But Hanson understands that those conventions don't have to be tiresome; they can be revitalized every time there's a sea change in youth culture -- in fact, it's about time someone made a picture like this about hip-hop culture. Hanson (director of "L.A. Confidential" and "Wonder Boys") may seem like an odd fit as a director, but he does have a feel for classic modes of storytelling. And he's more interested in people than in topicality; he always takes care to put his characters first. Instead of using them to make blunt statements about poverty or racial tension, he lets the rough textures of their lives unfold before us -- any attendant social issues are simply part of the fabric.

He also seems to get that hip-hop battles didn't spring from nowhere: Jazz fans know they're just another version of cutting contests, onstage competitions in which musicians would ruthlessly out-improvise each other. Hanson slips right into the rhythm of this particular culture, showing how, for Jimmy, hip-hop isn't something you aspire to, but an intensely verbal way of thinking that informs everyday life -- a skill that involves finding the right words for every situation and figuring out, on the fly, how to piece them together for maximum effect.

Hanson captures how freeing and invigorating that process must be, showing Jimmy and Future improvising a rhyme (about their own dead-end lives and Jimmy's mom's stupid boyfriend, among other things) to "Sweet Home Alabama," mimicking Lynyrd Skynyrd's flattened, pure-white Southern accents. Hanson builds up slowly to the picture's best and most thrilling sequence, the final battle, in which Jimmy cuts his opponents to the quick by facing up to the crappiness of his own life and wielding it like a sword. When one guy makes a crack about "Leave It to Beaver," a completely undisguised slam at Jimmy's whiteness, Jimmy turns it against him without batting an eye. He starts out thoughtfully, tugging a little against the beat: "Ward, I think you were a little hard on the Beaver ..." and drives it home from there.

This improvised routine is less a flurry of invective than a finely shaped argument, laced with cultural references that seem to have been grabbed spontaneously from thin air. It's the final argument anyone should ever have to make for hip-hop, done well, as an art form: If you can put the right words together like that and make them swing, you're in a very small minority of human beings on this earth, because it ain't easy.

If "8 Mile" feels old-fashioned but not outmoded, the actors deserve at least some of the credit. Basinger seems to have crawled right into her character: Stephanie's life is all about screwing her good-for-nothing boyfriend (Michael Shannon), going to bingo and complaining about being broke, and not much else, least of all caring for her young daughter. It doesn't matter how beautiful Stephanie is (she looks as if she could be Jimmy's not-much-older sister): At first you wonder how anyone could let her get away with such laziness and irresponsibility. But Basinger pulls a neat trick on us, turning on that milky-sweet Southern accent and reeling us in seductively just when we think we've conveniently written her off.

Phifer plays Future as one of those smart, good-natured, charismatic guys who nevertheless just doesn't have what it takes to become a real success -- it's a small but nicely layered performance. Brittany Murphy, as the girl Jimmy has a thing for, has smudgy, round eyes and hair that flares out like a set of unruly bleached angel wings. Murphy knows how to work those looks: She comes off as both perpetually lost and preternaturally wise, like a Dickensian orphan reimagined by Walter Keane.

The big question -- Can Eminem act? -- is one that "8 Mile" doesn't answer. But it doesn't have to. There are times when a personality can carry a movie effortlessly, and that's what Eminem does here. He's a purely believable presence. Eminem doesn't reach out toward us. He's veiled and guarded, but even so, he reveals flickers of vulnerability. His slightly protruding eyes give him a potent stare; they're not just a physical characteristic but an explanation for his way of being. It's as if he's taking everything in around him and working overtime to process it as quickly as possible.

Eminem is still a mystery, and "8 Mile" doesn't come close to explaining him. It's probably safe to assume that part of the reason that older, more straitlaced white audiences don't respond to hip-hop is because they feel intimidated by the image -- whether it's real or merely just perceived -- of the angry black male. So what do we make of an angry white one, particularly one like Eminem, who's intimidating because of his sheer intensity? When Jimmy, a scrawny, hunched-over white kid with darting eyes, goes head-to-head in a battle of wits (and wit) with a buffed-up black guy in a muscle T-shirt, there's no question which character is more unnerving. We just don't know what makes Jimmy, or Eminem, tick. But we can hear it, and sometimes it sounds suspiciously like a heartbeat.

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