Saving Grace

With few exceptions, Hollywood's portrayal of those involved in the manufacture, transport, sale, and use of drugs has, like the drug policies of the U.S. government, always been rooted in fear and violence. From the cartoonish chaos of the 1930s government propaganda film Reefer Madness to the brutal account of a Cuban-American drug kingpin in 1983's Scarface, the depiction of the drug-involved as antagonist has been paramount to filmmakers' vision.

This approach was no doubt an effort to ride prevailing political winds that deem the drug war to be good and necessary. Toeing the government line has allowed filmmakers to avoid revealing the humanity of their subjects, lest a breath of truth threaten the house of cards that is the drug war.

Drugs first mainstreamed into theaters in the 1970s. Directors of the time portrayed heroin or cocaine trafficking in dramatic films by showing the gritty (mainly New York City) cop fighting against corrupt colleagues and drug dealers. These movies often starred revered actors like Al Pacino (Serpico) and Gene Hackman (The French Connection). A noted exception from the period, in that it was devoid of star talent and took place abroad, was Midnight Express (1978), a bleak tale of an American smuggler imprisoned in Turkey.

In the 1980s (and continuing into the '90s) action movies celebrated the vengeful American agent of drug interdiction. The above-the-law narcs of the time were played by rugged acting lightweights in tight jeans like Stephen Seagal (Out for Justice) and Chuck Norris (Lone Wolf McQuade).

At the same time, American television celebrated a love affair with the ass-kicking narcotics officer in such popular television shows as Miami Vice and Norris's abhorrent Walker, Texas Ranger. With Cops – featuring an endless stream of handcuffed drug suspects of color – early "reality" television also got into the game.

Sympathetic portrayals of those even loosely associated with the drug trade were few and far between. The seeds of the drug comedy were planted in 1969's Easy Rider and first bore fruit as a genre in 1978's Cheech and Chong vehicle Up in Smoke and later in 1982's Fast Times at Ridgemont High (and continuing in clunkers like 1993's Dazed and Confused). In the 90s, some filmmakers returned to and attempted to outdo the gritty 1970s leitmotif, notably 1991's Rush and 1996's gruesome Trainspotting, based on the Irvine Welsh novel.

As the drug war continued to escalate under President Clinton, notably with the advent of Plan Colombia, a new filmmaking tack emerged in 2000 with the arrival of Traffic.

Steven Soderbergh's multilayered reproach of the drug war was the most complete look to date at the horrible consequences of U.S. drug policy. Critics hailed Traffic as the first U.S. film to portray buyers and sellers on both sides of the U.S. border as victims of the drug war. The film, stocked with A-list stars and featuring surprising cameos from Republican Sen. Orrin Hatch, liberal pundit Michael Kinsley, and others, served to bring the drug war debate out of the political ethos and into the world of pop culture. The success of the film in turn fueled political debate around the drug war.

A year after Traffic came Blow, a compassionate portrayal of a cocaine kingpin, based on the life of imprisoned American trafficker George Jung.

Clearly, Hollywood's depiction of those involved with illegal drugs had, like the millennium, turned a corner.

The newest and perhaps most eloquent and personal entry to the drug-policy genre is Maria Full of Grace, a remarkable debut feature by New York writer/director Joshua Marston. The acclaimed film, which earned awards this year at Sundance and festivals in Berlin, Los Angeles, Cartageña, Seattle, and Newport, opens today in Los Angeles and New York and goes into wider release next week.