Smith’s pontificating could use a little bit of silly fiction and some Big Willie swagger — the old kind, not the hubristic strut that he walks through this mostly tired “True Story” with.

In Bad Boys, Smith was cool. In Hitch he was funny. In Twelve Pounds, he was vulnerable. He doesn’t seem to retain any of these qualities in his raps, instead opting for a smorgasbord of soundscapes designed to mask what could have been a revealing, emotionally interesting rap album.

The regrettable result is a rap album that would function better as an addendum to his memoir or another sit-down with Trevor Noah. That’s not just because of the reckoning that forces the record’s hand. That is also because, in 2025, Will Smith is proving himself a better storyteller than rapper.

This was an opportunity for untethered rapping and bold experimentation that still exists within the bouncy freedom of Smith’s once-playful musical universe. Unfortunately, Based on a True Story just isn’t it.

Instead of meaningful self-reflection, we get a collection of quasi-inspirational tracks that feel more like hollow pep talks than genuine artistry. Smith has every right to process the past few years through music – it’s just a shame he’s chosen to do it with songs that offer little in the way of emotion or entertainment.

An often-insubstantial record, ‘Based On A True Story’ doesn’t offer much beyond surface. If Will Smith wanted to get his feelings down on tape, this album doesn’t come close; what emerges is instead a flailing, futile gesture.

There are a lot of choir fills, growling electric guitars, and stomping drums, but the bombast is hollow. “Bulletproof” sounds like a “Wild Wild West” outtake, its country-and-western elements way overdone.