Laughs die slowly in ‘Black Dynamite’

I lived through the ‘70s, so I’m familiar with blaxploitation. You know, “Shaft,” “Superfly,” “Cleopatra Jones,” “Foxy Brown,” “Sweet Sweetbacks Baadassss Song” and so many more. And all of them, in one way or another, were lampooned in “Black Dynamite,” which I saw tonight at the Magic Lantern.

Starring Michael Jai White (“Spawn,” “Dark Knight”), “Black Dynamite” is an intentionally bad film. Slips in continuity, boom mikes descending into the frame, overheated dialogue, amateur acting, predictable story lines and crappy action. Well, that last one is a bit of a stretch since White, who’s built like a young Schwarzenegger, high kicks pretty well.

The rest of it, though? Pretty much right on. And it makes watching the film fun … for a while. Because it’s good to be in on the joke instead of being the target of one. Too many times we aren’t just the target, we’re the victim of Hollywood and its attempts to make comedy. Lack of focus? Drunk focus puller. Bad acting? Low budget. Crappy dialogue? No-name writer.

So intention is not a problem. But intertia is. Because after a while, maybe 20 minutes, “Black Dynamite” becomes predictable. And while it’s enjoyable to spot the conventions of blaxploitation - ‘70s-era patter, full afros (both for men and women), bell-bottom pants - laughs gradually become giggles, then grins and finally mere smiles.

And finally the film is over, the bad guys vanquished, the “mamas” bedded and our hero still as cool as the chrome on his twin .44s.

Now, barely an hour later, I can barely remember anything beyond a few visuals. About as many as I still carry from the real ‘70s.

Right on, my brother.