Doube (Barrel) Dose of Grier - COFFY

Dear Pam Grier,

I’m sorry.  I’ve been running Schizocinema for over two years and have reviewed over a hundred movies, but only ran my first Pam Grier movie a couple of weeks ago.  Worse yet, it was SCREAM BLACULA SCREAM.  Fun to write, but not a worthy entrance for someone of your caliber.  Don't get me wrong, there is no such thing as a bad Pam Grier performance.  Your voodoo priestess was the star of the show.  And while you were the one to make Blacula scream, I just wanted more.  I wanted you to stare down a vampire until he quaked.  I wanted you to put a racist cop in his place.  I wanted you punch a bat.  You didn’t get to call anyone a motherfucker.  In short, I wanted the full Pam Grier experience.  So, to make it up to you, and to me, and to everyone, I’m closing out Black History Month with a double dip, the quintessential Pam Grier movie (that doesn’t end with BROWN).  Get ready for Jack Hill’s 1973 Blaxploitation gem, COFFY.

The Capsule

To everyone who knows her, Coffy (Pam Grier) is a hard working nurse who wouldn't hurt a fly.  But when her darling 11 year old sister is turned into a vegetable by some bad junk, Coffy takes her double barrel sized grudge against dope dealers to the streets of L.A., leaving a trail of dead pushers in her wake.  Just when she is thinking of retiring her shotgun, her friend Carter (William Elliott) gets beaten into a coma for being the only cop not on the take.  Her soon to be congressman boyfriend, Howard Brunswick (Booker Bradshaw)
says he is going to clean up the crime, but Coffy's wheels of justice turn faster.  She is going to work her way up the ladder, starting with King George (Robert DoQui).  The dapper, high society pimp gets her a personal meeting with big time crime boss Arturo Vitroni (Allan Arbus), but just before she can ice the main man, his vicious henchman, Omar (Sid Haig) gets the jump on her.  While Vitroni decides what to do with her, Coffy gets an unpleasant surprise that pulls the rug from under her.  Down isn't out, though, and Vitroni's gang are in for their own surprises when Coffy unleashes her righteous fury.

Ask anyone, in the know, to picture Pam Grier at her most badass, 9 times out of 10, that image is going to be from either COFFY or FOXY BROWN.  Both are the work of legendary exploitation writer/director Jack Hill.  He made mean, gritty movies that were exactly what the '70s drive-in crowd wanted, heavy on the violence, nudity, and attitude.  Hill knew how to push the boundaries way outside of good taste, while keeping it fun and satisfying.  His morally questionable heroes always went through hell, but they gave much more than they got.  None more so than his #1 pistol packing mama, Pam Grier.  He knew he had something special in Grier ever since her breakout role in THE BIG DOLLHOUSE (yeah, you can also thank Hill for the Women in Prison genre boom).    

Hill takes all the torrid tropes and gleefully dials them to the max for COFFY.  The film opens with Coffy seducing mid-level, fashion conscious dope dealer, Sugarman (Morris Buchanan).  His proposal is drugs for sex, her counter-offer is a shotgun to the face.  Hill isn’t graphic, but he doesn’t leave anything to your imagination.  His violence is cheap, blunt, and hits like a hammer.  The carnage ranges from pulpy to disturbing, depending on who is dishing it out.  The scene where Sid Haig’s proudly racist Omar drags one of the characters behind a moving car, and into every barrier he can manage, is straight-up horrifying.  

Nudity is also ladled on liberally, most notably in what could accurately be described as the “Catfight at the Boob-A-Rama Bowl.”  Coffy infiltrates superpimp King George’s swank penthouse headquarters by posing as a sophisticated Jamaican call girl (clearly from her accent, King George has never been to, nor heard anyone one from, Jamaica).  His number one lady, Meg (Linda Haynes) doesn’t like all the attention her lover/boss/abuser is giving the new girl, and rallies the rest of the gals against Coffy.  Eventually, all the tension boils over into a call girl throw down where EVERYONE ends up topless.  I swear, if one of the girls had been in a space suit, she still would have a boob out by the end.  The ribald rumble comes to an end when Meg gets a handful of the razors Coffy hid in her hair.  I’m not sure if she had other plans for them, or if she just knows that Catfighting 101 states eventually a bitch will grab your hair.

Speaking of which, Coffy has a talent for hiding weapons.  She uses her hair again to stash a sharpened hair clip, and keeps a silenced pistol inside a stuffed lion.  Still not sure where she was concealing the double barrel shotgun from the beginning.

The rogue’s gallery Coffy is up against is so cartoonish, like the camera-shy hitman with one blacked out glasses lens (I’m glad Snake Pliskin went with the eye patch), or aggressively offensive, like kinky sadist Vitroni (he’s sort of a racist Joel Grey), that you can’t feel bad when they get wasted.  King George is the one exception, mostly because nobody deserves his horrendous fate (not at Coffy’s hand), but also because he earns a modicum of sympathy for how he comforts a post-catfight Meg.  He tells her he loves her and gives her a couple of weeks to rest before turning tricks again.  As pimps go, that’s almost gentlemanly.  Plus, he has his own theme song.  

That bigoted bastard Omar, on the other hand, deserves everything he gets.  Haig plays him like a grinning mad dog, gleefully anticipating his next chance to cause harm.  Omar smugly struts around like he owns the place, so its immensely satisfying when he goes out like a punk, looking terrified and begging for help.  

Though she clearly does not mess around, Grier doesn’t play Coffy like a cold-blooded killing machine.  She has doubts about the dark path she walks.  She gets scared, and is overpowered by Vitroni’s goons.  The one thing she doesn’t do is cower and wait to be rescued.  Even before her cop friend Carter got his noggin bashed, Coffy was all on her own.  She thinks fast, follows through, and she fucking well means business.  When a hooker she is trying to get information from pulls a knife on her, Coffy's first impulse is to smash a liquor bottle and wrap her coat around her arm like she’s a gladiator ready for battle (the hooker wisely backs down).

And for god’s sake, do not betray this woman.  [Spoilers coming] Turns out, her moralizing politician boyfriend is in bed with Vitroni.  To worsen the sting, Brunswick looks Coffy in the face and gives her up to Vitroni just to save himself.  Naturally, after she plows through the gangsters, dirty cops, and hitmen (literally), Coffy ends her spree at her ex’s house.   



Up until now, Coffy has been on a righteous crusade against the toxic dregs of society.  She’s kept some distance between her deeds and herself.  Brunswick is personal.  Not only did she love the conniving congressman, she believed in his commitment to the black community.  Learning that he was full of shit on all fronts crushes her.  Even after everything she has seen and heard, she still wants to believe him.  The smooth talking weasel almost has her convinced he’s still a stand-up guy, too, until his topless, white girlfriend pops out from the bedroom.  Coffy ends the debate by shooting him in the dick and taking a beach side walk in the sunrise.

Having just come from seeing BLACK PANTHER, the racial politics of Blaxploitation tends to be eye rolling at best.  Even though the priority of these movies was less about tackling social issues and more about selling tickets, the value cannot be dismissed.  The ‘70’s produced dozens of movies starring a predominately black cast, showing African Americans as heroes and ass kickers.  They handled their own problems, because the system was rigged against them.  Bad guys tended to be blatantly racist, and almost always got their comeuppance.  Blaxploitation may not have offered a nuanced, realistic representation of African Americans, but it was still representation.  The genre died with the decade, leaving the '80s a conspicuous void until directors like John Singleton showed the market for African American themed cinema was still alive and hungry.  Just imagine how the genre could have evolved if it had escaped its exploitation roots of the ‘70’s, filling the gap between Melvin Van Peeples and Spike Lee, weening out the stereotypes while maintaining the spirit.  At the very least we would have gotten more Pam Grier movies.

C Chaka

Return of the Prince - SCREAM BLACULA SCREAM

Themes are important.  It’s nice to have something deeper to talk about than what silly movies I enjoy.  Don’t get me wrong, I love talking about silly movies, great and not so great ones.  I’m not knocking it.  Linking my love of silly movies to larger issues, though, lets me talk about what’s on my mind without getting too heavy.  I try to keep a light touch, although Mr. Trump might disagree.  Fox and Friends would have to bring up Schizocinema for him to ever find out, so I think I’m safe.

On the other hand, themes can be exhausting.  I always try to stick with the big ones, horror movies in October, women directors for March, highlighting African American actors in February.  Nowadays, though, we have more categories to honor than we have months.  We’re having to double or triple up.  Not only is February Black History Month, it has now been designated Women in Horror Month.  That means movie selection becomes narrower, but there is still overlap. It doesn’t stop there, because smack dab in the middle of February is Valentine’s Day.  I have to triple theme that week!

Last year, I found the perfect trifecta with BLACULA. The Blaxploitation classic covered all my bases and was more nuanced and dignified than seemed possible with a movie titled BLACULA.  Best of all, it had a sequel.  I had a built-in fall back in case I hadn’t found another film that hit all three marks by next year.  Good thing, since I forgot to look for anything else.  Now, I usually don’t write about movies on a first watch, because I don’t want to waste my time taking notes on a movie that I might not be into.  My success rate has been fair (DEAD KIDS) to delirious (CONQUEST), so I rolled the dice.  Besides, this movie already had points added for the crazy title, and because it stars PAM FUCKING GRIER!  There is a short list of people in this universe as cool as Pam Grier, and none of them are in a black themed romantic horror movie.  All in all, Bob Kelljan's SCREAM BLACULA SCREAM seemed like a sure bet.

Let me say now, sorry everyone.

The Capsule

When last we left Prince Mamuwalde, the titular Blacula (William Marshall), he was dead—really dead, not just vampire dead.  Rather than spending eternity without his beloved, he chose to rest in a pile of sun dried bones instead.  Wouldn’t you know, his rest gets interrupted when a spoiled voodoo priest wannabe, Big Willis (Richard Lawson) resurrects him to get revenge on his more popular sister, Lisa (Pam Fucking Grier).  Predictably, Mamuwalde doesn’t give a damn about Willis’ hurt feelings and promptly turns the fool into the first recruit of his new undead army.  The regal vampire lord has his own plans for Lisa, and if her ex-cop boyfriend, Justin (Don Mitchell) can’t piece together all those mysterious exsanguinations around town, the voodoo priestess could hand Mamuwalde his ultimate desire.

Let’s start with the good.  The very best thing about this movie can be summed up in two words, Big Willis.  Richard Lawson’s Willis is a loud talking, loud dressing, funky little weasel who chews up every scene he’s in.  The moment his voodoo queen mommy kicks it, he loudly announces that he is the rightful Papa-loa and would be a better leader than his “jive-ass bitch” adopted sister, Lisa.  Once angry Justin pins him to the wall, Willis’ righteous indignation instantly fizzles and he plays it off like it was all a misunderstanding.  He adds a smarmy “you good people take care” before slinking out from the funeral with his tail between his legs.

Willis doesn’t get any more respect after becoming a vampire.  The first thing he does is whine about not being able to see himself, or his fine threads, in the mirror anymore.  Then, Mamuwalde grounds him like a teenager and forbids him to go to the swank African artwork party.  As if to throw salt into his wound, Mamuwalde goes to the party in his place.  Afterward, he probably told Willis how much fun it was, and how all the foxy ladies were all over him.  

His new-found powers of darkness can’t score him any points, either.  His lady, Denny (Lynne Moody), laughs at his fangs when he’s going in to bite her.  That is the last thing an already insecure vampire wants to hear.  At least he managed to seal the deal.  I’m surprised he didn’t get blood sick and have to run to the bathroom halfway through.

The best bit is when he is boasting to Denny that he is going to get Lisa, even though Mamuwalde just announced that none of his vampire posse were permitted to harm her.  He goes on and on, making the dark lord out to be some chump who is just crashing at his pad. The entire time Mamuwalde is standing right behind him.  It’s like the black vampire version of an old Daffy Duck skit.  Oh, Willis!  In the end, he was probably happy to get shot in the heart by a crossbow.  It least it ends the humiliation.

Just like in the first one, the heroic boyfriend is pals with an oblivious white police chief, in this case Sheriff Dunlop (Michael Conrad).  Against expectations, he isn’t particularly racist (by 1970s standards), but he´s super down on voodoo.  In fact, when people start ending up drained of blood, he wants to arrest Lisa, because he has literally mixed up voodoo with vampires (‘that’s something they do, right?).  Voodoo in general gets a bad rap in the movie.  Even Justin calls Lisa’s congregation a cult, to her face, and he’s part of the congregation!  Dunlop must keep an open mind, though, because despite laughing at Justin for handing out stakes to the cops before the raid on Mamuwalde’s mansion, the movie cuts to him a few minutes later immediately staking a dude without a second thought.  Maybe he was just excited to try out a new kind of police brutality.

They are only there for a second, but I have to give props to the random old white couple sitting awkwardly in the middle of the hip African Studies college party.  No explanation about who they are or why they are there.  My guess is they owned the house and just wanted to be in the movie.

It's nice to see William Marshall back as Mamuwalde, bringing an unexpected nobility to what should be a very exploitive role.  His African prince is suave, charming, and just as irresistible to the ladies as last time (chicks still dig a man in a cape).  That familiarity is part of the problem, though.  The sequel follows the original plot a little too closely.  Mamuwalde returns, becomes obsessed with one woman, the woman’s boyfriend works with the cops to find him, there is a big cops vs. vampires confrontation, etc., etc.  The voodoo angle doesn’t add as much as it could have (more on that later).

Plus, Mamuwalde is less sympathetic here.  He is a tragic figure in the original, cursed by Racist Dracula, imprisoned for centuries, deprived of his one great love.  Most of that sorrow is missing here, so there is nothing to soften his image of being a bully and a rampant cop killer (incidentally, the surest way to kill cops back then was to throw them through doors, even louver doors work).  And you can’t help but see the hypocrisy when Mamuwalde berates a couple of pimps for behaving like slave masters to the sisters.  It’s a fine sentiment, except that he has a half-dozen vampire toadies waiting back at his mansion who are forced to obey his every command.  Glass houses, dude.

It’s not until we find out his plan in the last act that he is redeemed, somewhat. [Spoiler]  Mamuwalde doesn’t want Lisa to be his bride or to increase his power, he wants her to cure him of being a vampire.  He just wants to return home and live out his life as a normal, cape loving human being.  And she almost succeeds, until her lunkhead boyfriend busts in on them at the very last moment, ruining the whole ceremony and sending Mamuwalde into a rage.  Nice timing, Justin.  A few minutes later and you could have just arrested him.  All those cops and doors could have been saved.

The unforgivable sin, however, is utterly wasting Pam Grier.  Her ass kicking boots are nowhere to be seen.  The knock down voodoo power struggle hinted at in the opening goes nowhere fast, and all Lisa is left with is a bit of charming party banter and cringing with fear at the first sign of horror.  Pam Grier does not cringe, unless it’s at what a mess she made with her shotgun.  I guess she portrays a voodoo priestess in a positive light, despite what that jerk Dunlop might think.  She is compassionate enough to try to free Mamuwalde from his demons, but she rejects him after witnessing his bloodlust (or cop throwing lust).  This leads to the most tragic moment, when a dejected Mamuwalde gives up and tells Justin, fuck it, call me Blacula.

Lisa saves the day, maybe.  Right before he can kill Justin, she stabs an arrow into the chest of her ceremonial Mamuwalde voodoo doll, causing Blacula—as promised—to scream.  What he doesn’t do, however, is die.  In perhaps the most confounding horror movie ending ever, the film just stops on the frame of his anguished face and the credits roll.  Is he dying or just uncomfortable?  There were no more sequels, so we’ll never know.  He might still be roaming the streets, badass cape billowing behind him, with his eyes on Jada Pinkett Smith or Angela Bassett.  Hopefully someone can make that movie before next Valentine’s Day.

C Chaka