|
There's a man of about 35 years of age seated
comfortably on a couch in front of a television
that sits idly in a house snugly ensconced in
a New Jersey suburb. He's snoring loudly as is
his nightly ritual. His wife will come over soon
to nudge him out of his slumber after screaming
his name multiple times to no response but louder,
elevated snoring. The snoring will escalate into
a violent crescendo and then cease abruptly before
it silences and starts up again minutes later;
as is also a part of his nocturnal routine. The
cycle will repeat itself until his wife has had
enough and comes to check on him yet again. When
she does so, his weighty carcass will slump over
into an inert heap. Hours later, after his brother
has been phoned and in turn contacted the mother
of the man's children for the first time in over
half a decade, the children's mother will vanish
from the Brooklyn brownstone apartment that she
has called home for about as long as she has been
apart from the sleeping, snoring man. She will
return hours later to her three panicked sons
and through streaks of bluish black mascara and
a cloud of smeared make up, fatefully announce,
"Boys, Daddy's dead."
There's something charming about the devil ain't
it? Something so irresistibly sexy about the allure
of evil… and all that is taboo. Or maybe
that's just it-the taboo itself. For what is taboo
but the backwash of the age-old Western war of
schismatic ideologue. The leftovers of the tenuous
centuries long struggle between so called right
and so called wrong, yielding the fertile ground
for the very perceptive skew out of which might
spring forth such a concept as "forbidden
fruit" in the first place. That born fruit
being the resultant x-factor of countless dichotomous
moralistic equations endlessly rendered under
the auspices of the Judeo-Christian mind matrix.
Alas, I digress. If Frank Lucas knew his life
would inspire such in depth psycho analysis of
the ideological archetypes that shaped it, he'd
probably… well he probably wouldn't give
a damn. The brother was just a hustler trying
to make a buck… or 50 million or so to be
more precise.
It is said by Frank himself that his path towards
paper stacking started long before the end of
the reign of his mentor Ellsworth "Bumpy"
Johnson who effectively passed him the torch in
the rat race of New York City underworld hustlers
of the 60's. The quest for cash started as something
far deeper, a struggle for survival itself. If
it hasn't already made itself embarrassingly clear,
from the plethora of ambassadors to choose from,
(think: the present hip hop community), niggers
are born out of pain. Perhaps this generation
has been duped wholesale out of an effective history
lesson that might weave together the tapestry
of the artistic lineage of Black Americana (lord
knows the rappers have been for the most part
inept at doing so, for the last decade and running).
But long before money, murder and ho's became
requisites upon the palette that paints the portrait
of Africans in America, the elements that constructed
our nature were rooted in a far deeper impetus
out of which blossomed much more far reaching
aspirations. Low and behold, there was a time
when our pundits spoke for our voiceless, when
our sages lovingly supplanted the ignorance of
our lost denizens with wisdom. But perhaps in
the most bizarre sense of democracy the world
has seen to date, America's market capitalist
sponsored deregulation of societal infrastructure
(think: Enron on the energy industry, or corporate
interests influencing government strip mining
of social services such as public education) ultimately
reconfigured our once hierarchical social system
of the elite and higher educated of the upper
echelon and the undereducated blue collar working
mass of the obligatory lower class into a renegade
laden winner takes all war torn desert of haves
(think: takers, rapist, gangsters, thieves) and
have-nots (everyday people, victims). Now anyone
can throw their voice into the melee, as long
as they have the cash to buy the podium. Just
ask George Bush and family.
But decades upon decades ago in the 20th century,
not too long after Woodrow Wilson lamented the
Federal Reserve Bank's clandestine wholesale purchase
of the American government and social system via
manipulative litigation (the mob was kinda late
on buying judges if you follow) with his mournful
confessional, "We have come to be one of
the worst ruled; one of the most completely controlled
and dominated governments in the civilized world…
no longer a government by conviction and the free
vote of the majority, but a government by the
opinion and duress of small groups of dominant
men"; and right around the time when Franklin
D. Roosevelt died in the hospice of one of said
men, one Bernard Baruch, only one of the most
powerful bankers of the 20th century (who was
also rumored, oddly enough to have shared lovers
with the aforementioned, "Bumpy" Johnson);
and long before our daily microcosmic social reality
became a mirror for the upper echelon of the invisible
hands that sculpted this whole mess; before 50
cent became interchangeable with George Bush…
or Willie Lynch, slaves mistakable for their masters,
and every aspirant American Gangster synonymous
with the imperialist titans of patriarchal yesteryear
that slaughtered their ancestors to begin with,
there was a time when pathos was understood for
what it was: madness. Back then, a Paul Robeson
might cinematically depict the overseer motif
as the self loathing yet machismo laden and ambitious
Emperor Jones (50 cent of his day), king of the
niggers that he was. A Richard Wright might diagnose
our maddened niggers, albeit one dimensionally
and a tad superciliously, with an archetype such
as Bigger Thomas.
Enter Biggie Smalls… Jay-Z… the new
millennial interface of said archetype with its
author. The artistic genius of yesteryear's pundits
entwined with the barbaric proclivities of the
necessary thug. Just imagine Ralph Ellison in
that ring of brutes under the barrage of black
fists entertaining all those vile flesh hungry
white men, but instead of cracking under the pressure
as he pleads for civil rights and equality, kicking
nigger's asses and taking names first, and then
proceeding to spew his philosophical dissertation.
Well that might provide a more accurate depiction
of today's "black superhero" (as Jay-Z
himself terms it). Dually, that little anecdotal
framework might provide a more well suited aperture
through which one might clearly view American
Gangster's antagonist/protagonist Frank Lucas.
His caricature and the many street hustlers of
his ilk, serve as the blueprint from which today's
hip hop carbon copies have been grafted. Somewhat
analogous with America's perverse chop-the-nose-to-pretty-the-face
approach to "capitalist democracy",
this self-conflicted archetype of brazen black
manhood has solidified itself as a testament to
resilience, tenacity and (dare I say) brilliance
at times while simultaneously beating its angry
black fists against the oppressive walls of its
mirroring environs. Only one thing I'm leaving
out. It's impossible to beat your fists bloody
upon a mirror without tarnishing your self image.
Enter Frank Lucas, long before the Bigger Thomas
of his youth "matures" into the Emperor
Jones of his latter years, one must delve into
the womb out of which he emerged to begin with;
the pain that birthed the nigger. Frank confesses
in interviews (one conducted 7 years ago which
apparently served as the blueprint for this film)
that his flight away from oppression that ultimately
led to the road to riches began when he was 14
years old, a fugitive from southern law. In order
to understand what put him on the running path
to begin with, one must understand what spawned
his life of crime. This he attributes to the brutal
murder of his 12 year old cousin by North Carolina
police which he witnessed when he was only 6 years
of age. It was the sight of his not yet teenage
cousin being strapped to a tree before both teeth
were smashed out and brains blown out, that sewed
the seeds of destruction that ultimately spawned
the proverbial "I don't give a fuck"
nihilism that fueled Frank's journey to street
life. It goes without saying that this disposition
presaged the collective apathy that subsumed his
son's generation of the crack 80's decades later.
At the film's end, when a weathered Frank Lucas
emerges from his prison sentence after his life
of crime has finally managed to catch up with
him, it is to a backdrop of war torn urbanity
brought to us via the sonic courier of Public
Enemy's classic "Can't Truss It" from
the Apocalypse 91 album. It ties back to the cryptically
elliptical words uttered by his mentor Bumpy Johnson,
played by Clarence Williams III, at the beginning
of the movie. "Nowadays," according
to a dying Bumpy, "you can't find the heart
to stick the knife into." Be that as it may,
or were for the two gangsters back in the 60's,
the inaccessibility of the heart of darkness that
ultimately puppets Frank the next 3 hours of the
story, does not deter him from venturing as close
to the source as possible. After his mentor dies
nearly in his arms to the tune of lamentations
over the deregulation of market capitalism in
the 60's and it's parallelisms manifested in the
underground street markets, Frank takes it upon
himself to become his own cowboy of the wild drug
trade. No longer content to get his supply from
the infamous trickle down French Connection system
that the Italian mafia sponsored at the time,
Lucas sojourns to the far east to attain his own
supply.
It is supposedly an evening news broadcast detailing
the epidemic of drug addiction that has beset
countless GI's upon return from the Vietnam war
that sparked the light bulb in Frank's imagination.
Where news media and the general public see social
catastrophe, he looks outside of his window at
his already formidable supply of customers, weighs
them against his unreliable drug connection, and
then stares back at the news broadcast and sees
both a market and veritable resource center. Vietnam
turns out to kill two birds with one stone for
Frank. The rest of the film takes us through the
now all too familiar story… not only of Frank
Lucas himself (who since the film has become the
spotlight recipient of endless media-black and
mainstream), but of American Gangster fill in
the blank who traverses the proverbial terrain
of an underworld king. Setting up shop in a local
housing development turned drug factory, paying
off the dirty cops, knocking (killing) rivals
off the block, dodging the murderous hands of
haters and competitors, hobnobbing with the superstars
at the club that your illegal tenders purchased
(Joe Louis was one of many celebrity friends),
all the while maintaining a relatively low profile(perhaps
Frank's most unique trait) so that you may reign
supreme but mostly unseen in your ghetto empire…
the Frank Lucas story turns few new leaves in
terms of its portrayal. We've either heard this
story or seen the fictional version enough times
(think: Scarface, New Jack City, King of New York,
the list goes on) that the real one offers no
new surprises. The kicker comes in with the Cadaver
Connection.
It is via his direct to the source approach to
"business" that Frank's method superseded
the scope of most ambitious hustler's of his day
and even those to come. In their attempts to emulate
the ways of their oppressors and beat the man,
as it were, few criminals of the black underworld
make moves that demand and in turn grant such
independence. A mere facsimile of the grand architecture
of the master plan is usually sufficient. But
Frank, country boy that he was (which also served
as the moniker for his gang of pushers, mostly
kin, that worked his locales and laundered his
money) stepped outside of the parameters of the
typical drug dealer or hustler. Ultimately, in
venturing directly to Vietnam for his heroin,
he cut out the costs of the middleman while undercutting
the competition with a more potent product for
cheaper: what the Harlem World of the 70's came
to know as Blue Magic. In so doing, he crafted
a drug dealing empire that rivaled if not beat
out the Italian competition and subsequently formed
one of the most highly organized crime factions
of his day. The basic business principle employed
here, of self sustenance by means of dependence
on the two most necessary elements in successful
commerce: customers (with whom you have rapport)
and resources (to which you have a direct connection)
is actually one that has fostered the success
of every great capitalist to come thru the ranks
of Millionaire status, from Ray Macdonald to Mayer
Rothschild.
Everything is copasetic for the industrious Frank
and his Country Boy empire aside from the usual
kingpin drama. Nicky Barnes, his rival at his
career's height, makes an interfering guest appearance
via a surprisingly apt performance by Cuba Gooding,
Jr. The Italian mafia feigns oblivion when attempts
are made on Frank's life. The internal investigation
boys are hot on his trail from the moment he weds
his Latina queen played by Lymari Nadal. For the
most part they can be assuaged by an easy pay
off. Where his real trouble comes in is with Frank's
nemesis, "good cop" Detective Richie
Roberts played by 2-time Oscar winner Russell
Crowe. While for all intents and purposes a fuck-up
in real life, Richie manages to stick to the moral
code when it comes to his 9 to 5. The movie introduces
him as the rare New York cop of the 1960's who
was actually willing to fork over a million dollars
in unmarked bills of drug money into the department
without skimming off the top. American Gangster
is very much the entwining story of these two
men, Frank and Richie, and there lives' effects
on each other as the good plays against the bad
and the lines of both incessantly overlap. Alas,
such is the proverbial story of good versus evil,
yin and yang, etc. While Denzel Washington, another
Oscar winner, once again portrays a complex bad
guy with a perpetual evil streak coupled with
a strong sense of family, pride and nobility with
great business acumen to boot, Russell adds another
down and out on his luck humble hero to his repertoire.
A brief reminiscence on their hour long sparring
brings to mind two rappers whose careers seem
to embody the diametrically opposed dynamics at
work here. On the one hand we have Ice Cube's
little cousin, Del the Funky Homosapien and on
the other we have a player in this very film,
none other than the infamous Clifford Harris aka
T.I. who plays Frank's baseball star nephew. While
T.I.'s rap career has been tarried by his proud
sponsorship of the drug dealing underworld that
gave him his jump start and street savvy along
with the "nigga's, ho's and bitches in the
world" for whom he is apparently one of our
street poet laureates; Del's career, much more
off the radar, has been championed by the backpackers
and socially conscious collegiate crowd of Hip
Hop's multi-faceted listening population. It almost
goes without saying that Del's subject matter
is more geared towards what might be defined as
the altruistic err… humanitarian, if you
will, genre of hip hop. While Del's moralistic
diatribes to the tune of one lyric in particular,
"reduced to a vicious half beast for a crack
piece-not me!" are more socially aware and
serve as a cautionary appraisal of the lost and
wicked ways of mankind and specifically their
implications for the black community, the microcosm
from whence he bails; T.I.'s message comes from
a vantage point of considerably less objectivity
and spews the subjective venom from the mouth
of the beast that is the street-in all its corruption.
His tales may be somewhat cautionary, but they
do not go without an inevitable promotion of the
very ills that condemn his own people. Yet at
the end of the day, it's Deltron who is the real
life (rumored) crack addict and T.I. the multimillionaire
for merely rapping about it. Ah the contradictory
morality of capitalism… gotta love it eh.
Well that in a nutshell is the paradoxical situation
in which we find Frank and Detective Roberts.
Further, it seems to illumine some of the most
perplexing ills inherent in our capitalist system
as a whole where the morally reprehensible often
accrue interest on their wrongdoing while the
meek of the earth barely inherit their next meal.
Of course the ironies run deeper in the case of
Mr. Lucas as he originated as one of the meek.
In his race towards riches and "the glory"
as he termed it in the Marc Jacobson interview
that provided the template for this film, he gradually
traded places with his oppressors and assumed
their position. All this was done without a tinge
of remorse or guilt but contrarily fueled by the
anger and hatred that had been sewn into his malleable
mind as a child. It's never more clearly delineated
than in the final showdown between Frank and Richie,
when Richie and his vigilante team's incessant
efforts have finally brought Frank into the grasp
of the law's long arm. The face off is one of
the most satisfying cinema has had to offer. Pardoning
us the usual gun slinging drama of Hollywood sensationalism,
we are instead allowed into the interrogation
room where Frank and Richie talk it out like two
old friends. Richie, prying for a hint of what
he deems to be necessary remorse or at least a
respect for the laws that Frank has broken and
disrespected, finds none. In its stead, he finds
a virulent rage at the very off base assumption
itself. After telling Richie about his cousin
murdered as a child by the police, "Don't
talk to me about no fucking police!" is the
brazen retort brilliantly delivered by Denzel
as he sweeps the cup of coffee into the adjacent
wall. That was a sharp moment that called to mind
Aaron the Moor of Shakespeare's "Titus"
with his "would not that I would have avenged
more!" rant along with every bad ass nigger
you can think of from any given Gordon Parks,
Richard Wright or Chester Himes novel. It's also
the moment where you get a quick reminder of middle
class (white) American oblivion. There's a certain
point where the law just don't count anymore;
or as the Vietnamese say, "Ban Cun Singh
Dao Tac." Necessity knows no laws.
The real life Frank Lucas allegedly never hinted
at remorse for his crimes until the case was actually
brought to court. It was here that a mother of
a victim of the Blue Magic heroine that he so
proudly marketed and championed for its purity,
testified of her son's great scholarly potential
as a disenfranchised black youth amidst Harlem's
volatile 1970's drug crazed milieu. That potential
never saw fruition since the son died of an overdose.
She bore witness to the bloated body, arms swollen
beyond belief and littered with tracks. Alas,
beneath the glitz and glam of the millionaire
kingpin lifestyle, thousands, perhaps hundreds
of thousands of dead black bodies laid. (I've
often thought the same upon hearing the ejaculation
of utterances in Hip Hop like, "Let's get
it!" or "O what a feeling I'm feeling
life!") Frank reportedly grew teary eyed
at the trial upon hearing this, claiming he didn't
know it "did all that." That sounds
even less plausible than Phil Knights feigned
ignorance towards the conditions of his Nike sweatshops
that he simultaneously refused to visit nor change.
Neither here nor there, Frank has served his menial
time for the damages done. Much of that time was
reduced due to his turning informant against the
corrupt New York city police department at the
time.
None of that can bring the many slain back from
the dead. Nor did it, by equal measure, completely
discredit the street legacy of Mr. Lucas. The
debate over his credibility lingers amongst the
street's most loyal devotees of yesteryear and
today, due to his violation of cardinal street
law (no snitching), but none of this has ameliorated
his trickle down effect, and now direct connect
with the values of pop culture. And while his
inadvertent reinforcement of the timeless Emperor
Jones motif seems to reign supreme over this generation,
virtually presaging the likes of our Sean Carter's
and Curtis Jackson's, I find his plausibility
equally as conflicting as I do theirs. After all,
his product laid claim to the nameless man in
the opening scene of this review. And as the vanguard
of the up and coming hip hop generation, one Lupe
Fiasco, cited wisely in his American Terrorist,
"how do you forgive the murderer of your
father." Especially when he looks like…
your own father. Well like America's love affair
with evil… I'm still wrestling with that
one.
And in parting…
Denzel speaks in tempered tones tinged by tendrils
of the apparent well of testosterone held at conformity's
bay. The measured brevity of his articulate speech
gauges the progression of his thoughts with the
poise of a seasoned gymnast carefully positioning
his steps across the tightrope. Delineation of
the parameters of the psyche are dealt with a
crafty mix of fortitude and genteelness. His speech
is a successful rendition of the Western masculine
archetype, its very architecture mirroring all
the undertones of the culture. An archaic European
regality reflected in his careful delivery…
brazen pragmatism… as he describes the back
story of Frank Lucas and how he was drawn to the
role (by no means with intentions of glorifying
the man's lifestyle of course). Each gauged thought
carefully administered, deft steps upon the tightrope
as he approaches the ever volatile climactic point
of his narration-the crux of the tale-the actual
description of how the infamous Frank made it
do what it do if you will. You can almost see
his veil of austerity start to slip and his imagination
faintly gape with boyish amusement as he clumsily
allows his next thought to materialize into words.
Upon describing the details of Frank's ingenious
coffin cadavers smuggling scheme, our lauded patriarch
of post modern Negroid morality-he slips a tad…
the feet fall from the tightrope... and we witness
the stringent hinges of his cool countenance give
way to a subversive grin that spreads from ear
to ear. Yea… he just couldn't resist it.
I guess D-boys the world over aren't the only
ones who get a kick out of seeing the villain
win.
|
