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| American Gangster * * |
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| Written by Ivan Radford |
| Friday, 16 November 2007 00:00 |
 Director: Ridley ScottOften quoted but never supported, Tarantino’s maxim that “directors don’t get better as they get older” may finally have been proven. American Gangster sees Ridley Scott back at the helm after a couple of critical flops (remember A Good Year?). Telling the true story of two hard-working men, this charts the rise of ‘70s gangster Frank Lucas (Washington), who elevates himself to the head of the heroin circuit when his mentor ‘Bumpy’ Johnson passes away. But this is also the tale of true blue cop Richie Roberts (Crowe); honest, divorced and training to be a lawyer, he is determined to bring down the drug lord. Two antagonists, both alike in dignity; herein lies the problem – who do we identify with? Ridley’s emphatic answer is ‘both’. And so unfolds a bizarre dichotomy as we see two stars in two contrasting narratives: Crowe does Serpico, Washington, Scarface. Both actors are on top form, furrowing their brows and gritting their teeth as they plough through the drawn-out script. When they finally meet, the celluloid crackles with chemistry. The screen takes two hours to light up, though, leaving the audience to twiddle their thumbs, trying to provide some kindling. The individual plotlines are quite engrossing; see Frank buy drugs, see him smuggle them in military coffins. Tut tut, naughty Frank. But apparently he’s not all bad. Indeed, meeting the gangster’s mother is a neat way to develop character. Alongside Crowe and Washington, Ruby Dee is a burst of sunshine as the charming Mama Lucas: Frank, don’t you kill no people! If Bumpy saw you doing this! Frank, eat your vegetables! On Crowe’s side, we struggle to care about the custody-grabbing wife (Gugino). Instead, the entertaining support comes from his corrupt counterpart, Detective Trupo (Brolin). Swaggering around sporting a leather jacket and moustache, he sneers as he sneaks money under the proverbial table. You know he’s going to get his. Meanwhile, Scott cuts between the two strands, desperate to construct some kind of connection. The antagonists occasionally appear near each other, but the segments’ disparate nature is hard to conceal. When this fails, Scott wheels in the traditional genre staples; prayers in church, drive-bys in the street, we even get a very bad impression of the archetypal mafia boss halfway through. An unconvincing hybrid of De Niro and Pacino, his schizophrenic impersonation sums up this flawed piece. VERDICT It takes a genius to make a film of two halves; Michael Mann’s Heat was a well-baked masterpiece. Scorsese’s The Departed was a scorcher. At times, Ridley’s earnest emulation is a soggy crisp. |
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