A lumbering, illustrated hagiography of the slain rap phenom Tupac Shakur that, in its efforts to exalt and exonerate the man, reduces him to a strangely passive figure: a sweet, goodhearted, brilliant kid to whom bad things keep happening. The structure leans heavily on reporters — whether conducting interviews, appearing on TVs, or simply narrating over cascading headlines — and while the device is useful for conveying data, it also works to drain energy and urgency. (Straight Outta Compton had its flaws, but at least it conveyed why N.W.A. connected.) Perhaps by way of compensation, The Man looms large throughout, beginning with the electrifying initial appearance of Skakur’s mother, pregnant with her future-superstar son, immediately after she successfully defended herself and other Black Panthers against criminal conspiracy charges. But Tupac himself admits that he’s not a black leader, and even after Vice President Quayle name checks him on national television, the best Mama can do is warn our hero that “They’re going to come after you with everything you love. They’re going to give you all the tools you need to destroy yourself.” Say what now? As for the East Coast-West Coast hip hop rivalry that contributed to his violent death (as the film seems to imply), it’s probably best to know the details going in. (2017) — Matthew Lickona
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