Dynamite Chicken is a true underground classic, a pastiche of skits, poetry, film clips, documentaries, naked ladies, and Richard Pryor's charming improvisations. But what strikes me the most is how naive it really is.
Dynamite Chicken is bending over backwards to be dangerous, edgy, hip, new. It throws clips at you at a dizzying pace. It celebrates porn, dark humor, feminism (kinda), nudity (definitely), and free speech. It's not linear - you really have to turn off your brain to watch it, or (ideally) turn it on with various illicit substances. Otherwise, it quickly becomes tedious and frustrating - until Pryor shows up again, with another fun, accessible bit to keep the whole thing grounded.
It's it revolutionary? No. It thinks it is, though, and that's part of its charm, especially when viewed through post-2020 eyes. It feels less like the work of the Yippies (though Paul Krassner is a key figure here) and more like a 10-year-old trying to make sense of the Penthouse magazine he just discovered. It's dirty and curious, but never reaches the dark, heady acid-trip it wants to be.
But that's okay. It's still fun, if you're in the mood for it. And it was assembled with some skill - all the gimmicky underground techniques are employed here with significant skill. The comic bits don't always work, but they're so eager to please you want to pat them on the head anyway. And there's always Pryor, delighting us with his insights, his stoned riffing, his accessible whimsy. Every time you're ready to quit 'Dynamite Chicken,' he pops in and reminds you why you're here.
Dynamite Chicken is bending over backwards to be dangerous, edgy, hip, new. It throws clips at you at a dizzying pace. It celebrates porn, dark humor, feminism (kinda), nudity (definitely), and free speech. It's not linear - you really have to turn off your brain to watch it, or (ideally) turn it on with various illicit substances. Otherwise, it quickly becomes tedious and frustrating - until Pryor shows up again, with another fun, accessible bit to keep the whole thing grounded.
It's it revolutionary? No. It thinks it is, though, and that's part of its charm, especially when viewed through post-2020 eyes. It feels less like the work of the Yippies (though Paul Krassner is a key figure here) and more like a 10-year-old trying to make sense of the Penthouse magazine he just discovered. It's dirty and curious, but never reaches the dark, heady acid-trip it wants to be.
But that's okay. It's still fun, if you're in the mood for it. And it was assembled with some skill - all the gimmicky underground techniques are employed here with significant skill. The comic bits don't always work, but they're so eager to please you want to pat them on the head anyway. And there's always Pryor, delighting us with his insights, his stoned riffing, his accessible whimsy. Every time you're ready to quit 'Dynamite Chicken,' he pops in and reminds you why you're here.