Wednesday, February 10, 2010

THREE THE HARD WAY (1974)

Poster for the 1974 theatrical release.

There are some ideas that sound like a "can't miss'" when pitched for possible greenlighting, but sometimes the finished product just ain't all that. A case in point is THREE THE HARD WAY, a film that by all rights should have been completely fucking kickass by virtue of its star power. Starring Jim Brown, Fred Williamson and Jim Kelly, the movie has more action hero moxie, pure melanin-infused testosterone and sheer badassery than any film should have a right to, and the only way this cast could have been any more balls-out righteous is if they rounded out the trio to a quartet by adding Richard Roundtree (I would have said Bruce Lee, but he was dead and Jim Kelly stands for the chopsocky element). I first got wind of THREE THE HARD WAY when a friend told me about it during the mid-1980's, and he raved about its excellence. I didn't get to see it for myself until sometime in the early 1990's, during my "lost years," so, much like the previously-discussed TROUBLE MAN, I only remembered small bits of it until watching it again recently. Lemme tell ya, bunky, if ever there were an overrated blaxplotation film, this is it. DOLEMITE (1975) is also vastly overrated, but THREE THE HARD WAY is a worse disappointment because it was professionally made (although at times it resembles a made-for-TV movie) and had so much potential.

The plot comes off more like a comic book than many other films in the genre, and that's really saying something: Wealthy record producer Jimmy Lait (Brown) finds himself pulled into a web of intrigue when an old friend turns up wounded and dying after escaping from a secret medical experimentation facility. While delirious in the hospital, the wounded man tells Jimmy that someone is out to kill "all of us" and that they've got the means out to do it. That doesn't give Jimmy much to go on, so he leaves to supervise a recording session with Curtis Mayfield's former group, The Impressions (who provide the by-the-numbers soundtrack), leaving his girlfriend (Sheila Frazier) to look after his pal. Suddenly and unexpectedly, a telephone company cherry picker shows up outside the injured man's window and an assassin steps in to kill him in cold blood before he's well enough to tell anyone what's going on.

The first of the film's legion of corpses.

Unfortunately for her, Jimmy's girlfriend walks in just as the assassin strikes, so she ends up kidnapped. Upon discovering her abduction, Jimmy embarks on a quest to find her, but his every step is dogged by mysterious assailants bent on making him take the forced dirt nap. Jimmy quickly realizes that this shit is more than one man can handle, so he enlists the aid of tow old friends and fellow total badasses, super-suave entrepreneur Jagger Daniels (Williamson) and "my Afro has its own gravitational field" martial arts master Mister Keyes (ENTER THE DRAGON's Jim Kelly) — a character named "Mister" by his mother, so people would give him respect — and the three dive into a violent world of mayhem featuring immense amounts of rampant gunplay, fist fights, martial arts and vehicles that explode for no reason. They soon discover that they're up against Monore Feather (Jay Robinson, best known to those in my generation for his Saturday morning villainy as DR. SHRINKER), the leader of an underground white supremacist organization whose chief scientist has developed a serum that kills only black people, and they intend to commit anti-Negro genocide ("Negrocide?") by infecting the water supplies of New York City, Chicago and Los Angeles. In a movie featuring Jim Brown, Jim Kelly and my man Fred Williamson, do think for even a second that those bruthas are gonna let that bullshit happen? You're fuckin'-A right if you answered "HELL NO!!!" and you'd better believe that by the time the end credits roll they'll be stacking up cracker corpses like cord wood. So what is it about THREE THE HARD WAY that leads me to label it a disappointment?

The film is certainly action-packed, but it's very unevenly paced and after a while its action sequences just seem to blend into one another with little to distinguish them and not much to hold the viewer's interest. There's a numbing sameness to the endless gun battles and Jim Kelly seems to be attempting to imitate Bruce Lee, which is totally unnecessary after more than holding his own opposite the electrifying Lee in ENTER THE DRAGON.

Jim Kelly works his unnecessary Bruce Lee impersonation. Note the body language and facial expression.

The whole thing came off to me like another example of "action figure cinema" that could have been written and directed by a ten-year-old (where did the guys get a literal arsenal of firearms and grenades, and where did they get their S.A.S.-level of proficiency with them?), and I think THREE THE HARD WAY's lofty status in the pantheon of "must see" blaxploitation flicks is due the teaming of three of the genre's biggest male stars in one vehicle and the fact that many of those who remember it so fondly may be nostalgic after not having seen it in decades. Now that I've seen it again, the only thing from the film that truly stands out in my head as inspired is the sequence in which our heroes have failed in their efforts to get information from a captive white supremacist, so Jagger calls in the services of three "specialist" friends, namely The Countess, The Empress and The Princess, a trio of multi-ethnic dominatrixes who arrive on color-coded Japanese racing bikes with matching uniforms.

The true THREE THE HARD WAY: (L-R) The Countess (Pamlea Serpe), The Empress (Irene Tsu) and The Princess (Marie O'Henry), three hardcore bitches you DO NOT want to cross.

These three women are all business, utterly scary and absolutely "hungry" to inflict serious harm to their captive, hopefully "all the way." Jagger shows them deferential respect and even strongly advises karate master Keyes to stay out of their way or he might not survive (You will totally believe it when he says it). The ladies go upstairs and upon seeing them the captive Nazi anticipates a foursome that would light up they sky. It's easy to understand how he could think that, especially when the ladies get topless and approach him,

but the dream immediately turns into a nightmare as the ladies break out their "equipment bags" and commence to practice their trademark skills (which we unfortunately do not see, since this is not an Ilsa movie). Apparently Torquemada has nothing on these chicks, because when they call up our heroes and tell them the scumbag is ready to squeal, the heroes find the man curled up in a corner, shaking in the fetal position and jabbering like a madman. Once the heroes listen to what the guy has to say, the eager women return to continue with their fun, and upon seeing them approach him once more, the white supremacist lets out an anguished cry and promptly falls over dead from sheer terror. All of this made me want to see a movie devoted to the origins of The Countess, The Empress and The Princess. What made these engines of skillfully-applied man-hate? How does Jagger know these chicks? How many men have they permanently maimed or killed, and do they always work in concert? Alas, these and other questions will never be answered.

Anyway, THREE THE HARD WAY is worth sitting through for blaxploitation completists, but it in no way the flick it's been hyped-up to be, fascinating dominatrixes notwithstanding. It's a fun time-waster, and that's all.

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Tuesday, February 09, 2010

TROUBLE MAN (1972)

Poster from the original 1972 theatrical release.

A long time ago, during the early days of my studies in questionable cinema, I encountered the 1978 book THE FIFTY WORST FILMS OF ALL TIME (AND HOW THEY GOT THAT WAY) by Harry and Michael Medved and was intrigued by its contents. While the majority of the films covered were indeed of extremely wretched merit, a handful of the films included in no way deserved to be found within its pages — most notably the terrific animated epic ALAKAZAM THE GREAT — and among the few films undeserving of being in the dubious Top 50 can be found TROUBLE MAN. After having read what the Medveds wrote about TROUBLE MAN and other films from the blaxploitation genre in subsequent works — particularly their piece on SCREAM, BLACULA, SCREAM from THE GOLDEN TURKEY AWARDS, in which they award it "Worst Blaxploitation Film of All Time" thanks to the audience they saw it with, rather than the film's overall worthlessness; BLACKENSTEIN was among the nominees and anyone who's seen it will tell you it's one of the worst films ever made, regardless of genre — I believe it's fair to say that the writers simply had a bias against blaxploitation films in general, presumably because of the lurid and often vulgar content, so they largely got unfairly lumped into one steamy pile of celluloid shit in the eyes of the Medveds and were consequently slagged off. The younger Medved eventually dropped out of sight, but Michael remained in the public eye as both a movie critic and political commentator whose views are rather conservative (to say the least), so his animosity toward flicks like TROUBLE MAN can hardly be considered surprising. But fuck Michael Medved, I'm here to talk about TROUBLE MAN!

I first saw TROUBLE MAN during my "lost" years, on a weekend night where my perceptions were clouded thanks to a case of all-day imbibing of forty-ounce Budweisers. (This was during the days, just shy of twenty years ago, when I would wake up on Saturday morning, blaze a few bonghits, and then pull a forty from the fridge, all before noon, and exclaim my familiar adage of "It's never too early...for a beer!" Thankfully, I've outgrown such stupidity.) When I saw the film, I was too bombed to actually process it and relegated it to the short list of films I saw in that state, fully intending to give it another viewing so I could actually discuss it from an informed point of view. Well I'm glad I finally watched it again, because TROUBLE MAN is one of the best examples of what a blaxploitation movie can be when it has a good script and a cast that has every right to be in front of the camera.

The narrative follows a few days in the life of Mr. T (Robert Hooks, and no, it's not that Mr. T), a super-smooth multi-tasker who's the neighborhood "fixer," meaning if you come to him and have the cash, he'll solve your problem, more often than not quasi-legally. He's a sharp dresser who leans toward $600 suits (in 1972 money, so adjust for inflation), refreshingly eschewing the traditional pimp suit/Negro leatherboy look common among blaxploitation heroes, and his fierce intelligence practically radiates off the screen. Operating from his base at the local pool hall, T is all business and expert at what he does, taking zero shit from cop or criminal, and always acting according to his own personal code of honor (again, provided he gets paid up front). Among his many skills (he holds several licenses and degrees) is his capacity as a private investigator, and that talent is hired by two low-level gangsters, Chalky (Paul Winfield) and Pete (Ralph Waite), who want T to figure out who's ripping off their floating craps games at gunpoint, but that task will prove difficult because the thieves are concealed from head to toe, sporting ski masks and gloves that betray no evidence of skin color. Demanding a fee of ten grand (which Chalky and Pete balk at but reluctantly agree to), T agrees to attend one of the carps games in hope of seeing the robbers for himself and hopefully garnering some clues, but what he doesn't anticipate is the crooks who hired him having an agenda of their own and setting him up take take the fall for a false murder rap. The flipside of this is that the crooks made an enormous error in judgment by fucking over T and in the process igniting a gang war between themselves and black crime lord Big (Julius Harris, aka Tee Hee in LIVE AND LET DIE), a huge, deadly mess that T has to clean up. Ever fearlessly cool and more clever than anyone else around him, T takes the fight to his would-be framers and in no uncertain terms makes them regret the day they were born.

Directed by Ivan Dixon (of HOGAN'S HEROES fame) and featuring an excellent score by Marvin Gaye, TROUBLE MAN is a very unusual entry in the genre due to its protagonist being a badass with a keen brain rather than just some profanity-spewing super-nigger with an assortment of firearms. About five minutes into the film, I became very interested in T. Who was this guy? Where did he come from? What circumstances forged this cool-as-ice brutha? In fact, next to Sean Connery in the first few James Bond films, I can think of no other cinematic hero prior to 1975 who exuded such raw, imposing Alpha wolf cool. When T enters the room, you can just sense that he's the toughest motherfucker in the place and you would be very wise not to cross him. He's a unique figure in the annals of blaxploitation films and I am genuinely sorry that no sequels were made.

Low on sex/nudity, but solidly delivering in every other way, and inexplicably underrated among the pantheon of the genre, TROUBLE MAN bears serious re-examination as the thinking man's blaxploitation movie, especially in the wake of its flagrantly erroneous inclusion in the Medveds' book. If you only ever check out five films of this genre, make sure one of them is TROUBLE MAN.

Cover for the DVD release of TROUBLE MAN.

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Monday, February 08, 2010

BLACK DYNAMITE HITS DVD, NEGROES EVERYWHERE REJOICE

BLACK DYNAMITE, the letter-perfect sendup of the blaxploitation genre and funniest movie of 2009, is out on DVD on Tuesday (or right now, if you live in NYC and shop at a certain Lower East Side video store beloved for its "fuck street dates" attitude). I watched it on Saturday night and it absolutely holds up for repeat viewings. The transfer looks great (its intentionally crappy film stock brings me back to the days of VHS tapes of already worn low budget flicks) and the extras are quite good. There's a commentary track featuring the director, the co-writer (the guy who plays Bullhorn, a dead-on tribute to Rudy Ray Moore as Dolemite) and star Michael Jai White, alternate and deleted scenes (skip this section; the stuff was left out for a reason), an informative "making of" documentary entitled "Lighting the Fuse," and a very entertaining panel discussion from the San Diego Comicon with the same dudes who did the commentary, along with the female lead. That last segment in particular is loads of fun for its insight into where the filmmakers got their inspiration and their astute observations about the blaxploitaton genre in general, such as:
  • The indisputable fact that about 97% of the genre's films are boring as fuck and have notable moments but are mostly filler. With that lesson in mind, the filmmakers strove to make their film "all-meat" and no filler.
  • In most blaxploitation films, what you got was a collision of classically-trained actors (the regal William Marshall as Blacula, to cite the most obvious example) and comedians and sports figures who mostly could not act (my man Fred Williamson being a notable exception among the sports figures), and when the filmmakers watched some of the films again they noticed how weird the delivery of lines could be. Michael Jai White points out how Rudy Ray Moore would just go dead before delivering dialogue, wait for a count of about five seconds, and then just blurt out his lines in his signature way. Jim Kelly, the impressively-Afroed martial arts hero from BLACK BELT JONES, THREE THE HARD WAY and of course ENTER THE DRAGON, was mentioned for his bizarre "kiai" and his odd stressing of certain words when he said them; for instance he always pronounced "the" like the medieval "thee," no matter the context in which the word is used. Like White said, weird.
So the blaxploitation genre's answer to YOUNG FRANKENSTEIN makes for a terrific addition to your DVD shelf. Take my word for it and get your hands on it immediately, you born insecure, rat soup-eatin' muthafukka!

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Sunday, February 07, 2010

DRUM (1962) by Kyle Onstott

Dust jacket for the original 1962 first edition.

Some five years passed between the publication of Kyle Onstott's anti-GONE WITH THE WIND slavery epic, MANDINGO, and during that time two significant things took place in the author's career:
  1. Presumably following actually taking the time to read the sprawlingly over-long MANDINGO, someone at Onstott's publisher had the infinite mercy to not inflict such a pointlessly dense doorstop of a book upon readers a second time, and consequently hired an editor who was not asleep at the wheel when the inevitable sequel was in the pipeline.
  2. With the first of MANDINGO's sequels, 1962's DRUM, Onstott acknowledges the contributions of his "good friend and collaborator, Lance Horner, to whom I am profpundly obligated for the assistance he has given me and without whose insistence, aid, and persistent encouragement this book would never have been finished." There appears to be little information as to the full nature of the collaborative relationship between Onstott and Horner, but if you ask me, especially since I've bead the majority of the subsequent books, Horner probably acted to trim the fat from Onstott's narrative, something MANDINGO certainly needed (it was re-issued several times after its original edition in "expurgated" versions that trimmed superfluous padding while retaining all of the sex and violence). From DRUM onward, Horner was present for what remained of Onstott's output and beyond, but I'll get to that in a bit.
DRUM tells the story of three generations of characters, unfolding its narrative over some five-hundred pages and managing to hold the reader's attention without ever lapsing into the lengthy and agonizing bits of useless business that went nowhere and occasionally brought its predecessor's 659 pages to a gear-grinding halt. One might think that an epic covering approximately forty-some-odd years and three protagonists would be ponderous going, but the narrative is wisely divided into three books, so the leaps from era to era happen with no wasted words and bring readers to exactly where they need to be in the showcased hero's development.

Book One opens in Africa sometime around or just before 1800 and introduces us to Tamboura, a member of Hausa royalty who eagerly awaits the culmination of his manhood trials and his subsequent right to get his hump on with the nubile girls of his village, a right guaranteed once he is ritually circumcised. Well, poor Tamboura is shit outta luck because some of his jealous family members plot against him in an effort to usurp his right of tribal leadership succession and successfully drug and kidnap him, selling him into slavery to an Arab flesh-trader (rather than kill him outright, which would have offended the spirits). With nothing to his name but a totemic necklace he believes affords him mystical protection, Tamboura endures the long journey from Africa to the slave markets of Cuba, where his fierce physical beauty catches the eye of an aging, monied plantation owner, don Cesar, who buys him with a mind to use Tamboura as a prime stud for breeding. The don is a man with vision enough to foresee the encroaching end of legally importing slaves from Africa and he intends to use his plantation as the first self-sufficient slave-generating compound in Cuba, a move that would earn him the wealth of a king. Tamboura, as is par for the course in this kind of novel, of course comes to virtually worship don Cesar and does everything in his power to please him. Then Tamboura meets the don's hot, blonde and French mistress, Alix (allegedly the Comtesse de Vaux, a title she embellished herself with upon fleeing the horrors of the French Revolution), and the two enter into a clandestine relationship of torrid, passionate sex, unhindered by any hint of actual communication or getting to know each other as human beings. In her earlier days, Alix had loved a devoted slave named Bonaventure, who gave his life during her aforementioned escape, so she developed a taste for strapping black men, an interest definitely not approved of by her slave and almost-constant companion, the haughty Rachel (who doesn't like men for some reason that no one can figure out...).

Tamboura and Alix's affair goes on rampantly and undiscovered, which practically drives Rachel insane with jealousy and frustration, causing her to resort to an escalating and utterly futile barrage of voodoo charms before coming up with one of the most brilliant relationship-destroying schemes I've ever read about (and I won't spoil it for you; sorry). Needless to say, the lovers are discovered en flagrante and Tamboura is put to hideous death by a reluctant don Cesar, who knows that Tamboura did not rape Alix (despite what she claims in order to save her own worthless ass) but must execute him to reinforce to the whole town the lesson of what happens when a black man gets it on with a white woman. Alix and Rachel are given twenty-four hours to vacate the premises with nothing but the clothes on their backs (which in no way stops them from stealing anything of value that they can carry), their passage guaranteed on ships bound for Mexico or New Orleans. They set off for the latter, and a distraught Alix realizes that she had actually come to love Tamboura, retaining only his totem necklace to remember him by. That, and the unwanted son that she discovers she's knocked up with.

Book Two shifts the timeline forward by about eighteen years, by which time Alix has once more reinvented herself, this time as the madame at New Orleans' most high-end whorehouse, the de Vaux Academie de Musique. Having found herself pregnant with the unexpected and unwanted fruit of her time with Tamboura, Alix passes of her black son, Drum, as Rachel's baby and promptly distances herself from her child. Between the time of Drum's birth (sometime in the early 1800's) and his eighteenth birthday, Alix has become quite rich thanks to her bordello attracting wealthy and powerful regulars, and once he's of age, Drum is sent off to apprentice as a blacksmith. Unlike many of the slaves in books of this genre, Drum is more educated than most and comes off as rather sophisticated when compared to his fellow human chattel, an aspect of his demeanor that, along with his oft-mentioned overwhelming physical beauty, makes him ideal as a bartender and live sex show performer in the "melees" Alix stages for her jaded clientele. Growing up unaware that Rachel is not his real mother, Drum hates Alix as a foul epitome of all that he perceives as wrong and unattractive about white women, but he enjoys his status as a featured fixture at her establishment and eventually receives training as a fighter after kicking the living shit out of another slave who did not show him proper deference. Once trained, Drum goes on to win match after match, a towering nude black Hercules who can mete out and take extreme punishment, but as his winning streak breeds jealousy and frustration among some of the owners of slaves he defeats, so an escalating slate of horrifying and vicious opponents takes up much of his time. Much 0f Book Two is taken up with Drum's pugilistic efforts, but there is also a fair amount of time spent on his "pleasuring" with an assortment of all-too-willing female slaves and, in one memorably tasteless sequence, a spoiled-rotten, uber-rich, homicidal bi-sexual French duelist (he does not rebuff the guy because the man bought him a prize wench and resisting him would mean financial suicide for Alix's whorehouse). A plague of yellow fever — colloquially referred to as "Bronze John" — hits New Orleans and kills people by the thousands, eventually claiming Rachel, who, with her dying breath, informs Drum that Alix is his real mother. Alix briefly steps out of her role as stern whorehouse manager and relates the details of his origin to her son, giving him the Number One position of power among the house's slaves if he never reveals that Alix gave birth to a black man's bastard. From there the story deals with what an entitled asshole Drum becomes, treating the other slaves like shit and emotionally torturing his main woman, Calinda, by withholding sex — a tactic she tried initially, but it backfired when he adopted it — and lording it over Blaise, a younger, even more strapping buck who harbors feeling s for Drum's woman. One night while Drum is out servicing two "fancy" girls at some rich lady's house, Drum's woman takes Blaise to her bed and is inevitably caught by Drum. Overcome with rage, Drum attacks Blaise with the intent to kill him in cold blood. Their fight spills out into the whorehouse's courtyard and Blaise (who does not want to fight his best friend) defends himself with a carpenter's saw, embedding the blade in Drum's jugular. As Drum bleeds out on the cobblestones, Alix forces Blaise and Calinda, under penalty of severe punishment, to tell anyone who asks that Drum was killed in a street fight. Alix keeps the necklace that Drum inherited from Tamboura and holds it to give to her as yet unborn grandson, who is gestating within Calinda.

Book Three opens sometime in the 1840's and introduces us to Drumson (it's all in the name, folks), who is raised at Alix's brothel and serves as a house slave. Stunningly handsome and possessed of his father's physique, Drumson is also trained to fight by his Uncle Blaise. Alix keeps the boy on a short leash, never letting him know that she's his grandmother (all the secrets of Alix's jungle fever died with Drum)and as a result Drumson doesn't much care for her. Things get interesting and finally turn the novel into a proper sequel to MANDINGO when Hammond Maxwell, the conflicted slave-breeding/black chick-lovin'/white-chick-despisin' star of that book, shows up at Alix's establishment with an unusual offer. Following the events so scorchingly chronicled in MANDINGO, Hammond has returned from "the Texies" and assumed control of Falconhurst plantation when his father finally has the decency to croak, seeing its cash crop of prime slaves raise his wealth to that of an antebellum Rockefeller Now all he needs to have all his ducks in a row is to get a woman to run Falconhurt's main house, but he no longer wants a wife, thanks to what his first spouse, the infamous drunken interracial sex-offender adulteress Blanche, got up to with his most prized slave, the famed full-blooded Mandingo, Mede. Alix provides him with Augusta, a hairdresser to the local whores who has a mildly checkered past but is a very proper "lady" in every way nonethless, and so the pair set off to Falconhurst with Drumson taken on as Hammond's personal body slave (a high position), and Regine, Hammond's new and ultra-hot bed wench (much to Augusta's annoyance). During their initial time together, a falling-down-drunk Hammond confuses Drumson with Mede and the readers are treated to Hammond baring his soul to what he believes is the ghost of the slave he so sadistically punished (read "murdered by pitchforking him and boiling his body for three days in a gigantic kettle until he was soup"), and in doing so Hammond reveals his crushing guilt over his foul deeds, finally making peace with that foul event. Upon arriving at Falconhurst, we meet Sophie, the spoiled- brat twelve-year-old daughter Hammond believes is his via Blanche (she's actually the child of Blanche's brother, Charles, and bears his crossed eyes as a marker of her true parentage) and Sophie is soon revealed to be a budding and dangerous nymphomaniac with a heavy duty interest in the slave boys, people over whom she wields the power of life and death, and woe to any who might cross her...

The rest of the story relates Drumson's day-to-day interactions with the Falconhurst slaves, his devoted friendship with Miss Augusta (who turns out to be one of the most genuine and sweet white folks in the entire series), and the growing resentment of Drumson by slaves Clees and Clytie. Also figuring into this are Alph and Meg, twin former slaves of Hammond's who he sold a decade earlier, only to discover later that they had blackmailed his dead wife into allowing them to fuck her whenever they demanded it, lest they tell massa about her dalliances with Mede. Ever since becoming aware of their crime, Hammond had searched for them in vain, but when he finds them again he buys them from their current owner and brings them home with him, intending to imprison them away from the other slave sto heighten the suspense of what is sure to be some inevitable payback punishment, a reprisal that turns out to be imminent castration for both. The news of that development and the impending sale of the "uppity" Clees spurs an ultra-violent slave revolt that results in many gory deaths, including that of Drumson, who sacrifices himself to save Hammond's life, only to end up fatally shot and beheaded with a scythe. When the revolt is quelled, a heartbroken Augusta makes sure that Drumson's courage and more-than-slavelike humanity are never forgotten, affording him the rare honor of being buried among Falconhurst's honored white dead. But before Drumson's body is committed to the earth, Augusta retrieves Tamboura's legacy totem necklace and keeps it safe, eventually to be passed on to the first of the inevitable sons Drumson sired.

DRUM is a brisk and very entertaining read and an improvement upon MANDINGO in several respects. It is never boring, the characters are much more fleshed-out than before, and the three protagonists are each interesting in completely differing ways. Tamboura personifies the untamed beauty and majesty of Africa itself, an aspect noted by all who encounter him once he's transported into slavery, even inspiring an aging slave dealer to paint his portrait in tribute. Drum is an egocentric prick who's so full of himself that rather unlikable, quite happy in his role as what is essentially a human fighting cock (pun intended), with little concern or respect for his own value as a human being and not a commodity. Drumson is by far the most relatable of the three, displaying great intelligence and self-awareness despite being in a situation that seeks to quash such traits. His relationship with Augusta is both surprising and touching, illustrating one of the most interesting symbiotic relationships in all of the slave literature genre. Only three things unite these very different men: shared genetics, names that all sort of relate to a percussion instrument, and a disturbingly worshipful attitude toward white women. Before ending up as Alix's boy-toy, Tamboura, who bitterly despises whites, encounters a statue of the Blessed Virgin during his indoctrination into Western religion and from then on he is mesmerized by the sacred beauty of female whiteness. Drum lusts after white women (an attitude he very wisely keeps to himself), but never gets with one, settling instead for the light-skinned beauties in his mother's employ. Drumson also reveres white women and would be curious to try one out, but he knows that is just not in the cards and is fatal to any black man who achieves that goal (the fate of Mede is constantly brought up, so he's got constant reminders to keep it in his pants). Instead, Drumson transfers his worship of the white female to Miss Augusta, and that reverence is rewarded with a mutually beneficial friendship that unexpectedly extends to all the plantation's slaves.

Well worth reading, even if you have not read its ponderous predecessor, DRUM is definitely recommended to the interested. The 1976 film version seriously fucks with the book's content and ends up being rather a mess, but it's one hell of an unintentionally hilarious disaster that features the great Warren Oates (as Hammond) , Pam Grier, Isela Vega (shockingly miscast as Alix), Paula Kelly, John Colicos (as an over-the-top interpretation of the bi-sexual duelist who must be seen to be believed) and Yaphet Kotto, all of whom chew the scenery like their lives depended on it. Definitely recommended for camp film enthusiasts and nowhere near as offensive as the movie of MANDINGO, but if you choose experience the book or film of DRUM, make the smart choice and stick with the novel. Followed two years later by MASTER OF FALCONHURST (the review of which is coming soon).

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Saturday, February 06, 2010

CORRUPTING THE YOUTH OF AMERICA: OLLIVER RENTS MANDINGO

The DVD cover for MANDINGO.

I hadn't previously mentioned him on The vault, but I have an eighteen-year-old friend named Olliver who has a keen interest in getting into the comics biz as a writer, and during our discussions of the logistics on the biz we became pals. He keeps me abreast of what the young whippersnappers are up to and into, while I pass on my knowledge of pop culture minutia to another interested generation, so it's a mutually beneficial relationship (plus he's a thinker). Anyway, while chatting on the phone the other night, we were discussing assorted sleazy movies and, since it's Black History Month, I asked him if he'd ever seen MANDINGO. He started to laugh because he thought I was referring to the huge-dicked porn star who goes by "ManDingo," but I clarified what I meant by filling him in on the infamous 1975 plantation sleaze-epic. After about fifteen minutes of me raving about how his education as a sleaze film student was in no way complete until he'd seen it, Olliver was convinced and decided to track MANDINGO down at a local video store. I received the following email from him on Friday morning (he'd sent it the previous evening), and talk about a way to start the weekend:

Today I searched for MANDINGO at a local (Indian) mom and pop video store that specializes in B-movies and the guy working there is my one of my best friend's cousins, who is my age, so I figured he could help me find it. I asked him and he told me that they don't sell porn. Then I said the 1970's movie of the same name. He looked for it and couldn't find it. So he goes up and gets his mom and I hear her screaming at him. They both come downstairs and look at me. She says, "You want MANDINGO?" and I nodded "yes." She then looked at me in shock and asked, "Do you know what it is?" I nodded again. She sighed "Okay, this way." We went downstairs to this little room I'd never been in before and it's all these snuff films and stuff. She grabs a case on the shelf and hands it to me. It just says on it "DO NOT WATCH!!! NOT SAFE FOR THE WEAK!!! RATED: X" She asked me five times if I was positive that I wanted it. So I asked my friend's cousin "It's not that bad right?" He looked at me in shock and said "I don't know. I'm not allowed to watch it!" So now I have a $4 dollar copy of MANDINGO. Man, they gave me some weird looks while I was paying. I plan on watching it tonight.

Now I don't know what you readers think. but I'm wondering exactly what it was that Olliver got his hands on. MANDINGO, indisputably vile and offensive though it may be, was rated R in the first place and still retains that rating on DVD, so what was up with the renter? I can't wait to hear back from Olliver about this!

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Friday, February 05, 2010

COONSKIN (1975)

Also known as STREET FIGHT, this live action/animation hybrid from Ralph Bakshi is the director's most interesting film in the wake of his previous effort, HEAVY TRAFFIC (1973).

Released in 1975 and landing near the tail end of the blaxploitation craze, COONSKIN is pretty much SONG OF THE SOUTH as filtered through a scabrous post-Civil Rights era satirical sensibility. The film's live action framing device involves Barry White (yes, that Barry White) and Charles Gordone burning rubber to reach a prison where their friend (Philip Michael Thomas, billed here without the "Michael") awaits pickup at an appointed time after making a jailbreak. While nervously waiting for his pals to arrive, the escapee is entertained with stories told by an old inmate (Scatman Crothers) who helped him break out, tales that modernize Joel Chandler Harris' familiar anthropomorphized down-home critters into the "badass nigger" types common to American black folklore and blaxploitation movies.

Zip-a-dee-doo-dah, my black ass: Brother Bear and Brother Rabbit climb the ladder of Harlem's underworld.

Brother Rabbit (Thomas), Brother Bear (White) and Preacher Fox (Gordone) leave their Southern home and make their way to Harlem, where they encounter a false prophet, "Simple Savior," who claims kinship to the Black Jesus and empowers his followers to kill whites and (allegedly) get away with it, all while making a hefty profit for himself. Brother Rabbit calls bullshit on the prophet's schemes, thus launching a conflict that allows him to show off his legendary "trickster" attributes and take over the preacher's power base after killing him. That power grab swiftly escalates into Brother Rabbit becoming a considerable power in Harlem's underworld and puts him directly in the sights of the local Mafia godfather and his gaggle of homicidal and homosexual sons, each of whom holds a vested interest in assassinating Brother Rabbit in order to please their pop. Our heroes must terminally deal with the godfather, his heavily-armed soldiers and the corrupt cop he controls, as well as the evil, taunting personification of the American Dream — the blonde and buxom Miss America — who forever mocks and denies the black man, and by the time the film reaches its conclusion there are bloodied corpses all over the place and little sense of triumph to be had.

Wildly experimental and delving into territory not dissimilar to that found in HEAVY TRAFFIC, COONSKIN's anti-SONG OF THE SOUTH leanings lend it great power and interest, attacking numerous targets and uniting all of its grubby players under a blanket of stereotype that leaves no group unscathed. Misunderstood during its initial release by many detractors in the black community (most of whom protested it before seeing it), COONSKIN's heavy use of blackface caricatures can now be accepted as the confrontational artistic element that it was so clearly intended to be, and the film is strongly recommended for those who can handle satire with extremely sharp teeth. HIGHLY RECOMMENDED.

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Thursday, February 04, 2010

WHY I LOVE FILTH: REASON #235

SESAME STREET's Bert: unsuspecting innocent hand puppet and victim of horrific ass-play.

WARNING: if frank descriptions of highly questionable pornography offend you, what the fuck are you doing reading this blog? Uh, I mean, if such material offends you in any way, stop reading now and go watch ACCORDING TO JIM.

One of the truly fun and amazing things about really nasty pornography is that in its world anything can happen, whether you want it to or not. There's plenty of filth out there that I have a hard time believing is designed to actually get people off, but having read von Krafft-Ebing's seminal work on sex-related twistedness, PSYCHOPATHIA SEXUALIS, I guess even something as innocuous as a soap dish can make somebody tingle in the southern regions. Since the availability of VHS, DVD, the Internet and other such avenues for ruination, I have diligently checked out vast amounts of ghastly material that reduces human sexuality to its most base extremes and found myself not turned on, but instead fascinated by just how utterly imaginatively gross it can get. German schiesse videos, cute Japanese puke-eaters in Sailor Moon cosplay drag, an amputee woman who stump-fucks herself with the nub where her right leg used to be, nude danish farmgirls who dump garbage bags full of horse semen over their heads, fat old men in domino masks who shave each other's liver-spotted asses, "performance artists" who nail their genitalia to furniture; you name it, I've seen damned near everything this side of actual rape, snuff and kiddie porn — none of which I have any desire to see, just so we're clear on that — but thanks to the excellent CINEMA SEWER magazine I have heard of an item that I must witness for myself, hopefully with my stalwart ally in filth exploration, Greaseball Johnny, at my side. That film is a little gay porn mind-bender entitled ANAL BIRTH OF BERT and I intend to download and watch it as soon as possible, all so I can give you, my avid readers, the unflinching lowdown on what is sure to be a milestone in the annals ("anals?") of human achievement.

From all the info I have thus far on the film, ANAL BIRTH OF BERT contains the requisite amount of fisting and such, but gets its name from the conceptually-stunning event of a man pooping out a doll of the beloved Bert from the perennial children's TV favorite SESAME STREET. I am a first generation SESAME STREET fan and never in a million-gajillion years would I have imagined that I might someday see a greasy, soiled Bert extruded from a random dude's asshole. It's simply incredible and I must see it. NOW. I mean, think about it: how big is the puppet and, most importantly, did Jim Henson see the film? I don't have answers to those questions, but if anyone out there has seen this shining example of brilliance, please write in and tell me everything!

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Wednesday, February 03, 2010

IT'S OSCAR TIME AGAIN

It's Oscar time again, dear Vaulties, and for the first time in years I'm kinda interested in what's going to happen.

Hollywood movies have majorly sucked ass in general for far too long and, consequently, I have not given a good goddamn about awards doled out to the industry by the industry. As any kind of genuine nod toward artistic merit, the Oscars are more often than not wholly invalid and I certainly don't take them seriously these days, but how sad and desperate is it that the movies churned out by the Dream Machine during the past year are so wan that there are now ten Best Picture nominees as opposed to the usual five? Let's look at our ten nominees, shall we?

AVATAR


I enjoyed this movie as a bit of visually spectacular escapism, but Best Picture? No fucking way. I fully get that it's a hugely popular sci-fi adventure loaded with jaw-dropping special effects in damned near every frame, but not even the original STAR WARS (1977) pulled off the Best Picture Oscar, and it also had all of that going for it, as well as being a far superior film. (For the record, STAR WARS lost to ANNIE HALL.)

A SERIOUS MAN

Made by the Coen Brothers, so it's automatically worth at least checking out.

AN EDUCATION

A coming of age flick taking place in 1960's London. I'd see this on cable or DVD, but this seems like what I usually refer to as a "filler" nomination.

THE BLIND SIDE

Yet another in the long line of "save us, white lady/man" flicks, which is also kinda what AVATAR is when you stop and think about it. It may be genuinely good, but I never need to see this kind of film again. The same sentiment applies to films featuring sagacious ethnics who set white people on the path of enlightenment or some such equally patronizing bullshit. (Although I give Mr. Miyagi a pass on this one because he at least had the decency to be able to seriously kick some ass when needed. Not so, Sandra Bullock.)

DISTRICT 9

A tarted-up DOCTOR WHO-style Apartheid parable. We already have one human rights parable in sci-fi drag on this list and that one would edge this out, if for no other reason than the eye candy.

THE HURT LOCKER

An intense war drama from the director of NEAR DARK, the best vampire film of the last fifty years (if you willfully ignore LET THE RIGHT ONE IN, that is).

INGLOURIOUS BASTERDS


Quentin Tarantino's well-made but overrated (and over-long) war flick.

PRECIOUS

One of the most painfully depressing films ever made, starring Negroes and notable for Mo'Nique playing the worst mother in screen history. (Worse than Dawn Davenport, so think about that for a moment!) No pun intended, but this could be this year's dark horse to bet on.

UP IN THE AIR

Good, but Best Picture material? I dunno...

UP

This Disney/Pixar effort was hands-down my favorite film that I saw theatrically in 2009 and I'm not one bit ashamed to admit that its study of the effects of loneliness on its characters kicked me square in the heart. The first ten minutes alone, a mostly wordless prologue in which the protagonist's relationship with the love of his life is chronicled from their childhood through his wife's death, held more genuine emotional impact than most full-length features can muster, and that aspect definitely colors my opinion of the film as a whole. That said, while I love UP and would be very happy to see it snag the big prize, I cannot deny that THE HURT LOCKER is easily the year's best film and deserves to win as such. With that in mind, coupled with the Academy having never given an animated film the Best Picture Oscar, UP is a lock for the Best Animated Feature award, which would be sort of a repeat of James Baskett winning a "special" award for his performance as Uncle Remus in SONG OF THE SOUTH, this time throwing a bone to animation rather than to a black actor.

Best Picture is the only Oscar that ever holds real interest for me, so who's up for Best Actor and Best Actress in this or any other year is something I just do not give a flying fuck about. That said, occasionally I'm intrigued by what's going on with the Supporting thespic category and this time around the betting could not be any simpler. This year's Best Supporting Actor category is really only narrowed down to a wholly deserving field of one, namely Christoph Waltz for his performance in INGLOURIOUS BASTERDS.

The charming Kraut bastard you love to hate: Christoph Waltz as Hans Landa, aka "The Jew Hunter."

I've already discussed my admiration for Waltz's work in INGLOURIOUS BASTERDS in an earlier post, but I cannot stress enough just how fucking good his performance was. No two ways about it, the little gold nekkid guy is going home with Christoph. As for Best Supporting Actress, look no further than Mo'Nique.

A mundane monster of ghastly proportions: Mo'Nique in PRECIOUS.

Terrifying and abusive mothers are always fascinating, and Mo'Nique plays the most monstrous example of such — in a mainstream film, that is — since Shelly Winters in A PATCH OF BLUE (1965), a role that nabbed Winters the Best Supporting Actress statue, so let's see if history repeats itself.

James Cameron seems like a lock for Best Director, but while AVATAR was an undeniably impressive achievement on the visual effects front (for which it will undoubtedly win), it has none of the human resonance of Kathryn Bigelow's THE HURT LOCKER. She deserves the Oscar and I hope to all the gods of cinema that she gets it.

So what do you have to say to all of this, dear Vaulties? Write in and speak your film-addled mind!

Bugs Bunny gets more than he bargained for with his failed Oscar bid in WHAT'S COOKIN', DOC (1944).

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Tuesday, February 02, 2010

THE HUMAN TORNADO (1976)

"He think he's bad and ain't got no class! I'm gon' rock this shotgun up his muthafuckin' ass!"
-Dolemite (Rudy Ray Moore), expressing his annoyance at a pursuing redneck sheriff.


1975's DOLEMITE has gone down in the annals of the blaxploitation genre as something of an ultra-profane classic starring "the father of rap," Rudy Ray Moore, a reputation that has grown since the home video boom of the 1980's and the film's subsequent rescue from celluloid obscurity when it was resurrected on VHS. I first heard of it when I saw its instantly memorable trailer as part of THE BEST OF SEX AND VIOLENCE (1981) and was positively gobsmacked by what appeared to be (and actually was) a film showcasing a character who merrily personified every "bad nigger" stereotype in the book, all in the name of the most lowbrow of laughs. Amateurishly made, agonizingly-paced to the point of occasional boredom and featuring wall-to-wall bad fashion statements endemic to the era, DOLEMITE is in my opinion a cult movie totally undeserving of its lofty trash reputation. Yes, it has moments that are fleetingly amusing, but overall it's just a very, very bad movie and that's all there is to it. But somehow it must have made enough at the box office to warrant a sequel and thank the gods that it did, because THE HUMAN TORNADO is everything you've been led to believe about DOLEMITE, and then some.

Theatrical poster for the DOLEMITE (1975).

For those who (luckily) missed DOLEMITE, here's what you need to know: Dolemite (Rudy Ray Moore) is the ultimate American black dude. He can out-fight, out-rhyme, out-smart and out-fuck any man alive, and he can even look totally cool while wearing outfits that would make Liberace shout "Damn!" and put on shades to avoid the glare. No woman can resist his manly (if rather flabby and not particularly good-looking) charms, and they either instantly hop into bed with him or become one of his loyal interracial "all-girl army" of kung fu-fighting prostitutes. When not battling low-level street crime or looking for revenge on assorted miscreants, Dolemite can be found hanging out on street corners, regaling passersby with lengthy and profane rhymes like the classic "Shine and the Titanic" and coming up with new and infinitely creative ways of cursing people out, a particular favorite being the epithet "You born-insecure, rat soup-eatin' motherfucker." But that's DOLEMITE. We're here to talk about THE HUMAN TORNADO!

When THE HUMAN TORNADO opens, it begins with an outlandish series of shots featuring Rudy Ray Moore in a number of cornea-wilting Seventies outfits that range from the African-inspired to the pimpilicious, interspersed with shirtless demonstrations of his feeble and out-of-shape karate prowess as the credits roll by. Then we're abruptly dropped into a filmed record of one of Rudy Ray Moore's live standup comedy performances in some chitlin-circuit joint, and the shit's pretty damned dire (although his observation about how a brutha in the audience with really big lips looks like his face is wearing a turtleneck sweater gains points for originality). This example of the kind of humor once found in the "party record" genre may be of interest to those who know little or nothing of those bygone days of "blue" vinyl, but for anyone else it's a five-minute endurance test and it would be understandable if the average viewer turned off the film before this segment comes to a welcome end, but trust me when I advise you to stick with it.

Once that "comedy" mess is over, the film proper starts and we're taken to a house somewhere in rural Alabama where Dolemite and a bunch of his friends are having a party. It's in broad daylight and the guests — all black — have spilled out onto the lawn, at which point an exaggerated pair of mother and son rednecks drive by and observe the reveling Negroes, prompting one of my all-time favorite bits of dialogue in any film from any genre:

Momma and Jethro: outraged rednecks.

Momma: Lookee yonder somethin's a-going on at that big house! Jethro: Of course somethin's going on up there. Them people's havin' a party. Momma: Goddamn it, Jethro! Them ain't people! Them's niggers!!! Jethro: By God, Momma, yer right! They gotta be niggers, 'cause it ain't Halloween!

As of that moment, I snorted the beer that I was drinking through my nostrils and knew I was bearing witness to a classic.

The outraged rednecks leave and alert the authorities to the goings-on at Dolemite's house and the police hightail it to the scene. While this is going on, Dolemite addresses his guests and receives kudos for his civic-minded contribution to the local church, after which he grouchily retires to a back room where he services a sex-starved white woman for money, revealing himself to be a whore as well as a pimp.

Actual dialogue: "Dolemite, you're worth every cent I pay you!"

When the cops arrive, they cackle like the pair cartoon crackers that they are and harass the partygoers at gunpoint, with the sheriff (J.B. Baron, turning in a performance that must be seen to be believed) making his way toward a back room with the intent to rape one of the female guests.

The incredible J.B. Baron as Sheriff Beatty (and not Kenny Rogers on crystal meth).

When the shotgun-toting deputy and the sheriff stumble into the room where Dolemite is whoring himself out, the stunned whiteys discover that Dolemite's all-too-willing (and paying, let us not forget) bedmate is the sheriff's own wife.

Caught in the act.

Clearly busted, the woman thinks quickly, looks from her husband to Dolemite and exclaims "He made me do it!" An appalled Dolemite reacts with the deathless "Bitch, are you for real?!!?"and with that the sheriff orders his deputy to shoot the adulteress, which he unhesitatingly does. Dolemite uses the confusion to grab a pistol, shoot the deputy and flee, bare-ass nekkid, escaping down a hill to the waiting car of his friends. This madness is compounded by the astounding sight of nude and doughy Rudy Ray Moore diving down the hill only to have the film suddenly freeze as Moore's voice bellows "So, y'all don't believe I jumped, huh? Well, check out this good shit!" at which point the film runs backward and the words "INSTANT REPLAY" flash onscreen as we are once again treated to the sight of the flying nude Dolemite.

A jaw-dropping moment of sheer "what-the-fuck-ness."

Dolemite and his boys (including a pre-GHOSTBUSTERS and bald Ernie Hudson) flee the obsessed sheriff — who has conveniently pinned the murder of his wife on Dolemite — and make their way to California, where they discover that Queen Bee (Lady Reed, playing the same character as in the previous film) and her stable of whores are getting violently pressured by Mafia scumbag Cavaletti (Herb Graham) to work for him, or else. With no one to defend the ladies (they've apparently forgotten they're martial arts badasses) and two of their number kidnapped and subjected to horrible (read "ridiculous") tortures by a madwoman who likes not unlike an LSD-infused version of Witchiepoo from H.R. PUFNSTUF, Dolemite comes to the rescue in a flurry of horrendously-choreographed martial arts action, bad rhymes and outrageous affronts to the art of film-editing.

As you may have gathered, THE HUMAN TORNADO is a very, very bad movie by most people's standards, but, unlike its predecessor, it's entertaining as hell and is as politically incorrectly hilarious as BLAZING SADDLES (only minus the Mel Brooks classic's utter mess of an ending). Its merits are hard to describe and I would say it's simply something that must be experienced to be understood and appreciated, but among the film's highlights that were not previously described can be found:
  • An over-the-top white gay character who picks up Dolemite and friends in hope of some man-on-man action, but instead ends up carjacked and along for the ride as our heroes steal his car to replace the one they blew up during the chase with the sheriff (don't ask). The guy is a southern-fried variant of the stereotypical fag found in films of the era, only this guy ends up becoming pals with the crew and is even given cash for his participation when they reach California, cash he turns down because he realizes California has lots of hot guys to offer, or as he so earnestly puts it, "Somebody'd have to kidnap me to take me back!" Sadly, he exits the story once his car is no longer necessary to the narrative.
  • The sequence in which Dolemite interrogates the Mafia guy's nymphomaniac wife and literally fucks down her house, thus giving the film its name.
  • A smattering of musical numbers from Queen Bee's club, each featuring overripe performances of an Afro-centric nature. My favorite of these is Jimmy "Mr. Motion" Lynch's funky "Angels of the World," where he is adorned in a shirtless, orange, bell-bottomed version of L'il Abner's one-strap overalls, silver platform shoes and one gigantic sequined wrist cuff.
The outfit makes not a lick of sense and I love it.
  • The final fate of Cavaletti, involving a cage full of starving rats and the restrained mobster's nuts.
  • Dolemite's endless rhymes. Nearly every line he speaks is rhymed, for no apparent reason.
And lastly, but definitely not least, this film must hold some sort of record for usage of the term "motherfucker." It's heard nearly every time Dolemite opens his mouth and if one were to play a drinking game in which participants imbibed whenever "motherfucker" is uttered, the local emergency room would soon be filled with individuals on the verge of death by alcohol poisoning.

Lower-than-lowbrow though it may be, THE HUMAN TORNADO is a bona fide pisser and should be seen by everyone with even the slightest interest in the excesses of the blaxploitation genre. A triumph of bad moviemaking, it's one of my all-time favorite movies and would definitely make tghe cut if I had to eliminate all but ten films from my permanent collection. I know that may sound completely insane, but much like SORCERESS, it transcends its own awfulness and becomes a thing of eternal joy. HIGHEST RECOMMENDATION.

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Monday, February 01, 2010

A VAULT OF BUNCHENESS RERUN: THE MANDINGO PROJECT

Hey, dear Vaulties! It's once again Black History Month, so I'm leading off with a rerun, namely the complete MANDINGO PROJECT. I'm doing this because I'm currently re-reading the two legitimate sequels to MANDINGO (1957) and they're both far superior to the series' launching point, so this is running as background info for when you read the upcoming reviews of DRUM (1962) and MASTER OF FALCONHURST (1964).

NOTE: this is a loooong piece, but I promise you it's easier to swallow than the full-length novel.


First edition of MANDINGO, featuring perhaps the worst book cover of all time. Seriously, somebody got paid to produce this!

Since blacks in America were brought here very much against their will and subjected to every form of degradation the human mind could conceive, slavery remains a hot button issue and one that touches very raw nerves when discussed in any format. Many pop culture analysts will tell you that the first major work to really present the myriad horrors of slavery in realistic and uncomfortable detail would be Alex Haley's multi-generational saga ROOTS, and more importantly its 1977 television dramatization; the TV miniseries hit the airwaves like a blowtorch to the stomach and forced white viewers to see the torture, mutilation, rape, forced separation of families and other such details of the human chattel system that fantasies like GONE WITH THE WIND gloss over to an alarming degree. Not only did it shake up adults across the nation, but it was also the first time that most non-black American kids really understood why slavery was an unmitigated evil that was inadequately explained in the woefully skewed history schoolbooks of the era. By the time the second episode aired, I had many of my classmates come up to me apologizing for atrocities committed by their ancestors some three hundred years past. (Needless to say, that shit got old fast, but it was a strange and interesting thing to witness.
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The impact of ROOTS was and is undeniable since it is still frequently discussed and referenced today, but for my money it was not the first pop culture hit to unflinchingly detail slavery for a mass audience. My vote for that distinction goes to Kyle Onstott's massive 1957 novel MANDINGO.
You have probably heard the name and associate it with lurid interracial shenanigans during the plantation era Old South thanks to the outrageous 1975 movie version, but most people don't know the film was based on a lucrative bestseller that was the literary equivalent to Hiroshima and Nagasaki when it hit in the late 1950's, an era of post-war American prosperity that reveled in the secure knowledge of white superiority in all things and a barely acknowledged awareness of any wrongs committed on the historical road to getting the US to where it was. MANDINGO was an anti-epic, replete with scalding violence and then-shocking interracial sex - or rape, in most instances - peopled with characters that ranged from the pitiful and obsequious to the downright reprehensible. The core of the story centers on the daily goings-on at the Falconhurst plantation, an establishment for breeding and selling slaves, and the tawdry intrigues set into motion upon the young master simultaneously acquiring his cousin as his wife, a new “bed wench” slave girl who becomes the real love of his life, and an ultra-studly fighting slave of the title bloodline. None of the characters come off as admirable for a variety of reasons, and the narrative squarely points out that slave-owner, slave-breeder and slave were all victims of the foul system in no uncertain terms. So why has MANDINGO gone on to be universally hailed one of the most infamous and offensive concoctions of the twentieth century?

The blame for that falls largely on the movie adaptation, a film released nearly twenty years after the book's publication; despite its documented status as a runaway bestseller at the time, there was absolutely no way that MANDINGO could have been filmed and not seen every single person involved in its translation to the big screen arrested as twisted sadists and pornographers. Even after the advancements of the civil rights movement the book was still simply too hot to handle and though there was no screen adaptation there was a flourishing genre of potboiler paperback sequels that cheapened the literary impact of Onstott's original work until the series became sort of bodice-ripper drugstore fiction with as much sex and violence as the law would allow. By the time the feature version of MANDINGO hit screens in 1975 much of its content had become fodder for rip-off novels and porno films, and many people had not read the book in its unabridged form, so much of the character and sociological insight found therein was utterly lost. The film version simplified the complex 659-page source novel to fit within a two hour running time, dumbing it down to nothing more than an overacted, ludicrously-scripted S & M/soft-porn GONE WITH THE WIND parody filled with wall-to-wall nudity, torture, bloody violence, and an overwhelming blast of unbelievable bad taste. I personally relish the film for its balls-out insanity and tastelessness, parts of which convulse me with laughter every time I sit through it, and in my opinion it remains the single most offensive film ever released by a major motion picture studio. And there is absolutely no fucking way that film could have been made today without riots breaking out in the streets. Believe that, Jack!


Sadly, the film has tarnished the considerable merit and bravery found in the novel, a book that to the best of my knowledge is out of print today, and what stands amid the rubble is perhaps one of the most misunderstood books in all of American literature. Most people have never read it, and if they have they've only seen the abridged version - admittedly, Onstott's uncut version is a trifle unnecessarily long-winded - and read it only to glean what thrills can be had for those who get off on misery and master/slave sex fantasies. After seeing the movie during the late-1980's I tracked down the novel in its abridged form and read it, marveling at just how raw the book was for a mass-market item of its time, and determined to find the uncut version just for the sake of comparison. Thanks to eBay I acquired a first edition hardcover of MANDINGO and have read it from start to finish with the intent of analyzing it both as a book and as a statement about the dehumanizing aspects of slavery. The novel runs for fifty chapters but as previously stated the unabridged version tends to ramble, so I have reviewed the book in sections since sequences that cover twenty-four hours of time can go on for as many as six chapters.

PART 1: chapters 1-5.

MANDINGO takes place in the antebellum south of 1820 at the Falconhurst slave-breeding plantation, an establishment known throughout the land for turning out blacks of the highest quality for heavy field work or whatever whims the buyer may have (no matter how sick or twisted they may be, as we shall see). The place has definitely seen better days; the ground has petered out thanks to over-farming of cotton, the mansion has fallen into disrepair, and despite the plantation's intended purpose of breeding slaves there are more of them around than the proprietors know what to do with.

The patriarch of Falconhurst is Warren Maxwell, an irascible old fuck who treats his “niggers” as one would a mildly disobedient dog; he seldom has a kind word for them and displays a shockingly superior attitude for one so staggeringly ignorant. Plagued by crippling rheumatism - or “rheumatiz” as he would put it - Maxwell drinks corn whisky-laden hot toddies from the moment he wakes until the moment he retires at night, essentially rendering himself Shane McGowan-level drunk all day long. The one true joy in his life, aside from his toddies, is his only son, Hammond.

Hammond is eighteen years old, and by all measure of “bodice ripper” fiction he is fairly handsome, but is physically flawed with a permanently stiff leg, an injury incurred during childhood after being thrown from the saddle by a stroppy gelding (after that incident Hammond's father grows to loathe geldings of both the equine and human varieties, leading to a plantation policy of never gelding either a horse or slave). Being the heir to the plantation and general administrator since his father is hobbled by his “rheumatiz,” Hammond is pretty much a prince, flush with cash and the master's right to fuck any of the slaves as he sees fit, whether they like it or not, since as his father claims “nigger wench crave her master for her first time.” It is made very clear that Hammond has rampantly impregnated slave girls since he was fourteen, siring many offspring in the process (including one being carried by his two months pregnant bed wench, Dite, which is short for Aphrodite), offspring who are immediately categorized as potential sale items, made all the more valuable since they are “half human.” An unexpected side effect of Hammond's virulent jungle fever is his utter lack of attraction to white women, a very important plot point that sets the main meat of the story into motion in chapter six, but more on that when we get to it.

Anyway, the first five chapters cover a period of roughly twenty-four rain-soaked hours and introduce us to the Maxwells and their staff of house slaves, chief among whom is the requisite fat mammy stock character so common to tales of this ilk, this time dubbed Lucrecia Borgia; in this and subsequent books in what became the Falconhurst series it is clear that Lucrecia Borgia - always referred to by her full name - is the real power behind the Falconhurst hierarchy, and while the Maxwell men may give orders and such, they grudgingly respect and trust Lucrecia Borgia and allow her to handle all of the house matters and much of the concerns that extend beyond the big house. She also displays a cruel enjoyment in watching slaves of lesser rank - which is basically everyone else on the plantation with a trace of melanin - receive corporal punishment, especially when personally meted out with a whip or paddle in her hand with the full approval of her owners. Part of her status stems from her prodigious reproductive capabilities, an Herculean fecundity that yielded at least ten sets of twins, but when the story begins she is described as “pretty much bred out.”

Also of note are Alpha and Omega (Alph and Meg for short), the youngest of Lucrecia Borgia's brood, tweener scalliwags engaged in a fierce war for the attentions of their respective masters; Alph is forced into spending much of his time with the elder Maxwell's feet pressed against his belly in an ill-informed attempt to drain the rheumatism from the old man into the young boy, while Meg obsequiously sets out to fulfill Hammond's every minute whim or need out of an apparently homosexual/masochistic love for his master, even to the point of demanding regular beatings from Hammond that he interprets as proving his master's love, beatings from which he derives an obviously sexual pleasure.

The other important Falconhurst slave is Agamemnon (Mem for short), the thirty-something houseboy who is the object of constant abuse from everyone around him, slave or otherwise; Mem is the classic lazy nigger who only shapes up when threatened with physical punishment for his sloth, and while having no choice but to put up with his station, he is the only slave to flat out realize that his situation simply sucks ass. Upon being caught stealing whisky after a number of other minor infractions, Mem is sentenced to be hung up and given thirty lashes, a sentence that is delayed after Hammond sadistically administers a near-fatal dose of syrup of ipecac as an extra bit of punishment intended to heighten Mem's pre-whipping misery. Hammond realizes his vindictiveness nearly cost Mem his life, but he has no idea that that act has sown the seeds of impending tragedy…

During the aforementioned twenty-four hour period, the Maxwells play grudging hosts to Brownlee, an ignorant and ultra-sleazy slave trader (with whom the elder Maxwell makes an exchange of two slaves from Falconhurst for two so-so specimens of Brownlee's and a little cash to make up for the difference in quality), and the three men “treat” readers to in-depth discussions of the intricacies of the flesh trade, their philosophies on slavery and other subjects, along with their twisted medical “knowledge” in regard to the veterinary care of niggers.

The plantation's prize wench, a girl of pure Mandingo blood named Big Pearl because of her sturdy and statuesque build (who is the intentionally inbred offspring of her grandfather and his daughter), appears to be ailing, so a slave is sent out to fetch Doc Redfield, the local veterinarian. Upon arrival, Redford diagnoses Big Pearl as being “hipped,” in other words she's in heat and craves for Hammond to fuck her. Hearing this, Hammond admits to being intimidated by her size and the fact that she, like all niggers we are told, is “powerful musky.” Working with a suggestion provided by Brownlee, it is decreed that Big Pearl will be bathed in a strong solution that “renders niggers right sweet smellin' for two, three days,” and Hammond will soon come over and do his masterly duty. After the men return to the house for yet more booze and overblown prose, Brownlee drunkenly requests a bed wench from Mem, but when Mem wisely doesn't supply a wench without the permission of his masters Brownlee sneaks out to Big Pearl's cabin with every intention of taking her virginity for himself. Her irate mother, Lucy, alerts the Maxwells to Brownlee's sniffing about before anything can happen, and Brownlee is unceremoniously asked to leave Falconhurst. END OF CHAPTER FIVE.

NOTES:
  • While all of this gives us a very clear and thorough insight into the mindset of white male participants in the slavery system, it also points out the fact that the writer really needed an editor since this stuff takes up five dense chapters, made all the harder to wade through because the reader has to get used to deciphering the southern colloquialisms, slang and general bad grammar issuing from the characters' mouths.
  • The ignorance of the whites is really incredible to read, but one must take into account the fact that in the early 1800s in rural areas such as that depicted here people pretty much had contact only with their families and those encountered during excursions for provisions due to how far away everyone was from one another; your nearest neighbor was about eight to ten miles away if you were lucky.
  • The majority of the Falconhurst slaves have names derived from classical mythology, famous historical figures or biblical characters in an attempt for the Maxwells to show off how cultured they are(n't) by coming up with such high-falutin' and pretentious monikers. Yeah, way to go with "Lucrecia Borgia," dude!
  • With the exception of Agamemnon, all of the slaves at Falconhurst worship the Maxwells, especially Hammond, as devotionally as the ancient Greeks revered the occupants of Mount Olympus, cheerfully reveling in the squalor of their lives and happily acquiescing to Hammond's priapic needs. These are the NC-17 versions of the kind of slaves who populated such works as GONE WITH THE WIND, and each and every one of them makes me sick. They have accepted their status as little more than pets or objects and not one of them are in the least bit sympathetic. They are there to solely to take it up the ass from life with little or no complaint, both figuratively and literally.
  • Particularly offensive are Alph and Meg; horrid little turds to begin with, they swiftly mutate into the worst kind of toadies, especially Meg, whose inner monologue on the magnificence of Hammond and his desire to love him in all ways reeks of NAMBLA fantasies from the late 1950's. The kid demands that Hammond beat him to show the world that he is “Masta Hammond's nigger, an' no one else'ns,” for fuck's sake!!! And don't get me started on Alph, pressganged into being a “rheumatiz” sponge after the elder Maxwell hears from Brownlee about “nekkid Mexican dogs” who can drain off joint pains if you apply your feet to their bellies as often as possible; the image of James Mason doing this to a little black boy in the film has gone on to well deserved cinematic infamy and is so outrageous/hilarious that you won't know what to think when you actually see it.
One final note of importance is Doc Redfield's mention of his use of a painless poison to end the lives of slaves who are too old to work or be of value anymore, an illegal practice, but the poison is untraceable. This bit of information will become of major importance during the novel's last act…

PART 2: chapters 6-14.

After being badgered by his father Hammond reluctantly agrees to marry a white woman and use her as a broodmare to generate an heir to the majesty that is Falconhurst, and in order to keep the bloodline as pure as possible he sets his sights on his second cousin, namely sixteen-year-old Blanche Woodford of the Crowfoot plantation. Hammond has not seen her since she was a toddler so he barely remembers her, but since he intends to go to the Coign plantation to borrow Big Pearl's father for stud work on his own daughter, he figures that he'll stop off at Crowfoot since it's on the way and “go sparkin'” after Blanche. Since it's a matter of custom for him to still have bed wenches, it's no skin off of his nose and all pretty much a business arrangement since white women physically repulse him. Also, Hammond's desire for a fighting nigger percolates…

Mem attempts to convince Hammond not to whip him for his recent transgressions, but his pleas fall upon deaf ears. Young Meg's obsequiousness continues to grow and he begs to be the one to apply the burning pimentade to Mem's raw wounds after the beating to come; Meg's hatred of Hammond's bed wench, Dite, begins to ferment and he tells Hammond in no uncertain terms that he wishes that his master would “pleasure” with him like he does with Dite. Hammond is thoroughly disgusted at that prospect and his reaction prompts Meg to wish that he were a girl so massa would fuck him.

Hammond finally gets around to Mem's promised whipping, aided by slaves Napoleon - Pole for short - and the ever-obsequious Meg, and the beating with a leather covered paddle is savage and damaging indeed, made worse by Napoleon mocking Mem's obvious misery. Meg is disappointed to see Hammond relinquish the actual task of the beating to Pole, thereby somewhat diminishing his fantasies of being beaten into near oblivion by his master. What remains hidden from the slaves is the fact that witnessing such “necessary” punishment makes Hammond ill, prompting him to call a brief halt to Mem's agony so that he can leave the barn and collect himself; more so than for his slaves, Hammond sought to prove his ruthless master role to himself and began to realize that he was too soft for the corporal punishment responsibilities of his job, or as he says to himself, “not cut out fer threshin' niggers.” That realization does not stop Hammond from resuming the beating, and Mem is whipped until his ass resembles bloody, pulped hamburger meat. That indignity is compounded by Meg happily applying the caustic pimentade to the gory wounds, a substance full of ground pepper in a solution that allows it to stick fast to the gaping lacerations, causing Mem unimaginable, screaming agony. Hammond then retires to his room and guiltily cries himself to sleep.

The young Maxwell soon embarks on his quest to borrow the old stud Mandingo from Coign, but first he stops off at Crowfoot to put his incredibly awkward moves on cousin Blanche. Blanche is the epitome of the southern belle found in many an antebellum romance fantasy; curly blonde hair, pretty as a peach, whiny and petulant until she gets her way, basically an obnoxious, drawling princess who you just can't wait to punch square in the gob. And Hammond's appraisal of his cousin/intended isn't exactly flattering:

He would have to get used to the whiteness of female flesh. Its pallor seemed to him not quite healthy, somehow leprous, cold. He knew the beauty of blondeness, but failed to appreciate it. He knew, moreover, that if he was to have a wife he would have to tolerate that she was white.

While riding to a church meeting, Hammond and Blanche are caught making out by her older brother, the scrawny, “gotch-eyed” and obviously inbred Charles, and he is rather irate at the sight. He threatens to tell their father but Blanche wields a powerful hold over her brother thanks to “something he did” to her three years previous; he defers to her, but reminds her that they were both equally guilty - and more importantly, consensual - of their unnamed transgression and that there was nothing anyone could do about it anyway… Once Charles leaves, Hammond proposes to his cousin with a lack of enthusiasm that is truly staggering, and while she is clearly into it she suggests that he ask her father first.

Major Woodford tentatively agrees to let Hammond wed his daughter, provided that the elder Maxwell will lend him $5000 until harvest time; it turns out that the opulent Crowfoot plantation and all of its assets are mortgaged to the hilt and the banks are about to come crashing down on the Major. Hammond promises to have his father fork over half of the money in cash the minute he returns to Falconhurt.

That night Hammond bunks with Charles, who displays a friendlier aspect than early in the day. His earlier rudeness was due to realizing what Hammond would be getting into by marrying Blanche, and he informs Hammond in no uncertain terms that his sister is “pizen” and a manipulative bitch, to say nothing of the fact that she would never allow him to have a fighting nigger. Hammond doesn't care that she may be childish since all he wants her for is to bear his children, and he plans to use the fact that his father is bailing her family out of a major financial mess as his leverage against any of her uppity behavior. This reverie is interrupted by the arrival of two bed wenches, and Hammond is appalled to discover that Charles is a kinky motherfucker who seriously gets off on beating his wench before fucking her, and she of course feigns enjoyment of the abuse, but also enjoys her status as Charles' steady squeeze. Their obvious romantic attachment grosses Hammond out since it implies equality between master and slave, but while Hammond enjoys pleasuring with black women he looks upon it mostly as “a duty without pleasure and little satisfaction; mere detumescence, a voiding of accumulated waste.” Hammond uses his bed wench out of respect for his host's hospitality, but he is put off by Charles' lovemaking, and when he finishes with her he kicks the poor girl out of the bed and forces her to sleep on the chilly floor.

The next day, despite Blanche's tantrums, Hammond leaves for Coign, unwillingly accompanied by Charles who craves to see the world beyond Crowfoot. Needless to say Charles turns out to be immature to a fault and a royal pain in the ass, but for the time being Hammond has no choice but to put up with him since it would eat up a good deal of time to return to Crowfoot and drop him off.

Hammond and Charles are overwhelmed by the charm of the Coign and its owner, the decrepit Mister Wilson. Wilson is a pretty mellow old man who is quite content and resigned to the fact of his impending demise, and he is constantly attended by Old Ben - hands-down the most erudite and dignified slave character in the whole book - a servant whose bearing and excellent diction make Hammond feel inferior. Ben also happens to be Wilson's son, and only seventeen years his junior.

After initial pleasantries, Hammond gets to the point of his visit and discovers that the old Mandingo buck he wanted to borrow - Xerxes by name - was gored to death by a bull three months prior, but Wilson offers the services of a much superior specimen. The young Mandingo in question is Mede - named for Zeus' male love object, Ganymede - and he is a slave-fancier's wet dream; built like a Michelangelo work, smart (and fairly articulate for a character in this book), adoring of his master and thoroughly obedient. In other words, everything Hammond would want as both a stud and a fighting nigger. He agrees to purchase Mede for $2750 in cash that he will have sent from Falconhurst, and Wilson is quite amenable to the arrangement since he also needs money to cover the sizable debts incurred by his estate. Once the deal is sealed it is time for bed, and Hammond and Charles are offered the “use” of complimentary bed wenches.

The wenches arrive and are declared to virgins; Charles is excited by this prospect but Hammond is indifferent. He ends up with a plump, pretty light-skinned girl named Ellen and soon his indifference turns to genuine attraction. Ellen is sweet and smart, and most importantly she is not put off by his bad leg. An evening of some exploration is hinted at but it is made clear that Hammond did not take Ellen's virginity. The same cannot be said for the poor, scared girl on the receiving end of Charles' attentions.

The next morning Hammond readies to leave and offers to buy Ellen as his personal bed wench; Wilson agrees upon a $1500 price tag and throws in Ellen's “delicate like a wench” brother, Jason, as a present to the elder Maxwell. END OF CHAPTER 14.

NOTES:
  • By the end of chapter fourteen, all of the major players in the narrative have been introduced; there will be a few more who need to make an appearance, but all who figure into the real meat of the piece are now present.
  • Hammond's character becomes more pathetic with each page. The reader sees that he is a fairly decent guy but he has been ruined for life by his relative lack of education and growing up as a privileged son of the top of the slavery system food chain, and despite his oft-cited sense of his presumed natural superiority by nature of his whiteness even he realizes that he ain't all that. He's ignorant and his hygiene is terrible, a fact pointed out by mention of his not having bathed in a week because his father taught him that regular baths are unhealthy, nasty motherfucker…
  • The sequence in which Charles explains his enjoyment of beating wenches before having his way with them is stomach-churning to the extreme, and even Hammond is offended. When coupled with the knowledge of Hammond's squeamishness when dealing out corporal punishment, this scene really drives home the damage done to most of the white characters since virtually none of them would have taken umbrage at Charles' behavior, and Hammond's disgust over it makes him a bit more sympathetic to the reader since he too is a casualty of the system.
  • After his appalled contemplation of the offensiveness of Charles' intimacy with his at-home bed wench, Hammond's sudden ardor for Ellen comes as a bit of an odd twist, but much will occur as a result of it.
  • Mede is truly the stereotype of the "super-nigger" buck, and as if that's not bad enough he's also the equally-inbred brother of Big Pearl, a fact that Hammond decides not to reveal to either Mede or Big Pearl. Hey, what does he care as long as he gets a healthy "sucker" or two out of their incestuous coupling?

And on a side note, as previously stated, I had only read MANDINGO in its abridged form, and now I understand why an abridgment of such a bestseller was neccessary...

JESUS H. CHRIST, IS THIS BOOK A PLODDING MOTHERFUCKER!!!

(pause)

Sorry, but I had to get that out of my system.

I normally devour books as I read them — in fact I read the entirety of James Clavell's SHOGUN while laid up in bed with a rampaging flu, a read that took about six nonstop hours — but the original MANDINGO is thwarted me like no book that I have ever read. I stalled at page 235 and nothing, NOTHING was happening, just a bunch of badly-written white dudes sitting around talking about forcing eggs down a major character's throat as part of his training as a "fightin' nigger." Let's face it: the hook of this work is the bizarre interracial soap opera tensions between Hammond and his slave Ellen, and the upcoming "fuck me or else" coupling between white Southern belle Blanche and big, hung-like-a-mastadon buck, Mede, and as of almost halfway through the ponderous volume the real action of the plot is often derailed for scores of pages by endless jibba-jab that amounts to little but the occasional drop of foreshadowing. That's why I say stick to the movie version; true, there is some stuff that's coming up in the book that is far more twisted and offensive than anything found in the film adaptation — and that's really saying something — but the film trims away enough fat to feed a village of Eskimos for three decades. The things I suffer through to keep you enlightened...

PART 3: chapters 15-24.

Hammond and his entourage leave the Coign plantation and drag the readers along for the ride in the longest fifty-two pages ever committed to paper, the interminable chapter fifteen. Nowhere in the book is the need for some judicious editing more evident than here since the chapter meanders endlessly, and despite an all-too-in-depth recounting of two stopovers during the road trip back to Falconhurst, nothing of any significance whatsoever to the story happens. The only events of even the slightest import are:
  • Hammond’s interest in Ellen the wench blooms into openly-expressed, full-blown true love with absolutely nothing in the narrative to make such instant passion believable in the slightest.
  • Ellen is forced to switch clothes with her obviously queer brother, Jason, and with the switch in clothes Jason becomes somewhat desirable to Hammond’s annoying cousin, Charles.
  • At the first of two uninteresting stopovers an attempt is made by some random white guy to steal Ellen as a bed wench for his epileptic brat of a son (who shits himself during his fits), but the plan is thwarted when the would-be abductor is subdued by Mede after the culprit mistook the in-drag Jason for Ellen. After being released, the would-be abductor shoots at Hammond’s party as they leave, mildly injuring Charles’ horse. Much is made of this injury since no real sex or violence occurs during this chapter, so I guess that the author felt that a horse’s minor gunshot wound was better than nothing.
  • During the second stopover, Hammond and his party fall victim to a minor flea infestation thanks to the squalid conditions in their host’s shack.
  • Upon his master’s return to Falconhurst, Meg becomes jealous of Ellen and launches into a more explicit homosexual reverie than those witnessed in previous chapters.
After that chapter finally draws to a close, Hammond begins Mede’s training as a fighting nigger in earnest and turns him over to Big Pearl and Lucy as their live-in boy toy, knowing full well that the women are Mede’s half-sister and mother, a fact known only to Hammond and his father. It is also subtly hinted at that Charles and the effeminate slave Jason have entered into a homosexual relationship, but little is made of that in the narrative. Ganymede is also revealed to be hiding an erudite manner of speech which was preferred at the Coign, but since the slaves at Falconhurst are raised to be as ignorant as possible Mede adopts inarticulateness both to fit in and please his master and to set his fellow slaves at ease.

Anyway, Hammond eventually brings Mede into town to fight another slave in a prearranged bout, the kind of savage brawl that would rightly be described as a human cockfight. Luckily Mede proves to be rather a natural grappler, handily whupping his opponent with a submission hold that simultaneously causes the fight to be conceded in Hammond's favor and disappoints the bettors since no blood was shed. Mede goes on to win all fights in which he is entered, and within the space of two weeks no one is willing to pit their slaves against the unbeatable Mandingo buck. Oddly, during Mede's last battle, the owner of his opponent unexpectedly dies right there on the tavern floor. The corpse's pockets are riffled through and while some cash is found there is also a deed to some land, but the exact details are obscure due to the poor penmanship found on the document. Since the deceased's slave was losing to Mede anyway, the fight is forfeited in Hammond's favor, winning him the man's slave and the deed.

Suddenly the fighting plot comes to a screeching halt when the author remembers that he has betrothed his hero to Cousin Blanche back at the Crowfoot plantation and has wasted one hundred and thirteen pages on useless bullshit and road trip stopovers, effectively derailing his own narrative in the process. So Hammond gives cousin Charles the $2500 to take back to the Major at Crowfoot, along with Blanche's ring and Jason the slave. Hammond then reluctantly gets his own shit together and prepares to make it to Crowfoot by the agreed-upon wedding date, meaning obtaining new clothes for himself and Meg, a stultifying process that is explained in excrutiatingly minute detail for far too many pages, and unwillingly leaves behind a distraught Ellen, who is fearful that she will be supplanted in Hammond's heart by his new white wife/prospective broodmare. Then, when Hammond and Meg finally get underway, what does the author have up his sleeve for the readers? You guessed it: more road trip stopover anti-adventures.

The latest round of meanderings delights us with yet more overly-described meals and boring examples of Southern hospitality that serve no purpose to the story whatsoever and introduce us to Madison Church ("Mad" for short) a spoiled and gluttonous man-child of an age near Hammond's but with the emotional maturity and behavior of a child in the throes of the "terrible twos." Mad displays great distaste at all matters of male-to-female coupling, even among thoroughbred horses, his chief interest in life, and finds young Meg to be irresistible to the point of wanting the boy to join him and Hammond in the bed that will share overnight at a hotel. It is alluded to that Mad has his lard-ridden way with Meg, and the next day he nags and whines at Hammond, even resorting to blubbery tears in order to get Hammond to stop over at his mother's estate despite Hammond's frequently-mentioned intent to be at Crowfoot within a day. We are then treated to yet another (!!!) stop over and feast, complete with yet more displays of slaves for sale; the only ironic part of all this is that by this point even Hammond is bored with the direction in which the story is going, and Mad proves himself to be one of the most flat-out obnoxious, annoying and downright irritating creations in the world history of fiction. Dear readers, every moment spent reading about this character was an agony and I actually longed for another meal to be served so that the endless description of his fevered mastication would shut him up, no matter how briefly.

After leaving the noxious presence of Mad, Hammond ends up at another stopover, this time finding him obtaining a pair of mustee slaves (a mustee is a slave light-skinned enough to be nearly white) who run away on him almost immediately and then he finally makes it to Crowfoot. Along the way Hammond has made mention of Charles heading back to his home, having departed Falconhurst over a month prior, but he is constantly met with ignorance regarding any sort of a homecoming by Charles. Upon arriving to claim his bride, Hammond finds out that Charles never went home and absconded with the money, the wedding ring and, most offensively of all to all concerned, a slave that didn't belong to him. Slave stealing is just about the worst crime a white man can commit, so if he is caught and prosecuted it would shame his family beyond all hope of recovery. The only cure is to get Blanche and Hammond hitched as quickly as possible since it would be unseemly to charge an in-law with nigger-stealing, and if Charles did ever turn up again the whole incident could be passed off as "a mistake." None of this sits too well with the bratty Blanche, whose Scarlet O'Hara-style fantasies of affluence and a dream wedding have been dashed by her brother's douchebaggery, but she has no choice in the proceedings, no matter how petulantly she behaves. A lightning-fast ceremony performed by Blanche's preacher brother, Dick, seals the deal and Hammond and Blanche retire for a night of connubial bliss...

After very nearly escaping from the Crowfoot plantation in a state of unthinking outrage, Hammond buries a burning anger, makes nice with his new in-laws, and rides off with his new bride. But, you may ask, what was Hammond so pissed off about? Well, after putting the meat to Blanche it is quite obvious to Hammond that she may be a belle, but she sure as hell ain't no virgin, a fact that he points out to her in no uncertain terms, and for all intents and purposes she has sold him used goods. He demands to know who got to her first so he can find the guy and put a bullet through his head, but Blanche stays mum; it doesn't take the deductive skills of Sherlock Holmes to figure out that Blanche was deflowered by her miscreant brother, Charles, but her internal reminiscence of her "violation" while the siblings played house a few years previous reveals that she took great pleasure in the act despite its forbidden nature. Blanche proclaims her virginity-until-Hammond over and over, but to no avail, and simply cannot figure out how he knows she wasn't "pure," despite the fact that her hubby had fucked scores of slave wenches for years on end. Hammond nonetheless resigns himself to his status of being victimized by the treachery of the Woodfords and forces Blanche to agree not to tell his father of her besmirched condition.

On the way back to Falconhurst Hammond recovers his runaway mustees and drops in on that asshole Mad again (thereby subjecting the reader to more of his infantile histrionics) gives him one of the mustees as his "body slave," and grosses out his host to the point of nausea by fucking Blanche right there in the same bedroom that he is sharing with the fat bastard. The next morning sees the journey back to Falconhurst lurching forward once again, with no end immediately in sight for travel-weary readers.

All of what you just read is a very merciful summation of two hundred and fourteen incredibly slow and dull pages, punctuated by repellent characters about whom no one in their right mind would want to read. As I have previously stated, I have read the abridged version of this novel, and most of the events contained in the chapters recounted here were kindly missing from the subsequent edition. The fact that someone actually got paid to edit this book for it's THE STAND-like monolith of a first edition is laughable.

PART 4: chapters 25-32.

And so at last the bedraggled group of weary travelers FINALLY arrive at Falconhurst and the book picks up steam again.

Upon seeing Falconhurst and comparing its no-frills practicality to the opulence of her father’s Crowfoot estate, Blanche is sorely disappointed and launches into a childishly petulant litany of criticisms and comparisons that are quickly quashed by the still-fuming Hammond; from here on Hammond holds his knowledge of Blanche’s incestuous relationship with her brother over her as his one surefire means to ruin her reputation permanently. Nothing that she says or does carries any weight, and she knows it, which will eventually lead to the most infamous plot point in the entire novel…

Hammond introduces Blanche to her new father-in-law, and the two bond over a mutual love of strong toddies, so much so that Blanche very quickly spirals down the path of hardcore, all day alcoholism thanks to boredom (since she never gets to go anywhere and visitors of quality never drop by other than Doc Redfield) and her husband’s spiteful neglect of his husbandly duties. You see, Hammond only beds down with Blanche a couple of times, purely to facilitate an heir to the plantation, but his outright distaste for white chicks in general and Blanche in particular only strengthens his bond to Ellen the wench. Upon meeting Ellen, Blanche figures out the nature of the slave girl’s ties to Hammond and a slowly-simmering cold war between the two begins in earnest although there is nothing that Blanche can do about her husband’s dalliances in dusky-town. Anyway, the two enemies soon turn out to be pregnant, and Hammond gushes over the prospect of a child with his slave lover while he cares not one whit for Blanche’s spawn, except for its future status as his heir. And speaking of pregnancies, uber-stud Mede manages to knock up both Lucy and Big Pearl, who unbeknownst to him are his mother and half-sister respectively.

Mede’s training resumes to an extent when Hammond receives news of a rich man from New Orleans who seeks to pit his seasoned fighter, Topaz, against the unbeatable Maxwell Mandingo, so Hammond obsesses over readying his man to win the fight and score him some money and more slaves; during the training Hammond begins to worry about whether Mede can defeat a city-trained combatant, and since the challenge from Topaz’s owner is the only fight that Mede has been offered since he established a rep for being unbeatable Hammond contemplates selling Mede since his buying price of $2700 has pretty much gone to waste (he has obviously forgotten about Mede’s stud services). That plan is immediately shot down by the elder Maxwell, who tells Hammond in no uncertain terms that Mede is not for sale under any circumstances, despite his being Hammond’s property, and since he is the finest Mandingo that anyone has ever seen he is invaluable to the plantation’s breeding pool.

With her husband’s attentions diverted to his trophy buck, Blanche’s drunkenness becomes overwhelming and she stops bothering with taking care of her appearance unless company shows up (which is pretty much never), so she wanders about the big house in a Mother Hubbard nightgown with no shoes on and her greasy, stringy hair unkempt and looking like someone had boiled her head. The only attention she receives from Hammond is an obligatory kiss on the forehead as the smallest of acknowledgements or hostile reproach whenever she opens her mouth to speak, and while she finds herself fond of the old man she finds his rambling stories boring and only puts up with them as a social excuse to get completely shitfaced, at one point getting melancholy over not getting any Hammond dick and lamenting the absence of her brother’s gotch-eyed affections, in front of the slaves no less.

During one of her all day toddy-fests, a guest shows up to announce the arrival of the challenging slave owner and, while dressed in her finest Scarlett O’Hara rags, Blanche bottoms out rather publicly, and vomits her guts out as she is lead upstairs and away from the eyes of the guest. This incident causes Hammond to order Lucretia Borgia and the slaves to under no circumstances supply Blanche with liquor. But, like any good trashy novel character, Blanche’s vices prove unstoppable as she not only sneaks toddies, but is also aided and abetted by her father-in-law who honestly thinks her Jones for stiff mixed drinks has to do with curing her “headaches,” which may not be inaccurate thanks to the old “hair of the dog” theory.

The fight between the two slaves takes place at the tavern in Benson, and upon arrival Hammond is surprised to encounter that scumbag Brownlee (see part 1), who coveted Alph and Meg at the bar. The owner of the challenger, one Neri by name, wants to bet five grand and not wager slaves as Hammond had expected, leaving Ham with nothing to wager but the five hundred in gold coins that he had dug up from one of the kettles buried at Falconhurst and the assembled pot of cash that those who vouch for his word cobble together, and the promise of money from the local Jewish banker. The icing on the cake is Hammond’s desperate willingness to do anything to win, and that desire causes him to put up both Alph and Meg as stakes despite his promise to Lucretia Borgia that he would never sell her twin sons. His father rationalizes this breach in keeping a promise by reminding Hammond that he only promised that the boys were exempt from being sold, but there was no mention of wagering them. Besides, it was only a promise made to a nigger anyway…

After the tavern owner drags out the fight’s start time in order to sell as much whisky as possible, the battle begins and Mede’s opponent is revealed to be a cocaine fueled giant with years of bare-knuckle experience, a fact plainly evident by a visible mosaic of scars and his complete lack of ears, both a casualty of his career. The unspeakably savage brawl involves much graphic description of every dirty move in the book — made worse by the fact that the opponents are completely naked —, a catalog of knees grinding into groins, fingernails clawing through flesh, attempted eye-gouging, you name it, and the fight goes on for over thirty-five minutes. As both slaves try to overcome each other and a combination of serious injury and exhaustion, it looks like the fight will go to Topaz until Mede, pinned beneath the vicious juggernaut, gets him in a solid hold and chews out his jugular, spitting out the chunk of flesh in a sickening display of gore.

With Topaz deader than disco, Neri leaves (accompanied by Brownlee) Hammond to his victory, and our heroes pack up the savaged Mede for the return to Falconhurst. On the way back the party is robbed by two masked highwaymen, probably Neri and Brownlee but there is no proof since they are masked, and while Hammond is pissed off about it his father isn’t too concerned since all the robbers got was what they put in; don’t forget that most of the promised wager cash was promised from the bank so it wasn’t in hand and consequently not stolen. After that harrowing setback, our heroes make the trek back to the plantation.

PART 5: chapters 33-50, aka the apocalyptic and ultra-offensive conclusion.

As you have no doubt noticed from the previous installments, there was apparently no form of editorial control over MANDINGO whatsoever, so as a public service I am going to utterly gloss over the unnecessary clutter that impedes getting to the crux of the tome’s remainder, so I accept your thanks with much grace.

And so we finally reach the home stretch, the final one hundred and eighty-seven pages of this monolith of bad taste, and, HOO-BOY, what a final one hundred and eighty-seven pages they are…

The pregnancies of Ellen and Blanche are now about seven months along and Hammond leaves Falconhurst with Doc Redfield for a slave-selling business trip to Natchez — shooting down his plans to go to New Orleans since it is the site of a raging “cholrie” epidemic — unknowingly leaving his lover unprotected and at the mercies of the now Bukowski-level-drunk Blanche, who seems to spend her every waking hour pouring corn liquor toddies down her gullet. Shortly after Hammond sets off, Blanche gets plowed and orders Ellen sent to her bedroom. Upon arrival, Ellen is stripped naked, subjected to a litany of drunken, jealousy-driven cursing, and the sudden revelation that Blanche keeps a bullwhip in her night stand (???), an implement that the drunken brother-fucker cruelly uses to beat the unborn child out of her husband’s favorite (!!!). When Ellen loses the baby and the whip wielding Blanche is caught in the act by the elder Maxwell and Lucretia Borgia, the elder Maxwell orders Blanche, Ellen and Lucretia Borgia stay mum about the real cause of Ellen’s miscarriage.

Meanwhile in Natchez, Hammond and Redfield sell a bunch of slaves, go to a high class whorehouse — where Hammond blows off the unwanted advances of the beautiful white whores who throw themselves at him since they are too white for him to even think about getting down with — and run into cousin Charles, who excuses his theft of both Blanche’s bridal price money and wedding ring (to say nothing of gay-as-the-hills slave, Jason) by claiming that he considered it a loan and that he would eventually pay the cash back to his father, cash that he spent on living the high life. That said, Hammond accepts Charles’ apology (???), even agreeing not to tell Charles’ family that he is alive, rather than dead, as they had assumed. And Charles, upon hearing of his sister’s delicate condition, mysteriously comments “I sure hope the baby don’t come out all gotch-eyed like me…” Hammond, being about as sharp as a bag of wet mice, of course fails to realize the implications of his cousin’s statement. And lastly, in a move that surely wins some sort of prize for sheer stupidity, Hammond buys two identical pairs of pricy earrings, one for his wife and one for his beloved slave girl, the gift for the latter being intended to mark her as his chosen mate.

The homecoming (yet again!!!) to Falconhurst is somber as Hammond learns of the loss of Ellen’s “sucker,” but Hammond, smoothie that he is, mollifies Ellen with the gift of earrings, making her forget her loss and cry tears of unbridled joy (???!!!???). In no time Blanche notices Ellen’s fancy bling-bling and rejects her matching gift, loudly refusing to be marked as just another of Hammond’s whores. Shortly thereafter Blanche gives birth to a baby girl, Sophy, who is indeed, as Charles predicted, “gotch-eyed.” Hammond, clueless as ever, chalks the resemblance to Charles up to the fact that he and Blanche are from the same gene pool, while the reader can do the math and figure out that Blanche and her brother had been getting it on with regularity for years, rather than just the one-shot occurrence Blanche had previously claimed.

Though a physician was sent for to assist with Blanche’s delivery, the doctor arrives stinking drunk hours after the event, propped up by his handsome young assistant. The assistant performs a perfunctory post-birth examination of Blanche — which of course turns her on like nobody’s business — and afterward discusses with the male Maxwells a virulent outbreak of the clap that has been breaking out on other plantations in the area, an epidemic that he turns out to be knowingly responsible for, which Hammond discovers a week or two after his visit when the guest’s complimentary bed wench turns up with the disease. Fortunately the girl had not had sex with any of the other slaves after her romp with the doctor’s assistant, so the outbreak is quelled by placing her under quarantine.

As for Blanche’s aptness at motherhood, she doesn’t give a flying rat-fuck about the kid and turns it over to be raised by Big Pearl, after which Hammond takes up with Ellen practically full-time, throwing Blanche the occasional bone in hope of siring a male heir.

Hammond once again leaves on business and Blanche, fed up with her husband’s interest in slaves detouring his attentions from her, drunkenly plots the ultimate revenge via her husband’s prize slave, Mede. Blanche orders Mede to fuck her senseless — an act which occurs “off screen” — pierces his ears with her gifts from Hammond, and has him service her several times during her hubbie’s absence. All of the slaves know about this sordid turn of events and Mede is flat out not into it, but as a docile slave he has no choice but to obey his mistress, despite fears of a horrible outcome should Hammond get a clue. The one unexpected wrinkle to the situation is Hammond’s young slave, Meg, informing Blanche in no uncertain terms that he will rat her out to the master if she doesn’t comply to his desire for some white poontang whenever he wants some, even getting his twin brother, Alph, in on the sexual blackmail. Inevitably, Blanche becomes preggers, but whose baby is it? When Hammond returns and learns of the new pregnancy he naturally assumes the child is his.

A Frenchman from New Orleans who is an obvious homosexual drops in after hearing about the twins, Alph and Meg, and offers an incredible sum of money to possess them, even offering to buy their mother, Lucretia Borgia, to keep them happy. Despite her vital role in the running of the household and her importance to the Maxwells in general, Hammond agrees to sell the loyal slave and her dickhead sons to the Frenchman, and after much crying and hand wringing the slave and her boys are bound to new lives in the Big Easy. Soon enough, however, Lucretia Borgia escapes back to Falconhurst, citing the increasingly assholish behavior of her sons while residing in the lap of comparative luxury as being just too intolerable to deal with (more intolerable than slavery?), so she returned to familiar surroundings on the back of a mule. After some half-hearted chastisement she is welcomed back to the fold and things return to normal; the Frenchman, apparently happy with his nightly bungholery of the twins, makes no attempt to reclaim Lucretia Borgia despite having legally purchased her (convenient for the plot, no?).

Blanche’s mother shows up to visit and ends up staying when she finds out about her daughter’s pregnancy, and her rampaging temperance and enforcement of religion drives both Hammond and his father to near insanity.

Then the big day comes and Blanche goes into labor, with Doc Redfield, his wife, “the widder,” and Blanche’s mother in attendance. When the child is born, he is the enormous spitting image of Mede, and upon seeing her grandson Blanche’s mother picks up the infant, smashes its brains out against the wall and hastily departs. When Hammond finds out the truth, he ices over and calmly poisons his wife with a toddy laced with the powder used by Doc Redfield to do away with slaves who are too old to be worth maintaining anymore. Then he questions the house slaves as to their knowledge of the situation, discovering that everybody in the house but himself, his father and Blanche’s mother knew what was going on but could do nothing about it since they were bound to obey their mistress’ whims with no questions asked and no going to the master. In the course of the interrogations Hammond also learns that Blanche actively engaged in the jungle fever and was not raped, as Hammond and his father naturally assumed. “A white lady wantin’ to pleasure with a nigger? Preposterous!” But Hammond finally realizes that his wife was simply trash of the worst order, what with all the brother fucking and such.

Hammond limps out to Mede’s quarters and orders the Mandingo to fire up the gigantic hog-boiling kettle and keep the fire burning until the water reaches a high cooking temperature. He then forces the terrified Mede into the scalding water by using a pitchfork, holding him under the water until the heat kills him and covering the pot with a big lid. He then orders Lucy — Mede’s mother and lover, remember? — to keep the pot covered and keep it boiling until told otherwise. The Mede soup graphically simmers for two solid days — complete with a description of Hammond checking the stew and producing Mede’s partially-denuded skull on the end of his pitchfork —until the slave’s flesh has been completely rendered into a thick, bone-filled broth, after which it is poured into an open grave over the corpses of Blanche and her love-child, a bit of poetic “justice” since Hammond figures that if she wanted to be with a nigger so bad she could be with him for eternity. Hammond graciously allows a grieving Lucy to take Mede’s bones as a keepsake (!!!).

A weary Hammond returns to the big house and informs his father that he is going to find Alph and Meg and kill them for daring to fuck Blanche, after which he intends to move “to the Texies” so he can avoid being known to the locals as “Hammond Maxwell, whose wife pleasured with niggers.” His father is distraught upon hearing this intended course of action, but he assures his son that Falconhurst will be there for him if he should choose to return.

Then the whole fucking mess comes to a startlingly abrupt end.

Wow.

So there you have it, a mercifully short summation of one of the most infamous books ever unleashed upon an unsuspecting populace.

A few final notes:
  • It amazes me that the thing that most blew people’s minds about the book is Blanche’s forced seduction of Mede, an event that doesn’t occur until roughly the last fifty pages of a six hundred and fifty-nine page behemoth. One would think that in a book replete with virtually every form of sexual, violent and psychological perversion imaginable that would scandalize the audience of the late-1950’s — rape, incest, pedophilia, cross-dressing, homosexuality, sadomasochistic bedroom games with whips, castrations of slaves, torture, men biting chunks out of each other, raging alcoholism on nearly every page — the interracial coupling of a black man and a white woman would seem insignificant by comparison, but apparently not.
  • Author Kyle Onstott was a writer of technical manuals and his orientation toward such volumes is very evident in his intricately detailed recounting of the minutia of the slave trade. While Onstott is clearly against such practices, his matter-of-fact detachment from the described atrocities only helps to lend a stark illumination to the horror and dehumanization involved, both for whites and blacks, and the fact that the high-falutin’ whites are portrayed as ignorant and oblivious to the fact that their world is both cripplingly insular and visibly decaying around them is rare for a narrative of this sort. At no point do we admire any of the white characters, and the reader’s opinion of them ranges from pity for their inhumanity and contempt for what a bunch of domination-mad assholes they are.
  • The only black character in the entire book that is sympathetic in any way is Hammond’s bed wench, Ellen. She is the one truly sweet soul in the piece, without guile for anyone — except for Blanche, but, hey, the white bitch started that shit — and wanting nothing more than the love of her master. Sadly, she has no personality other than what is necessary for Hammond’s love object and she accepts her status as a privileged piece of property with no protest whatsoever, subservient in all ways to the bitter end. Interestingly, once the events with the killing of Mede are over and Hammond readies to go on his mission of vengeance against the twins and eventually relocate to “the Texies,” there is no mention at all of what will become of Ellen.
  • The 1975 film adaptation, while seriously flawed in many ways, vastly improves over its source material by eliminating all of the extraneous subplots and diversions and tightening up the overall story structure. It also ups the sensationalism factor by rewriting parts of the story that needed tweaking, such as introducing Mede not as some schmuck hanging out at a plantation, but by having him show up in all of his Black Superman glory clad in naught but a loin cloth and getting his naughty bits shockingly inspected by a horny Dutch widow who intends to purchase him as a fuck toy, all while looking bored at all of it. The film’s handling of the Hammond/Ellen relationship is a lot more believable than that found in the novel and is truly bittersweet since the film acknowledges that their love may be true but when push comes to shove Ellen is still nothing more to Hammond than just a nigger, and that is all she ever will be, a fact that Hammond yells at her near the film’s end when his judgment is clouded by raging anger over the Blanche/Mede thing. The shattered look on Ellen’s face at that moment of unbridled truth will break your heart. Oh, and we also get to see full frontal nudity from Perry “Riptide” King in the role of Hammond Maxwell, so if you ever wanted to see a TV star’s dick…
  • The film turned out to be an unintentional laugh riot for those of us who revel in offensiveness and truly bad movies, and while the whole movie is a gold mine of cinematic schlock special recognition must be accorded to Susan George, the Brit actress whose controversial performance in Sam Peckinpah’s classic study of the violence in man, STRAW DOGS (1971), is still the subject of much discussion some thirty-seven years after its release; George was cast as cousin Blanche, and her turn as the brother-fucking, interracial sex offender is one of the most hilariously over-the-top performances in the entire history of human civilization, much less the history of Hollywood. You simply have not lived until you witness her histrionics when Hammond accuses her of not being a virgin on their wedding night. Run out right fucking now and rent this film!
  • The success of the novel lead to a sequel, DRUM, written by an aging Onstott and assisted by his friend Lance Horner. It’s actually a pretty good read, certainly superior to its predecessor, but after that one Onstott croaked and Horner took the reins of the series (sometimes crediting Onstott as a co-author, which was outright bullshit), turning it into a long-running festival of outright potboilers that essentially created the genre known as “plantation porn.” All of the books that succeeded DRUM are howling trash, but a few are more entertaining to read than others; they jump back and forth in history, providing prequels and sequels to MANDINGO, all somehow featuring an appearance by Hammond Maxwell, whose age varies accordingly, thereby providing the only real link to the original book. The books in the series that are worth your reading time simply for the sleazy entertainment value are the following:
DRUM (1962)

Dust jacket for the original 1962 first edition.

The first of two legitimate sequels to MANDINGO (in having been written by the original author) and a cracking good read in its own right that does away with many of the structural and narrative deficiencies found in the original, presumably thanks to the input of Lance Horner and an editor. Adapted to film in a drastically rewritten version in 1976, the movie features the great Warren Oates as an older Hammond Maxwell, Pam Grier as his current favorite, Cheryl "Rainbeaux" Smith as precocious interracial terrorist/ nymphomaniac Sophy, and somehow manages to be even more hilarious than the 1975 film.

MASTER OF FALCONHURST (1964)

The second of the legitimate sequels, in which a black man not only becomes the legal master of Falconhurst, but also marries the white Sophy Maxwell. Needless to say, much tragedy, sex and violence ensues.

FALCONHURST FANCY (1966)

My favorite of the series. In a departure from the other books, this installment focuses on a female protagonist, Dovie Verder, a plantation owner who is a lot more complex than any other character in the entire series and a strong, open-minded proto-feminist, and recounts her deep love affair with Colt, a slave so beautiful that his description brings to mind a Greek god. The usual sex and violence shenanigans are on hand again, but this time it’s utterly compelling and would have made for a great, if inflammatory, film. After this the series remained readable, but by that point it was all story via assembly line.
  • Also of note is the fact that many of the books in the series feature the adventures of Bricktop, a redheaded mustee slave who is indistinguishable from a white man but for some brown markings on his torso that he keeps covered with his shirt. All of the books involving Bricktop feature him fucking everything in sight, including guys since “niggers ain’t got sense enough to care,” and he always gets engaged to some gorgeous southern belle after fucking her into puppy dog-like docility. His true status as a slave is soon revealed, and after a near-fatal beating upon discovery he escapes to find adventure and pussy in another book, leaving behind a pregnant white girl who doesn’t care if he was black since the dicking was just so good. If you read one book about Bricktop, you have read them all, so the only one I’ll recommend is 1975’s GOLDEN STUD.

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