John Singleton’s coming-of-age drama makes its young men funny and fallible enough for the danger to hurt. Some dialogue lectures and the music pushes too hard, but the performances make this an evening well spent.
Boyz n the Hood is a forceful, humane drama, and we recommend it despite its fondness for explaining things. John Singleton, writing and directing, approaches growing up in South Central Los Angeles through ordinary conversation as well as the threat of violence. He takes time to make the young men interesting before asking us to worry about them. Their humour matters here: it gives us a reason to enjoy their company, which is more than a worthy account of social problems could manage on its own.
Cuba Gooding Jr. gives Tré Styles an uncertainty that makes the father-son relationship feel like something being worked out. Laurence Fishburne’s Furious Styles is formidable, but the performance allows us to see the worry behind his insistence on personal responsibility. We were moved by their conversations, because Fishburne makes the effort of trying to prepare a son for danger so plain. Gooding deserves equal credit for keeping Tré present in those exchanges; being the younger actor receiving the advice is the less conspicuous job.
Ice Cube’s Doughboy is the performance that stays with us most. His anger never quite conceals the hurt, and his humour makes it harder to settle for an easy judgement of him. Morris Chestnut brings an appealing openness to Ricky Baker, helping to give the young men distinct personalities even when the script is busy making a wider point. Singleton gets much of the film’s warmth from allowing them to be sociable and fallible, with lives that cannot be explained solely by the violence around them.
Charles Mills’s cinematography is strongest in its attention to people within the neighbourhood; the surroundings matter without overwhelming the faces. That directness suits actors who can make listening worth watching. Bruce Cannon’s editing allows the ensemble time to establish itself, though the progress from one social concern to the next occasionally feels too clearly marked. We become conscious of the film moving through its subjects, and start waiting for the next conversation to announce what it is about.
Singleton’s script can be over-explicit, especially when Furious turns to gentrification and the pressures on the neighbourhood. Fishburne gives the speech conviction, but we are conscious of being instructed, and the conversation begins to sound like an address to the audience. Stanley Clarke’s score has a related weakness: it presses for a feeling when the actors have already earned it. The music does not undo their work, but a little less insistence would help.
As a crime drama, it is unusually interested in the hours when nobody is committing a crime. Parental advice and the business of becoming an adult are given enough weight that violence never becomes an attraction in itself. There are simplifications, and some supporting characters feel less fully considered than the central men. Those limits matter because Singleton has made us expect people with independent lives, including lives that do not neatly support what he wants to say.
At 112 minutes, the film gives us time to grow attached to its characters, and we would not exchange that for a tidier thriller. Its strongest performances hold our attention even when the writing becomes too instructive. Choose it for those actors, and allow Singleton the occasional lecture; there are fathers worth listening to even when we wish they would stop talking.
