Hustle & Flow

Hustle & Flow is difficult to categorize because it seems so different from many other films. With its focus on the Memphis ghettoes and a man trying to break out of the life his circumstances, and his own inclinations, have forced him to, it is like such films as Rocky and Working Girl and many others—though in its details it is decidedly unlike these films. In its story about the struggle to write and record a song (which becomes a metaphor for transformative change) it is like any number of serious and silly films about celebrity and the quest for fame—here the focus is more on transformation and escape—we see little of what happens after the song is recorded, and a great deal of what happens as the characters work to write and record the song and find a way to bring it to public attention. As I struggled to make connections with this film, I was reminded of any number of analogues, some of them far removed—the old Andy Hardy films of the 30s and 40s often included a subplot about putting on a show and earning money for whatever reason. That Thing You Do, about a one-hit wonder group, is another connection.

But I found it most satisfying to view Hustle & Flow on its own grounds, as the story of the main character Djay’s life as a pimp and his struggle for self-expression. All of the primary characters in this film are distinctive, and above everything else, including the music, they make this film memorable. Foremost among them is Terrence Howard as Djay. He is the film’s center and heart, and he brings the main character to life and gives this film much of its energy. The film begins as he is monologuing to one of his prostitutes about the meaning of mankind and his lot in life. I was immediately reminded of the monologues in Terrence Malick’s films as well as the intense apocalyptic monologues of Samuel Jackson in Pulp Fiction, though Djay’s monologues seem always intended as a means of exploring and presenting his sense of his own situation.

Although Djay apparently has a number of whores working for him, his favorite, the one he refers to as his partner (meaning his business partner), is Nola (Taryn Manning) a truly skanky blonde white girl whom he apparently picked up at a truck stop. She grows and develops throughout the film—she catches the enthusiasm of his desire to record a song and wants to be a part of it all. She hates being hot and longs for air conditioning. At the end of the film she has become his obsessive promoter, using her own skills to ensure that Djay’s song gets the airplay she believes it deserves. Djay’s love interest is Shug (Taraji P. Henson). She comes across as extremely pregnant and frightened, in general, but perhaps frightened of Djay in particular. Whether she is pregnant with his child is unclear. He pays her little attention early in the film and begins to appreciate her only as she helps contribute to the recording session by providing background vocals for the song. As she realizes her own potential as a singer, she comes to life. She is a powerful and poignant presence. Also effective is Key (Anthony Anderson), who produces and helps write Djay’s song. Key like Djay finds himself living a life he didn’t plan for, and Djay’s desire to rap becomes his own opportunity for escape. D. J. Qualls is a white drug salesman and sound engineer who brings humor to the film.

The film doesn’t glorify or romanticize pimps and whores and their lives. But it does not spend time condemning them either. It helps us understand them and what they experience. It is difficult to watch the film and come away with any sense that it approves of the lives it portrays. There is clear sympathy, empathy. It does strongly suggest that many of the people who live these lives have no alternatives. In Djay and Nola there is a strong longing for another kind of life. Djay’s mid-life crisis is not different from that of many men in their 30s and 40s. His sense of entrapment and failure, his desire to justify himself and to do something that matters, gives the film a universalizing interest. So too does the gradual transformation he undergoes, from a selfish and self-absorbed man who often mistreats the women who work for him, to a man who appreciates generosity and kindness and learns to embody these qualities himself. Such a transformation may seem trite, but in the context of the film and especially of Djay’s character it is convincing. Also convincing is the way he bungles (a major bungle) his meeting with a popular rap artist whom he hopes will help find an audience for his song.

Having never visited Memphis, the home of the blues and of Sam Philips (to whom the film is dedicated) and of course of the King Elvis, I cannot assess the film’s accuracy. But the speech of the characters seems distinctive and convincing, and the settings, with dilapidated low-rent row houses that may be in bad shape but that people do live in and care about, seem real. And although the film give quiet homage to the musical heritage of Memphis, that heritage is present in the film more by implication than by outright fact. When Djay and friends record their first song, they have to build their own recording studio and beg radio disk jockeys and others to give it airplay. The establishment music industry of Memphis is nowhere to be seen.