We'll never know if Tupac Shakur could have been a movie star.
But
Gridlock'd
,which he completed two months
before his death in a still-unsolved shooting incident last
September, proves that he had the dynamism and flair of a major
screen actor. Written and directed by Vondie Curtis Hall, the
movie, set in the squalid backstreets of Detroit, is a vibrantly
gritty lower-depths comedy, a tale of hapless junkie thieves,
played by Shakur and Tim Roth, who bum around the city like a
couple of alley cats, torn between their desire to score and
their desperation to kick. As
Gridlock'd
goes on, the two have
run-ins with cops, drug dealers, gangsters, and a welfare
bureaucracy so rusty and sclerotic you'd call it Kafkaesque were
there any real design to it. Desperate to get into rehab,
they're tossed from one ugly fluorescent-lit government office
to the next, a comedy of urban errors that escalates in insanity
when the police mistake them for killers.
Gridlock'd
doesn't
have the imaginative vision of a movie like
Trainspotting
, yet
it's more literally true to the haphazard torpor of the junkie
life than anything we've seen on screen since
Drugstore Cowboy
.
Making his debut as a filmmaker, Curtis Hall, an actor himself
(
Chicago Hope, William Shakespeare's Romeo & Juliet
), shows a
gift for back talk and confrontation, for the hardscrabble
comedy of urban decay, and for an electric storytelling style
that sometimes shades off into B-movie glibness.
Gridlock'd
opens with a jolt: On New Year's Eve, Stretch (Roth) and Spoon
(Shakur), holed up in their garbage-strewn loft, discover that
Cookie (Thandie Newton), the slinky beauty they're with, has
overdosed herself into a coma. They drag her to the hospital and
go off into the night, numb but shaken, determined to change
their lives. As it turns out, the three are partners, members of
a bohemian spoken-word/jazz trio. They play together, live
together, sometimes even sleep together. But from the moment
Stretch and Spoon reach the street, with Cookie lying in limbo,
the two men are such raggedly ill-disciplined lowlifes at
times, they seem like homeless derelicts that I never really
bought them as quasi-professional musicians.
Still, if the setup is facile, what follows has a bombed-out
authenticity. Curtis Hall has caught the bottom-feeder
enervation of heroin addiction the fact that most of it
consists of shooting up, nodding out, talking about scoring,
going out to score, and then starting the whole business over
again. The fun of the movie lies in the way that Roth and Shakur
manage to seem feverishly alive amid all this manic-depressive
running in place. More than any other contemporary British
actor, Roth adores playing scuzz-ball Americans. He makes the
dense, gawky Stretch defiantly myopic, a hustler who can't focus
on anything but what's directly in front of him. As for Shakur,
with his morose elegance and beautiful liquid eyes, he lends
Spoon a tremor of sorrow, projecting a supple emotionalism
almost entirely at odds with his gangsta-prince image the
hell-bent rap nihilist so intoxicated by the ''thug life'' that,
in the end, he literally appeared to be courting his own murder.
To a true thug, of course, vulnerability is unthinkable; it
makes you look soft. But as every good actor since Brando has
understood, vulnerability can lure a movie audience right into
your soul. Shakur had it to spare, along with many other
qualities: wit, sexiness, a self-involvement poetic in its
intensity. His tragedy may ultimately be that he didn't believe
his humanity mattered.