'HIGHEST 2 LOWEST' IS SPIKE LEE IN FULL BLOOM.

Akira Kurosawa’s High and Low is the kind of film you watch in a state of quasi-paralysis. The 1963 noir is both a taut moral thriller and an enthralling procedural—a film of relentless jaw-clenching tension and compulsive rhythm from the start that sets the bar for everything it's about to do.

In short, it’s a masterpiece. So it was always going to be tough for anyone to replicate its magic with a remake, even for a filmmaker with Spike Lee’s prestige.

Lee approached the challenge the only way that gives his Highest 2 Lowest a chance of stepping out from under the shadow of its predecessor: by making it entirely, irrefutably, his own.

*SPOILERS FOR 'HIGHEST 2 LOWEST'  FROM THIS POINT*

To Have Nothing and Want Everything.

In Highest 2 Lowest, Spike Lee reimagines Kurosawa’s film (itself based on Ed McBain’s novel King’s Ransom) through the lens of 21st-century Black culture, turning a story of mistaken identity and moral crisis into a feverish, hip hop-inflected crime epic set in a gentrifying New York. This is a Spike Lee joint, so naturally it crackles with energy, defiance, and them familiar Lee-isms that punctuate his vision. And while it sometimes teeters on the edge of excess, it’s never anything less than alive.

The film opens with "Oh, What a Beautiful Mornin'"—the opening song from the musical Oklahoma!—blaring over sweeping shots of NYC. We zoom in on a penthouse balcony where David King (played by Denzel Washington), a once-dominant Black music mogul whose reign over the industry has crumbled, is clearly making mad money moves. He watches the city below with the wary detachment of a fallen monarch. King is preparing for a career-reviving bid to buy back Stackin’ Hits Records, the label he built, brick by brick. And his focus is absolute—until one phone call changes everything.

King’s son has been kidnapped. Or so he thinks. But in reality the kidnapper took his chauffeur’s son by mistake. And what follows is not just a hostage negotiation, but a moral reckoning: How much is another man’s child worth when your own empire hangs in the balance?

That's Jake from State Farm.

Spike Lee uses this setup to explore layers of class, race, ego, and artistic legacy. Kurosawa’s clean lines are replaced with a collage of portraits of historic Black figures. There are mural sized artworks of James Baldwin and Aretha Franklin and Muhammad Ali in King’s apartment. There are cuts to subway performers, street preachers, and a Puerto Rican Day Parade (with welcome cameos from Rosie Perez and Anthony Ramos). New York isn’t just a setting—it’s an argument, a pulse, and the epitome of pride.

As King spirals into a confrontation with the kidnapper, the film finds its most electric footing. The kidnapper, Yung Felon, (played by A$AP Rocky), is a hungry, underground rapper living in apartment A24 (Get it?) and seeking validation with a vengeance. In a standout scene, Rocky and Washington freestyle rap at each other in a moment of seemingly unscripted tension that plays like a Greek chorus filtered through BET cyphers. It’s thrilling and slightly absurd—and that’s the point.

Lee doesn’t hide his hand. The symbolism here is clear: the “highest” of wealth vs the “lowest” of desperation. But it retools Kurosawa’s moral dilemma for our current era of streaming metrics, social clout, and commodified creativity. The film is overflowing with symbolic weight: baseball metaphors, boxing references, allusions to fallen Black kings and bruised American dreams. And while it sometimes falters under the weight of its own ambition—especially in its middle act—it always maintains its core tension: Can a man who once had everything truly change, or does legacy trap more than it liberates?

When God Asks for a Favor You Say Yes to God.

Denzel Washington plays King like a lion in winter, his voice weary but sharp, his charisma undiminished. Outside of the film's climax, he's typically clad in the sharp suits you'd expect of a fatcat businessman, with the swagger to match. At the same time, he’s hugely hubristic. It’s possibly one of Washington's loosest, most playful performances in years—he sings, mumbles, and raps, not with cool bravado, but with a kind of self-conscious intensity. He knows this man, flaws and all.

It goes without saying, Washington is a pro. He excels at the kind of quiet ferocity and layered conflict that have defined much of his career. He conveys a man torn between ambition and conscience, his “best ears in the business” rendered hollow by the fear of losing not just money, but identity.

The supporting players aren't half bad either. Namely, Jeffrey Wright as Paul Christopher, the chauffeur whose son is actually kidnapped, who offers a grounded, soulful counterpart to David King. His performance is quietly luminous yet humorous, especially when paired with Washington in fraught scenes. As a widower with a single child, Paul Christopher has the most the lose. But as a convict, he's incredibly skilled at gaining gains. He's got insurance.

Then there's A$AP Rocky, the wildcard: not an actor by trade, but here, a presence. He imbues Yung Felon with agonizing aspiration coated in rage. This is a villain not driven by money, but by recognition. He doesn’t just want to win, he wants to be seen. And it’s a fitting foil for a film obsessed with visibility, pride, and the spaces between power and powerlessness.

Theeeme Music.

The elephant in the room is Howard Drossin’s score, which swells with operatic tension. It doesn’t just accompany the action—it points a hoof it, often leaning into melodrama, and occasionally overwhelming the scene. But where the score leans classical, the soundtrack goes street-level. A$AP Rocky, both in performance and sound, infuses the film with gritty urgency. Spike Lee's no stranger to a perfectly timed needle drop, and here they are sharp, unexpected, and layered. Most memorable is Aiyana-Lee’s haunting, gospel‑tinged title track “Highest to Lowest,” which plays like both a lament and a final prayer.

By the end, Highest 2 Lowest doesn’t land every punch, but it swings hard. It’s messy, bold, a little overstuffed, and unmistakably Spike. It's a tribute to his past, a reckoning with the present, and a challenge to future filmmakers to stop playing it safe.

4/5 ★: Unabashedly epic, fearlessly fun, and proudly Black.