were out of touch with what Black audiences wanted from leading men. He would be criticized for playing characters who were too refined, too pristine and too “safe,” despite how the substance of the roles were anything but.

In Buck, Poitier got to parry well with the younger Belafonte, who played the con man Preacher. In the first scene with the two stars, Buck tries to steal Preacher’s horse in order to evade trouble. Buck is just about all business with Poitier’s trademark stoicism while Preacher tries to play it cool with a dash of humor in the middle of basically getting robbed. Yet it was a small touch towards the end of the scene – the comical indignity of Buck taking a bite out of Preacher’s food – that proves how an ultra serious thespian can have a little fun.

What also made Buck a standout film in Poitier’s illustrious career was that it did not shy away from displaying the tense relationship between Native Americans and Blacks in the bewildering post-Civil War era. In this scene, the protagonists (including Ruth, portrayed by Ruby Dee) are looking for safe passage through Native territory while being chased by bounty hunters. Yet while they would be able to move through safely, it would come without much support as the natives were reluctant to give up any more of their already scarce resources.

Many Western films are rooted in at least one of the following themes: perceived slights turned into righteous vengeance, avenging the death of loved ones, property battles, and someone’s desire for freedom. Yet those stories have historically been created through the gaze of white men who believed that the land west of the Mississippi River was meant for them and them alone. The Native Americans who toiled on the land long before anyone else were obstacles to be overcome, and perhaps ‘tamed’ for the benefit of white newcomers. Black faces — enslaved or emancipated — were not to be found unless, similar to the natives, they were still serving someone other than themselves. There wasn’t a unified fight between both groups despite battling against the same oppressors.

With that historical backdrop, it’s still amazing to think that Buck and the Preacher was actually made. Westerns have done as much to shape America’s identity to the world; that America always pushes to new frontiers, champions freedom and defends itself from enemies foreign and domestic. Buck, instead, flips those narratives by having Black and Native American actors represent those American ideals in ways unfamiliar to the typical audience for a Western. The former slaves are pushing to new frontiers ideally untouched by slave masters while chasing their freedom. The natives are trying to defend what’s left of their land and resources from a U.S. government continuing to push westward.

Buck and the Preacher may have not been the defining film of its genre, but it further burnished Sidney Poitier’s credentials as an icon away from the movie set. While it didn’t have the financial success of other films in the genre, the true success of Buck was that it elevated others in the most American of film genres. Buck was a revolutionary act in 1972, and it was one that felt revived again just a short time ago with the release of The Harder They Fall.

In the weeks and months since Poitier’s death, we’ve often heard about his style and class, with many calling him “a perfect gentleman” along with similar descriptions of his poise and prose on-screen and away from set. Yet those reflections at times have overshadowed Poitier’s unshakable belief that as a Black man — and Hollywood’s first true leading man of Black descent — there could no longer be small parts in someone else’s play, especially if the role lacked dignity and human decency. 

Jason Clinkscales is the founder and editor-in-chief of The Whole Game, and his work has been featured at Awful Announcing, The Week and Dime Magazine. A New York City native, he is also a former media research analyst in both television networks and advertising agencies.