March 12, 2007
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My credibility takes a shot to the stones.Do you know what I want to see? More snazzy ethnic versions of highly successful Hollywood productions. For instance, an all Asian version of Brokeback Mountain would be peachy, as would a German language rendition of The Color Purple. It would challenge actors to step outside the box, to tackle roles that would otherwise be unavailable to them. Who in their right mind wouldn't pay to see Jackie Chan and Jet Li explore their hidden homosexual desires while herding livestock across a snow-covered mountain range? If I'm the only person who finds that saucy scenario oddly compelling, feel free to never return to this website again.
Like you were coming back, anyway.
Until Olaf Ittenbach delivers on that oh-so splendid adaptation of Alice Walker's classic novel, I guess I'll just have to make due with Paul Wynne's African-American take on Ivan Goff and Ben Roberts' campy television epic Charlie's Angels. Not one to stray too far from the source material, Wynne's 2003 effort Hood Angels is very much like its Caucasian counterpart. Three hot chicks -- the slut, the brains, and the riot grrl -- take it upon themselves to unravel the mystery behind a rap star's untimely demise. Did I mention they also take orders from an authoritative male figure? Well, there's that, too. Can't have a trio of sexy chicks fighting crime without a penis calling the shots, now can we?
Specifically, the film follows the exploits of Cinnamon, Traci, and Felicia, three butt-stompin' sistas who find friendship while spending an evening in the county lock-up. Their eventual release from jail -- with a little help from a dashing young lawyer, no less -- isn't all moon pies and penny whistles, I'm afraid. It would seem that someone has taken it upon themselves to gun down Cinnamon's hip-hoppin' brother Nitro (Juvenile) only days before the release of his next album. All signs point to someone working at Murder Boi, the record label owned and operated by Nitro's old pal J Day. Watch as the plot thickens and boils!
Cinnamon and her pals soon land jobs at Murder Boi, giving them several opportunities to eavesdrop on suspicious conversations and steal financial records from cluttered desk drawers. Before you can scream "Matlock!" the ladies find themselves knee deep in big trouble, forcing the trio to fall back on the one thing that never lets them down: their well-manicured fists of impossible fury! Can they discover the mastermind behind Nitro's death, or will their slapdash attempts at undercover work cost them their pretty little lives?
The back of the Digiview Entertainment DVD, I should mention, gets the so-called "plot" all wrong. The girls are never forced into investigating Nitro's death at all. In fact, it was basically their idea from the get-go. Also, the name of the record label they work for is listed as Insynchro Records on the packaging, though the name Murder Boi is clearly displayed in a number of lingering shots. How hard is it to write a proper synopsis, people? Seriously, if you need some help with your homework, you know where to find me. Oh, well. I guess you get what you paid for.
But, I digress.
Hood Angels lovingly recalls the glory days of 70's blaxploitation, a time when dozens of jive turkeys and trifflin' brothas could literally be found in every corner of the ghetto. Suitably, this modern-day throwback is stuffed to the bling with horrible performances, poorly-executed martial arts sequences, and plenty of naughty language. Director Paul Wynne -- who went on to direct the notorious Heidi Fleiss in 2004's Alien 51 -- does an admirable job giving the proceedings a campy vibe, right down to the use of Saturday morning cartoon sound effects during the flick's dodgy fight scenes. If Wynne wanted his picture to operate as an homage to that peculiar time in cinematic history, he certainly achieved his goal. Congrats!
That, I'm afraid, is where the praise comes to a screeching, blood-curdling halt in the middle of a busy intersection. The opening of the film promises loads of heart-stopping action, yet we're given very little in the way of martial arts excitement over the course of the story. Which might be a very good thing, depending on who you ask. If you've seen the unforgettable 1976 masterpiece Velvet Smooth, you should be well versed in the kind of pathetic kung fu we're forced to gobble down here. Graceful it ain't.
I've also been instructed by a certified medical professional to warn you that the acting contained in this motion picture may cause severe swelling in the temporal lobe, so please approach with extreme caution. Do not use if pregnant. Void in Kentucky, Iowa, California, Alaska, and parts of Belgium.
Having trashed this movie to within an inch of its pathetic life, how in the sweet cider of Hell's Kitchen did I walk away from Hood Angels feeling fun and fancy free? To be honest, I really don't know. The film is tore up from the floor up, and should be avoided by those who consider themselves above such tsk-tsk-tastelessness.
On the other hand, if you're fond of those crazy blaxploitation flicks of the late-70's, Hood Angels should seem very familiar. Painfully familiar, even. The action is lame, the acting has been classified as a form of mental retardation by the Canadian government, and the production values are setting up cots at the homeless shelter down the street. But that's exactly what drew me to this too cool genre in the first place, which may explain why I'm an unabashed fan of Paul Wynne's Hood Angels.
Just don't hate me because I have poor taste, okay?
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