Wow, this 50 Cent guy gets around.

In the weeks following the release of "Get Rich or Die Tryin'," the man otherwise known as Curtis Jackson put out a self-aggrandizing video game, a soundtrack and, of course, the film itself - a dark slice of his biography executed with all the passion of a middle school science project.

Jackson plays Marcus, a thinly disguised persona who not only commits the youthful crimes involving drugs and violence etched in Jackson's own backstory, but also has the good fortune of parlaying those now public acts (selling crack like his mother, getting shot repeatedly in the mouth) into a personal mythos. Ultimately, "Get Rich" and its obsession with "faithfully" recreating the biography of its star leaves it predictable and in the shadow of "8 Mile," both its easiest comparison and its artistic superior.

The nice foundation of minor stars surrounding the precocious leading man props him up admirably: A nuanced street peer (Terrence Howard, "Hustle & Flow"), antagonizing boss (Adewale Akinnuoye-Agbaje, "The Bourne Identity"), and a wistful, loyal lover (Joy Bryant, "The Skeleton Key") all keep their roles afloat, giving Jackson every opportunity to succeed.

And the plot is easily violent and thrilling enough - casually brutal to an almost unheard-of level. This would be an unflattering biopic about any real figure, but 50 Cent has certainly made himself more than a man here. He, like Marcus, is blessed with his skill set: sublimely gifted rapper, street dealer supreme and surprisingly decent boyfriend and father. Interestingly enough, Bryant's Charlene gets more lines and characterization than any other woman in 50 Cent's musical background. Instead of being a mindless stripper or ladder-climbing tart (the usual characterizations of women in 50's videos), she's tough, smart and protective.

She's too much woman for him, and the camera wisely bends to her in key moments of drama.

Visually, the film is stark. Director Jim Sheridan ("My Left Foot"), obviously no stranger to showing the foul hues of urban decay, tailors the light to Jackson's expectedly weathered profile. But the thing that makes 50's history and authority so enduring is the same thing that cripples his performance: the bullets.

Jackson's hard lateral lisp, born out of the bullet fragments in his jaw and tongue, makes the already clunky voice-overs self-parodying and mutes the punchiest lines. Physically, his distorted superman frame of impossible block shoulders becomes too large for the screen. Marcus doesn't so much cradle his infant son as he does swallow him in his biceps.

But he still mumbles his way through all the big scenes and most of the small ones, trundling over the timing and beats like a steamroller. The film's third act, usually the best ("8 Mile," "Hustle & Flow"), tries to blend the art Marcus eventually embraces with the cash and power of the streets. Economics wins convincingly, and art seems just like a side dish. Funny how fast that can happen.

Rating: 2 out of 5 stars