Miguel Cadena has problems. His Uncle Jorge is on the run and his cousin Ernesto is managing the family drugs cartel like a less-in-control Scarface. At least his clever, manipulative wife, Marlene, and brutal brother, Chato, are loyal. Or are they? Unfortunately, they have dangerous secrets of their own.
Kingpin, a darkly entertaining take on life in a Mexican drugs cartel, ran for six all-too-short episodes in 2003. Intended as a network riposte to the likes of The Sopranos, it was meant to grow into a larger series, but low ratings led to cold feet. Essentially a repackaging of The Godfather for modern times, at the centre of the story is the icy-calm Miguel, who is determined to apply the lessons he learned in business school to the shady world of the cartel, buying a form of legitimacy for his family in the process.
“I’m just a businessman, but I’ll do whatever it takes to succeed,” he warns the oafish Captain Lazareno when the latter remarks that the Cardena family were once “nothing but a bunch of small-time criminals smuggling tequila” and the plot’s central strand is concerned with whether Miguel can continue to keep his head, even as the business is threatened by greedy army generals in Mexico and ambitious dealers in the US.
It’s standard gangster fare, but what makes Kingpin more unusual is creator David Mills’ interest in what the US “war on drugs” actually means. Thus alongside Miguel’s battle to build his empire we spend equal time on the other side of the border, on the streets of Houston, Texas, where the mostly black foot soldiers push Miguel’s product in clubs and on corners and in the swanky apartments of the city, where compromised plastic surgeon Heywood Klein offers wealthy clients a bit of coke with their Botox.
It’s a serious subject and treated with many subtle nods to class and cultural clashes. “The women in your family make me feel like the only white girl on earth,” remarks Miguel’s exasperated, university-educated wife, while similar mileage is drawn from DEA officer Delia Flores, attempting to make it as a Latina officer in a male-dominated world. “I do the talking, you don’t say a word,” she remarks to her white male partner as they go to meet a cartel representative; in the incredulous look he gives her lies a whole unspoken history of privilege and assumptions of how law enforcement should work.
Aaron Spelling produced, and sometimes it shows just a little too much. The opening episode, with its man-eating tigers and floating opium palaces, treads a fine line between engaging drama and cartoonish soap. It works because Mills, who co-wrote The Corner, is not afraid to take risks, allowing cinematographer Steven Fierberg’s camera to dwell on lush poppy fields and burned-out meth labs alike, and contrasting the poverty of the Mexican border towns with the gross opulence of Miguel’s world.
He makes equally good use of music, too. Mills’ eclectic soundtrack encompasses everything from the haunting Lila Downs’ ballad La Martiniana to Mexican rapper Fermin IV lending a melancholy tinge to the hard-edged tale.
Most of all, though, this is a show about family, and the brothers in particular. It’s clearly intended to echo the relationship between Michael and Sonny Corleone, but what moves it beyond the obvious is the contrasting charisma of the two male leads: the icy rage of Miguel (Yancey Arias) playing off the fury of Chato (Bobby Cannavale). “The things you do, they reflect on your whole family,” Miguel remarks early on in the series and that point becomes crucial after the impulsive Chato sleeps with Lazareno’s wife, placing the business in danger. As the series reaches its climax, Miguel says of his errant brother: “I’m not going to protect him. I’m not going to support him. I won’t give him shelter.” You both believe it and hope it’s not true.
