The Sheriff (1971)

          After opening with a moderately exciting bank robbery and chase, which introduces audiences to the title character of even-tempered Southern California lawman James Lucas (Ossie Davis), The Sheriff gets down to business with a creepy scene of White traveling salesman Larry Walters (Ross Martin) menacing young Black woman Janet Wilder (Brenda Sykes). The ensuing (offscreen) sexual assault triggers a crisis in the mixed-race town that Lucas polices, which in turn spirals Lucas toward a crisis of his own—not just because the rape victim’s boyfriend is the sheriff’s son, but also because Lucas’s deputy, Harve (Kaz Garas), is married to a racist. All of this is fairly lurid stuff, and The Sheriff has shortcomings common to ’70s telefilms. The standard 74-minute runtime necessitates obvious storytelling, the aesthetics are cheap (what’s with backyard scenes shot on a soundstage?), and the horn-driven score lends a distractingly upbeat quality to an otherwise a downbeat narrative. Nonetheless, a couple of elements make The Sheriff respectable. Arnold Perl’s sturdy script is humane and reasonably thoughtful, while leading man Davis imbues the whole piece with dignity, purpose, and restraint.

          Presumably designed as a pilot for a series starring Davis—who at the time enjoyed prominence as an activist, director, performer, and theater artist—The Sheriff announces its intentions fairly early. When Lucas identifies the rape suspect as Caucasian, he asks his deputy to join him for the suspect interview because Lucas knows his word won’t be enough to indict a White man. Similarly, the choice to center Lucas’s son pulls the story into predictable but useful thematic terrain; impassioned Vance Lucas (Kyle Johnson) is impatient for social progress, whereas his father has reconciled himself to achieving incremental gains whenever possible. Adding an X factor to this dialectic is the attitude of Cliff Wilder (Moses Gunn), the father of the rape victim—as the sheriff’s chronological peer, Cliff recalls the bad old days when White men abused Black women with impunity, leading Cliff to consider frontier justice.

          Although nothing in The Sheriff would have been groundbreaking in 1971, the way the movie blends multiple race-related provocations gives the piece a measure of validity. So, too, does the overall quality of the acting. Martin, best known as the comic-relief sidekick on ’60s series The Wild, Wild West, essays one of several odious villains he portrayed in ’70s TV movies, and it’s to his credit that he neither injects vulnerability into his character nor comes across as a cartoon—Martin’s performance captures the most infuriating type of morally bankrupt entitlement. Others appearing in the movie include Davis’s real-life partner, Ruby Dee; reliable character players Edward Binns and John Marley; and ’60s/’70s starlet Lynda Day George. Everyone delivers solidly professional work, even when Perl’s dialogue tips into melodramatic extremes, so it’s tempting to believe the cast perceived The Sheriff as a worthy endeavor instead of just another small-screen paycheck gig.

The Sheriff: GROOVY

Countdown at Kusini (1975)

          After helming three films in America, Ossie Davis ventured to Africa for his next two directorial endeavors, beginning with Kongi’s Harvest (1973), which explores a dictator’s efforts to neutralize a political rival. Countdown at Kusini attacks similar themes from the opposite direction, dramatizing the circumstances of a rebel leader hiding from enemies. Like Kongi’s Harvest, this picture represents an admirable effort to involve Africans in the filmmaking process, and it’s also politically insightful. However Countdown at Kusini shares shortcomings with its predecessor. The storyline is discombobulated, the themes are murky, and lengthy scenes of local color impede narrative momentum.

          Countdown at Kusini follows operatives who protect Ernest Motapo (Davis). Leah (Ruby Dee) is a slick undercover agent, and Red (Greg Morris) is an American jazz musician who moonlights as a spy working for Motapo. At one point, these two help smuggle Motapo from a neighboring country into his homeland, illustrating the danger he faces if his whereabouts become known. Naturally, a love story develops between Leah, who is wholeheartedly devoted to her cause, and Red, who is more ambivalent about risking death. Driving much of the plot is the presence of Ben Amed (Tom Aldredge), a sadistic mercenary determined to kill Motapo, not just because he’s been hired to do so, but also because Motapo once escaped him. Seeing as how four writers worked on the script, it’s no surprise the simple espionage-thriller premise at the heart of this movie gets crowded by discursive material, though it appears undisciplined editing contributed to the muddiness.

          The best scenes in Countdown at Kusini suggest the acerbic little potboiler the picture could have been. In one bit, Motapo operatives ask an arms dealer for a price break because their cause is righteous, and he expresses empathy—up to a point. “I would like Motapo even more,” he says, “if once a while his people paid their bills.” Similarly, scenes of Motapo interacting with family members provide surprising views on divided loyalties. Had this picture been whittled down from its sluggish 101-minute release version, the zip of the Dee/Morris scenes—chases, explosions, fights, romance—would have provided a structure supporting the more thoughtful Motapo scenes. Instead, Countdown and Kusini goes on and on and on, losing focus with each unnecessary flashback and each documentary-style montage of everyday African life.

Countdown at Kusini: FUNKY

Kongi’s Harvest (1970)

          For a brief period in the early ’70s, actor Ossie Davis pursued a sideline career as a feature-film director, generating a handful of socially conscious projects with questionable storytelling and uneven performances. His behind-the-camera aptitude never quite rose to the sophistication of his politics, but each of the features he helmed is interesting to some degree. Arguably the most problematic of Davis’ directorial endeavors is Kongi’s Harvest, the first movie ever made in Nigeria by a predominantly Nigerian crew. Adapted from a significant play by  Wole Soyinka and completed in 1970, the film didn’t reach American screens until 1973, and one gets the impression lots of post-production tinkering happened along the way.

          As in Soyinka’s play, the story takes place in a fictional African nation. Kongi (played by Soyinka) is a military strongman who seized control in a coup, deposing beloved King Oba Danlola (Rasidi Onikoyi), whom Kongi holds prisoner in a heavily guarded compound. As the occasion of an important annual harvest festival nears, Kongi schemes to receive the gift of the first yam, because doing so represents his ascension to the godlike status of the nation’s rightful ruler. Naturally, King Oba and his supporters resist Kongi’s plan, so as the story progresses, Kongi becomes more and more unhinged—desperation compels him to blackmail King Oba by threatening mass executions of political prisoners unless King Oba consents for Kongi to receive the yam.

          The intense narrative was particularly topical at the time the film was made, and as the recent fall of Robert Mugabe indicates, it’s not as if the blight of brutal dictatorships has left the African continent. Alas, good intentions don’t always make for good movies, which is where Kongi’s Harvest hits difficulties. Davis assembled a large cast of Nigerian actors for the movie, and some are smoother on camera than others. Soyinka dominates, churning through maniacal lectures and tantrums with such intensity that his passion for satirizing dictators is palpable. Nonetheless, some of the Kongi scenes are so over-the-top as to seem cartoonish, and Davis’ directorial hand isn’t sufficiently assured to fold farcical elements into the bleak narrative. Occasionally, Kongi’s Harvest feels like a compendium of footage from two or three different directors’ interpretations of the same material.

          Not helping matters are clumsy onscreen appearances by Davis, who shows up at random intervals to deliver narration directly into the camera. (Davis also provides the voice for a few news broadcasts and radio announcements.) Perhaps most troubling of all is the ending, which is considerably different than that of the original play—whereas the stage version ends on a note of grim absurdity, Davis’ move signs off with something much more conventional and heavy-handed.

Kongi’s Harvest: FUNKY

Cotton Comes to Harlem (1970) & Come Back, Charleston Blue (1972)

          Most reputable sources peg 1971, the year of Shaft and Sweet Sweetback’s Baadasssss Song, as the beginning of blaxploitation—yet two 1970 releases, Cotton Comes to Harlem and They Call Me MISTER Tibbs!, contain many signifiers closely associated with the genre. For instance, both movies include funky soundtracks, primarily black casts, and urban milieus. Tibbs!, of cousrse, is a sequel In the Heat of the Night (1967), whereas Cotton Comes to Harlem, cowritten and directed by African-American actor/playwright/activist Ossie Davis, is a whimsical celebration of modern black life, depicting a wide range of characters occupying a spectrum of social stations. Exploitation? Far from it. That’s why Cotton Comes to Harlem is interesting as a cultural milestone. As entertainment, however, Cotton Comes to Harlem isn’t quite as noteworthy.

          Based on a novel by Chester Himes, the movie is absurdly over-plotted and overpopulated, with a story that’s alternately difficult to believe and difficult to follow. The shortest possible summary is this: After a robbery/shootout disturbs a public rally, black NYPD detectives Coffin Ed Johnson (Raymond St. Jacques) and Gravedigger Jones (Godfrey Cambridge) investigate a criminal conspiracy related to flamboyant preacher Duke O’Malley (Calvin Lockhart). A wild chase/investigation involving angry citizens, drugs, drunks, revolutionaries, riots, stolen money, wronged women, and a giant bale of cotton unfolds, with scenes taking place throughout Harlem—culminating in a hellzapoppin finale on the stage of the Apollo Theater.

          Cotton Comes to Harlem is filled with provocative ideas and vivid performances, so it’s never boring. In fact, some parts might be too vivacious, with actors including Lockhart going way over the top at regular intervals. Conversely, Cambridge and St. Jacques are likeably cool and cynical throughout the piece, while iconic comedian Red Foxx—in one of his few movie roles—is surprisingly restrained. So, even though Cotton Comes to Harlem is bit of a mess, there’s something edifying about seeing what conscientious artists did with the same narrative DNA that, just a short while later, produced the dubious universe of blaxploitation.

          Cambridge and St. Jacques reprised their detective roles two years later in Come Back, Charleston Blue, which was adapted from another of Hines’ novels. This time around, the director was Mark Warren. The sequel is more disciplined than its predecssor, in both good and bad ways. While the stoyline of Come Back, Charleston Blue is a bit easier to track than that of Cotton Comes to Harlem, the second movie doesn’t have quite as much exuberance. That said, Come Back, Charleston Blue offers a faint echo of the charms that made Cotton Come to Harlem interesting, namely the offbeat fusion of comedy and drama and the loving depictions of black culture. Coffin Ed and Gravedigger, as well as other principal characters, are introduced during a charity ball that climaxes with a nasty murder. Eventually, the detectives learn that someone is playing vigilante by killing local mobsters, using straight razors to slit the throats of criminals plaguing Harlem neighborhoods. Clues suggest the culprit might by a fellow nicknamed Charleston Blue, who waged a similar war on crime years earlier but has long been thought dead.

          As Coffin Ed and Gravedigger search for the real identity of the avenger, they get into hassles with their superiror officer, Captain Bryce (Percey Rodrigues), and they dig around the activities of a photographer/activist named Joe (Peter De Anda). Along the way, the detectives get demoted to beat cops, employ various silly disguises, and survive lots of slapstick antics. Like the previous movie, Come Back, Charleston Blue is unweildly in terms of tone, bouncing between cartoonish comedy and extreme violence, but some of the elements work well, such as a running joke about a precocious street kid. Oddly, the leading actors are underused, since the filmmakers get disracted by nonsense. (What’s with the homage to The Public Enemy, the 1931 gangster classic with James Cagney?) This results in episodic pacing that makes Come Back, Charleston Blue feel overlong and sluggish.

          Perhaps that’s why Coffin Ed and Gravedigger didn’t appear onscreen again until A Rage in Harlem (1991), featuring Sam Pierce and George Wallace in the roles.

Cotton Comes to Harlem: FUNKY

Come Back, Charleston Blue: FUNKY

Gordon’s War (1973)

          Some blaxploitation movies surmount their limitations through inspired storytelling; others achieve infamy with their grimy excess. And then there are movies like Gordon’s War, which delivers a passable narrative with so-so style—the movie’s not awful, particularly for viewers who are fond of leading actor Paul Winfield, but it’s so generic that, but for the level of cursing and violence, it might as well be an episode of s ’70s action-adventure TV show. The plot is cobbled together from highly familiar elements. Gordon Hudson (Winfield) is a decorated Green Beret who returns from Vietnam to find his Harlem neighborhood overrun with drug dealers, pimps, and other underworld types. When Gordon suffers personal tragedies at the hands of criminals, he recruits several Army buddies to form a vigilante militia and kick hoodlum ass. As directed by the sensitive humanist Ossie Davis, Gordon’s War isn’t quite as tacky as the premise might suggest—Davis tries to imbue scenes with relatable feelings whenever possible, and the characters behave logically. Further, Winfield is such a potent actor that even when he’s speaking trite dialogue, genuine anger seethes beneath his skin.

          But, ultimately, Gordon’s War has a job to do: The movie’s purpose is to stimulate viewers with high-octane inner-city action, meaning lots of bloodshed and chase scenes and gunfire and mayhem. As a result, higher narrative aspirations get short shrift, which has the effect of rendering Gordon’s War quite flat. The picture is neither an all-out actioner nor a legitimate drama. After all, how many “real” movies feature motorcycles crashing through store windows or hoodlums getting burned alive with the ignited discharge from aerosol cans? And in case you’re wondering, Gordon’s War doesn’t add much to the incendiary subgenre of movies about vets-turned-vigilantes, because the title character’s military background is mostly used to explain where he got his experience with guerilla warfare techniques. One wishes Davis and Winfield had been given a chance to dramatize the scars of war, but, clearly, the producers were more interested in explosions, funky soundtrack music, and outrageous pimp outfits.

Gordon’s War: FUNKY

Black Girl (1972)

          One of a handful of features directed by the beloved actor/activist Ossie Davis, Black Girl is a bracing alternative to the portrayals of African-American life that dominated U.S. screens in the early ’70s. Instead of the lurid violence of blaxploitation flicks or the pandering melodrama of message pictures, Black Girl is a straightforward story about a young woman trying to find her way in a world rife with unique expectations and pressures. Adapted by J.E. Franklin from her own play, the story concerns Billie Jean (Peggy Pettit), a black teenager living with a volatile extended family in Los Angeles.

          Life is tough because the household’s matriarch, Rosie (Louise Stubbs), squeaks by on government assistance, rental income from the tenant of a back room, and occasional handouts from her ex-husband, Earl (Brock Peters). Raising children from several different fathers, Rosie also takes in young women like Netta (Leslie Uggams), whose biological mother has mental problems. Further complicating the household is Rosie’s mother, known as Mu’Dear (Claudia McNeil), who fights for dominance within the family.

          Against this fraught backdrop, Billie Jean seeks to define her identity. She dreams of becoming a dancer, but risks her future by quitting high school after a quarrel with a teacher. Therefore, the main storyline of this densely plotted movie concerns a three-way duel between Billie Jean and her bitchy older sisters, Norma (Gloria Edwards) and Ruth Ann (Rhetta Greene). These two fear that Netta has taken prominence in Mama Rosie’s heart because Netta got into college, so Norma and Ruth Ann manipulate the impressionable Billie Jean into ruining Netta’s impending visit. The movie also features a long sequence involving Earl, who loves Rosie but can’t meet her high standards of commitment and responsibility.

          The narrative of Black Girl is wildly overstuffed (all of this material gets crammed into 97 minutes), so the movie’s biggest problem is sprawl. Davis is adept at guiding performances, so individual scenes have impact, but the overall effect is dulled because Black Girl waffles between focusing on Billie Jean’s story and opening up to become an ensemble piece. However, the sincerity of the movie is undeniable. Everyone performs with great commitment, and Davis largely favors relatable interpersonal dynamics over cheap histrionics—notwithstanding the somewhat overwrought climax, Davis’ filmmaking is consistently humane and observational. Thus, his inability to pare down the story to a manageable scale is not the fatal flaw it might have been.

Black Girl: FUNKY

Hot Stuff (1979)

          Rotund comedian Dom DeLuise could be hilarious in the right situations, whether he was cutting up with buddy Burt Reynolds on The Tonight Show or mugging in outrageous Mel Brooks movies. In the wrong situations, however, he was prone to cartoonish behavior like double-takes and pratfalls. In that context, it’s interesting to watch Hot Stuff, the only theatrical feature DeLuise directed, because, in theory, his performance in the picture offers a pure demonstration of his idea of comedy; no one guided DeLuise except DeLuise himself. Therefore, it’s a bummer to report that he delivers pretty much the same broad clowning here that he did elsewhere. It turns out DeLuise was simply one of those amiable performers best appreciated in small doses.

          As for the movie itself Hot Stuff is very silly and not nearly as funny as it might have been. The script, co-written by veteran crime scribe Donald E. Westlake, has a fun idea: Four Miami cops set up a fencing operation to trap thieves. DeLuise plays Ernie, a nervous detective just shy of retirement, and country singer-turned-actor Jerry Reed plays Doug, his good-ol’-boy partner. Suzanne Pleshette plays Louise, a cop from another precinct who joins forces with the boys (and becomes Doug’s love interest). Together with a fourth cop (Luis Avalos), they rig a borrowed storefront with video equipment and lure unsuspecting criminals by paying top dollar for stolen loot. (The great Ossie Davis is wasted in a trite supporting role as their long-suffering commander.)

          Yet, instead of the fraught predicaments one might expect from a story about police officers working undercover, Hot Stuff feels like a variety show, with the cops holding court in the storefront while a string of low-rent comedians enter and exit the scene, giving mini-performances as oddball crooks. At one point, towering funnyman Pat McCormick literally walks into the storefront and drops a string of lame one-liners, stopping just short of telling the police to tip their waitresses and try the veal. The episodic nature of the picture is ameliorated somewhat by a couple of chase scene/shootouts and by a subplot about the Mafia mistaking the cops for competitors.

          A few of the bits are clever, like the finale in which the cops stage a spectacular mass arrest (which rings true with stories from the annals of real-life sting operations). However, the movie spends way too much time on Gong Show­-grade comedians, to say nothing of inanity like a pie fight. Hot Stuff is watchable, but it’s not for discerning viewers. (Available through Columbia Screen Classics via WarnerArchive.com)

Hot Stuff: FUNKY