Eminem Stars in Movie About Eminem
By Kate Brokaw
A&F Writer

At one point during the climax of Curtis Hanson’s new film 8 Mile, there’s a moment that reminds us that we’re watching a barely disguised biography of its star: with the audience at an intense rhyme battle hanging on his every syllable, Jimmy Scott, Jr. (but hell, let’s just call him Eminem) declares himself “white trash,” and reveals the privileged, private school background of his black competitor. It’s an electric scene that owes its spark entirely to the man at its center; not for a moment of Eminem’s film debut in 8 Mile can you take your eyes off of him. But ultimately, no amount of blazing charisma in its lead actor can prevent the film from sinking into a sea of conventionality. We’ve seen this story before countless times; not surprisingly, it’s the star who holds our interest.

“Minority status can free us from being trapped in miserable white, straight, Christian enclaves,” cultural critic Walter Hughes once wrote, “just as the disco beat compels us to contemplate new forms of social and personal integration.” In the last decade, no other artist has so concretely proven Hughes’s point as Eminem, who has included public declarations and drama about his dysfunctional trailer-park background as part of his music and his image from the very beginning. Having now released three provocative, violent, critical albums, he has become the most successful white hip-hop artist to date, as well as one of the most consistently fascinating public entertainers. And now, by positioning himself as a serious actor in this Hollywood biopic, he’s poised to saturate mainstream culture more so than was previously imagined possible.

As the film opens, Jimmy (referred to as Rabbit by those around him) is in front of a dingy bathroom mirror, headphones strapped to his head and fist to his lips as if a microphone, practicing his moves with intense concentration. We can tell that Jimmy is talented, but he chokes in his initial battle, silenced by screams of “this is hip-hop. You don’t belong—you’re a tourist.” Between long days at the plant where he works stamping car bumpers and life in the trailer with his childish, irresponsible mother (Kim Basinger) and little sister, Jimmy fills up pieces of paper with lyrical ideas and rhymes. Because, yes, he needs to find his own voice in the music, and then maybe—oh, just maybe—he’ll also find an escape out of these dark surroundings.

These are the stock characters that surround Jimmy: there’s a deadbeat boyfriend for his mother; an angel-faced little sister to whimper in the corner and scream while he’s beat up; a shady guy who might have industry connections; even a semi-retarded friend played for humor. Mekhi Phifer, as Jimmy’s friend and mentor, does bring a real counterbalance to Eminem’s occasional live-wire tendency, but Brittany Murphy, as the film’s token love interest, is mostly wasted. A floozy with an edge, she tells Jimmy he’s a “dope rapper” and saunters around in her fishnets, scarlet lips in a pout, dreaming of a life as a model in New York. Popping up every once in a while, her character doesn’t make much of an impression (more the script’s fault than Murphy’s), except in one scene where she drops in on Jimmy at the plant for a lunchtime quickie; their lovemaking is raw and exposed among the clanking machinery. But each and every one of the scenes in his trailer park home sink into white trash cliches of domestic violence.

Curtis Hanson (L.A. Confidential, Wonder Boys) might seem an odd choice of director for this raw hip-hop fable, but his expertise does manage to sharpen a noble edge to the proceedings. In this kind of celeb-centered biopic, a real filmmaking conscientiousness becomes especially important in maintaining the film’s depth; 8 Mile avoids becoming a typical star showcase because the narrative and the themes of the film are kept front and center. Hanson also shows a great ease in his direction of the scenes where Jimmy hangs out with his friends, creating a natural, refreshing feel of authenticity.

The rich dinginess of 8 Mile’s appearance—colors seem to seep through the cold darkness of the surroundings—is due to cinematographer Rodrigo Prieto, who brought a similar sensibility to the kinetic Mexican film Amores Perros.

8 Mile certainly isn’t lacking an intelligent social conscience or self-referentialism: at one point a character begins a discussion about how it’s “always easier for white men to succeed in a black man’s media.” The film is not just full of social commentary, overriding themes of race relations and social status, but also touches on the lack of health insurance in poor communities and contains one incident that involves burning down an abandoned house that “wouldn’t be standing if it was on the other side of 8 Mile.” This “8 Mile” of the title is a highway through Detroit that separates the city from the suburbs, and it’s referred to as a social and economic fissure throughout the film.

But no matter how socially aware the film may be, 8 Mile just doesn’t really go anywhere in the end. As thrilling as the final rap showdown is, there’s not really any suspense to it: we’re so familiar with Eminem as a public figure that we know he’s going to blow everyone away at a certain point. The electricity of the film is based entirely on its star, and it otherwise sinks all too often into an unsurprising narrative and the tedium of dialogue that’s merely serviceable to the proceedings. (“Once they hear you,” Jimmy is told at one point, “it won’t matter what color you are.”)

It’s only in the rap scenes where any real drive or tension (or verbal dexterity) occurs.

It’s clear, however, that 8 Mile’s massive opening weekend take of $55 million (as the soundtrack simultaneously hit number one on the music charts) demonstrates the continued nerve that Eminem is striking with the American public. In his last album, The Eminem Show, there’s a line about being “the worst thing since Elvis Presley, to do black music so selfishly and use it to get myself wealthy.” In 8 Mile, these themes are continued, as Jimmy is referred to as “Elvis” amidst derisive jeers in one scene.

Forget Slim Shady. Vulnerable, angry and intensely magnetic, this is Eminem’s most remarkable—and honest—persona to date. It’s just the film around him that can’t quite match up.