One good role for Danny Glover can erase the memory of several 'Lethal Weapon' and 'Predator' sequels, but it took a small, independently produced feature to bring the best out of one of Hollywood's hardest working actors. In this modest comedy Glover plays an enigmatic travelin' man named Harry, arriving unannounced at the home of some old friends and adding a subtle tension to the domestic friction already eroding three generations of family ties. But the trouble with Harry is less what he is than what he represents: the ghost of old traditions lurking in the cultural closet, and for a family already sensitive to portents and omens he might be the embodiment of all their superstitions. Writer director Charles Burnett keeps the viewer on guard with his elusive plot and complex characters, but the film is understated almost to a fault. The metaphors and hidden meanings (better suited to a stage play) help create a portentous mood, but in the end leave a lot unexplained.

This film involves a black family in southern California. They have a rather autocratic father who is impatient but also kind. There are two brothers who are polar opposites. One is shiftless and married and searching for a place in the world. The other is hard working and settled but also rather dull. Then an old friend named Harry shows up. He is played by the gregarious Danny Glover. The problem is this guy is evil but charming. Soon bad things happen. I rented this blindly and am glad I got a chance to watch it. It has a wonderful cast with Richard Brooks as the wayward son and several other fine actors.

Danny Glover shows up at the door of his old friends and moves in. Over the next few weeks, a lot of stuff happens.

Charles Burnett's movie seems to be a slice of life piece, showing the variety and contradictions of a small Black community, nominally in Los Angeles. There are tough guys and weak guys, but it's a solid working-class community where the choir sings polite gospel, and the preacher comes to visit the visit and chide them for using "old-fashioned" obeah cures instead of prayer.

This isn't the world of rap or youth, but of the older, settled community. In some ways it seems idyllic, with no drug dealers or gang violence, the standard modern cinematic image of Black communities. There's no rap music, but there is the blues and a small boy playing a trumpet very loudly.

It's warm and frequently silly, and beneath it is a had recognition of being unregarded. I found it very familiar, and if the older folks had been speaking Yiddish, i might have been, if not my own home growing up, then a cousin's, or that of one of my father's old friends.