Honesty is the best policy. But liars do prosper. So you can see what kind of
position I'm in here. I can either lie and launch into a hastily researched and probably
stupid sounding diatribe about the history and customs of blaxploitation movies. Or I
could just admit what is probably obvious: when it comes to blaxploitation, I'm as green
as Kermit the Frog.
I remember seeing Black Belt Jones on TNT's 100% Weird, back in the days when I had no social life and stayed up until 3:00 a.m. on Saturday night. Beyond that, Dolemite is my first excursion into this sub-genre. I'm not impressed.
Not surprised, either. Few things are as good (or, in this case, as bad) as they're hyped up to be. And that's okay. If that weren't true, Armageddon would be a good movie, and I just don't want to live in that kind of world.
Dolemite is the story of Dolemite (Rudy Ray Moore), King of all Pimps and Hustlers. But the King has been dethroned through villainous treachery. Framed for robbery (fur robbery) and drug smuggling, Dolemite is sent to the can for two years. Fortunately, the Warden offers him a deal: since crime has yet to drop in The City, the FBI wants to set Dolemite loose, using him as bait to catch the big fish behind all the recent crime wave.
Dolemite is about to refuse. . .then he learns that his favorite nephew has died in said crime wave.
Once on the outside, the full scope of the King's fall is brought to light. His pimpin' business is near bankruptcy, his favorite lady now beds down with his worst enemy, and his club, Dolemite's Total Experience (his pride and joy) is now in the hands of that self-same enemy, Willie Green (D'Urville Martin)! Oh, the tragedy of it all! It's almost (dare I say?) Shakespearean!
What follows is pretty Shakespearean, too: it takes a while, and can be damn confusing unless you really pay attention. Eventually, through a series of strange vignettes (Vignettes from the Hood, you might say), Dolemite eludes capture by the corrupt police force (well, two corrupt detectives), maneuvers his way out of several frame ups, gets all of his girls trained in karate, has some gratuitous sex, takes back his club, and commits at least five instances of assault and battery.
It's okay, though. 'Cuz he's assaulting and battering "rat soup eating honky motherfuckers." I may not be from the inner city, but I know a diss when I hear it. Though, this is 1975, so Dolemite actually predates the word "diss," as well as the entire "culture of hip-hop." In fact, Dolemite predates hip-hop itself. The rhyming, curse word laden stories Dolemite tells on stage and (in one scene) at a used car lot, are the precursors of rap music. Rapus Erectus, perhaps?
But that's the sociologist in me talking. You'll forgive him, he doesn't get out much. Back to the movie.
As an outsider to this genre, I'm already cringing at the notes I'll receive (yeah, right) from irate fans, simply because I didn't praise Dolemite as a keystone of greatness. Well, tough stuff, guys. This is not a good movie. Lord knows it wants to be. Well...maybe. It wants to be something, that's for damn sure. Whether that something is hardcore action or softcore porn, I have no idea.
I blame (because that's what I do) most of the movie's choppiness on editor Rex Lipton and director D'Urville Martin. Scenes end as abruptly as a Mike Tyson fight. There is no such thing as "transition" in a Dolemite movie. Scenes are clipped in the middle of a line of dialogue. To top it all off, sex scenes are interrupted numerous times, and that's just mean, Mr. Martin. "Bad editing" doesn't even begin to cover the annoying ineptitude displayed in this movie. To say nothing of the visible boom mikes.
Of course, when the boom mikes aren't visible, they're held way the hell away and sound quality plummets to the blackest depths of incoherence (no pun intended, but you'll surely groan anyway).
Also, director Martin has no idea how to shoot a fight scene. Fighters miss each other by miles. It's more obvious than WWF Smackdown. And that's pretty damn obvious. Fight coordinators really come in hand for things like this, but, oops, they cost money, don't they?
Editing aside, there's always writer Jerry Jones to rail on. Coherence is not his corner stone. Subplots spring up and are cut down with impunity. For example, just what is the story of that militant preacher (West Gale) with a church full of guns? And if Dolemite could have slapped down fifty thousand dollars to buy his club back, how come he didn't do that in the first place? And what about the murders he commits? Or the ones his hos commit? Is the FBI that serious about catching the local Kingpin?
But I'm making a basic error in judgment: assuming this action takes place in our world. It doesn't. This is a world of Rudy Ray More's creation. A world where white people are evil, without fail. Where a gang of kung fu hookers can take down armed men without a single fatality. And where a man can rip another man's chest open with two fingers (and a handy jump cut).
Still,
there is some value in this movie. Comedian More obviously had love for his source
material, and his character. As an actor, More is at his best when he's delivering
Dolemite's "toasts" (as this form of proto-rap was known) and when he really
gets into the tough guy persona of our hero. But More (well, everyone, really) slips in
and out of character during the movie. At times, these people seem like people.
Most times they seem like robots. Talk like robots, too, droning their lines, sounding
bored and annoyed. Not the greatest mood to be in.
It's a familiar story: nice idea is wreaked by poor execution. Dolemite just can't decide what it wants to be, so it tries to be everything. I can hear the producer now: "A movie about the King of Pimps leading an army of Kung Fu hookers? Sounds great. But let's make it serious. Oh, no, that won't work. Let's stick in some comedy. No, that's too much. More serious stuff. Yeah, there we go. No wait. . ." And so on.
My only hope is that, after Dolemite, my travels in the land of blaxploitation will lead me to greener pastures.
