Beverly Hills Cop III is Racist

Several weeks ago, I promised to write a blurb about the movie Beverly Hills Cop III, which stars Eddie Murphy.  As a sequel, the movie missed the mark by a miracle mile.  An incredibly bad movie, that was most likely slapped together before there was even a real hard copy of the script secured.  It was directed by John Landis, who had teamed with Murphy on a couple previous projects, including the hit, "Coming To America".  Landis was also the genius who helmed the director's chair for classic cinema which includes the titles, "The Blues Brothers", "Trading Places" (also with Murphy) and "National Lampoon's Animal House".  However, John Landis dropped the ball on this movie, although I'm guessing it was the producer and the lack of a secured script.

When it aired on television last month, I didn't get to watch it in it's entirety, a loss that I'm actually thankful for, but what I did see of the film, was terribly racist.

Blatant racial humour, which by today's standards, would never be allowed, due to everyone's panties being bunched, is and was the norm in the 60's and 70's.  On many occasions, I shared conversations consumed with laughter and disbelief when reminiscing about the humour in Mel Brooks' classic, "Blazing Saddles".  "The new sheriff is a near...." always made us chuckle.  Humour, like that is barely expected in motion picture comedies in the 90's or, especially, the new millennium.  Not unless it's something from the mind of Quentin Tarantino...

Without getting too in depth with the storyline, Beverly Hills Cop III has Eddie Murphy's Axl Foley investigating a shooting that occurred in Detroit, where the culprits fled to SoCal, and more specifically, a Disney-esque amusement park called Wonder World, where the parks head is a beloved fellow fondly named, Uncle Dave.  There's a point in this farce where Uncle Dave is shot and presumed to be dead, Axl Foley being framed for the shooting.  Like wild-fire, news of the shooting spreads over television and radio, the description always the same.  "Wonder World founder, Uncle Dave, has been shot.  Description of his shooter is a black male."

That's as in-depth as the description gets.  A black male.  Suddenly, every uniform police officer in southern Los Angeles, is after Eddie Murphy's Axl.  Despite there being other African-Americans in the background, Eddie Murphy's the ONLY person of interest.

There's a seen where Axl ducks into a lavish Beverly Hills restaurant to use a pay phone.  The local news plays over a crowd gathered at the bar, which is a scene I've never seen occur in real life at ANY fancy restaurant I've ever attended, but I guess for the sake of this movie, they had to suspend belief.  "A black man shot Uncle Dave..." the news broadcaster says, and everyone's gaze goes from the TV set to Murphy ducked in the back of the restaurant on the telephone.

Is it racist?  Or, more specifically, is it 'racial profiling' that EVERYONE assumes Axl Foley must be the culprit who shot Uncle Dave?  There's even a point where Axl is witnessed by two police officers, accompanying Uncle Dave into the E.R., and even though they recognize that he is assisting in saving Uncle Dave's life, they still assume he's the guilty party when word comes over their radios.

The whole ordeal is disgusting.  A terrible movie and a very racist movie.

Tarantino Stole My Dream

I am not an actor.  Not by any means.  I aspired to be one, as a young child, like many kids do.  However, when my parents told me I would never be good enough, I had to accept that reality.  After all, they were grown ups and I was just a little kid.  I figured, they knew what they were talking about.

After so many years, this reality must have crept into my subconscious, as this morning I had the strangest of dreams.  Not to say that I never have strange dreams, because over the years, I have had some doozies.  For instance, as a child I do recall being scooped up and eaten by King Kong.  Odd for a herbivore to devour a human being, especially one as piddly as I was.  I remember not being chewed, but popped like a pill and the journey down to his stomach was lengthy enough that I could look all around me and process the scene of which I was passing, rather quickly, by.  Bananas.  Tons and tons of bananas, lined his throat.  Pretty f*ckin' strange, huh?

Hence the reality that the dream I awoke to this morning being of equal strangeness.  Although I wasn't consumed by an over-sized movie monster, it was bizarre all the same.  I dreamed that I was on the set of a Quentin Tarantino movie.  I was standing in a line with actor Eli Roth and a red-headed actress whom I did not recognize.  We each had a special weapon in our possession, used more for slicing than cutting.  I recall that my fellow companions regaled at the uniqueness of my blade.  We were going over our lines for the scene that we were about to film.  Standing back, the two actors ahead of me were trading off lines, back and forth, like the true professionals that they were.  Although I was in the very same scene, I realized that I didn't know a single line.  "I'm not an actor!" I thought to myself, "How did I get into this situation?"  Never the less, I joined in the rehearsal, adlibbing my lines as they progressed, them pausing to look at me, momentarily, before giving me words of encouragement.  Apparently, I was there to be comedic affect.  I breathed a heavy sigh of relief.

There was already talk that this was going to be an Oscar-worthy motion picture, and though I knew I'd never be nominated for such a prestigious award, it was refreshing to know that I was going to be a part of something so grand.  Quentin finally appeared before us, just as a row of train cars rolled up.  It was gleaming in the morning sun.  Jet black with a thick bright gold stripe running lengthwise from it's nose all the way to it's fourth and rear car.

Quentin engaged in some idle chit-chat with my co-stars before turning to me.  "Ah, Jeff.  Glad you made it." he said, as though we were kindred spirits separated by time, "Follow me, I have a special job for you to do."  He lifted a velvet rope that I hadn't seen up to this point.  I ducked under it and followed the famed director off towards the train.

"The train that you see here, contains all of the recording devices that we're using for this movie." he explained to me, brandishing his arm in such a grandioso manner. "However, we haven't anyone who is able to operate this train."  Quentin paused for a moment, then turned to look at me.  "That's where you come in.  I need you to run this train for me.  Ensure that it's onset at all times.  Can you do this for me, Jeff?  This is a very important job.  I need you to do this."

Preposterous as it sounds, I heard these words escape my lips, "But Quentin!  I'm an actor!"

I know, right?  Growing up my parents never believed I'd ever be good enough for such a profession, so why would I think I was now?  Never the less, I said it.  Spoken words of desperation to one of Hollywood's finest movie generals.  Even though minutes before, I was questioning why I was on board for a motion picture of this caliber, I was now confident enough that I could pull off the role for which I was hired to play.

Placing his arm on my shoulders, Quentin was a little hesitant to inform me that he and the producers had decided to cut my part from the movie.  I would still be paid the agreed upon salary that was declared in my contract, however they still needed me to work for my paycheck.  Given my "history" of driving a forklift, it was a given that I'd be qualified to operate this specialized train.  I failed to see then, and even now in my conscious state, what the hell one has to do with the other, but I hung my head in defeat and soon found myself sadly looking down from the cockpit of the train, at the world that could've been.