There are sequels… and then there’s Hell Up in Harlem, which feels less like a continuation and more like an apology written in crayon on the back of a cocktail napkin. Released the same year as Black Caesar, this follow-up answers the question nobody asked: “Hey, what if Tommy Gibbs didn’t die and just kept stomping around like a pissed-off linebacker with a vendetta and a questionable wardrobe?”
Larry Cohen returns to direct, which might explain the chaos, but this time he takes everything that barely worked in Black Caesar and throws it into a blender. Then he drops the blender off a roof and films whatever splatters. The result? A cinematic dumpster fire with James Brown screaming in the background like he just stubbed his toe on bad filmmaking.
Let’s dig in.
Fred “I Got This” Williamson: Still Blitzing Every Scene
Tommy Gibbs lives, which means Fred Williamson is back and still acting with all the emotional range of a brick wall in sunglasses. Once again, Williamson charges through scenes like a guy trying to return a defective chainsaw to Home Depot five minutes before closing. Subtlety? That’s for actors. Fred’s here to strut, scowl, and look like he’s trying to remember his next line without squinting too hard.
To say Williamson “chews the scenery” would be an insult to termites. The man devours it — with a side of polyester and a knuckle sandwich. Whether he’s threatening corrupt politicians or punching random hitmen in the face, his expression never changes. He’s either mildly constipated or intensely impacted with hard stool. There is no in-between.
Plot? Ha! Good One.
Picking up where Black Caesar ended (but with zero clarity), the movie tells us that Tommy survived, and now he’s on a mission to “clean up” Harlem. This might be the funniest part of the entire film — a murderous drug kingpin suddenly deciding he’s the moral compass of the neighborhood. It’s like Al Capone deciding to run for PTA president.
The story, such as it is, has Tommy trying to rid the city of drugs and corruption — which is hilarious considering that’s how he made his money. Along the way, he runs into his father again (hi, Pop!) who acts like he’s running for sainthood. He also reconnects with his ex, Helen, played with all the enthusiasm of someone being forced to read cue cards at gunpoint. The chemistry between them is so flat you could iron shirts on it.
There are double-crosses, back-alley ambushes, a weird detour to Los Angeles, and enough bad shootouts to make you miss The A-Team. The entire movie plays like it was edited by a squirrel hopped up on ten cans of Red Bull.
Harlem: The Least Convincing Setting in Harlem
Despite the title, Harlem seems to be wherever the camera happens to be. One moment it’s a street corner in New York; the next, it’s an abandoned parking lot in Los Angeles with a sign that reads “Harlem Bookstore.” And don’t get me started on the lighting. Every scene looks like it was shot five minutes before sundown using whatever car headlights were available.
The action scenes — and I use that term loosely — are either laughably slow or so clumsy you wonder if the extras were just random pedestrians. Fistfights break out with all the grace of middle school cafeteria brawls, and shootouts resemble two toddlers yelling “bang bang” at each other across a playground.
One highlight (if you can call it that): Tommy drops a guy from a rooftop using a forklift. It sounds cool. It’s not. It’s the cinematic equivalent of slipping on a banana peel — poorly timed, awkwardly executed, and mostly embarrassing for everyone involved.
Dialogue Written on a Deli Napkin
The script is a word salad of clichés, mumbled threats, and exposition so clunky it could be used as a doorstop. Here’s a sampling:
“You tell ‘em I’m coming, and hell’s coming with me!”
No, wait — that was Tombstone. Hell Up in Harlem wishes it had that kind of gravitas. Instead, we get gems like:
“Ain’t nobody takin’ Harlem from me!”
Cool. But who are you again, and why should we care? Every character speaks like they just wandered in from a different genre. One guy sounds like a mobster from a Bugs Bunny cartoon. Another has the energy of a sleepy accountant. And Tommy? He grunts. A lot.
The Return of the Funk (Because Why Not?)
James Brown is back — sort of. His contributions feel more like leftovers from a previous recording session. Funky, yes. Cohesive, no. Sometimes the score doesn’t even match the mood. There’s one scene where Tommy is grieving and the soundtrack kicks in like it’s the intro to a disco dance-off. Either someone mixed the reels wrong or James was just freestyling at that point.
Still, you gotta respect the funk. Without it, the film would be even more lifeless. It’s the only thing with any pulse, and it’s trying real hard to resuscitate the plot. No luck, but A for effort.
The Supporting Cast: A Parade of Shrugs
The rest of the cast looks like they were recruited from a DMV waiting room. There’s a crooked DA, a few rival gangsters, and Tommy’s father, who delivers every line with the sanctimonious energy of a man lecturing pigeons in the park. None of them are developed. They just exist to move the story forward — or backward, or sideways, depending on what scene you’re in.
Helen, Tommy’s love interest, is given so little to do she might as well have been replaced with a cardboard cutout holding a “Love Interest” sign. Their romantic arc — if you can call it that — involves awkward silences and occasional hand-holding, like two coworkers forced to pretend they’re dating at an office holiday party.
The Ending: Or How I Learned to Stop Caring and Love the Credits
The film ends the way it began — with Tommy acting like he’s in control, when in reality, the movie is just collapsing around him. There’s betrayal, bloodshed, and one last speech that tries to sound profound but ends up sounding like a Yelp review for moral ambiguity.
You don’t feel triumphant. You feel exhausted. Like you’ve just sat through someone’s long, boring dream about being a gangster, but all the cool stuff got edited out in favor of moody stairwell scenes and parking garage face-offs.
Final Verdict: Straight to Hell
Hell Up in Harlem is an overlong, undercooked mess of a sequel that thinks it has something to say but mostly just yells at you for 94 minutes. Fred Williamson struts around like he’s auditioning for a Mentos commercial, the action is duller than a butter knife, and the plot is a jigsaw puzzle made of wet cardboard.
It might be fun to watch with a group of friends and a bottle of something strong — but only if you’re planning to talk over it. Loudly.
Rating: 3 out of 10 rooftop forklifts.
Because sometimes hell isn’t a place. It’s a poorly lit alley where a man in bell bottoms monologues about justice.
