After the sordid Prisoner 701 chose to bury its feminist morality under layers and layers of sleaze, the producers (with considerable input from Lady Scorpion herself, Meiko Kaji) went back to the drawing board for a much different approach. Jailhouse 41 picks up right where we left off; Scorpion’s in solitary after breaking out for the attempted murder of her duplicitous ex-beau, a corrupt police officer. Sure, that’s a slap in the face to authority, but the warden’s more pissed off about his missing right eyeball. If you really must know the convoluted events that led to said injury, you can consult the preceding entry in this series, but Jailhouse 41 doesn’t waste any time in re-establishing these conflicts. We don’t even have time for a title sequence before we’re thrown into the thick of things. There is, however, a cheeky Coen-esque title card that assures us the film is a work of fiction.

This was actually my introduction to the series, and I’d heartily recommend any Lady Scorpion neophytes skip the first chapter and go directly to this one. It’s hardly an intellectual challenge: Warden hates Scorpion, Scorpion silently endures whatever punishments he devises to “break her spirit”. Same as the first, only without lengthy scenes of degradation; Jailhouse 41 opts for an artsy, tasteful approach to female trauma. An early scene where she’s raped by a gang of loathsome guards wearing stockings over their face is horrifying not for the act in question, rather for the POV shot of the men surrounding her while screaming obscenities. Suddenly, all the sound cuts out and we adopt the distant perspective shared by her and the warden.

Whereas Prisoner 701 looked and felt exactly like the cheap Women in Prison pinky programmer it was meant to be, Jailhouse 41 does not linger within the walls of its titular concrete compound. By the end of the first reel, we already deeply despise the guards, and then come the bitchy fellow prisoners who correctly blame Scorpion for the ridiculous punishments they must also endure. Oba, the craziest one of all, seems to loathe our heroine with an otherworldly passion; perhaps she’s trying to overcompensate for her Sapphic desires? At any rate, the two rivals forge an immediate codependency after Oba assists Scorpion in breaking out of the police van. Natch, our Lady must strike the first blow with a kill later ripped off by Anton Chigurh, getting a bit of bloody satisfaction while bolstering the spirits of her sisters at the same time.

From there, the ladies lay waste to the van and begin their sprawling odyssey of castration mania, working their way through the countryside with the cops hot on their heels. In an interesting contrast, the violence against women is depicted as artistically as possible, whereas their blood-soaked revenge against those with Y chromosomes is almost uncomfortably graphic. Witness the fate of that poor fellow illuminated with brilliant blue light in the distance.

There’s no need to squint to make out what happened, the camera helpfully zooms in until you’re well aware of his fate, smashed testicles and all. Yet, in view of prior oppression, this could be seen as an entirely just punishment. Our band of escaped convicts carry untold amounts of sympathy yet we should never condone their actions. They’re all evil to the bone, even Lady Scorpion herself, and would turn on one another if they weren’t all codependent partners in Womanhood. When the girls stumble into a derelict shack late one afternoon for shelter, they’re greeted by the old lady of the house and given dinner. Then we in the audience are given a psychedelic Noh performance, with the mystical old maid chanting the crimes (of passion) committed by each woman in turn, recounting the acts of violence that led to their respective imprisonments. Save for Lady Scorpion, who remains a delightful enigma.

From there it just gets weirder and weirder.

Make no mistake: Jailhouse 41 is as obviously acid-influenced as Yellow Submarine or The Holy Mountain; those expecting more Prisoner 701 antics will be disappointed to find no clever usage of work lights or golf clubs, likewise for the marked lack of nudity or degradation. Logic does not come into play at any point, and all scenes with the cops are kept as short and jargon-free as possible. The colorful aesthetic, influenced by the work of Seijun Suzuki, delivers eye-popping compositions in every scene, and the epic sweep of the story gives this low-budget production a kind of grandeur not befitting of its Women in Prison trappings. Likewise the characters are more archetypal than three-dimensional, none more so than our heroine. She only speaks one line in the whole film.

Surprisingly, presumed villainess Oba is given the most development. After we learn she killed her husband and children in cold blood, she then pulls up her robe to expose the jagged scar left over from her DIY hysterectomy. Then this self-loathing female starts laughing hysterically. It’s a chilling scene that brings to light some of the subtext of the story; Jailhouse 41 deals with the burden of womanhood and explores gender politics, albeit in a simplistic manner. All the male characters are either disgusting horndogs or figures of fascist tyranny, set up to be appropriately punished by Lady Scorpion, self-appointed defender of oppressed women. If the symbolism is at times crashingly obvious (an act of sexual violence is represented by a yonic waterfall gushing red water) the cinematography and art direction are so stunning you won’t really care.

Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned, as the old axiom says, and Jailhouse 41 proves it beyond the faintest shadow of a doubt. Its juxtaposition of female empowerment and moral ambiguity lends some food for thought, but you sure as hell won’t have much time to mull over these things as the film rockets forward at an incredible pace, leading to a bus hijacking/hostage crisis/seige and a memorable scene in a landfill. Hallucinatory madness clashes with gritty authenticity in most every scene, giving the film a unique atmosphere of heightened reality. Even after most of the conflict works itself out, there’s still time for a side order of badass revenge; Lady Scorpion shows up dressed to kill with her sharpened phallus at the ready, paradoxically dooming herself by exacting punishment.

…And she looks great doing it. I have no idea why Jailhouse 41 isn’t more highly regarded; it transcends the whole scuzzy “pinky violence” subgenre and leaves other Women In Prison cheapies in the dust. With the sequel, Beast Stable, the psychedelic approach was abandoned in favor of an aesthetic owing more to Kinji Fukasaku, so this film is even more of an oddity. See it with the woman you love, especially if you’re a woman yourself.

I generally have zero patience for hagiographies, but I must admit as snowjobs go, Leon Gast’s When We Were Kings is grand entertainment, and I was never bored. Not surprisingly, Muhammad Ali carries the entire film; at the very least you’re guaranteed a performance worthy of Roberto DeNiro and Richard Burton, with the dialogue delivered in a reliable and often rhyming iambic pentameter. Ali is a mesmerizing presence, and When We Were Kings takes full advantage of this force of nature. But when you look beyond its hypnotizing façade, When We Were Kings is a documentary as deep and challenging as the kiddie side of the pool.

Walter Chaw once wrote of the easy cinematography of Brokeback Mountain, “… you could send a donkey with a disposable camera into that kind of landscape, and it would come back with a calendar.” The same could be said about filming Muhammad Ali; all you really had to do was point a camera at him, and you can’t miss. His manic, eloquent, ridiculously charismatic presence is a director’s dream. His eyes bulge out as he fires off his absurd boasts; the man is more handsome than Fabio Testi; and despite his Jesus-level popularity, Ali was the underdog in this legendary boxing match. On that level, When We Were Kings exploits the breathtaking scenery that is Ali to its fullest extent. You get to see press conference after press conference, full of Ali in rare form as he reinvents the English language.

But I’m afraid to report that When We Were Kings never really goes beyond its childish adoration of Ali. Ali remains a mirage, a presence that is certainty fascinating, but never fully human. At times, you see Ali feel the stress of having to face the huger, stronger, robotically savage boxer George Foreman. But that’s as deep as When We Were Kings ever gets. There is almost zero coverage of the madness that must have been the event itself; I mean, think about it, man. The two most famous boxers in the world, accompanied by a menagerie of rock stars, including James Brown and BB King, going to the insane, tinpot dictatorship of Zaire, in the capital city of Kinshasa. Surely there must have been a 1,001 tales of madness, high hilarity, horror, debauchery, and nobility when American Pop Culture slammed into the true dark heart of African bureaucracy and failing statehood.

But what do we get from When We Were Kings? Some music industry managers yapping on the phone. A few dry anecdotes from George Plimpton. And honestly, who gives a flying fuck what Spike Lee has to say about this 1974 event? He was seventeen at the time, and nowhere near Zaire. I love your films, Mr. Lee, but shut the fuck up. The fella who gets the rawest deal is the George Foreman, a boxer arguably as great as Ali, but who is set up as cheaply as the Washington Generals when they face the Harlem Globetrotters. When We Were Kings certainly does a credible job in portraying Foreman’s formidable power, such as the scene where Foreman literally leaves a dent in a heavy punching bag. But like Ali, Foreman is just a stage prop, full of sound and fury, but signifying nothing.

When We Were Kings does a decent job of showing how the actual boxing match went down. The film made me fully appreciate Ali’s greatest masterpiece, his textbook and sublime Rope-a-Dope that triumphed over Foreman’s systematic pummeling. I’m not a big boxing fan, but even I was at the edge of my seat during these sequences. Boxing is nothing if not a scientific and strategic sport, and When We Were Kings makes you realize that the best boxers are the smart boxers.

But When We Were Kings should have been so much more. As a sports highlights reel, When We Were Kings makes for riveting viewing. But if you’re looking for a film about how the hell such a cockamamie event actually came into existence, and the resulting fallout of the event, forget about it. In the film’s most wince-inducing misstep, the director instead decides to hand you a montage of photographs of Saint Muhammad Ali’s life, accompanied by the godawful title tune of “When We Were Kings” that puts the “white” into white bread. If I were you, hit the fast forward button during this grievous miscalculation unless you’re a cinematic masochist or you’re convinced that Muhammad Ali was the Second Coming of Christ.

I put When We Were Kings in the same group as other misfires as The Great Silence, Better Luck Tomorrow, Black Snake Moan, and 5,000 Miles to Graceland: Films that has an infinite amount of potential, but were too terrified and conventional and in the end, too timid to really get all Apocalypse Now on our asses. And you know what? I would actually recommend you check out When We Were Kings for its undeniable virtues of being a briskly paced, fascinating look at the Ali-Foreman match. When We Were Kings is a fine party movie; you will get to hear some great music and some very funny stories. But as a fully human film, When We Were Kings is an unqualified failure.

Yes, the film is even more shoddy looking and just as weirdly compelling as this poster. The Guy from Harlem is a Z-grade imitation of Shaft, which from all appearances could have been directed by alien life forms whose only knowledge of human culture comes from Blaxploitation. In a way, it was, since helmsman Rene Martinez, Jr. was an emigrant, working with a crew of other foreign expatriates in the Miami area, poorly directing a screenplay written by a 12 year old. You know you’re in for something special when the first scene involves a thug  menacing captive sister Wanda so unconvincingly, so ineptly, that the man had to be a non-actor picked up off the street Herzog style. At one point, when he must dole out a useless story-related nugget, he pauses midway through mumbling his line to read the rest of the line off his arm. The scene ends with Wanda calling him a “jive-ass fool” or somesuch nonsense, to which he replies “You sorry bitch, I’ll see you later,” without the slightest hint of conviction, walking out very calmly.

Then the character is never heard from again.

Anyway, there’s this P.I. workin’ the streets of Miami they call The Guy from Harlem. As you can see from his sepia-tinted poster, he’s “mean, clean, a fightin’ machine.” According to his theme song, this cat’s a “bad dude”. This glorious(ly bad) tune also gives us bits of info like “Get down!”, “Check out the groove!” and “Feel the rumba!” so he probably likes dancing, too. One thing’s for sure, he loves to avoid work, bitch at his secretary, get in very strangely choreographed dances/fights, and screw strange women in his girlfriend’s ugly-ass apartment. As played by Loye Hawkins, the Guy is actually a colossal, skinny, horny dick (in more than one sense) who never fails to act selfishly or cowardly. He also excels at sousing up the ladies with J&B whiskey, then slow-dancing to muzak before plowing into home base. When he isn’t overtly admiring the derrière of said base.

The first half of the story deals with The Guy protecting an African princess (with a Brooklyn accent) from incompetent stooges hired by the shadowy forces of “Big Daddy”.  His peeping tom-ism comes in handy during the first attempt, coming in just in time to prevent a masseuse from administering a mysterious dose of… something from a syringe. He gives her a $2 tip for her trouble. Next, he orders room service (in agonizing real time), then punches out the cross-dressing goon who delivers nothing but failure on an empty platter. We learn The Guy can “smell a New York strip steak a block away”. Because he’s from New York, you see. The next two dudes are less subtle, barging into the Pumpkin Orange Eyesore Suite without knocking. The Guy is there to dance/grapple/psyche them out. He gets the final holdout to submit by standing very lightly on the dude’s wrist. The thug cries “Ah, ah, ah!!” while the rest of his body remains paralyzed. Then, that laugh is topped by the film’s attempt at a badass one liner:

“You tell Big Daddy nobody fools with The Guy from Harlem, you dig?”

Tragically, we remain unaware of what occurs after the princess is shunted off to the Girlfriend’s Gaudy Apartment for a night of some very mild sensuality. In spite of some foreshadowing about “international repercussions”, there are no consequences for screwing the married wife of a political figure, just some strange inferences from The Guy to his much-abused secretary. “I nearly got my head blown off!” Whatever, on to Wanda and the inevitable screwing.

This thrilling second half is even more entertaining due to the inclusion of “Wildman” Steve Gallon as Wanda’s father, a coke dealer with a silver tongue to match his indubitable self-righteousness. A gifted improvisational comic with charisma to burn, Steve steals the show even though he appears in but two scenes.  Martinez would work with him later to develop the priceless Six Thousand Dollar Nigger. He hires The Guy to deliver $250,000 in cash, plus a cool half-million bucks’ worth of snow, to Big Daddy as part of a hostage exchange deal. You know how those Honkys prefer to carry out their business.  But The Guy’s smarter than the three dim-bulbs, presumably hired out of a homeless shelter or detox clinic, assigned to guard Wanda; he takes ‘em down guerrilla style! Mean! Clean! A dancin‘ Fightin’ machine!!

Actually he just hides in the bushes, waits for each person to walk by, proceeds to “fight” them, then drags the unconscious body into the overgrowth. We see this process carried out in real time, with each goon moronically walking into the trap and getting “beaten”, furiously intercut with Wanda screaming “How come 4 o’clock ain’t pass yet”. Yeah, it’s fairly surreal. It also goes on for a long time, way longer than necessary, and there’s still 20 minutes to go once The Guy peels out with Wanda in his huge boxy sedan. Destination: The Shag Pad.

One important thing about the “sex”: in spite of the usual breast exposure, and a horrifying moment where The Guy strips down to his skivvies, it never gets beyond second base, and there’s always an awkward fade-to-black when Martinez, in a rare instance of humility, discovers he can’t direct a love scene. Likewise the camera work, from some foreigner named Rafael Remy, swims around in a too-tight closeup in a rare instance of not being more than ten feet away from the action. Also, students of cinematography will cringe during this super smooth J&B muzak seduction.

Even if the dual light sources don’t bother you, surely the art direction will never fail to distract you from the non-action of The Guy from Harlem. It is so tacky that it becomes sort of brilliant in a way that imitations like Black Dynamite can only dream of emulating. Besides the terrible 16mm photography, pervasive Afros and disco leisurewear, the repetition of the theme song never fails to get a laugh, even if (or perhaps because) it is played at least a dozen times. It never fails to fail to establish the hero’s status as a badass to stand with John Shaft. Anyway, after stealing Steve’s money (in a passive aggressive way) and his daughter, The Guy goes after Big Daddy, who is a rather muscular embodiment of The Man.

Would you be the least bit surprised to learn Big Daddy is also is a student of The Guy’s school of Western Style Awkward Kickboxing and Grappling? Well, he is, and he has the armbands to prove it! Oh, SPOILER ALERT, if spoilers can even apply to something so hilariously derivative. The Guy From Harlem doesn’t have a narrative, so much as it fulfills a series of requirements through inept imitation. Yet it’s wildly entertaining and there are countless classic lines that I wouldn’t dare spoil for the uninitiated. It succeeds in all the wrong ways.

For curious souls, armed with this foreknowledge (and, preferably, some cheap malt liquor): some enterprising spirit has uploaded the entire film, and now The Guy from Harlem can be streamed direct, to your sloshed brain, in a matter of seconds! Just click the link below. Though I’ll never replace my battered Xenon VHS tape, this is a much less plastic-intensive alternative, even if the image quality takes quite a few hits from its already dubious source. Enjoy (with all the obvious caveats)!

GET DOWN!!