A review by Dave MacTavisht 
Rating: 3/5

This Hip-Hop horror flick from Jeff Carroll has all of the earmarks of standard Hollywood fare: a high body count, severed limbs (or, in this case a penis on a bathroom floor), death penalty as suitable punishment for deviant behavior - especially if you're pulled over on a dimly lit street enjoying road-head. But the similarities are strictly plot-points; the delivery, execution and commentary are unique to this film. Before the credits roll, the film's principle dualism is revealed in the form of a poor pregnant girl performing a coat-hanger abortion in lieu of funds for medical care (that is: in lieu of a decent supportive man), and bleeding to death on her bathroom floor. This is to say that only one member of a relationship can excel. It is the parasite versus the host. The friction is between gold-diggers and deadbeat playas; the film allows little room for altruism. During a routine trip to the abortion clinic, Imani hears the news of this fatality through one of her friends, (a woman who practices abortion as birth control and tells the doctor to keep his opinions to himself and "vacuum this shit outta me, please") and realizes that her hoopty-driving ass needs to ditch her student boyfriend and find a brother that'll buy her a new whip.

Immediately, the action is broken up for the first of a series of poetry-slam interludes that act as commentary on Hip-Hop, misogyny and relationships: "If you fuck him, he will leave you." This dynamic achieves a nearly metaphysic quality when Imani delivers a poem of her own at what we come to understand is called Club Juicy. Imani, if you have not guessed, becomes the Gold Digger Killer after her first experiment in gold-digging goes horribly awry and results in a date-rape gang-bang. Her first victim is the hilariously dim-witted and morally bankrupt hotel clerk who finds her half-dead and proceeds to indulge in sloppy seconds, err, fifths.

From that point, the plot is Hollywood fodder: bloodshed and eventual capture. The interesting moments are pleasantly disembodied exposes and pure poetry. A book-group discusses a self-help volume called I'm not a player, I'm a bachelor written by an author who admits that his childhood was wrought with low self-esteem and Freudian symbolism: "I grew up having to hear my mother call my father a motherfucker all the time." A daytime talk show discusses the effects of Hip-Hop on heterosexual relationships: "I blame Hip-Hop," says one guest, "they make women look like prostitutes." And finally, Imani writes in her poem notebook after adopting her gold-digger killer mentality: "I am what you get for using your dick as a weapon."

It seems, finally, that no one can bear the entire burden of healthy relationships. Hip-Hop should keep misogyny in check, women should abandon gold-digging as a means to power, men shouldn't fuck-and-forget. But until these issues are resolved, enjoy the tastefully corrupt one-liners and slashy-go-lucky blood trail of Gold Digger Killer: