We root for the rascals — or so it seems — and our long-running attraction to the organized criminal underworld doesn’t seem to be letting up.
Americans admire those up-from-their-bootstraps success stories, even if it means deceiving the boys in blue or the guys in your own crew.
And it doesn’t get much more rags-to-riches than “American Gangster.”
The film, which opened Friday, is the latest to profile real or fictional gangland characters and a lifestyle already well-marketed in American culture.
It’s the story of real-life 1970s drug kingpin Frank Lucas, played by Denzel Washington. The movie chronicles how he became one of the most evil-yet-brilliant criminals in American history: He shipped Southeast Asian heroin into the United States in the caskets of American soldiers who lost their lives in Vietnam. He has claimed that he grossed $1 million a day selling drugs on 116th Street in Harlem from the late 1960s to 1975, when he was arrested.
This film, which was in such high demand that more than two weeks before its release it was available online and in high-quality bootleg DVDs, is the latest contribution to a pop-culture canon that includes “The Godfather” and its sequels, video games such as the “Grand Theft Auto” series (with more than 65 million units sold) and the ubersuccessful TV series “The Sopranos.”
“From our childhood, we’re taught that law and order is good. We’re told to shut up, speak when spoken to, obey the rules and stay in line,” says Rob Frankel, a Los Angeles-based branding and marketing expert. “As a result, anyone who disrupts the system — for good or evil — by striking out on his own or fighting against the Man, is envied by those too afraid to risk their own livelihoods.”
This new film features acting performances by three rappers — Chicagoan Common, RZA from the Wu-Tang Clan hip-hop collective and T.I., the Southern rap icon who last month was arrested in a federal sting. T.I.’s life is playing out like a scene reminiscent of “American Gangster.”
His recent high-profile arrest is yet another setback for a musical genre on the defensive; it’s another reason to lambaste music that tells street tales and introduces a sometimes gritty picture of life to mainstream America.
Earlier this summer, rapper and actor Clifford “T.I.” Harris was chatting with reporters about his hot-selling new album, the scripts being sent his way and how celebrated actor Washington gave him tips on honing his craft.
He rode the media circuit like a pro, one of the only rappers to offer a profound take on the language used in some hip-hop music in the wake of Don Imus’ firing.
Living by his lyrics?
T.I., 27, was living the urban American dream: He went from a street hustler and drug dealer to a highly successful rapper, working with A-list musical artists such as Justin Timberlake and Destiny’s Child, and seemingly leaving his former criminal life behind.
“Now don’t get me wrong,” he said during the BET special “Hip-Hop vs. America: A BET Town Hall,” which aired earlier this fall. “Do some artists need to be held responsible for their actions and for their lyrics and for them taking it too far sometimes? Absolutely.”
Now, it looks as if the rapper may have been living by his lyrics, and, if convicted, he could face a lengthy prison term on federal gun charges.
Instead of celebrating what could be a box-office victory, the rapper is confined to his Atlanta home, out on $3 million bond; he needs permission from a judge if anyone other than his girlfriend and his children is inside the home. (T.I.’s record label, Atlantic Records, would not make him available for any interviews.)
Authorities say that Oct. 13, right before he was scheduled to perform at the BET Hip Hop Awards in Atlanta, the rapper allegedly attempted to buy unregistered machine guns and silencers. Authorities also said he had three guns in his car when he was arrested. And after officers went to his home, they reported finding more weapons in a safe in his bedroom. He has been charged with possessing unregistered machine guns and silencers, unlawfully possessing machine guns and being a convicted felon in possession of firearms.
This recent arrest has added to the love affair hip-hop artists have with living outside the law.
Recent examples include rapper C-Murder (born Corey Miller), who will be retried in February in the second-degree murder of a 16-year-old; rapper Mystikal, who is serving a six-year prison sentence for sexual battery and extortion; and Prodigy of rap duo Mobb Deep, who last month pleaded guilty to unlawful gun possession charges. Though it was his third gun conviction, he is serving a commuted sentence of 3 1/2 years.
For the better part of 20 years, some rappers have been talking about their affection for dodging the law and their general distaste for authority — most notably groundbreaking M.C.’s such as the group N.W.A. and solo artist Ice-T, who have asserted that they’re reporting the news from neighborhoods journalists don’t have access to.
They’ve rapped about the corruption that exists and have rapped about being targeted for being African-American and owning a pager. They’ve also talked candidly about violence that goes unreported and have described the profile of killers, in many cases, their rap moniker assuming the role of one of those characters.
Pop culture references to famous and fictional mob characters have been placed as metaphors inside lyrics, and the life of the underworld has been revered. Films such as “Scarface” and “Goodfellas” are popular in hip-hop. You’ll see images from these films played out in music videos, or you’ll hear them in songs. Performers have even taken on monikers named for gangsters, including Scarface (a Houston rapper); the late Notorious B.I.G., who also was known as Biggie Smalls (named after a fictional gangster in 1975’s “Let’s Do It Again”); and “the black Frank White” (after Christopher Walken’s character in “The King of New York”).
‘It’s pretty horrible’
“It’s sort of like women liking bad boys: It’s something different and outside of the norm. We see people with freedom and power. Our movies have made out gangsters to be something to be emulated,” says David Eigen, a psychologist and author who specializes in the obsession with gangster culture. “It’s become very narcissistic. Everything from video games to movies — it shows the heartlessness of it, and it’s proposed as being something attractive, and it’s not. In fact, it’s pretty horrible. But people don’t get that, and they think that it’s cool.”
In “American Gangster,” T.I. — who is a convicted felon and therefore cannot legally own firearms — portrays the nephew of Washington’s character, a young man who sees the fast life and wants a piece of it.
“In his music, he’s presenting for us his struggle with his relationship to fame and to the game,” says James Peterson, an English professor at Pennsylvania’s Bucknell University who specializes in hip-hop culture and has served as an expert witness in cases against hip-hop artists. “He feels lucky to be able to rap about certain things and not doing certain things. But obviously he has to do certain things to protect himself.”
T.I.’s case heads to court Monday, the same day we find out how well the opening weekend was for “American Gangster.” Whatever happens, the support from fans and celebrities is out there.
Fans, it seems, are willing to ignore the arrests and accusations — and in some cases final courtroom outcomes — because they consider performers such as T.I. heroes who have risen from tough lives to wealth and celebrity, much like the gangland characters that are universally idolized. Already, at least one store has opened for the sole purpose of selling “Free T.I.” T-shirts.
“The gangster narrative is quintessential as an American narrative. America is all about pulling yourself up by your bootstraps,” says Marc Lamont Hill, a professor of urban education and American studies at Temple University. “And I think hip-hop is quintessential to American culture. With hip-hop, it’s always about the rags-to-riches story. It’s always about going from worst to first. That whole narrative is a common one. That’s why hip-hop is so connected to America. Having a fascination with organized crime movies gives you an escape. You can live vicariously though them. You can experience their life and not actually live it yourself.”
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klcarter@tribune.com
IN THE WEB EDITION
See Michael Phillips’ video and print reviews of “American Gangster” at chicagotribune.com/gangster.
BAD BOYS
Tribune movie critic Michael Phillips names five seminal gangster films. PAGE 5
