SHAFT (1971)
‘Who’s the black
private eye who’s a sex machine to all the chicks?’
‘SHAFT!’
Once Hollywood studios understood the box-office potential
for films depicting the African-American experience, due in part to SWEET
SWEETBACK’s huge earnings, they began to make movies specifically for a black
audience. SHAFT was originally developed for a white cast and was quickly
adapted to tap into this exciting new market. The studio desperately needed a
hit after a string of almost crippling failures. Enter Richard Rowntree as the
personable cool-cat private dick John Shaft.
From the opening, with Scientology’s Mr Cool Isaac Hayes’
emblematic theme pulsing, we are shown Shaft rolling through New York City like
he own the streets. He gives the finger to a reckless motorist and effortlessly
deflects the quizzing from the local precinct cops who he’s all too familiar
with.
Soon though, the anticipation of the sassy trouble we could
thrill to turns into a disengaged restlessness. SHAFT is a plodding procedural
that drags like a gimp leg. His aggressive attitude towards ‘the man’ and the
strong-arm criminal black brothers promises fireworks but the action is way too
sparse and the plot is unengaging. A threatened turf war between black
gangsters and the mafia for control of the city sounds like cool exploitation –
except that it’s limited to exposition dialogue. Shaft’s police pal Vic warns
him: “Could be we’d have tanks and troops on Broadway if this thing breaks out!”
If only. Hell, I’d settle for at least one good shootout to keep me going.
Instead, we are treated to slow gradual unfolding of the usual clichés. Shaft
pays for information from an informant (Antonio ‘Huggy Bear’ Fargas) and a bar
pick-up of a female companion.
This leads to another of the problems with the movie. Progressive
as it may be for black male actors, SHAFT does ‘jack shit’ for female
representation. After a brief moment of social commentary when our hero tosses
off a cool throw-away about his problems to his girlfriend (“Yeah, I got a
couple of ‘em. I was born black and I was born poor”), you realise that’s
probably the only moment of disarming non-sexual engagement he has with a
female character. He’s irresistible to the ladies - ebony and ivory alike, but
it ain’t so clear why. In the theme lyrics he’s described as ‘a complicated
man’ to give him a sexy mystique yet he’s anything but complex. The women in
his life are treated like hi-fi systems; convenient one-dimensional sources of
pleasure to be turned on, enjoyed and then discarded when he leaves without any
interest in them. Surely the writer Ernest Tidyman and director Gordon Parks had
the screen time to given them some personality without eclipsing the
all-important ‘love machine’ at the story’s centre? Even the waitress he
doesn’t shag who serves him in a restaurant is dismissed as a vacant disengaged
airhead. Bring on Pam Grier and the other personable women in the genre. Their
energy is sorely missing here.
At last, the pace picks up fleetingly at the end with the
iconic sequence where Shaft smashes Tarzan-style through a window and blasts
the hood who’s holding a mobster’s innocent daughter hostage – but it’s all too
late. By then, you’re longing for more of that ultra-cool theme tune and some
pep to the proceedings that dribbled away.
Ultimately SHAFT is an important film for what it represents rather than how it’s
executed. The studio deserves credit for
belatedly building a commercial film around a strong, nobody’s-fool black hero
(and a soundtrack gig for Hayes that won him the first Oscar for a non-acting
black artist). A new generation of exploitation film-makers would pick up the baton and run with it faster
and better...
Richard Rowntree has the insouciant badass charm as pioneer
poster-boy of Blaxploitation in (Sam) spades but - disappointing? You’re damn
right.
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