tales from the hood - by the mellow

tales from the hood: first, this is the best black film i have seen since sankofa. let me tell you why. it marks the transition of black expression from the political back to the spiritual. there was a time, not so long ago, when brothers and sisters beleived that politics could be a force for moral good. gangsta rappers tried to tell us that was a bullshit idea whose time was past, but we didn't listen. i suppose it took clarence thomas to convince us that congress was a joke. if you don't know, now you know. sorry maxine, kweisi, willie, david. y'alls days are numbered. we are back to voodoo christianity my people and the first signpost is rusty cundieff's new flick. somebody say amen. thomas sowell, eat your heart out.

damn, is he funny?: i thought i was going to laugh my ass off in the theatre. i did. but i had no idea that i was going to get a reminder. i got 5. deep from within my black bones i connected with the fables. but i was thinkin that since joe torry was in it that it wouldn't be so deep. oops upside my head. joe wasn't so funny although i am somewhat predisposed to laugh at him. he's got that voice, you know, and the timing that just makes him funny. he's not the best but follows in the footsteps of his mentor, robin harris. my cousin, new yorkified village-hangin, brooklyn moon open mike finger-snappin, post-dread post-graduate, vernon reid runnin' buddy kinda young boho trying to get into black film that he is convinced me that it was marketed entirely wrong. as annie lenox might say, 'who am i to disagree'. but then again, 'everybody is looking for something' and maybe those of us looking for the comedy that tales from the hood promised in the ad campaign were probably just ripe for the depth it provided.

the mechanics

mechanically, the movie works like this. 3 bangers head to the funeral parlor in search of missing shit. clarence williams iii, as the spooky ass mortician undertakes to get them as much shit as their young heads can handle. in four flavors he spins tales that gives our peeps payback against the enemies of the hood. damn! can *we* handle it? the tales are populated with recognizeable faces and star talent from a wigged out art evans, to a disheveled and hella scared corbin bernson to an unbeleivably brutal david alan grier. hollywatts smith plays the sellout in this pic, in his first understated performance on screen, and some woman whose name i didn't catch schooled the hell out of everybody in the final skit.

suspended!: it took me a while to overcome my disbelief that a dead black politician could catch up to stacey koon five-o in the roller. but it sure did feel good when he did. the first segment in the film is all about revenge after the [pissed on] grave. (it could happen). but i was disappointed at first. things were moving too slowly and the screams on people's faces just weren't scary. in fact, it almost didn't work on me at all. i thought the point of horror flicks was that you are supposed to feel sympathy for the victim of terror. in a moment i realized this was no horror flick, this was supernatural retribution. straight outta hawthorne (nathaniel that is), this was fire and brimstone in a hoodie from the 'hood. lawd help me i was about to put a[nother] gangsta metaphor into this paragraph; something that rhymes with 'step over the line..'. but

ahh symbols.: nothing like the troubled souls of dead slaves to take a bite out of crime. evidently, my boy rusty still remembers trilogy of terror with the little 'ya-ya' man who chased homegirl all through the house. well the yaya is back, and he brought all his homies. some totally off the wall shit on this segment. i had to laugh as bernson wrapped himself in an ineffective stars and stripes cocoon. only to be mangled, tangled and torn like so much shredded wheat.
the final segment of this joint out drops drop squad. and that's just about all i have to say about that. to date this is the best filmic cautionary tale about the legendary black on black thang that is not supposed to be a black thang. i still don't understand why the klan seems to make the point better than anyone else, but there it is.

too short: it shocked the hell out of me when i discovered that lee majors was only 5 foot 6. david hasselhof, and the rest of the baywatch babes are all a bunch of shorties too, but damn! can you say jungle fever? who can beat the rage of bushwick bill, you gotta know there is something extra packed into that puny package. so i guess when you want to make a blam statement, your best bet is to keep it short. rusty got a clue and i must say, the short format is the way to go. longer than a snoop video, shorter than an episode of picket fences, could this be the next plateau? something to think about next time you meditate on media and the i-way. i have seen the future and it is a black sermonette. i await the multimedia version of marvin gaye's what's goin on. and just in case you haven't heard me say it before, 'cosmic slop'.

black to the (spiritual) past: ok so we have a selection of cautionary tales from the hood, directed at the enemies of spiritual righteousness cloaked under the marketing cover of hiphop comic relief. i might not have had my ear to the ground but i did hear about some group complaining about the size of pocohantas' breasts. so where is the critical fire about the tales? or did everyone just watch casper and congo instead? i don't know how i should feel about the great unwashed remaining two steps clueless on this harbinger. but when folks like rusty are getting back to thumping a spiritual metaphor upside a knucklehead that's quite a turn. and it won't be hard to figure when the preacher's wheel turns once again what the folks in the hood have been figuring. that the failure of politics portend stronger stuff and that revenge will have its day. one way or another.

tales from the hood.: i guess that is kind of scary.