It's a pity ace cinematographer Ernest Dickerson didn't take the same job for his own directing debut, which could have used a little razzle-dazzle visual camouflage to hide the clichés. The film presents a narrow, familiar view of inner city black culture: the language, the music, and the same old conflict between the struggle for respect and the impulse toward crime. Nothing new is added to an already overworked formula, and the screenplay offers no justification for hotheaded teen troublemaker Tupac Shakur's sudden transformation into a trigger-happy psychopath, following a liquor store hold-up gone sour. The New York City settings are gritty and authentic, but the film amounts to little more than a soundtrack album in search of a plot. Beware the portentous freeze-frame ending, which these days is a convenient way to avoid any sticky unanswered questions.
