One need only click the link to 50 Cent's hilariously po-faced official website to get a flava of what to expect from this Hollywoodised version of his life story. "50 is real. So he does real things", it proclaims.

Except acting apparently, since he delivers dialogue like it's stuck to the bullet fragment lodged in his tongue. If he's lucky to be alive, we're lucky that he’s surrounded by an array of better thesps.

'Fiddy' plays his own alter-ego Marcus, a fatherless kid whose mother is killed while plying her drug trade. So young Marcus takes up the family business and he's soon the most prolific pre-teen pusher in Queens.

He grows up with a passion for rap, but it's crack that pays the rent and Marcus and his crew are never far from the bullet-strewn thick of things.

His sweetheart Charlene (Bryant) isn't down with all the violence, but respect is in short supply for the girlz in this hood.

After a friend is crippled and a close shave in jail, responsible new father Marcus thinks he has what it takes to survive in the music game.

But rap and crime go hand-in-hand and someone is about to use Marcus for target practice. Nine times...

Many would consider this a big comedown for the Oscar-nominated director of My Left Foot and In The Name Of The Father but Sheridan brings a level head to proceedings, reining in that tedious gangsta machismo and maintaining a brisk tempo.

He is a high-calibre filmmaker; highly appropriate since these gun-worshipping homeboys make Charlton Heston look like Gandhi.

But, 'real' or not, the endless cycle of retribution soon wears thin, and poppin' caps in asses is nothing to be proud of.

Nine bullets couldn't deflate Mr Cent's ego, but the movie's paltry box office take in America suggests that most homies would rather do somethin' else with their fifty cents. Like get drunk or go shoppin'.

Elliott 'Quezy E' Noble