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TIME: Almanac 1990s
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<text id=93TT0262>
<title>
July 26, 1993: Reviews:Cinema
</title>
<history>
TIME--The Weekly Newsmagazine--1993
July 26, 1993 The Flood Of '93
</history>
<article>
<source>Time Magazine</source>
<hdr>
REVIEWS, Page 67
CINEMA
Love N the Hood
</hdr>
<body>
<p>By RICHARD SCHICKEL
</p>
<qt>
<l>TITLE: Poetic Justice</l>
<l>WRITER-DIRECTOR: John Singleton</l>
</qt>
<p> THE BOTTOM LINE: A promising young director strikes out in a
new direction--and strikes out.
</p>
<p> Two questions now arise: Was John Singleton's first film, Boyz
N the Hood, a lucky accident? Or is his second, Poetic Justice,
an unlucky one? Too soon to say, of course, since Singleton,
the youngest person (and only black) to receive simultaneous
Oscar nominations for Best Director and Best Original Screenplay,
is still in his 20s, with most of his career ahead of him.
</p>
<p> What must be said is that the new movie is simply awful: poorly
structured, vulgarly written, insipidly directed, monotonously
performed. This, of course, is not the contrast to his taut,
persuasively realistic earlier work that Singleton wanted to
strike.
</p>
<p> Boyz was essentially a story of young men trapped in an unyielding
ghetto environment, pretty much hopelessly waiting for its
endemic, random violence to strike them down. In his new movie
he obviously wanted to explore emotional territory new to him.
It is about a young woman named Justice (Janet Jackson) in the
same setting who is doing her best to keep her options open
and her hopes up. She's a hairdresser who finds psychological
escape in the poetry she scribbles (actually it is Maya Angelou's
work) while mourning the loss of a boyfriend gunned down in
her presence in the movie's opening, and most arresting, sequence.
Quite clearly, she also dreams of making a real escape from
the hood.
</p>
<p> Lucky (Tupac Shakur), an amiable postal worker, does not at
first seem the ideal partner for that enterprise. But he too
has compelling reasons to break out, and a dream of redemptive
creativity roughly analogous to hers: he wants to be a rapper.
When they and another couple are thrown together on a weekend
trip to Oakland, California, in a post-office van, edginess
slowly gives way to an understanding that survives even a sudden
lurch toward the tragic.
</p>
<p> This situation and this relationship are both rooted in traditional
romantic comedy, and it would have been interesting (to say
the least) if Singleton could have imposed its generic conventions
on this unlikely milieu. But that's beyond him. He doesn't offer
any scene that convincingly suggests the kind of authentic mutual
attraction that might overcome the couple's superficial differences.
He doesn't know how to coax a performance out of Jackson, who
relates to the camera lens as if it were a mirror. He never
finds a way either to put an interesting spin on the incidents
of the journey or to link them dynamically. And he doesn't know
how to turn a graceful romantic line or how to put real snap
into a comic one; his dialogue is mainly street epithets mumbled
or run together incomprehensibly.
</p>
<p> Almost everything about this movie feels like a first draft--unfelt, unformed, unfinished. And it's not entirely Singleton's
fault. As it so often does, Hollywood has mistaken bright promise
for full-fledged talent, rushing in to indulge a young artist's
self-indulgences, giving him everything he wants but withholding
the one thing he needs most: firm but sympathetic challenges
to his assumptions, an insistence on rethinking and rewriting
until he knows what he wants to say and how to say it right.
</p>
</body>
</article>
</text>