Terrence Howard, in the single most powerful performance I’ve seen this year, inhabits this character with a casual mastery that makes him a world unto himself we’re in touch with his ambition and sadness, his rage and longing, as if they were our own. Pushing 40, he’s a veteran of the streets, one who’s grown weary and a bit numb hawking his girls out of cars, using his casual gift for words to keep them in line. He sounds, at times, like an old Southern man telling a story, and though DJay isn’t old, exactly, the years are beginning to add up for him. When DJay speaks, in the smokiest of smoky drawls, the words come out slowly, sliding into each other, the cadences fused in a lyrical back-porch whisper - a barely perceptible form of intimidation.
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