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Black Dynamite

You've got to hand it to Michael Jai White. Though he's worked steadily, White hasn't had a high-profile big-screen leading role since 1997's Spawn. So he co-wrote his own blaxploitation spoof and made himself the hero. Both are called Black Dynamite, and having collected the Spike Lee endorsement "Look out for this film. It's hilarious!", White has once more gotten his talent noticed in a big way.

Lee no doubt responded in large part to the audacious joke that frames Black Dynamite. The film begins with spokesman "Leon St. James" hawking Anaconda Malt Liquor, "the only malt liquor that carries the seal of excellence from Uncle Sam himself." This turns out to be something of a plot point, leading to a ass-kicking showdown when the evil criminal mastermind turns out to be the ultimate specimen of that social force known as "The Man," not Uncle Sam (what, are you crazy?) but the next best thing. It's a shame all of Black Dynamite couldn't be that sharp. As scripted by White & Byron Minns & Scott Sanders, it mostly aims at the broad side of the barn that is blaxploitation. This is well-mined comic territory—anyone remember Keenan Ivory Wayans' I'm Gonna Git You Sucka? how about Malcolm D. Lee's Undercover Brother?—as is the gestalt of '70s cinema (just ask Quentin Tarantino). Director Sanders dutifully—and it must be said, expertly—recreates the rough cinematography, cheesy production design (and burnt ochre color scheme), and incidental music that sounds like chintzy soul crossed with a Quinn-Martin TV score.

White plays the steroidal, strutting hero from the 'hood, a kung-fu expert with a CIA-authorized "license to kill" who goes on a mission of vengeance and righteousness when his undercover brother gets caught speaking the King's English. The plot embraces every cliche of form (clunky expository flashbacks) and function: cops, drugs, nightclubs, sex and sexism, an R rating allowing Sanders to go further than previous spoofs in emulating the blaxploitation style. For all this, Black Dynamite proves, oddly, to be comedically inert for most of its running time; if no one had ever spoofed blaxploitation before, the exactitude of this surgical parody would take it further with audiences, but as it is, the comic pickings are on the slim side. My favorite bits (other than the beginning and end) are the filmmakers' riffs on bad editing and bad acting, exemplified by the character who speaks all the "stage directions" along with his lines, as in "The militants turn, startled. This is private. How'd you get in here?" The film is also occasion to gather a fine selection of actors (Arsenio Hall, Tommy Davidson, Phil Morris, Cedric Yarbrough, Tucker Smallwood, Mykelti Williamson, Bokeem Woodbine) to party like it's 1973.