Grade: B-

Since 1991’s “Boyz ‘N the Hood,” writer-director John Singleton’s career has had its ups and downs. His debut was compelling and assured, instantly lifting him into the top ranks of young American filmmakers, but his sophomore effort, “Poetic Justice” (1993) was a pretentious mess, notable only for showcasing the dynamic Tupac Shakur. “Higher Learning” (1995) was better, but only just, focusing on some interesting ideas but slipping into melodrama. It was followed by “Rosewood” (1997), an ambitious, large-scale period piece which had great style and power but went largely unappreciated. Then came a move into pure popcorn with last year’s flashy, absurdly energetic remake of “Shaft,” which was beautifully crafted fun but nothing more. Now Singleton has returned to his roots in the South Central neighborhood of Los Angeles for “Baby Boy,” an intermittently strong, often darkly humorous but ultimately uneven narrative about a young black man who has trouble growing up and learning the lessons of responsibility.

In a role originally intended for the late Shapur, recording star/model/MTV VJ Tyrese Gibson plays Jody, an unemployed 20-year old who’s fathered kids by two different women, Yvette (Taraji P. Henson) and Peanut (Tamara LaSeon Bass)–both of whom he continues to take advantage of at every opportunity–but is still living at home with his mother (A.J. Johnson). His comfortable life as a pampered layabout is threatened by the arrival of his mom’s new boyfriend Melvin (Ving Rhames), a highly-muscled ex-thug turned yard man, who moves into the house, convincing Jody he’ll soon be asked to leave. To make matters worse, his relationship with his preferred squeeze Yvette sours, and his place with her is usurped by a menacing ex-con, Rodney (Snoop Dog), whom he’s eventually forced to confront under the prodding of his volatile best friend Sweetpea (Omar Gooding). Can Jody break the cycle of immaturity he’s lived in so long, stay alive and become a man without also becoming a killer?

There’s a lot that’s right with “Baby Boy.” It captures the atmosphere of South Central with keen insight–something one would expect of course, from the maker of “Boyz ‘N the Hood.” It succeeds in shifting skillfully from straight, often high drama to sharp comedy; not many pictures manages such abrupt transitions so well. It showcases an excellent debut performance by Gibson, who not only looks great but convinces in sequences ranging from near-farce to domestic intimacy to angry melodrama; he may not be willing to abandon his other careers for acting, but he’s certainly got the right stuff if he chooses to do so. The supporting males are very fine, too. Rhames’ silent authority invigorates many moments, in some of which he projects considerable affability and in others a truly maniacal power. (His penultimate scene with Gibson is stunningly good.) Gooding makes a raffish sidekick, alternately amusing and frightening. And Snoop Dog is quietly terrifying as Yvette’s unwelcome guest. The women aren’t quite as memorable–the real energy is in the interrelationships among the men–but Johnson is energetic and Henson is engaging in a role that could easily have become unbearably shrill.

“Baby Bob” also has problems, though. It makes its central point too insistently. We really don’t have to hear Jody told to grow up quite so often; it’s as though Singleton were uncertain of the audience’s ability to get the message without having it drummed into us every few minutes. (The initial, and occasionally repeated, shot of Jody “in the womb” should have been excised, too.) At over two hours, the picture goes on too long, and structurally it tends to ramble. Most importantly, it cheats the audience with a sequence toward the close which turns out to be, as one might say, just a terrible dream, and never fully recovers despite that great scene between Gibson and Rhames. There’s also more than a little ambiguity in the kind of “maturity” that Jody achieves by the film’s end. He’s learned to work, to be sure–but his “job” consists of hawking stolen dresses and skirts. And though he moves in with Yvette, there’s no mention of marriage between them, and no assurance that their blissful domesticity will survive. Singleton’s message is surely that while the character has taken a first step toward real manhood, he hasn’t gotten there yet and may well fall back into his old habits. But it’s debatable whether he’s made the point with sufficient clarity. (The moral and legal implications of one horrific act also go unaddressed.)

Singleton’s cinematic homecoming to South Central is thus a mixed bag. “Baby Boy” has a sincerity that’s often compelling, strikes an impressive balance between comedy and drama, and boasts performances that are uniformly excellent. But it’s crippled by a script that’s too often repetitive and makes a major miscalculation in the last act, and by an outcome that doesn’t achieve the subtlety and ambivalence the writer-director doubtlessly intended. And despite its virtues, it fails to achieve the same level of distinction one remembers from its decade-old predecessor.