December 23, 2019
The real Rudy Ray Moore often attended church with his mother and even spoke there to the congregation sometimes. We see no churches in this film, nor his mother, but I share this biographical bit to get at this: If that seems inconsistent with the vulgar, pimping Dolemite character he assumed on stage, remember Moore's overall attitude toward it. Because the film does, and splendidly.
"I don't want to be referred to as a dirty old man," Moore said, "but rather a ghetto expressionist." Here is a man who loves show business, wants stardom so much that he would do anything to succeed. He doesn't start with filth. He isn't filthy outside of his Dolemite persona. Struggling as a Los Angeles nightclub emcee and record shop salesman, he decided he would dive into the raunchiest material to make a name for himself. In the process he painted life within those "five blocks in every city in America" and gave them the entertainment he knew they wanted.
You can clearly see rap's origin in Moore's rhyming couplets, which comprise the stand-up that made him a star. What I saw more distinctly was the rap battle's origin. Each line delivers a harder punch than the last, wittily insulting characters in the story or having them insult each other. You go from defamatory bitchslap to excoriating knockout. And there is real zest in the venom. Eddie Murphy relishes delivering these, you can see.
He's waited a long time to bring Moore's story to life. Murphy set his sights on it at least as far back as 2003, and he was able to meet Moore before his death in 2008. The wait was worth it. We have a lot of strong contenders for Best Actor this year; Murphy should earn a place at the table.
Wesley Snipes turns in a brilliant performance as D'Urville Martin, the director Moore hires for his first movie, a Blacksploitation comedy involving an army of kung-fu-fighting prostitutes, etc. Martin's sneering disdain for Moore's vision distances him from the rest of the crew; he feels he should be doing Serious Drama. "Polanski," he brags, cast me. To which Moore's entourage responds, yes, to be the lowly elevator operator in Rosemary's Baby. All of this doesn't stop him from delivering Moore a surprising and passionate compliment, though, in one between-takes conversation on set. That speech also further cements it: Martin does his work for the Art; Moore does his for the fans whose adulation he had craved for so long.
Perhaps the jazz and funk that accompanied Moore's routines took a backseat to them on the albums. Moore's name and comedy sold the vinyls. Not so here. Scott Bomar infuses each bar with energy. As the band members fill in one by one behind Dolemite on his first public appearance, as the laughter builds following each rhyme, we get the impression of a jam session heading for crescendo, and the soloist riffing is the vocalist himself.
Other films showcase obscenity for its own sake, intending merely to shock us. Even films that largely succeed can still be guilty. Over time our collective tolerance increases so that it requires more debauchery to produce that shock. Unlike such pretenders, Dolemite uses it to prove how deep Moore is willing to dig, how far his persona can take him from his own personality, how prescient he is about the black community's tastes, and how much he would influence rap. How deep: He turns an abandoned crack house into his production studio. How far: The man who shows his belief in Lady Reed (Da'Vine Joy Randolph) is miles away in temperament from his bawdy stage avatar. How prescient: There is a smart scene where Moore and his pals want to laugh at the movies, they choose The Front Page, and fifty years' distance from it leads all of us, white audience included, to identify with Moore's befuddled reaction to it. This picture isn't geared toward blacks, and he means to do something about that. (Comedy relies upon the intellect and the times, so the second point here is if Moore is still funny, all the more to him.)
All of it serves the film's larger purpose. In short, you could not make a PG movie about someone laying claim to the title "Godfather of Rap." At least not one I'd watch.
Here we find the classic Brad-Pitt-or-creep paradox. If the girl likes you, your advances seem endearing. If not, they are creepy, even if they're the same actions. If the obscenity isn't funny, it's not artful. Here it's the exact opposite. Granted, the story is an arc we've seen before, but above all it's uproarious and energetic and ambitious, which is the best way to honor both Moore and Murphy.
3.5 of 4
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