As an actor, Sidney Poitier is an icon, a living legend, and one of the most important performers in the history of cinema, but as a director, he left a lot to be desired. The success of his biggest hit, Stir Crazy, had far more to do with the chemistry of stars Gene Wilder and Richard Pryor than anything he brought to the table, while Ghost Dad, his fourth collaboration with fellow icon, living legend, etc., Bill Cosby, is remembered only as one of the worst movies of the early ’90s (although such is Poitier’s bulletproof pop-culture status, few are aware he had anything to do with it).
Poitier’s third go-round with Cosby, A Piece of the Action (it followed 1974’s Uptown Saturday Night and 1975’s Let’s Do It Again) is about a million times better than Ghost Dad, but that doesn’t stop it from being a bizarre amalgamation of blaxploitation crime comedy and serious social-message movie. The first and best part is a comedic thriller about a thief (Cosby) and con man (Poitier) whose past crimes cause them to be at the mercy of both a retired police detective (James Earl Jones) and the local mobsters whom Poitier once ripped off to the tune of $400,000.
The second part, which bears the clear mark of Poitier collaborator Stanley Kramer (Guess Who’s Coming to Dinner and The Defiant Ones) deals with Poitier’s To Sir, with Love-esque attempts to teach a group of “Afro-American” teenagers how to become desirable job candidates, when he and Cosby are blackmailed by Jones to perform community service for a local charity organization. While this portion is a tad earnest and preachy, it’s far from unbearable. The problem is that for all of the time we spend with it, it never connects with the events from the first half, thereby feeling tacked-on and unnecessary. Add romantic subplots for both protagonists, and it’s amazing the film isn’t longer than its already overstuffed 135 minutes.
Despite this, A Piece of the Action is worth seeking out. The only frustration that comes from watching it is the knowledge that if someone at Warner Bros. had the balls to tell its director to cut 40 minutes from the running time, a good film might have become great one. But then again, who among us would have the balls to tell Sidney Fucking Poitier to do anything he didn’t want to do? —Allan Mott
The four-digit number in the title refers to the amount of kilometers of the race, but I suspect it was put there to fool moviegoers into thinking it a sequel to Carradine’s hit 
Beyond Winslow, the rest of the characters comprise an amazingly forgettable lot that range from the bland to the obnoxious to the blandly obnoxious. The fact that there isn’t a human alive capable of giving a fuck about its two lovelorn protagonists (Days of Our Lives’ Mary Beth Evans and Skatetown USA’s Greg Bradford) definitely hurts the central romance, which takes up the bulk of the third act.
This uncanny coincidence causes the film’s many jabs at conservative “family values” to take on a newfound and occasionally disturbing piquancy. What may have once seemed overly broad now seems unfortunately believable in an age where conservative leaders such as Palin seriously decry the practice of advocating vegetables over junk food to school kids as a form of socialist liberal propaganda.
When each guy smokes it — only Alistair doesn’t partake — he’s transported to the Club Bong strip club, where the fake-breasted dancers sport carnivorous chests that kill the dudes in real life. (All the movie is set either here — with animated ganja smoke around the edges of the frame — or at their home, which looks like the set of a sitcom threatening to burst into a porno.) Tommy Chong saves the day and runs toy cars up and down said man-made mammaries.