Empire has much going for it, not least of which is moneyed publicity, and may just turn out to be big at the box office. It features an attractive cast, the cool of hip-hoppy surface buttressed by Rubén Blades’ Latino score, enough violence to satisfy Americans, a large dose of ghetto drugs cut with financial shenanigans among the Armani set, and the excitement of high stakes. Easily lost in the glare, however, is what musician-writer Franc. Reyes’ directorial début does not have; and that is, in any sense, soul or a soul.

When "Mad Dog" Earle succumbs in the Sierra, mourned by his moll and his mutt, audiences grieve, too, at his necessary end. Cody Jarrett’s apocalyptic explosion at the "Top of the World" is cathartic, it empties and purges emotion. Even nasty Sonny Corleone’s toll plaza bullet-riddling seems psychically cleansing. But here, on mean streets or bucolic tropical beachfront, there is simply death (with personality extended beyond the grave via the annoying post-American Beauty trend of lazy voice-over narration).

The film would have us believe there is a moral or two coiled somewhere within. "I’m young, Latin and good-looking," drug dealer Victor Rosa’s (John Leguizamo) expository voice introduces him as he eyes shop-window jewelry, and "this country, the American Dream, is all about making money," it further instructs us. Jack Wimmer (Peter Sarsgaard), on the other hand, white and a purported investment banker, exists in a world far removed from the South Bronx but is attracted by Vic and his financial philosophy. Among enticing portfolio credentials, the dealer buys $16,000 necklaces at the drop of a whim and stores his money, in cash, in nine separate drops.

But Vic longs vaguely to escape, to settle with girlfriend Carmen (Delilah Cotto) among the quasi-legitimate high-rollers, perhaps in a yuppie loft straight out of 9½ Weeks. Possibly Empire means to hint that America’s racism taints the national dream, for, as Vic’s cronies realize, a Hispanic cannot truly desert the barrio for that other, inauthentic, glittery world.

Within certain bounds, and governed by unwritten code, drug traffickers have divvied up their mainland New York borough, for they all ultimately depend on the same ruthless upstate supplier, La Colombiana (Isabella Rossellini), whose interest lies in low-profile coexistence, not turf war. Though they beat and kill one another with sang froid – better, sangre fría -- the loose gang members care for their women (who sometimes package the product). They also show concern for brothers and young male children, their own and others’, so much so that they actually pause a second or two when dealer Tito’s ( Fat Joe) son is accidentally killed in a shoot-out. They are nowhere near as vicious as Pacino’s Tony Montana – the inexplicable "poster boy of the hour" among street vendors and shops along Broadway – nor motivated by the misplaced honor that "justified" Superfly. The streets where they operate are sanitary compared with reality, and the actual communities which are bullied and destroyed by their kind are voiceless here in goodwill house parties, clubs and bodegas.

When Vic is scammed, the whining swindler emerges as more despicable than the drug seller, who at least does not cringe. The scam is expensive and elaborately set up. But the slip of a woman’s tongue and a foolish cell-phone call are not credible amidst such planning – and rough street justice must be carried out. Fair is fair, and drugs and money do have their rules.

In the role of Trish, Jack’s trophy girl friend, Denise Richards looks pretty, even as a corpse, but still cannot act; Sonia Braga, older now, is wasted as Carmen’s mother, and Isabella Rossellini, sadly misplaced. Although the rest of the cast is good, I suspect these players are partly acting their own real personalities. Any empathy for the film’s characters comes pre-packaged: except for the white couple, Jack and Trish, and Carmen, who must (and does) win our support, supposed street cool has already dictated much of the audience’s reaction, and thus any caveat will likely go unheeded. But a winning and willing cast, overlaying cavalier treatment of major issues of drugs and cold violence, cannot hide a glib, even self-congratulatory, hollowness. Real problems, real people, deserve much more than the surfaces offered up in Empire. Watch for its success.

(Released by Universal Pictures and rated "R" for strong violence, pervasive language, drug content and some sexuality.)