Dolemite (1975, D'Urville Martin) (Patreon)

41/100

Seen in preparation for Is My Name, obviously. (I plan to watch Human Tornado as well; assume I don't need to bother with the ones that were made decades later.) Laughing at cinematic ineptitude generally isn't my thing, so the panoply of mismatched eyelines, painfully awkward pauses, unmic-ed dialogue, desultory fight scenes, and furtive glances right into the camera lens just reminded me how much I prefer Ed Wood to any of Wood's actual films. Nor did I initially comprehend Rudy Ray Moore's appeal, since he makes a uniquely terrible blaxploitation badass, alternating between bland stoicism and profane eruptions. Both Moore and the film itself suddenly come alive, however, when Dolemite starts signifying for a rapt group of fans in a parking lot; by the time he transforms his old nightclub into a venue for more of the same, it's abundantly clear that all the perfunctory cops 'n' drugs stuff is just a commercially-minded excuse. Since that excuse occupies roughly 85% of Dolemite's running time, I can only cut the movie so much slack—one really has to enjoy the primary narrative's Max Fischer Players aspect a lot more than I do. But just as I have a soft spot for Hudson Hawk (hi again, Daniel!), in which the heists seem motivated less by a desire for wealth than the opportunity they afford to perform synchronized standards, I can't entirely dismiss this stealth paean to African-American verbal dexterity, made only a few years before that would acquire a beat and gradually take over the world. Is that a significant element of the Eddie Murphy tribute? Guess I'll find out.