Nothing to rave about

Easily the most grotesquely over-rated movie of the week is this noisy, adulatory and disorganised documentary by trendy director Michel Gondry (Eternal Sunshine Of The Spotless Mind).

It's about a Brooklyn street party held by an American comedian of whom I had never heard, holding a free concert featuring hip-hop acts, most of whom I had never heard of either and few of whom I would care to hear again.

The needlessly self-congratulatory air of the party organiser, Mr Chappelle, coupled with his astonishing lack of talent (how bad do you have to be to become a superstar comedian in America nowadays?), makes this a painful bore, as do the relentlessly repetitive, 4/4 rhythm of the rap artists, their atrocious lyrics (many of them mercifully inaudible apart from the usual swear words) and the near-total lack of tunefulness (when Lauryn Hill sings the Roberta Flack oldie Killing Me Softly, I almost wept with gratitude at hearing a melody).

The movie can, I suppose, be recommended to fans of Mos Def, Erykah Badu, Kanye West, Talib Kweli, Dead Prez, Jill Scott, The Roots and The Fugees.

Anyone else should stay away, and be grateful they weren't living in Brooklyn when this noisy bunch were playing in the streets.

You would never guess that this movie isn't a masterpiece if you had read the American reviews, all of which affect to find it brilliant.

I can't help wondering if these judgments are honest. Or are they a patronising, pusillanimous attempt by predominantly white, middle-class critics to curry favour with a youthful black community?

This lack of critical rigour may appear to be among the more harmless forms of political correctness, but I'm certainly not convinced it does black people any long-term favours.

It means that when a remarkable testament to black culture comes along, such as the recent Standing In The Shadows Of Motown, white audiences regard it with unwarranted suspicion and don't flock to see it.

Dave Chappelle's Block Party
Cert: 15