Too busy to read 'cause some weirdo funeral director is talking your ear off? Check out the VID instead!
So, how’d you like getting bent and twisted like a gotdamn multi-tool, David Alan Grier?
(big snaps) HATED IT!
“You little motherfucker!” The jarring sight of that funny cat on In Living Color beating the shit out of a woman, a mild-mannered educator with a thing for Dwayne Wayne sunglasses, and even a child was just one of the many mortifying images Rusty Cundieff and Darin Scott’s delightfully wicked Afrocentric horror anthology drilled into my brain back in the mid-90s. Most anthologies have a theme or at least a wraparound throughline, but few non-white filmmakers had the opportunity to explore multiple stories dissecting bigotry, police brutality, gangland culture, experiments on the incarcerated, and domestic abuse through the eyes of a predominantly African American cast and crew. Horror has always been the most persuasive of delivery systems for socially relevant messaging and Hood is a rousing, high-spirited spookfest (the ghouls, not the racial epithet, Senator Metgers...you cretinous hick) and the goofier, sometimes clunky swipes at race relations in America are upheld by a morally satisfying crudity and bloody comeuppance for those who deserve retribution...or just need to get torn apart by a buncha malevolent, possessed dolls. Whatever works for ya.
The transition of Clarence Williams III from the coolest undercover detective to a wild-eyed loon was surprisingly smooth given his iconic gap teeth and distinctive features. As the ultra-chatty funeral director and amateur narcotics distributor (but is he still Sampson or what? Abracadabra, B!), he’s a perfect Crypt Keeper-like guide for our three young bloods who don’t wanna be punkasses around corpses but would much rather question the necessity of refrying beans when frying them once would probably be sufficient. Each segment has something to say about the African American experience and in their own way, each is successful, though some are inevitably better than others.
The two mid-points remain the strongest. Child endangerment is an easy but nevertheless compelling subject to explore and I always found Brandon Hammond’s notion to eliminate the monster who plagues his home life via art charmingly ingenious. Cundieff’s appearance as a kindly teacher doesn’t come off as self-serving and this segment moves along the smoothest and features a marvelous conclusion and wonderfully rubbery effects. The fantastical elements have a fairy tale quality which allows the subject matter to be grounded, yet magical. Meanwhile, Corbin Bernsen’s despicable politician is a whole other kind of monster and he relishes the chance to lay on the smarm and hate speech whenever the opportunity arises. Elements and even physical similarities to Stuart Gordon’s Dolls and the most famous portion of Dan Curtis’ Trilogy of Terror lend themselves well to the vengeful little creepies who decide to dine out on some southern cooking one stormy night.
Not counting Williams’ baroque, delightfully macabre funeral parlor sequences, the bookends to Tales aren’t without merit, but I knew there was a reason why I didn’t remember the final, Clockwork Orange and Tuskeegee Experiments-inspired offering. It feels like a toss-off, despite some solid production design, and it’s ironically the bluntest in terms of what Cundieff and Scott are trying to say. The corrupt cop opener is a good warm-up to the bloody festivities and Tom Wright’s freaky eyes and refusal to stay dead is wonderfully appealing. Cundieff directs with style and humor even if some of the jokes are on-the-nose and obvious. If the fourth segment weren’t a bit of a drag and clearly unmemorable, this could be a far more successful horror anthology. For what it is, Tales has an infectious, blackhearted energy with enough smarts to help it stand the test of time.
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