Follow I love and honor her as a leader in these times. I accept all conversation and criticisms. “That’s fine with me, it’s not my job to tell anybody what to think or feel about the work. Cole said he stands behind “every word of the song that dropped last night.” “Some assume to know who the song is about,” he said in a thread. But instead of just being up front about those insecurities, he spends over half of the song dragging an unnamed woman many assumed to be Noname, based on the tracks’s description of the woman’s tweets. Cole’s own feelings of inadequacy surrounding activism. Make it make sense! Thirty-five-year-old Jermaine Cole’s new song “ Snow on Tha Bluff” addresses the current protests against racism and police brutality across the world and alludes to J. Cole logged on to Twitter bright and early this morning to double down on his alleged Noname diss, but also to say that he honors and appreciates her. The director, Damon Russell, initially coy about what was real and what was scripted, now emphasizes that “Snow on the Bluff” isn’t a record of actual events, that it’s just another lo-fi indie film, like “The Blair Witch Project.” Nothing to see here, officer.Photo: Issac Baldizon/NBAE via Getty Images Because the footage is so raw, they say, the Atlanta police sought it as evidence in some criminal investigations. The makers of “Snow on tha Bluff” flip that reasoning. Often makers of feature films using a documentary’s tools - hand-held cameras, jumpy cuts, ambient lighting, fragmented narrative - say they do so to approximate reality. No one seems to have a steady job, and there’s no shaking the sense of wasted souls in a forsaken sector of society.
This riveting account of thug life - the unglamorous, impoverished variety - is punctuated by constant profanity and undecipherable slang, occasional violence, steady drinking and weed or crack smoking. “They say drugs kill you,” he says to the camera, before disagreeing: “They help you out. We also learn about Snow’s business: selling drugs that are largely supplied, it seems, by ripping off other dealers at gunpoint during late-night raids. So we tour the Bluff while he introduces his crew, his baby mama and two toddlers, his grandmother, the street corner where his brother was fatally shot. The dealer, Curtis Snow, steals one other thing too: the idea of filming everything he does. A dealer approaches the car, smoothly talks his way in, directs them to a secluded street, then, pulling out a handgun, robs them of their money and - why not? - the camera.
From the start of “Snow on tha Bluff,” which runs without any introductory credits, this jolt of a film drops into a you-are-there crime scene: Three college students - one manning a video camera - drive into the Bluff, a run-down neighborhood in West Atlanta (actually, run-down is being kind), looking to buy drugs.
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