Narcos

In a recent survey of one person (me) I asked (myself) what’s the second most Netflixiest show after Orange Is The New Black?  One hundred percent of respondents were unanimous: Narcos.  So here we are, years after the third and final season was released on Netflix: you, reading all my silliness, and me, looking for attention while I find my (sarcastic) voice as a writer.  Thank you for humouring me.

The decision to click Play Episode on the first instalment of series one was a smug one.  It felt like a grown-up choice.  Rather than something cheesy about high schoolers (Riverdale) or, er, something else cheesy about high schoolers (The Vampire Diaries), this was adult fare: high-quality historical drama, dealing with dealers and distribution around a class A drug.  Not only would I learn more about a social issue, but it would be period-faithful.  It was even a bit foreign.  I couldn’t really get any more cultured unless I sat there reading poetry.  But nobody in the office has ever talked about poetry, so getting a good boxset under my belt was more important.  And I hate poetry (unless it rhymes and is funny).

But who are the Narcos?  There are two sides in our epic battle.  On one hand, we have los narcotraficantes.  The most famous of these is Pablo Escobar, who I only really knew about from various glamorising rap lyrics and a segment in Dark Tourist where the scenes of his crimes can be visited by those enamoured with his ruthless brutality, potentially a result of the glamorising rap lyrics.  Escobar and pals went from petty criminals to major global exporters of cocaine, netting billions of dollars in the process.  Trying to stop them, we have the other narcos: the agents of the DEA, a US agency that puts moustachioed men in hot countries to jog about in the heat with handguns, smoke cigarettes and sport an array of aviator sunglasses.

Thus ensues, over the first two series, an international high-stakes game of cocaine cat and cocaine mouse while our DEA agent heroes close in on Escobar.  But who to root for?  Escobar is cool, because we live in a culture where murder, bribery and corruption are cool.  Wagner Moura’s performance merits immediate viewing.  I especially enjoyed being able to tell how stressed Escobar is in a particular scene based on how heavily he breathes through his nose (and over his moustache).  But you may have been more focused on his attire than his nasal respiration.  Escobar’s outfits in the early nineties are exactly what my dad wore in the early nineties: loose-fitting light denim jeans, white trainers, size large short-sleeved shirts tucked in.  I’m fairly certain my dad wasn’t running a drug cartel, but I do have my suspicions now.

Surely we should prefer the goodies?  Steve Murphy and Javier Peña, however, are far from perfect.  Whether they’re bending the rules, smoking too many fags, womanising or neglecting their families, their drive to end Escobar never lets up.  I’ve seen people give up on a scheduling a meeting with me after just two rearrangements, but these guys happily chase Escobar through jungles, favelas and more jungles with little or no sign of an encouraging annual performance review from the powers that be.  And that’s what compels: the seediness, the corruption, the sweaty stake-outs.  Everyone is humanised, rather than glamorised.  The DEA agents gotta go bad to get Escobar.  Escobar loves his family more than anything (even though his son is super annoying) and who can hate a family man?  Oh, the internal conflict, everybody.

The third season’s focus shifts to a new cartel, and Boyd Holbrook’s absence is felt keenly, as he was our fish out of water by which we navigated the sweltering streets of Medellin.  But the new chase soon draws you in with the same excesses of tension.  The gore is gruesome and relentless, and the sheer wasting of life is distressing enough, but then you realise that this is all based on true stories.  In fact, the documentary elements threaded through to give historical context are all the more harrowing, as archive news footage of real fatalities reminds you that no dramatic gloss can cover up the true horrors of the cartels.

And that was my main question: what’s so good about cocaine?  As someone who routinely goes to bed at 10pm, the allure of this party drug is lost on me.  A former friend did once recommend the white powder, claiming I would want to talk to everybody in a room as a result of taking it, but I explained that that was an affliction I already had.  Anyway, I’m sure all the death and destruction in developing nations is worth it for those who like a little bump of a weekend at their trendy London parties.  No harm done, right?

But I got more from Narcos than just affirming the fact that I’m enough of a handful without any intoxicating substances.  I also seem to have learnt Spanish.  I did do a GCSE in a single year (A*, obviously) in this language back in my sixth form days, so the basics were there, reinforced over the years by pop songs like Despacito.  Narcos is half in Spanish, so get your subtitle eyeballs ready, as there’s plenty of reading.  Somehow, though, I seemed to attune to the Colombian accents after a few episodes, so if anyone does need me to arrange shipments of coca paste from a Latin American rainforest to a Miami nightspot, just give me a call on a massive nineties mobile phone.

Yet more great TV from Netflix?  Well, yes.  Am I embarrassingly late to the party with this one?  Also yes.  Have I answered all the questions I set out to?  I don’t know – I just kind of start bashing these out and see where they end up.  Is Narcos: Mexico a separate programme, or just the fourth series of the same show?  I’m still not sure.  I’m working my way through that as we speak, so let’s stay tuned for a future post.  I’m sure I can find plenty to be silly and sarcastic about.