When N.W.A. glitched the mainstream radio system with their 1988 breakout album Straight Outta Compton, the five upstarts in black—Eazy-E, Dr. Dre, Ice Cube, MC Ren and DJ Yella—branded their fresh, documentary-style take on hip-hop as “reality rap.” They took the country on a sonic tour through Compton, and while the group found mega success, wider audiences weren’t comfortable associating the grisly street stories they heard on the record with their own “reality.” They couldn’t stomach that. Hence, “reality rap” never caught on; the more ostracizing term “gangsta rap” sat better with the mainstream media, as it allowed white audiences to keep “gangstas” like N.W.A. at arms length.

F. Gary Gray reintroduces us to N.W.A. on an intimate level with his music-fueled biopic Straight Outta Compton, chronicling the group’s rise to prominence, their eventual split, and the death of ringleader Eazy-E. Full of good performances by actors who each bear an eye-popping resemblance to their real-life counterparts, the movie works—most of the time. Gray and screenwriters Jonathan Herman and Andrea Berloff at times feel too handcuffed to the group’s well-documented history, breaking up the rhythm of the story to check off a minor, well-documented detail of the journey, no matter how emotionally irrelevant it may be. As a result, the film lacks the same unbridled artistic vitality and brashness its subjects wore on their chests as they roared “Fuck Tha Police” in front of crowds of thousands.

Prioritizing narrative flow and historical accuracy is a challenge that comes with every biopic, but Gray had added pressure; two of the film’s producers are Dr. Dre and Ice Cube themselves. Their involvement is a blessing in that the movie’s first half, focusing on the group’s humble beginnings in Compton, feels alive and authentic. It starts with a young Ice Cube (played by his doppelganger son O’Shea Jackson) and Dr. Dre (Corey Hawkins, another dead-ringer) dropping hard beats and rhymes on a small club crowd who’d never heard anything realer. Determined to unleash their musical vision on a larger audience (larger than their local club, anyway), they convince drug dealer Eazy-E (Jason Mitchell) to finance their dreams. They start up an indie record label called Ruthless Records and hop in the studio, cutting the landmark record the movie’s named after.

Watching the creation of the group’s classic records come to life on-screen is an unfettered joy as a fan. An early scene sees Eazy hop his “non-rapping ass” into the booth as he struggles to find the beat on the Cube-penned “Boyz-n-the-Hood,” squealing the lyrics until Dre cuts him off from the other side of the glass, laughing. After a quick, playful trash-talk exchange, Dre offers some pointed advice, pleading with Eazy to relax and spit the lyrics like he means it, as if he was literally cruisin’ down the street in his ’64. The camaraderie between the actors feels genuine as they jam out in the studio, and there’s not much more you could want than that. Aldis Hodge and Neil Brown Jr. play MC Ren and DJ Yella, respectively, but they’re essentially non-entities in the story. It’s tough to say, but it feels like their C-character status in the film is informed by the public’s perception of the group rather than their value as human beings in the five-way friendship.

When the group hits the stage to perform their protest anthems in front of sold-out arenas, the movie flirts with greatness. A reenactment of the group’s performance of “Fuck Tha Police” at Joe Louis arena in Detroit brings the house down. Before they can finish the song, Detroit police storm the stage and shove the rappers into a van in handcuffs. It’s an exhilarating scene and a poignant one, once it dawns on you that the level of police harassment and brutality hasn’t diminished a bit since N.W.A. lit a fire under the country’s ass back in the early ’90s.

The movie starts to stumble in its second half, in which the rappers’ tight bond starts to crumble under the weight of contract negotiations and management disputes. These showbiz maneuverings were, in fact, what led to the group’s split (and their infamous volley of dis tracks), but in detailing these dealings the film loses a lot of the electricity it generates in the first act. Fan service moments like Dre and Snoop Doggy Dogg conceiving “Nuthin But a G Thang” and 2Pac nodding his head to the piano-driven “California Love” beat for the first time are amusing and full of nostalgia, but they stick out like sore thumbs and interfere with the larger emotional arc.

Eazy-E emerges as the film’s most layered character, with most of the story’s drama emanating from his mentor-student (master-slave?) relationship with the group’s longtime manager, Jerry Heller (Paul Giamatti), the first big supporter of the group who went on to reveal his true stripes as a cunning manipulator (“You’re smarter than this, Eazy!” he repeats) and shameless scam artist (“That’s how business works!”). Mitchell has the most challenging role of all, as our allegiance to Eazy shifts and sways several times throughout the movie. Eazy made some terrible mistakes and had a rabid ego, but was also a visionary and a symbol of strength, especially when he faced death at the hands of AIDS in 1995. Mitchell captures all of the colors of Eazy’s legacy, and there isn’t much more you could ask of him than that.

It’s freaky how much Jackson looks like his dad. Ice Cube is arguably the most lovable/toughest rapper of all time, and Jackson nails that dichotomy with that signature furrowed brow and big, toothy grin. Hawkins nails Dre’s whole “silent rage” thing, but the writers fail him in that they don’t explore the beauty of Dre’s musical thought process, something that’s earned the headphone mogul a reputation as being one of the most gifted music producers in history. With Dre’s deep involvement in the movie’s production, one would hope for a more penetrating insight into the way his mind works, artistically.

Influential and widely revered as they were, the N.W.A. crew weren’t exactly beacons of morality back then, and Gray mostly doesn’t shy away from that fact. Misogyny and violence were significant pieces of the group’s identity, but the movie is selective in its reflection of these less flattering characteristics. The women in the film are universally objectified, with bare, gyrating female bodies populating the screen on the regular. The party scenes look like booty-tastic ’90s rap videos, and rightfully so; this is an example of Gray staying true to the times and the mentality of the group. Like it or not, this is what the hip-hop scene looked like back then. There’s no mention of Dre’s history of violence against women, however, which, unfortunately, makes the story feel less complete.

Good-natured geeks get pulled into the quicksand of LA gang culture in Rick Famuyiwa‘s Sundance hit, Dope. It’s an unpredictable coming-of-age comedy that earns every laugh with its smart writing and well-crafted jokes that never feel cheap. Unlike other films addressing similar social and racial issues, Famuyiwa’s film isn’t a hero’s tale or some urban fantasy about rising above prejudice. It’s not a story about being a good person; it’s about being a survivor.

The underdog at the center of the story is Malcolm, played by a flat-top-rocking Shameik Moore. Malcolm’s a bright high school senior living in the Inglewood neighborhood called “The Bottoms” with his mom, a bus driver (his father left a long time ago, his only meaningful remnant a gifted VHS copy of Superfly). He’s a self-professed geek, spending most of his days obsessing over ’90s hip-hop culture (hence the flat-top), manga, porn and playing in a punk band with his two best friends. Kiersey Clemons plays Diggy, an outgoing, out-of-the-closet scrapper who’s always got Malcolm’s back. The third member of the hip-hop bohemian tribe is a scrawny fellow they call Jib, played by Tony Revolori (he was Zero in The Grand Budapest Hotel).

It’s explained early on (via slightly awkward Forest Whitaker narration) that The Bottoms is a pretty unfriendly place for them. Fights and shootings happen all the time, so getting bullied at school by Bloods (an everyday occurrence for Malcolm) is considered a relatively trivial complication compared to the gruesome stuff that happens on the block. Malcolm tries to avoid trouble as best he can, especially since he’s got Harvard in his crosshairs as his first-choice school. Nowhere in his application letter does he mention his under-privileged upbringing; instead, he analyzes Ice Cube’s Good Day as a way to stand out from the crowd of Harvard hopefuls. Upon reading the letter, Malcolm’s professor, who’s facilitating the application process, is frustrated that Malcolm—a straight-A student with a sterling record—thinks he can get into Harvard without using his hard-knocks upbringing to garner sympathy. “Who do you think you are?”

Later in the film, Malcolm’s in a dingy warehouse back office making a deal with a snarling thug involving inordinate amounts of molly (ecstasy), a thumb drive, and wads of dirty cash. The gangster tells Malcolm exactly who he is: “A man who don’t give a fuck.” How did Malcolm, a model teenager with a clean conscience, fall into such shady business, business that could derail his future?

It all starts with Dom (A$AP Rocky), a charismatic dealer who runs his block with a clenched fist. He takes Malcolm under his wing, using the nervous teen as a messenger pigeon to ask a pretty, smart girl up the block (Zoë Kravitz, channeling Nia Long in Friday) to come to his birthday party at the club. She agrees, but only if Malcolm goes, too. Malcolm develops a quick crush, of course, so he shows up to the party, Diggy and Jib in tow. In the chaos of a drug deal gone-wrong and a subsequent police raid, Malcolm winds up with a gun and tens of thousands of dollars worth of drugs in his backpack.

Thus begins Malcolm’s descent into a world of narcotic traffickers, racketeers and killers, with the geeky trio scrambling to figure out how to get rid of the drugs while trying to stay alive. The series of unlucky events cascade like falling dominos, and though things get dicey, the humor is always there, sustaining the film’s vigor.

Malcolm’s is a veritable whiz when it comes to academics, but when it comes to his new drug-slinging street life, he’s completely out of his depth. Whether he’s being seduced by a sultry drug empire princess, talking on the phone with a growly debt collector, or shivering as he points a gun for the first time, he’s always got a stupefied, almost cross-eyed look on his face. Moore’s great in the role because he’s effortlessly sympathetic; you can’t help but like him (the awesome Fresh Prince, De La Soul-inspired throwback attire doesn’t hurt, either). The rest of the cast is mostly very good, though Roger Guenveur Smith stinks up the joint as a borderline-comatose drug lord. Clemons and Revolori play solid confidants, but at the end of the day, Moore runs away with the movie.

Famuyiwa and DP Rachel Morrison’s visuals are vibrant and crisp, utilizing split-screen and unexpected freeze-frames and interludes to electric effect. The film’s always on the move, just like its protagonists. A late, unforgettable sequence in which Malcolm addresses the camera directly is a breathless show-stealer, a chilling monologue that’s easily be one of the best movie moments of the year. As far as soundtracks go, it’s Dope‘s track-list is going to be tough to beat. Narratively weaved-in classics from Nas (“The World Is Yours”), Public Enemy (“Rebel Without a Pause”) and A Tribe Called Quest (“Scenario”) are invaluable in defining the film’s style and vibe.

Like Dear White People, Dope is a movie about identity and perception. Malcolm’s struggle to reconcile his Harvard aspirations with his current, Walter White-ish situation is the movie’s drive, and the final resolution is a piercing observation on being someone of color, someone who society expects less from than the white mighty majority. The movie doesn’t get weighed down by the serious business, though: it’s a terrific hangout flick in the vein of Cooley High and Friday. Dope‘s dopeness is off the charts.