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In all the years I’ve called Hollywood home, I have never once heard anyone say, “James Earl Jones is an asshole.”
That is a rarity in a town where friends and enemies too often wear the same faces. These hills, sharp and jagged, gleam with the manic glow of manufactured, toxic metals; yet, there he stood—a natural gem whose light could still be seen from the corner of one’s eye long after he’d made his dignified exit.
Not many people know this, but we filmed Coming 2 America in Atlanta. James, though, was ill and not up to travel, so his scenes were shot in New York. That’s right. The scene where Eddie and I are speaking to him while he glares at us from his royal bed? All of it was made possible thanks to the power of film technology. When you see me as a 90-year-old shaman named Baba, I am speaking to a tennis ball.
What a difference 30 years can make. When we filmed Coming to America, before a scene or during hair and makeup, I might turn to him and ask, “How do I approach this one?” As a young performer—a young Black performer—being able to ask him for acting advice was a gift I have never taken for granted. His wisdom fueled me; his generational talent both intimidated and inspired me.
During the first film, there’s a scene where I’m in the apartment in New York. James Earl Jones—His Excellency, Ruler for Life, King Jaffe Joffer, Conqueror of the British Empire in Africa in General and Zamunda in particular, if you’re nasty—has just arrived in America. We have no idea that King Joffer is in town. So, of course, when I hear an urgent knock at the door and open it to see him standing there, I do what any self-respecting man would do in that situation: I scream, then slam the door.
That scene initially had dialogue. I was supposed to open the door and say actual words. But before we walked on the set, I asked James that familiar question, “How do I approach this one?” He paused for the briefest of moments, before responding with words I will never forget: “Stand firm and tell the truth. That’s always my advice.”
In that moment, my truth was, “Oh shit, the king is in America!” before slamming the door. John Landis—our director, who also helmed films such as Trading Places and Beverly Hills Cop—said, “Keep that.” We would go on to shoot different versions, but that improvised flash of time filled with intimidation and nervousness was me standing in my truth, just as James Earl Jones taught me to do. And he never once steered me wrong.
Once, I went to see him on Broadway in August Wilson’s Fences. I’m sitting front row, because I’m somebody now. James Earl Jones is my friend. During this scene that is crackling with tension, snot comes out of his nose and he wipes it away with the back of his hand. Never once does this lion of an actor stop the scene. After the show was over, I told him, “Man, I didn’t know what you were going to do, you know, when that thing happened.”
“What,” he said, as if amused by my innocent concern, “the snot? You know I did that on purpose? I call it method snotting.”
Now, read that in his voice for maximum impact. We laughed, but, to this day, I don’t know if he was laughing with me or at me. And I never found out if it was the truth. Was it a mistake? Did James Earl Jones walk so Viola Davis could run? I’ve grown to love the fact that I’ll never know.
My one regret about Coming 2 America was that, while I was able to spend time with Mr. Amos, I was not able to spend more time with James Earl Jones.
But, oh, what a time it was.
What can be said of a man who was a human ray of sunshine? That was John Amos. He transcended mere definition. When we were filming the first Coming to America, I could not wait to have a scene with him just to see his face. He was a special guy, magnetic in his ability to pull one close to him with no effort at all. If he was in the room, I instinctively knew I needed to be there, too.
He hummed with intelligence, integrity, and brilliance—just filled to the brim with that intangible something you can’t buy from the store. Elders at Elizabeth Baptist Church in Cleveland, where my late father, Rev. Fred Hall, was the pastor, might say he had that oil on him. Some days, I would sit with him and discuss the politics of how he played James Evans on Good Times, a Black man who migrated from Mississippi to Chicago only to find that racism travels.
Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. once said, “… I can say that I have never seen—even in Mississippi and Alabama—mobs as hostile and as hate-filled as I’ve seen here in Chicago.” Six years after sanitation strikers in Memphis held signs that read, “I Am a Man,” James Evans gave us an intimate look into the world of a working-class Black man just trying to make it. He was a king denied his crown; the Evans family’s small apartment in the Cabrini-Green projects his castle. We watched him struggle in a racist society that did not know what to do with a free Black man other than try to kill him or beat him down—even if in spirit only.
This was during a time of tumultuous transition in the entertainment business—a time when a proud, Black father being in the home was still not the norm. There are some people who lose or leave their jobs because they didn’t or couldn’t do a good job. As deeply entrenched as I unwillingly am in the politics of being Black in Hollywood, it’s probably fair to say that John Amos was too good, and too wonderful for the cause of Black men in America.
I was so glad to spend another three months with him filming Coming 2 America. When director Craig Brewer called “Cut!” I would just sit with him, because I hadn’t seen him in a long time. Well, I’d seen him, of course, at different events and premieres, but I hadn’t had a chance to spend time with him. And I missed him. His health was beginning to fail a bit then. Those quiet moments I spent just walking with him and helping him to the set I will cherish for the rest of my life.
Arsenio Hall and Eddie Murphy in the 1988 movie, “Coming to America.” | Source: Everett Collection
There is a part of me that still can’t believe I’m speaking of both these men in past tense. They both taught me by example how to be an unselfish performer. They helped me understand that when you’re kind to the people around you, then you’re kind to your own performance. This may come as a shock, but some actors are competitive on the set. Through James Earl Jones and John Amos, I learned that I must think of the film as a game, and understand that if the team is disjointed, then you don’t win the game.
They reaffirmed my belief that when you love one another, and look out for one another, good things happen. They made me believe in my power to become everything the powers that be tried to make me believe I couldn’t be. And, as a Black man in show business, I am better than blessed to have had them pave a way for me.
The years have passed, as they tend to do. I’m now older than both magnificent men were when I met them so long ago. I’m not sure how the hell that happened, but I grew up performing magic and one thing I’ve learned to be true: What is magic if not this whimsical, fleeting, splendid thing called life? Though James Earl Jones and John Amos may no longer walk among us, their legacies are indelible. And we, those who love them, must water their flowers so that generations to come may know their beauty.
In front of the camera and off the set, John Amos and James Earl Jones were amazing men; they were kind men; they were good men.
And ain’t we lucky we had ‘em.
SEE ALSO:
How James Earl Jones Navigated The Intersection Of Art And Activism
This Is Why We Loved John Amos
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