Roxanne, Roxanne, the Roxanne Shante biopic on Netflix, is being celebrated as one of the most powerful hip-hop related films since the Michel'le Lifetime movie. It would have been an even better movie, for me personally, if it told the truth.
Conspicuous in its absence is any mention of the time she lied about having a Ph.D from Cornell (the late, great Combat Jack's alma mater), which her label, Warner Music, was forced to pay for, to the tune of something ridonkulous like $200,000, thanks to some hidden codicil in her contract.
It doesn't make sense to me that they wouldn't include that, given that it's the second most interesting thing she ever did, after "Roxanne's Revenge." Certainly, they could have wedged it in somewhere between the 90 minutes or so of her being mistreated by a series of conspicuously dark-skinted guys.
Arguably, that should have been the focus of the entire movie.
Instead, the movie is like 5% her rap career and 95% the abuse she supposedly suffered at the hands of her father(?), her baby's father, Marley Marl, Fly Ty(?), so on and so forth, all of whom I'm sure would have appreciated some acknowledgement of the fact that Roxanne Shante isn't exactly a reliable narrator.