Filmed in front of a wildly partisan crowd in New Orleans who are clearly going to crease themselves at every 'motherfucker' he utters, Pryor tries to swing into his accustomed groove and finds it eluding him at every turn. The material is weak, the delivery uncertain, and the manic depressive behind the quickfire patter is more clearly revealed than ever. Interspersed with variations on the old routines are plaintive assurances that he's straightened himself out, with Pryor seeming pathetically eager to immerse himself in the glow of goodwill emanating from the faithful. While the general embarrassment is not entirely untempered by flashes of brilliance, the abiding memory is of a once great comedian brought (literally) to his knees.
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