If it weren't for its colorful language, violence, sex, and drug use, Hell's Kitchen could easily be a Warner Brothers boxing flick from the '30s, one of those movies where a hood from the streets catches a few raw deals but eventually makes good and wins the big fight. Mekhi Phifer plays the palooka in question, an essentially good kid who gets mixed up in a heist gone wrong and is sent upstate for five years. Once out, Phifer promptly joins forces with such boxing-film staples as the noble trainer who could have been somebody, the sleazy promoter who wants him to take a dive, and the lovable urchin who needs protection from the mean streets. All is not well in Hell's Kitchen, as the sister of a man killed in the robbery (Angelina Jolie) must deal with her anger toward Phifer, whom she holds responsible for his death, as well as her murderous, cheating boyfriend (Johnny Whitworth) and smack-addled mother (Rosanna Arquette). While it's respectably acted—particularly by Jolie, who maintains her dignity despite having to yell such dialogue as, "You just fucked my muddah, didn't you?"—Hell's Kitchen is tedious and dreary. Clumsily mixing boxing-movie cliches and kitchen-sink melodrama, it staggers from overheated incident to overheated incident like a punch-drunk fighter ready to take a fall. At the very least, writer-director Tony Cinciripini's handling of the material is consistent: He employs the same ham-fisted contempt for subtlety in fight scenes as he does in scenes of familial discord.