Strictly speaking a sequel and not a remake, a perpetuation of the family name, or brand name, of the identically titled 1971 blaxploitation hit. The original John Shaft, now "Uncle" John Shaft (Richard Roundtree), puts in a couple of cameo appearances (along with his director, the leonine Gordon Parks) as a venerated private detective who is trying to persuade his namesake nephew, a New York homicide cop, later a narcotics cop, to join the firm. The nephew feels he has bigger fish to fry, a rich white "race killer" and a two-bit Dominican drug lord whose paths cross and intertwine. The hero of the earlier Shaft -- and its sequels -- was very much a man of his times (he still has a hot mama at each elbow), but the times, if you keep up with the daily papers, have not really changed all that much, and the younger Shaft is still plagued by "that colored thing: too black for the uniform, too blue for the brothers." The new-generation director, John Singleton, commands a handsome, burnished, gleaming image (anything less would be an affront to Parks, the long-time Life photographer), some above-average shootouts and car chases, and a pair of thoroughly vile villains who modestly decline to grow larger than life. Samuel L. Jackson is a powerful presence in the title role, his head shaved in possible homage to Isaac Hayes (whose own presence continues to be felt on the music track), but he is upstaged by Jeffrey Wright as the dope-dealing Dominican, with his tattooed throat, his sideburns shaped like daggers, his verbal mannerism of stopping short of the ends of words ("Tiger Woo," "Hollywoo," etc.), comically frustrated at his inability to attract a higher-caliber clientele. It is almost unbelievable that this is the same man as the dignified and taciturn ex-slave of Ride with the Devil. There could be no more startling demonstration of what's meant when an actor is said to "disappear" in a part. With Christian Bale, Vanessa Williams, Toni Collette. (2000) — Duncan Shepherd
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