Mo Kim

This spring, I’m taking a Intro to Film class for fun at my local community college! Each week, we’ll be watching and discussing a different film. Since I’m learning about this subject for the first time, I wanted to share what I think about each film here!

Note: this review spoils the film’s ending.

John Singleton’s film Boyz N The Hood highlights the environmental and institutional factors that lead to violence and gang activity in black communities. The opening scene sets the tone for the entire movie: it opens on a black screen, sounds of gunfire and screaming children, and the statistic that ‘’one out of every twenty-one Black American males will be murdered in their lifetime” and that “most will die at the hands of another Black male.” The first real image the film shows is a “STOP” sign, showing its intention to both depict and challenge this problem. Tre’s father Furious, in particular, serves as a mouthpiece for the film’s message. In one scene, he schools his son Tre (and anybody else willing to listen) on how outside investors and business owners contribute gentrification and take advantage of Black residents. He asks everybody why there’s a “gun shop [and liquor store] on almost every corner in this community” before answering his own question: “they want us to kill ourselves.” It’s easy (and frankly lazy) to stereotype Black people as “thugs” who are the cause of their own struggles; Boyz N The Hood resists this stereotype through its storytelling, trying to highlight how behind each seemingly isolated incident of crime, there’s an entire ecosystem of manufactured poverty and addiction that leads folks to despair and, ultimately, violence.

I was most compelled by Furious because he serves as the Mentor archetype throughout the film, serving as a role model and educator to his son, Tre, his friends, and even his neighbors. The gentrification conversation is just one example; in other scenes, he educates Tre about safe sex after catching him with his girlfriend, Brandi, and de-escalates dangerous situations, like when Tre is about to go shoot his friend Ricky’s killers. What is most powerful about Furious’ mentorship, however, is his ability to see (and inspire) humanity in others. When convincing Tre to put the gun down, he demands that Tre “shoot [him]” first, highlighting how killing anybody (even if justified) is an act of dehumanization. Even when his house has been robbed, he shows more empathy to the would-be robber than Office Coffey, a Black officer who tells Furious he should have killed the robber so there would be “one less n-word out in the streets we’d have to worry about.” Furious, in response, calls out Coffey, saying that there is something wrong but “it’s too bad [he] doesn’t know what it is…brother.” The act of calling somebody a “brother” is an act of humanization, particularly between Black men: Furious using that word to refer to Officer Coffey, whose language dehumanizes a Black man in that moment, is a firm reminder that he will continue to see the humanity in his neighbors and community.

However, not all characters see the world in the same way that Furious does. The old man who disagrees with Furious, complaining about young folks “shooting each other and selling that crack rock and shit” is one example of a Black person blaming his own community for their self-destructive behavior; the film’s most memorable example, however, is Officer Coffey, who encounters Tre twice. Coffey’s comments not only highlight his self-hating mentality, he also abuses his power as a police officer, holding Tre at gunpoint and bragging that he could kill him without consequence. Ironically, the white police officer accompanying Coffey seems more hesitant, even looking away as Coffey threatens Tre – so why is it that the Black officer engages in even crueler behavior? The film gives us a clue into Coffey’s psyche through his rant: in it, he says how “n-words ain’t s***” and accuses Tre of looking like one of them “Crenshaw Mafia motherf*****s.” In doing so, he separates himself (an upstanding police officer trying to maintain order) from other Black people (low-lifes and gang members who need to be eliminated without mercy or due process). In other words, he abuses his position as a police officer in order to reconcile a fundamental tension between the Black community and the police: the only way to exist as a Black officer within this system is to do the opposite of what Furious does and create a mental division between himself and his people, convincing himself that he is different and therefore better than them.

In order to honor the complexity of the Black experience in Los Angeles and depict them with humanity and respect, it’s important for somebody with a personal connection to this experience direct this film. In an interview with NPR’s Fresh Air, director John Singleton puts it simply: “it had to be directed by somebody who lived it.” He jokingly imagines a version of this film directed by a white director: “Furious would be a Baptist minister. Tre would be a choir boy. And at the end of the movie, Doughboy would sing a gospel song. So I don’t think anybody else could’ve directed this film outside of myself.” By choosing direct his screenplay himself, Singleton was pushing back against a media ecosystem that filled theatres and TV screens with stereotypical depictions of Black communities that flattened their identities and struggles, turning them either into pious victims or one-dimensional villains. He wanted to highlight that Black characters’ choices, whether good or bad, are often limited by systems of oppression outside their control.

Tre’s friend, Doughboy, is the most tragic consequence of these systems. His journey throughout the film, from a playful (if foul-mouthed) youth to a hardened drug dealer and gang member, highlights how overly-harsh punishments for young people only exacerbate crime and violence: Doughboy himself comes to this realization by the end of the film, after the shooting of his half-brother Ricky leads him on a rampage of revenge, killing three rival gang members at gunpoint. He laments how outside observers will likely never understand the full story, saying “Either they don’t know don’t show or don’t care about what’s going on in the hood.” His words are a direct critique of the mainstream media, who only cover issues in “the hood” when they can profit, using sensationalized incidents of violence to sell papers and inspire moral panic about the violence happening “over there.” This still rings true over thirty years later, as we see politicians and news commentators continuing to scapegoat Black people for violence and poverty, even in the aftermath of incidents like the George Floyd murder.

Perhaps the main difference between 1991 and now, however, is that because of films like Boyz n the Hood, viewers today can be more skeptical and critical of these easy explanations when we encounter them. The film itself ends on a hopeful note, as Doughboy mourns not having any brothers left; Tre, who has now completed his coming-of-age, reminds him that “he’s got one brother left.” The seed of humanity that Furious planted in Tre blooms here, and we as viewers are left with a powerful message: the antidote to violence – and the dehumanization it creates – is brotherhood, connection, humanity. The stories we tell and consume have the power to disrupt established narratives and help us see our neighbors through new eyes.