Showing posts with label harry belafonte. Show all posts
Showing posts with label harry belafonte. Show all posts

Wednesday, September 24, 2025

Nationtime—Gary (1973)



        Some documentaries are such useful historical artifacts that quibbling about their artistic or technical shortcomings misses the point. Such is the case with Nationtime—Gary, a record of the first National Black Political Convention, which took place in Gary, Indiana, circa March 1972. Organized at a fraught moment when the Black Power movement, the Civil Rights movement, and resistance to Nixonian conservatism saw African-Americans gain ground culturally, economically, and politically, the convention pursued a noble goal of unifying various factions of Black activism. The effort was not successful, and apparently the follow-up event (held two years later in Arkansas) exacerbated problems. Nonetheless, the attempt was important, and therefore we’re lucky that Black documentarian William Greaves filmed the proceedings and edited his reportage down to feature length. Unsurprisingly, Greaves’s work was considered too provocative for wide release in 1973, so only a heavily truncated version was available for decades. In 2020, the full 80-minute doc was digitally restored.
          As journalism, Nationtime—Gary is undisciplined. The picture distills the three-day convention into a (more or less) chronological highlight reel, and some of the editorial choices are perplexing. Letting Jesse Jackson’s centerpiece speech run for a full 20 minutes doesn’t leave much room for other speakers to expound. Clipping performances short (including Isaac Hayes’s rendition of “Theme from Shaft”) seems arbitrary. And the presentation of a key debate is murky—we see moderator Amiri Baraka trying to get a platform adopted, which sparks friction between delegations from Michigan and New York, but Greaves neglects to convey the substance of the platform, so the quarrel is bewildering. Luckily, the convention’s core messages permeate Jackson’s speech, during which he explores such topics as the need for proportionate representation by Blacks within the Democratic Party. Making a different sort of impression is Dick Gregory’s edgy standup routine, and Nationtime—Gary features a handful of effectively wordless moments, for example an onstage appearance by Coretta Scott King.
          Some sequences feel almost impressionistic because of the way Greaves juxtaposes footage from inside the convention hall with (poorly recorded) audio of Harry Belafonte and Sidney Poitier reciting poetry and/or explaining what’s happening onscreen. Based on the number of shots marred by iffy lighting and shaky focus, it’s apparent this film was made with a meager budget. However, because Nationtime—Gary is inherently a subversive political statement, perhaps a slick presentation would have undercut the endeavor. In sum, Greaves reached for more than he could grasp—as did the organizers of the convention—but he still managed to capture a lot. FYI, when the documentary was restored, its title was confusingly abbreviated in marketing materials to Nationtime even though the full original title appears onscreen.

Nationtime—Gary: GROOVY

Tuesday, June 9, 2015

Uptown Saturday Night (1974) & Let’s Do It Again (1975) & A Piece of the Action (1977)



          Though he’s best known for his ultra-serious onscreen persona, Sidney Poitier not only starred in but also directed the hit comedy Uptown Saturday Night, the first of three Poitier-helmed ’70s pictures in which the actor shares the screen with funnyman Bill Cosby. The movies are not a series, since neither characters nor storylines recur from film to film. However, the movies all boast impressive casts, slick production values, and a certain kind of moral integrity, since they emulate the blaxpoitation aesthetic without perpetuating blaxploitation stereotypes. They’re celebratory movies designed to entertain and inspire African-American audiences.
          Uptown Saturday Night is the weakest of the trio, partially because of an episodic story structure and partially because Poitier and his collaborators let scenes drag on to excessive lengths. Another issue, which troubles the entire series, is that Cosby rarely gets to embark on comedic flights of fancy. Whenever he does, the movies receive a huge uplift, which means that any time he’s stuck delivering exposition or playing bland dramatic scene, the series’ best resource is untapped. Uptown Saturday Night stars Poitier as Steve, a steelworker, and Cosby as Wardell, a cab driver. One evening, Wardell persuades Steve to visit an expensive brothel/gambling joint/nightclub called Madam Zenobia’s. The blue-collar guys pay dearly for visiting the high-roller establishment, because robbers invade the club and steal personal items from everyone in attendance. The next day, Wendell realizes that his wallet, which was taken by the crooks, contains a winning lottery ticket worth $50,000.
          In order to find the stolen goods, the friends infiltrate the local underworld, which puts them in the middle of a war between gangsters Geechie Dan (Harry Belafonte) and Silky Slim (Calvin Lockhart). Culture-clash gags ensue, climaxing in a goofy finale that involves a car chase, cross-dressing, and a funkadelic picnic. While Poitier displays almost zero control over pacing and tone, the movie features excellent supporting turns by Roscoe Lee Browne and Rosalind Cash. (The less said about Belafonte’s embarrassing Marlon Brando imitation, complete with cotton-stuffed cheeks, the better.) By far, the best scene in Uptown Saturday Night is Richard Pryor’s extended cameo as a nervous con man, because he explodes with the edge and energy the rest of the film sorely needs.
          Poitier and his collaborators righted the ship for Let’s Do It Again, the best of the trio. A straight-up caper comedy filled with colorful characters and crazy schemes, the movie works fairly well almost from start to finish, though it should’ve been 15 minutes shorter. This time, Billy (Cosby) and Clyde (Poitier) are blue-collar types who run a con in order to raise money for their fraternal lodge, a vital community hub. Traveling to New Orleans with their wives—and $18,000 in purloined lodge money—the boys secretly hypnotize prizefighter Bootney Farnsworth (Jimmie Walker), then place huge bets on Bootney before a title match. Scenes of Billy and Clyde dressing like pimps while they pretend to be players are cheerfully outlandish. Predictably, fixing fights gets our heroes into hot water with two New Orleans gangsters, Biggie Smalls (Lockhart) and Kansas City Mack (John Amos). Once again, high jinks ensue.
          Some of the material is wheezy, like the bit of escaping a hotel room with tied-up bedsheets, but most of the scenes are inventive and lively. Cosby also gets to do more pure shtick this time around, and the tunes on the soundtrack are fantastic—soul-music legend Curtis Mayfield composed the score as well as several original songs, recruiting the Staple Singers to perform the songs. Let’s Do It Again has many famous admirers, including the late rapper Notorious B.I.G., who borrowed his nickname “Biggie Smalls” from the movie.
          The quasi-series took a strange turn with the final entry, A Piece of the Action, which is a social-issue drama disguised as a comedy. Running an exhausting 135 minutes, the movie opens with three vibrant heist sequences. The robbers are Dave (Cosby) and Manny (Poitier), who neither know each other nor work together. Enter Detective Joshua Burke (James Earl Jones), a recently retired cop who summons the crooks to a hotel room and blackmails them. In exchange for sitting on evidence that could put them in jail for years, Joshua forces the thieves to volunteer at a community center for at-risk youth. Once this plot twist kicks in, the movie becomes a riff on Poitier’s hit To Sir, With Love (1967). While Dave tries to find jobs for the youths at the community center, Manny becomes the kids’ teacher, giving tough-love lessons about dignity and responsibility.
          Many scenes in A Piece of the Action are downright heavy, such as a fierce showdown during which brash student Barbara (Sheryl Lee Ralph) drives idealistic teacher Sarah (Hope Clarke) to tears by characterizing her as a dilettante exploiting poor African-Americans. Later still, the movie becomes a sort of thriller, because thugs from the heroes’ pasts show up for revenge. Despite featuring strong performances and sincere rhetoric, A Piece of the Action is awkward and unwieldy. Therefore, while it’s easily the most edifying of the three pictures, it might also be the least entertaining. Worse, the movie features Cosby delivering a crass rape joke that now has unwanted associations.
          Rumors have swirled for years that one or all of the Cosby/Poitier pictures would be remade, with Will Smith’s name perpetually floated as a likely participant.

Uptown Saturday Night: FUNKY
Let’s Do It Again: GROOVY
A Piece of the Action: FUNKY

Wednesday, February 5, 2014

The Angel Levine (1970)



          Released at a time when American films were making bold strides in the portrayal of race relations, The Angel Levine is odd insomuch as race relations only appear to be an important narrative element. Rather than being a probing study of the prejudices that tinge an elderly Jewish tailor’s unlikely friendship with a younger black man, The Angel Levine is an examination of religious faith. And yet it’s also about the dissipation of a marriage, about mortality, about a fractious romance between a ne’er-do-well and his grounded girlfriend, and about the line separating delusion from reality. The Angel Levine is concerned with all of these things—and less. Presented in a peculiar fashion that’s alternately cryptic, melodramatic, and pretentious, the film begins with a premise requiring considerable suspension of disbelief, then undercuts the premise at every turn, either by deviating into peripheral narrative concerns or by wobbling tonally between satire and seriousness. In the end, The Angel Levine is a mess, but it’s executed with such care and intelligence that one roots for the piece to come together. Moreover, the experience of watching the movie is frequently engaging, simply because the story involves so many provocative ideas.
          Adapted from a short story by Bernard Malamud, whose work provided the basis for the fine drama The Fixer (1968) and the romantic baseball yarn The Natural (1984), The Angel Levine is set in a Jewish tenement in modern-day New York. Chubby tailor Morris Mishkin (Zero Mostel) can’t work because of health problems, and his wife, Fanny (Ida Kaminska), is bedridden with illness that might be terminal. One night, Morris enters his kitchen to discover a black man sitting there. The man introduces himself as Alexander Levine (Harry Belafonte), then explains he’s an angel sent from heaven to help Morris deal with his problems. An inordinate amount of time is then spent on conversations in which Morris and Alexander debate the veracity of Alexander’s divinity. Later, Alexander’s girlfriend, Sally (Gloria Foster), enters the scene for more debates about Alexander’s virtues. Eventually, the whole thing becomes a referendum on Morris’ and Alexander’s respective identities, with the female companions of both men finding them wanting.
          Downbeat from start to finish, The Angel Levine was the first American movie directed by Hungarian filmmaker Ján Kadár. Hampered by a claustrophobic script that feels more like a one-act play than a proper movie, Kadár lets his leading actors slip into familiar rhythms—Mostel alternates between annoying brashness and mawkish pathos while Belafonte delivers most of his lines with all-purpose intensity. This has the effect of rendering both main characters monotonous and unlikeable. Even more problematically, the story’s quasi-supernatural element feels contrived and odd, although it’s likely much was lost in translation from Malamud’s story. Compounding all of these flaws, Zdenek Liska’s original score is more suitable for a horror movie than for a human drama, since Linska employs eerie chants and other disorienting noises. Yet unlike other very strange movies of the same vintage, The Angel Levine never ventures fully into the realm of the surreal; quite to the contrary, it feels like a sober attempt at existential inquiry gone wrong.

The Angel Levine: FUNKY

Tuesday, November 23, 2010

Buck and the Preacher (1972)


A film that only seems odd when compared to the lily-white stories that comprise the majority of its genre, this mildly groundbreaking black Western casts director-star Sidney Poitier as a classic American archetype: the gun-toting savior. Playing a wagon master who escorts groups of African-American pioneers from the (barely) free South to the wide-open spaces of the West shortly after the Civil War, Poitier matches his signature traits of dignity and poise with the X factors of a hot temper and an itchy trigger finger. Thrown together with a con man posing as a preacher (Harry Belafonte), Poitier’s Buck cuts a swath through the pale-faced monsters out to kill his people for the sin of wanting to live free. The mix of righteous indignation and badass gunplay is no more peculiar than similar juxtapositions found in a hundred other films with white casts, but the novelty of this film’s particulars gives Buck and the Preacher a strangely compelling energy. It helps (a lot) that the lurid story rushes along at a fast clip, one brisk scene after another strung together by a funky score dominated by a countrified mouth harp. Belafonte is entertainingly demented in his role (check out the way he hides his gun in a hollowed-out Bible), genre stalwart Cameron Mitchell contributes an odious presence as the picture’s main villain, and Civil Rights-era stalwart Ruby Dee offers a grounding presence in her smallish role as Buck’s perpetually endangered significant other.

Buck and the Preacher: FUNKY