In my reluctant and humble conversations to drum up publicity for the blog and therefore, my career, I'm often left to explain the title to the four out of five people who- to my bewilderment- have never seen Hustle and Flow.
"You know? 'It's Hard out Here for a Pimp?' It's like that..."
More blank stares. And then I'm left to explain the premise, skillfully dodging the blatant suggested connection with sex that is of course meant to be satirical and ironic (believe me, it's ironic). This doesn't always work so here, allow me:
Hustle and Flow is a Memphis film, through and through. Conceived and developed by Craig Brewer, the movie follows DJay (Terrence Howard), a Memphis pimp creeping past his prime years with nothing to show for it except his cadre of prostitutes and a clawing aspiration to rap. Here's a disclaimer: some prominent Memphians have spoken out against the film, saying it smacks of racism and base stereotypes. Perhaps, perhaps, but there is an undeniable authenticity to life in the South and as I snarkily try to convey, a sweaty reverence for the Dream that won't go away, set to thrashing rhymes and assonant beats.
So although I did host a rap radio show my sophomore year of college ('Twas called "Sweet Jams." It's on my resume), I don't make any claims to deeply relating to the film. Yes, I was filled with an enormous pride when DJay and crew create a makeshift studio and record "Whoop That Trick" (yes, misogynistic indeed!). But Craig Brewer articulates the hazy lethargy of being caught in your aspirations and feeling, well, discouraged and unable to move forward.
"You know? 'It's Hard out Here for a Pimp?' It's like that..."
More blank stares. And then I'm left to explain the premise, skillfully dodging the blatant suggested connection with sex that is of course meant to be satirical and ironic (believe me, it's ironic). This doesn't always work so here, allow me:
Hustle and Flow is a Memphis film, through and through. Conceived and developed by Craig Brewer, the movie follows DJay (Terrence Howard), a Memphis pimp creeping past his prime years with nothing to show for it except his cadre of prostitutes and a clawing aspiration to rap. Here's a disclaimer: some prominent Memphians have spoken out against the film, saying it smacks of racism and base stereotypes. Perhaps, perhaps, but there is an undeniable authenticity to life in the South and as I snarkily try to convey, a sweaty reverence for the Dream that won't go away, set to thrashing rhymes and assonant beats.
So although I did host a rap radio show my sophomore year of college ('Twas called "Sweet Jams." It's on my resume), I don't make any claims to deeply relating to the film. Yes, I was filled with an enormous pride when DJay and crew create a makeshift studio and record "Whoop That Trick" (yes, misogynistic indeed!). But Craig Brewer articulates the hazy lethargy of being caught in your aspirations and feeling, well, discouraged and unable to move forward.
As my own journalistic career is inert at the moment, I often (have you been reading?) consider alternate career paths and weigh how to continue on with gaining a livelihood. But if DJay can staple fast-food styrofoam cup holders to his walls to pad the sound and make a demo, there is hope for me yet.
The last line of the movie, after all, is "Everybody got to have a dream." Now let's just disregard the fact that he says this from jail. You have to start somewhere.
The last line of the movie, after all, is "Everybody got to have a dream." Now let's just disregard the fact that he says this from jail. You have to start somewhere.
