Hustle & Flow is a perfect example of the manipulative power of a tale well told. I found myself cheering DJay (Terrence Howard) on in his quest to make it big, despite his misogyny and his dubious self-control and his overpowering self-pity. DJay's a Memphis pimp who wants to be a rap star, and he's willing to use every tool at his disposal—his charm and his "hustle," but also the bodies of the prostitutes he controls and the time and patience of people he barely knows. The film works as a showcase for a powerful, sly performance by Howard, a performance that will probably bring him an Oscar nomination, but too often it's overpowered by the heady scent of its own hokum.

DJay spends his days sitting in his patchwork Caddy with his "primary investor," a young, white, cornrowed prostitute named Nola (Taryn Manning), who seems to be the only breadwinner in his small stable. At home is the pregnant and weepy Shug (Taraji P. Henson) and the belligerent stripper Lexus (Paula Jai Parker), along with Lexus's toddler. DJay's operation is definitely small-time; he deals junk weed on the side and watches local rap star Skinny Black (rap star and co-producer Ludacris) on television, dreaming of becoming like him. After he learns that Skinny Black will be celebrating his birthday at a local bar where DJay sells pot to Arnel (Isaac Hayes), he decides that he's going to make a demo and somehow get the rap star to listen to it; he never doubts that Skinny will get him a record deal as soon as he hears DJay's "flow" (his raps).

To get his flow on tape, he enlists an unlikely crew: Key (Anthony Anderson), who records church recitals and dreams of producing; Shelby (DJ Qualls), a stoner vending machine supplier cum audiophile; and, of course, his prostitutes. DJay's pragmatic: he needs a nice microphone and can't afford it, so he trades the salesman an hour with Nola's body for the microphone. His song needs a hook, so he forces Shug to sing it. When Key and Shelby fear that his song "Beat That Bitch" won't get airplay, he changes it to "Whoop That Trick." To get close to Skinny Black, he's prepared to make up a story about them knowing each other as kids. "If I can pimp $20 ho's out the back of my Chevy," he says philosophically, "I can pimp Skinny." In the process, he, and the film, pimps the audience.

There's something missing from Howard's characterization, but I don't think it's his fault. Maybe it's my fault for expecting it. That something is self-awareness. I wanted him to see the disconnect between his music—especially the song with the catchy chorus that begins "It's hard out here for a pimp"—and the fact that he's not the one doing the work. At one point Nola, the sole bread-winner in his stable of prostitutes, asks him "what do you do?" but he never provides an answer, nor does the film. In another scene, DJay grabs Shug, who, remember, is pregnant, by the face and orders her to sing her heart out on his demo; there's violence in his act and more threatened by his anger. Later in the film, Shug tearfully thanks him for the opportunity to sing on his record, saying that it's the best thing that's ever happened to her. That's dismaying, but sadly believable, but my real problem with it is that it excuses DJay's actions. The film might have used Howard's performance better if it hadn't so clearly idolized him, if it had been the story of a man's drive to make it no matter what. But it sees him as a hero, and I have problems with that.

By the end, all of the characters—even cardboard shrews like Key's disapproving wife (Elise Neal)—come around: Shug realizes she loves DJay, Nola becomes a savvy businesswoman to promote his single, and Lexus realizes her mistake (but what mistake? Standing up to DJay's abuse?). We in the audience realize (or so I hope) that we've been cheering on a abusive user who has gained success as a musician not because he's particularly talented (I don't think DJay's thoughts or his rapping are all that good) but because he's ruthless—ruthless enough to use everything at his disposal, including the people around him, and ruthless enough to beat a nearly comatose man unconscious. In the end, despite all of DJay's little speeches about getting his message out, after Shelby's claim that every man has a right to lay down his verse, it's not about the music at all: it's about violence. I liked the film despite its unwillingness to acknowledge these faults, mainly because I found Howard's performance so entrancing, but it could have been a great film if only it had been a little more self-aware.