Even just on paper, as an attempt to trace the origins of one of hip-hop’s most influential and contentious ensembles, F Gary Gray’s Straight Outta Compton appears to be tackling the impossible. Deriving its name from the game-changing 1988 album by the NWA—or Niggaz Wit Attitude, the Los Angeles group that pioneered what came to be called “gangsta rap”—the film is tasked with examining so many characters and conflicts and pop-culture milestones that it could’ve easily crumpled under the accumulated weight, as many other similar attempts to capture the rise (and usually all) of artists have done in the past. Add to that the constraints that come of being co-produced by two of the group’s founding members, and we have ourselves a recipe for the sort of self-indulgent, whitewashed biopics that only scratch the surface. But while it’s true that Compton doesn’t dig deep enough into its subjects, and often paints them in too-kind colours—as well as being more conventional in form than one would expect—thanks to the chemistry drummed up by its young cast, the energy in the music they represent, and the context offered by present-day headlines featuring racial tensions in the US, the film works. It manages to transcend its predictable rags-to-riches structure to become something bigger, more compelling than the sum of its parts—thought-provoking and entertaining in equal measure.

The story opens in 1986, on the streets of the titular Compton, a poor, black, inner-city neighbourhood characterised by gang rivalry and drug wars, violence and hopelessness exacerbated under the scrutiny of a hostile police force that sees fit to routinely abuse and humiliate residents. Among those felt up by the cops one time too many is Eric “Eazy-E” Wright (Jason Mitchell), although in his particular case, they probably had reason—he deals for a living, after all. Comparatively cleaner of repute is Andre Young (Corey Hawkins), a young DJ who’s been scraping by working at a small club with friend Antoine, aka DJ Yella (Neil Brown Jr). There’s also high-schooler O’Shea “Ice Cube” Jackson (O’Shea Jackson Jr), who can be found scribbling rhymes every chance he gets. One fine day, Dre, sick of playing schmaltzy “slow jams”, convinces Eazy-E to invest his ill-gotten gains into music, and it’s not long before the four—with the addition of MC Ren (Aldis Hodge), another artist from Compton—are recording under Eazy’s newly established label, Ruthless Records.

When their first song proves a hit locally, the group is courted by the track-suited Jerry Heller (Paul Giamatti), a manager who promises to make them “legit” if they hire him. And he certainly keeps his word: under his wing, the NWA gets a profitable contract with a bigger company—although these profits aren’t necessarily evenly distributed—and following the release of their breakout album, find themselves playing to huge sold-out arenas, not to mention all the partying that comes alongside. Conservative Americans are appalled by their popularity, as are the police looking for any excuse to put them away, but the guys are happy to take on whatever controversy comes up—it’s free publicity. Eventually, however, the aforementioned disparity in pay-scale becomes difficult to ignore; the rest of the film deals with how business complications tear the group apart, giving rise to solo careers and bitter in-fighting, long-time friendships put to the ultimate test.

Compton boasts a top cast. Mitchell and Hawkins, both relatively unknown, are confident performers; the former, in particular, manages a tough mix of arrogance and vulnerability, his eyes betraying insecurity even as he blusters mightily on the surface. The appointment of Jackson Jr, who is Ice Cube’s real-life son, meanwhile, could’ve very well made for a poor stunt, but the young man nails the role: not only does he look, talk and scowl like his father, but he’s also a competent actor in his own right. And though Hodge and Brown Jr don’t enjoy as much screen-time as the others, whenever all five are together—at home, in the recording booth or on stage—there’s such natural camaraderie between them that it’s easy to believe they’re genuine friends with history. The ever-versatile Giamatti is expectedly on form, too; the script by Andrea Berloff and Jonathan Herman thankfully refrains from designating him an outright villain (unlike some other less-subtly sketched antagonists in Compton), maintaining some crucial shades of grey.  

Also practically a character unto itself is NWA’s music, woven through the film, offering points of reference. Even those of us not partial to the genre otherwise can’t help but be swept away by its immediacy and power as presented here: while studio sequences pulse with the sheer thrill of witnessing the creative process in action, an outcome of individual talent and collective chemistry, it’s the live performances that are most effective. Raw, provocative, defiant, this is where the group’s true appeal and cultural importance comes through—a case in point is the depiction of a 1989 concert in Detroit that had ended abruptly when they’d performed the incendiary “F*** Tha Police”, despite being expressly warned against doing so.

Indeed, these are the moments that really make Compton, in which it draws attention to the struggle between the black community and cops in the US—something that is sadly as relevant in 2015 as it was in the 80s—encompassing as well the larger issue of police aggression against minorities in general. There’s a resonating intensity about the scenes where our leads and their kin clash with law enforcement, where we’re shown the indignities that they’re made to suffer for no apparent reason, and which lays bare the roots of their anger and hard posturing.

Of course, we do have some issues. A definite slackening in pace is felt across the second half—the prolonged drama over contracts just doesn’t sustain interest the way the group’s meteoric rise up the ranks does in the first half—it moves too slow and stretches too thin at this point. Compton has also been accused of conveniently skimming over certain unflattering snippets of the NWA’s history—such as Dre’s violent assault on a female rapper/reporter in 1991 or accusations of courting misogyny and anti-Semitism in their songs—but as a story told from their perspective, that lack of objectivity can hardly be shocking. Finally, there is the rather problematic depiction of women in the film, comprising little more than set decorations; a few have been given a line or two of dialogue but don’t matter all that much, and the rest simply exist to drape themselves over furniture or jiggle to music, in various states of undress—shiny, interchangeable prizes for the men to claim.

These stumbles aside, Compton impresses overall as a story that illustrates the power of resistance. One might not think it to look at NWA members today—Ice Cube, for instance, has been dabbling in light comedy features for a while now, while Dre is lately known for having joined Apple in a profitable headphones deal—but this little trip down memory lane serves to show us where these guys came from, how they got together and how they changed music, and the world.