Black Dynamite

I watched Black Dynamite last night.

I followed that up by shooting myself in the face.

If you didn't hear about it, don't worry...you're not missing much. It's a big screen hodgepodge, with your Crock Pot of black C-listers (Michael Jai White? John Salley?) combining their fading stardom to spoof the dead-ball blaxploitation era. It put up such paltry numbers in Europe that they couldn't even cover operating costs. And with the amount of failed black actors in tow, you could've easily mistaken the movie for a Living Color demo reel.

Who's the idiot that came up with this idea?

Oh, that's right, it was Quentin Tarantino...almost 15 years ago (Jackie Brown). We saw a rack of minor league talent (Chris Tucker, Tiny Lister) emerge alongside a loaded deck of legends (Sam Jackson, Robert DeNiro, Michael Keaton). He even got Pam Grier prominently involved, even though by then her breasts hung lower than Flava Flav's neck clock.

I don't know why I did a random viewing of this movie yesterday. I also don't know why peacocks can't fly, or how Arsenio Hall lost his show even though most of his memes (fist-pumping the studio audience) were comedy GOLD.

But, at the same time, I HAD to check this movie out. I had to see my dark horse candidate for the over-40 club (Salli Richardson) in 70s gear. I had to figure out how Tommy Davidson went from rock star to has-been, now forced to yell incessantly from Fallon's couch late into the cold, dank night. (And I had to find a way to escape the non-Tiger PGA Championship. Guhh.)

And here, P.O.T. fans, is where I add in the transition sentence about Tracy McGrady.

How does T-Mac fit here? Well, Tracy has decided to "finish up his career" (read: prove he's not washed up) by gunning hard for Joe D's oddly constructed Detroit Pistons team. There's not one person on this roster that makes me want to buy season tickets, not one guy that compels me to watch a single game on NBA TV, and not one dude that is worth my compensation. This is a team destined to win 32 games in the most excruciatingly boring way possible.

Detroit is Black Dynamite, and Tracy McGrady has become the unwanted.

I wish T-Mac had chosen a glorious ride out into the sunset, waving his towel from the pine as more competent men traverse the parquet in clutch time. Maybe his affable traits could be the lynch pin to a greater good. But some superstars can't play that cameo bull$***. T-Mac needs another bite of the apple, another taste of the glory days. He feels for the spotlight like a moth to the flame. But he has to do it his way. One contested fadeaway jay at a time. It's not in his DNA to ring-chase and dribble out the clock for a winner he played no part in constructing (Mitch Richmond, 2002).

But why Detroit? The city's a vacant parking lot, serving as honorable mention to the glory days of American capitalism. Just like Tracy, Meat Loaf's ciudad has seen better days. Can T-Mac's resurrection dually lead to a Motown resurgence? I doubt it. T-Mac's career, like the auto industry and the era of blaxploitation, has come and gone.

Alas. T-Mac's play is coming to a tragic, but fitting, denouement.

M.B., II