Honey

If you closed your eyes in a theater in 2003 and threw a dart at the screen, you’d probably hit a velour tracksuit, a Motorola Razr, or a music video director trying to make the jump to feature films. Bille Woodruff was one of those directors, fresh off lensing iconic clips for the likes of TLC and Toni Braxton. With Honey, he didn't just transition to cinema; he brought the entire glossy, high-contrast, midriff-baring aesthetic of early 2000s MTV with him.

I recently revisited this one on a humid Tuesday afternoon while eating a bowl of slightly stale cereal, and I was struck by how much Honey feels like a time capsule preserved in amber—or perhaps preserved in whatever shimmering body glitter was popular at the time. It’s a film that exists in that specific window where "selling out" was the ultimate sin, and the path to glory was paved with 16-bar cameos and cargo pants.

The Midriff That Launched a Thousand Careers

At the center of it all is Jessica Alba. Fresh off the cult success of Dark Angel, Alba was the "It Girl" of the moment, and Honey was clearly designed as her coronation. She plays Honey Daniels, a bartender and dance teacher who dreams of choreographing for the stars. Alba isn’t asked to do much heavy emotional lifting here—the script is about as deep as a puddle in a Harlem pothole—but her charisma is undeniable. She moves with a genuine fluidity that many "actor-turned-dancer" leads lack.

The plot kicks into gear when she catches the eye of Michael Ellis, played by David Moscow (yes, the kid from Big). Ellis is a music video director who represents the corporate, predatory side of the industry. Looking back, the sub-plot involving his demand for sexual favors feels remarkably prescient and surprisingly dark for a movie that otherwise feels like a sugary after-school special. The villainous Michael Ellis is basically a walking LinkedIn cautionary tale wrapped in a bad blazer. His downfall is satisfying, even if the "Terms" mentioned in the tagline are resolved with a speed that only movie logic allows.

A Harlem State of Mind (via Toronto)

While the film is set in a vibrant, idealized version of Harlem, much of it was actually shot in Toronto—a classic "Modern Cinema" era move to save on production costs. Despite the Canadian backdrop, the film manages to capture a specific urban energy thanks to the supporting cast. Mekhi Phifer, coming off the heels of 8 Mile and O, brings a grounded, soulful warmth to Chaz, the local barber and Honey's love interest. Their chemistry is low-key and sweet, providing a necessary anchor to the more frenetic dance sequences.

Then there’s Romeo (then Lil' Romeo) as Benny, the kid Honey is trying to keep off the streets. This was the peak of the "Child Star Pivot," and while the "street life vs. dance life" stakes are handled with some heavy-handedness, you can’t help but smile at the earnestness of it all. Joy Bryant also shines as Gina, the loyal best friend who exists primarily to remind Honey where she came from. The film is populated by a "who’s who" of the era’s R&B scene, including a legendary cameo by Missy Elliott that still feels like a genuine event.

The Choreography of a Bygone Era

What really keeps Honey from disappearing into the "forgotten" bin is the movement. Choreographed by the legendary Laurieann Gibson (who also appears as the "mean girl" rival, Katrina), the dance sequences are a masterclass in the commercial hip-hop style of the early aughts. It’s all about sharp isolations, floor work, and an abundance of "the bankhead bounce." Unlike the later Step Up franchise, which leaned into more athletic, almost gymnastic b-boying, Honey is rooted in the "video vixen" and backup dancer culture of the 90s/00s transition.

The cinematography by John R. Leonetti (who would later direct Annabelle, strangely enough) uses those saturated, warm tones that defined the DVD era. It’s a clean-looking movie. Maybe too clean. The "Harlem" we see here is scrubbed of any real grit, making the community center’s financial struggles feel more like a plot convenience than a systemic issue. But that’s the charm of this era of filmmaking; it’s a fairy tale told through the lens of a Hype Williams video.

Honey isn't a masterpiece of the "Drama" genre, and it doesn't pretend to be. It's a film about the joy of movement and the importance of community, served with a side of 2003 nostalgia. While it may have been overshadowed by the grittier dance films that followed, it remains a fascinating look at the moment when hip-hop culture fully became the dominant language of global pop cinema. It’s a breezy, 94-minute reminder of a time when the biggest problem you could have was a director who didn't respect your "vision." If you can handle the clichés, it’s a sweet ride.