rakontur blog

COCAINE COWBOYS

Nick Stecher | February 12, 2007

You think Scarface was a bad ass? You’re wrong guy, ’cause he’s just an actor named Al who spent a couple hours a day putting on makeup and complaining how his latte was getting cold. You wanna know who’s a real bad ass? Watch Cocaine Cowboys, young lad. Witness the behind-the-scenes story of Miami and cocaine, two elements that combined in the ’70s to create one helluva Molotov cocktail. In fact, this documentary is such a no-brainer you wonder why no one’s done it yet.

The story’s arc basically starts with America’s burgeoning obsession with the devil’s dandruff, circa mid-’70s, as smugglers began switching from marijuana to the incredibly more profitable cocaine. Here the viewer is led through these halcyon years by two of the era’s pioneers: Mickey Munday and Jon Roberts. One of the major achievements of the doc is its access to the most prominent and notorious players from the era. Munday was the transportation—a MacGyver-type pilot with seemingly more brains than the rest of the motley crew combined. He outlines the tricks they came up with to skirt the cops, like shipping the coke in the trunks of cars they then towed (keeping the tow-driver clean). Or buying a $980,000 plane…in cash. Roberts was the playboy, the hustler who came up early distributing to the tune of almost $100 million in his tenure.

Then things get ugly. There’s so much cash piling in on Miami that the once-tame trade turns violent. Bodies begin piling up, and the shit hits the fan when a brazen hit is pulled off in daylight at the Dadeland Mall. Thus the “Cocaine Cowboys” were born—the name given to the AK-47-brandishing outlaws that began dropping more bodies in Miami than an armless gymnast. Now we’re introduced to Jorge “Rivi” Ayala, the infamous hitman for Griselda Blanco—the female mob boss behind the Dadeland Mall Massacre, and most of Miami’s bloodshed. The details from Rivi’s interviews are chilling, and the access to him—hearing the grisly details explained so candidly—is one of the untouchable strengths of the film.

“The most shocking thing for us was sitting down with Rivi,” explains director Billy Corben. “He was handsome, charming, well spoken. If he’d chosen a different career, he could’ve been the mayor of Miami. But then he’ll just start talking about the hits, the murder details, that was a real eye-opener…it’s crazy.”

Aside from the undeniably salacious and engaging content of the film, its production and execution are handled terrifically. Archival video sets the tone, and skilled motion graphics work transforms photos into visually arresting images. And the Jan Hammer-penned soundtrack is the perfect ambient touch. Not only does the film bristle with Scarface-esque machismo, violence and comeuppance, but it is intelligently and cogently presented as well. No surprise, the movie has blown up in the underground, and is quite likely the only documentary that’s ever been widely bootlegged in the Miami blackmarket. No joke—Miami rappers Trick Daddy and Pitbull are such fanatics of the film, they’ve taped segments on YouTube hailing its greatness.

“This wave of Cocaine Cowboys really came from a time of unrest in Columbia called La violencia—a 30-year civil war that tore the country apart,” explains Corben who, being a Miami native, shares a particular bond to the story. “They just imported that style, that culture of violence, to Miami. In Medellin, they’d just as soon spray a car with bullets, killing your entire family, than just collect money from you. It was about teaching lessons. And it was really what brought the whole house of cards down.”

“It’s funny—people thought that Scarface was overblown, violence-wise. But in reality, what was going on in Miami was ten times worse,” says Corben. Although a dubious statement, it’s infinitely more believable after viewing Cowboys. “They had to downplay the violence in Scarface, ’cause no one would’ve believed what was really going on.”

So the next time you find yourself in a toilet stall bumping out poodle legs onto a toilet paper dispenser, you can turn to that dazed stripper and say, “You got any idea how this whole crazy thing started, Tiffanii?” Who knows, maybe dropping a little knowledge will get you somewhere.

Ok, probably not. But it still beats the hell outta March of the Penguins.