That it's the most substantial movie vehicle yet to feature hip-hop stars (Outkast's André "André 3000" Benjamin and Antwan "Big Boi" Patton) isn't saying a great deal. Idlewild's thicket of genre references does suggest, though, that ironic riffs such as Francis Ford Coppola's The Cotton Club and the Coens' Miller's Crossing are old enough to earn homage themselves. Tinted sepia and dolled up in supreme period duds, Barber's all-black universe revolves around surely the era's only nightclub-speakeasy-whorehouse with fire-breathing, body-painted strippers, a cavernous enterprise with chicken coops onstage and a seething backstage warren of clutter. The opening-credits sequence is nostalgic and lovely, an archival reminiscence by Benjamin's Percival about his motherless childhood spent in a mortician's office, rubbing elbows with rumrunners, mourners and Rooster, a wily orphan as rootless as Percival is confined. From there, the two pals' stories run more or less parallel: A faithless family man and "singer" on the club's stage, Rooster (Patton) witnesses his boss getting whacked by a rabid hood (Terrence Howard, out-acting everybody) and thereby inherits the establishment's debt and managerial duties. Meanwhile, piano-player Percival, who works dressing corpses by day under the eye of tyrannical dad Ben Vereen, meets an out-of-town chanteuse (Paula Patton, no relation) and pursues an awkward romance.
Most of the numbers flow from the nightclub stage, armed with video-rehearsed dance routines and Barber's frantic editing, which always cuts on the upbeat movement but could give you a tic as well. (When Paula Patton's nervous diva belts out a few notes in a single shot that lasts 6 seconds, it feels like a cold cocktail in a sandstorm.) Offstage, the songs are outrageously wrong but have a stubborn absurdity, especially when Patton's Rooster raps a duet with his (animated) drinking flask while driving in a dusky, tommy-gun-peppered car chase.
Outkast themselves are a bit of a muddle. Patton, having made a fortune with hip-hop's standard-operating-procedure supercool introversion, rarely opens up and actually acts. (This is a cult-of-personality genre in which the stars rarely take off their shades.) Benjamin, stuck with a mopey role, fares better and carries with him (as in John Singleton's otherwise forgettable Four Brothers) a self-pitying darkness that's not on the script page. But his post-climactic ballad, warbled over an undertaker's slab, can only produce sympathy for the uneasy performer, not his heartbroken character.
Unfortunately, Idlewild grows more conventional and slack as it rolls on. The gang war we're promised never coalesces, Percival's romance takes eons to consummate, and for long stretches everyone seems to be waiting for someone else to push the old-fangled story over the next edge. I would've appreciated, too, an even deeper sense of the era, when people as old as Ving Rhames' crime boss or Bill Nunn's hooch supplier would've remembered slavery. Still, it's a pleasure to note Idlewild's racial self-assurance, which owns the caricatures as well as the stereotype busters and bullishly obviates any potential NAACP objections. (Its regard for women, however, isn't far above the hip-hop schema of crazy whores and nagging wives.) The film is so corn pone that class and poverty aren't even issues crime and decadence are their own reasons to get the hell out of Georgia while the getting is good.