If Simone de Beauvoir is correct, “One is not born, but rather one becomes a woman,” and Spike Lee’s adaptation of Richard Price’s Clockers is proof that one is not born, but rather one is conditioned to become a drug dealer.
Set in and around the fictional Nelson Mandela Houses, if the opening scene filled with bullets and bodies doesn’t grab attention, then the run-down, yet post-modern complex with explicit references to urban decay and social neglect as Westernized Apartheid should.
A co-written feature, its critical acclaim remains relevant, as does its urgency.
Released when older members of Generation Y entered middle school, members of Generation Z may not be familiar with the title or recognize that epidemics include widespread outbreaks of violence linked to the post-19th-century drug trade. Rampant and uncharted, the illicit trade has always been most prevalent in economically distressed areas.
This film’s primary relevance has always been its ability to illuminate several facts: illicit drugs are, for all intents and purposes, an untaxed industry; drug dealing has always been a lucrative, albeit underground, profession; and drug addiction is an equal opportunity and non-discriminatory issue.
Few films and even fewer book adaptations feature twin anti-hero protagonists; this one keeps viewers shifting between Strike/Ronald/Ronnie, a well-read, stressed-out man-child who deals crack cocaine, and Rocco Klein, the middle-aged, burned-out, marginally corrupt cop destined to connect the dots in a rival street entrepreneur’s murder.
Both operate in the murkiest shades of morality, share a warped sense of order and logic, and cynically justify the use of questionable power tactics.
Symbolic of both a wise elder and a trickster, Rocco gossips to connect, bends the truth to uphold justice, and has a talent for placing institutional failures exactly where they don’t belong, on the backs of the urban and working poor.
A toy train fanatic and a sugary drink imbiber, Strike is prodigal because he isn’t the gainfully employed or educated son his mother hoped to raise. Instead, he is a frugal yet ambitious teenager who deals drugs steps from her doorstep to make sure her watchful eye stays on him.
Both Strike and Rocco are character studies of men worn down by urban decay. Despite their bravado of good versus evil, perceptive viewers will notice that ambiguity clouds morality, and each is compelled to accept that being seen as a protector in an urban setting is always influenced by personal experiences.
Aware that they are both products of their environment, neither is immune to using violence as a form of agency. However, both choose to and actively utilize the intelligence needed to maintain their status, which includes bragging to boost street cred, lying to preserve influence, and standing firm in their belief that truth and justice are not mutually exclusive.
With its indeterminate timeframe, viewers are compelled to empathize with the reluctant witness, played by Spike Lee.
Gainfully employed and dressed to reflect that status, he remains knowingly silent, presumably because he openly indulges in the most harmful yet socially accepted vice, alcohol. Seemingly harmless, he is very aware that the environment suggests there are no clear heroes, as urban settings imply that policemen and drug dealers can be seen as benevolent villains.
An allegorical, sensory, and symbolic feast, the unknowns do not distract from the implicit messages or the central themes: family loyalty runs deeper and is more crimson than blood, the sanguine life force that flows; morality is complex because childhood is a convoluted concept; and nobility is as fluid as the deception necessary to bend free will to align with circumstances.
Because social implications are usually viewed as affecting only minorities and the poor, this film intentionally critiques aesthetics related to addiction, race-based policing, and the false belief that drug trafficking only harms the most vulnerable.
Additionally, it shows that narrowly compensated civil service and the marginalization of large parts of society are cyclically destructive, because efforts at redemption are often based on flawed ideas about who has the right to seek and achieve absolution.
Truth is ambiguous and becomes more so as perspective shifts.
Part of this film’s power lies in its ability to subvert betrayal as a survival mechanism and to portray violence as elemental but not necessarily effective. Perhaps this is why the police station, as depicted, appears in greater disrepair than the public housing complex — in short, awareness is crucial because aesthetics can be deceiving.
Beneath the plot, this one is a scathing critique of social decay and the tendency to ignore institutional stagnation, which, if unchecked, leads to the gross exploitation of childhood through theft.
Sharp viewers will notice the reference to bond being equal to ten percent of the demanded bail, and the talented tenth neglecting its duty to the remaining ninety percent. Because environmental factors outweigh spiritual intervention, passive viewers will not miss the metaphorical references to keeping watchful maternal eyes.
Beyond highlighting the difficulties of resisting overt, external evil, this film also directly addresses abuse of authority.
Through the secondary character, Officer Andre, viewers see the inherent commission required of social servants. An anomaly because he gives a damn, he isn’t taken seriously until he descends into reactive reflection of the people he has chosen to protect and serve.
Implicitly, no one realizes true benefit from illicit drug trades, and rap music is the inferred lyrical expression of validly repressed rage. Perhaps this is why the film features two train engines colliding: life is unflinching, and where the tracks do not diverge, destructive impact is the final step.
So why was the book optioned for a film, and what remains significant?
With immediacy, viewers are compelled to recognize the symbolic social neglect depicted in the public housing complex. Cyclical, destructive, and tangential, its inward route seems progressive. Without light, indulgence is muted, and outward routes are diametric, diagonal, and linear.
Similarly, evil is like a hexagon; inherently opposing, it stands completely against nourishment, even though it has the potential to grow unchecked.
This blunt and clear statement about the absence of genuine good and universal evil offers a broad view of illegal drug economies. It realistically illustrates the resilience needed to survive inner-city life.
Upon release, it was praised for its era-specific portrayal of gritty realism and for highlighting the compounded dangers of being a lethal yet illegal heroine. Today, the dirt thrown on single mothers, the working poor, and others living within the margins is judged because their choices are limited by broken systems, which remains evident.
Clockers is worth a re-watch because reframing street culture as culture aligns with the idea of justice being blind, and because the role models include anti-heroes.
For your reading pleasure, here are a few comparable titles:
Dopefiend, by Donald Goines
Native Son, by Richard Wright
American Tabloid, by James Ellroy
Manchild in the Promised Land, by Claude Brown
The Corner: A Year in the Life of an Inner-City Neighborhood, by David Simon & Edward Burns
And, for your viewing pleasure, a few comparable films:
Sugar Hill, directed by Leon Ischaso
Boyz n the Hood, directed by John Singleton
American Gangster, directed by Ridley Scott
New Jack City, directed by Mario Van Peebles
Menace II Society, directed by the Hughes Brothers
This was fire. You broke it down. What you said is so true from Westernized Apartheid to the drug selling industry to the marginalized who still get burned to the broken system. I saw the movie too, but I hadn't read the book yet. I enjoyed this review.