Coffy (1973) – This old Blaxploitation nugget is somehow now showing on Turner Classic Movies, so the new-found sheen of respectability caused me to rewatch it for the first time in over twenty years. That and being really bored in the middle of the night. I must say, the copy TCM is showing is a considerably better print than the worn-out VHS copies I used to catch these flicks on. I’ve never seen Pam Grier fall out of her dress with such clarity! This is the movie that made Grier a star, and it’s easy to see why. Her acting chops aren’t very developed, but she’s got an undeniable on-screen charisma and exudes star quality even when surrounded by dreck. And like I said, she falls out of her dress a lot. Grier plays Coffy, a nurse whose real name happens to be Coffin, in the best tradition of spaghetti western on-the-nose character names. She’s out to avenge her younger sister, who fell prey to street drug culture and has become a vegetable confined to her hospital bed. Coffy’s vengeance takes the form of murdering every drug dealer she can find, which you would think would conflict with her nurse’s oath or something.
The smartest decision the film makes is to start the action after the sister’s already sick. We leap right into a scene of Coffy seducing a big-time player before unceremoniously blowing his head off. From there, it’s a pell-mell race to the (not so surprising) final twist, when Coffy discovers just who’s behind the whole crooked scene. The film plays like the flipside of Death Wish (which it actually pre-dates), as Coffy is forced to take the law into her own hands due to the ineptitude and corruption of the police and government. A heady air of conspiracy hangs over the proceedings, as multiple characters voice the opinion that the white power structure is bringing drugs into the ghetto to purposely destroy their communities. Combine that ethos with a constant parade of naked women and scenes like the one where Grier yells, “You want me to crawl, you white motherfucker?” before blowing away a creepy Italian mobster, and you’ve got the makings of a hit. 
The filmmaking itself is certainly nothing to write home about. Director Jack Hill was a big name in sleazy exploitation flicks, helming such classics as The Swinging Cheerleaders and The Big Doll House, but his flat shooting style is straight out of a 70s TV movie. Part of the fun of Coffy is just reveling in the wild 70s fashions, from the pimps in suede jumpers and capes to Grier’s weapon-stashing afro. The film has the funky soundtrack that was required of every Blaxploitation flick, this one by Roy Ayers, who turns in some nifty (if slightly repetitive) tunes. The score is decent enough, but I must say that the song “Coffy Baby” may be the most flaccid theme song to any Blaxploitation flick ever. Ayers’ score has been re-used in everything from Kill Bill to Ant-Man, so that might be Coffy’s most lasting contribution to the medium. That, and introducing audiences to Pam Grier, whose lush physique and bold self-confidence carry the day. This is the film that established her on-screen persona – tough, sexy, and vengeful – which she would go on to showcase in a string of similar flicks like Foxy Brown and Sheba, Baby. Coffy is about the best of the bunch, though, showcasing Grier in a real breakout performance.
Other flicks I saw these past two weeks:
Touchez pas au grisbi (1954) – A decent French thriller starring Jean Gabin as an extremely lecherous thief who takes time out from groping much younger women to steal a bunch of gold bars. Most of the movie involves various crooks trying to doublecross one another to grab the loot. The flick assumes the languid pace of Gabin himself, which is a polite way of saying it’s kind of slow moving. It does boast some nice cinematography and the earliest scene of a girl doing coke on the way to a club that I’ve seen, so that’s something.
Nora Prentiss (1947) – In which Ann Sheridan’s nightclub singer steals the heart of bored married doctor Kent Smith. This noir-ish melodrama is an OK genre flick that pivots on the fairly ridiculous notion that it’s easier to fake your own death than tell your wife you want a divorce. Needless to say, the doc’s plans hit some fairly major snags. Ann Sheridan’s confidently sassy performance is the best thing about the film by a mile.
Airplane (1980) – Rewatched this bit of silliness with my son for the first time in a long while. Most of the jokes hold up just fine, although my son confidently declared, “I didn’t get a single one of those allusions” to other flicks (from older flicks like Airport and Saturday Night Fever). The racist bits about black guys speaking Jive and Robert Hays teaching Africans to play basketball hold up considerably less well than the “Don’t call me Shirley” jokes, but thankfully those are few and far between.
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