Does Netflix’s Narcos Challenge or Perpetuate Stereotypes?
A critical look at a popular series.
The Netflix Original series, Narcos, is a pseudo-documentary crime drama depicting the rise of the cocaine trade from the late seventies onwards, primarily chronicling the trajectory of Colombian kingpin, Pablo Escobar, and later expanding to include the Cali Cartel that took over after Escobar’s death. Narrated in the drawl of American Drug Enforcement Agency (DEA) Agent Murphy, the first two seasons detail the combined legal, political, police, military, and civilian efforts to quell Escobar’s criminal exploits and stem the drug trade at what they believed to be the root of the problem.
Running parallel to this narrative, the series also follows Escobar’s rise and subsequent fall through a look at the kingpin’s personal life — his family, motivations, background, and interactions with his hometown of Medellín.
One notable aspect of the show is its representation of the drug leader, Pablo Escobar. From the start — the American agent’s omniscient Goodfellas-esque narration overlapping with gory shootouts in Colombian cantinas, round-table discussions among leaders decked out poolside, puffing from Cuban cigars, their tan bellies spilling from pastel bermudas, and Escobar, the brooding, billionaire, macho man with a family and a lover on the side — the show’s representation of the Colombian drug leaders has been criticized for reducing them to nothing more than a one-dimensional Latino stereotype.
Equally notable is Narcos’ inclusion of many heartwarming moments between Escobar and his children, his fierce love for and dependence on his wife, Tata, his interactions with the people of Medellín, and his moments of insecurity. Considering the complex, controversial legacy of a man such as Pablo Escobar, then, is Narcos’ representation of the infamous drug leader simply falling prey to stereotypes, or does it successfully provide a nuanced look at what can often be a stereotyped figure?
Sarah Gibson argues in her article that Narcos’ depiction of Pablo Escobar falls flat because of its one-sided portrayal of the drug leader as villain and the American DEA agents as heroic saviours. Gibson points to the voice-over of Agent Murphy as condescending, perpetuating the stereotype of a backwards Colombia overrun with uncontrollable drug leaders needing the Americans to “go down there” to save them from themselves. She further argues that the representation of Escobar does not fully explore the duality of his personality. In particular, how he was often very generous with the poorest of Medellin, gifting stacks of cash and building neighbourhoods and soccer fields for his people. Gibson claims that the show simply stagnates, resorting to shock value incidents of murder and gore without proper context in order to capture viewers’ interests — further embodying the hackneyed “gangster” life of a Latino kingpin.
Gibson is correct in asserting that the voice-over done by Agent Murphy is often patronizing towards Escobar and his world while highlighting the Americans as heroes. However, I argue that the show does, in fact, work hard to, not necessarily dispel the drug lord stereotype associated with Escobar, but provide a nuanced, layered look at a complex person who is not one-dimensional (as Gibson felt he had been portrayed) but conflicting and conflicted.
According to Gibson, Agent Steve Murphy’s voice-over narration throughout the series is primarily problematic for its arrogant commentary on Colombia, serving to enforce the stereotype of a morally superior America stopping a rampant, local evil such as Pablo Escobar.
Indeed, the show begins with a description of magical realism “defined as what happens when a highly detailed, realistic setting is invaded by something too strange to believe”; the words disappear, leaving simply “too strange to believe” in red, which then fades to Murphy’s broad, unsubstantiated assertion that “there is a reason magical realism was born in Colombia” [S01Ep01]. This kind of unfounded, philosophical commentary describing an entire country is what Gibson argues Narcos consistently affirms, such as when Escobar is briefly elected to Congress — his long-time dream — and then rejected for his criminal past in the third episode:
“…Steve even comments that Colombia is a ‘country where dreams and reality are conflated.’ A generous viewer might have dismissed this reductive condescension as meta-commentary on the irredeemable whiteness of his character. But Narcos goes out of its way to endorse Murphy’s patronizing gringo sensibilities as its own” (Gibson).
In other words, Gibson believes that the generalizations painted by the American DEA agent, easily missed by audiences, is enforced time and time again by the show’s creators who decided to include that commentary. Reducing Escobar’s political aspirations to a simple, confused “dream” (narrated while showing Escobar smoking a joint) only furthers the stereotype that a drug leader such as him would only want to enter government under the delusion of greater power, not as a form of narco-revolution against the oligarchical “men of always.”
While I agree with Gibson’s critique of Agent Murphy’s patronizing commentary imposing the trope of a one-dimensional drug leader who is the product of a country of bizarrities needing to be captured by the Americans, I disagree with her argument that the show did not do enough to stray from the drug kingpin stereotype when depicting Escobar’s character. Gibson argues that the show’s largest flaw was its inability to delve into the contradictory character of Pablo Escobar and question the extent of his villainy:
“Narcos never really showed us Escobar’s populist side…[what made it have] a hard time going from a good show to a great show, [is] mostly because there was little ambiguity about whether Escobar was doing something noble” (Gibson).
However, looking at “Escobar: the family man”, it is clear that the show wishes to highlight not only the unwavering love the kingpin felt for his kin, but also the tenuous strain he felt when the dangers of his lifestyle pulled him from those he loved most — a vulnerability not typically associated with the macho drug leader.
Critics may feel that the “family man” itself is a Latin American trope, however, Escobar’s wife, Tata, by being more than just a sexualized domestic partner and both challenging and supporting his endeavors with full honesty dispels this stereotype.
In a scene between Escobar and Tata [Figure 1.0], Escobar confronts his wife about having and hiding a gun when there are 20 men outside whose job it is to protect her. Within the dark, warm atmosphere of their shared seventies-style room, enhanced with low-key lighting, it is clear that this is an intimate moment shared between the two of them — different from the gaudy, flashy production of Escobar’s business going on outside. After quietly confronting her, Tata pulls out the small handheld gun to show to her husband, and Escobar asks her to show him how she holds it.
As seen in Figure 1.0, the camera is first focused on Escobar’s slightly amused face, a soft patronizing smile playing at his lips, and then, without moving, the camera racks our attention by pulling the focus towards Tata’s facial expression — one starkly different from Escobar’s. It is clear she takes the matter of their safety very seriously, and, with a warm light illuminating her straightforward, steely gaze of determination, she affirms that the only person Escobar and his family can truly trust to protect them is themselves.
Finally, the camera settles on a close-up of Escobar’s world-wearied face, emphasizing the deep crevassing shadows of his undereye bags, as he realizes the truth of Tata’s words, and that no amount of money or power can preserve what he cherishes most: his family.
Clearly, even Escobar seems to fall prey to the machismo stereotype of protecting the woman of the household, but Tata’s unafraid understanding of the gravity of their situation and her (albeit small) effort to protect herself effectively quells this cliche, also allowing the audience to feel Escobar’s worries for his family’s safety in a way that a one-dimensional characterization of the drug leader would not otherwise allow.
Along with his dependence on his wife, Escobar’s unconditional love and worry for his family’s safety shapes his representation into a more complex, human one.
The show particularly emphasizes this after Escobar escapes capture once again and gifts his young daughter, Manuela, a baby rabbit. A few episodes later, when his family is forced to seek refuge in a government-sanctioned house while he goes into hiding once again, Escobar takes Manuela’s bunny [Figure 1.1] and promises to take care of it while they are gone.
The scene is awash with bright greens and yellows, Escobar is smiling despite the pain of missing his family again; as Escobar says that he will take care of the bunny. However, the camera is not focused on the animal, but maintains a steady close-up of Manuela, who will not meet his eyes — indicating that the bunny symbolizes the fragility of Escobar’s family’s lives and his overwhelming desire to protect them at all costs.
In the next episode, [Figure 1.2] as all of Escobar’s possessions, wealth, and assets are being steadily stripped away, there is a scene where the weary kingpin releases his daughter’s bunny into the wild. The long-shot, tinted with somber grays and sad blues, shows the bunny hopping, unprotected, into the wilderness as Escobar walks into the distance and ominous music swells in the background. The heart-wrenching scene is intended to further portray the inner turmoil Escobar feels at knowing how close he is to his own end, and, by default, to being forced to release his own family from his security apparatus and into the “wilderness” of the dangerous world he created — a side effect not often shown in depictions of stereotypical drug lords.
Unlike Gibson’s assertion, Narcos also spends time stressing the unbreakable bond Escobar felt towards the town that raised him: Medellín. Displaying his “populist” side, the show often mentions Escobar’s grand material contributions to poor neighbourhoods and to the city’s people, but it is when Escobar puts his life at risk to be there for his people that the show best exemplifies the duality of the drug leader’s persona.
For example, during a time when the DEA and the Colombian government are both patrolling Medellín, hot on Escobar’s heels, he is forced to be transported around the city in the trunk of a shoddy taxi-cab. On one of these trips to one of his neighbourhoods, however, Escobar, indignant at having to hide in his own city, decides to be seen and greet the neighbourhood people [Figure 2.0].
The scene shows him hugging people, making small talk with them, while also gifting them with generous stacks of cash; as the camera pans around in a low-angled arc shot, it provides an overwhelming sense of encirclement around Escobar as people venerate him in awe. He stands out as a symbol of uprising for an impoverished people who will never receive that kind of personal attention from their own government.
The show furthers this side of Escobar, the Robin Hood paisa, when he returns to his hometown after hiding out in his father’s farm for a while and proclaims to his wife in deep adoration: “I’m home” [Figure 2.1]. The scene, depicting an emotional Escobar holding the radio to his mouth and placed on the left side of the screen, focuses on the glittering city of Medellín before the drug dealer — a city that makes up the roots of Escobar’s upbringing in a way that cannot be torn away from him.
In another striking scene of Escobar’s trust in his own people and his city, a disheveled, bearded Escobar dressed in baggy jeans, flip flops, and aviator sunglasses rebelliously drives into town at the peak of his pursuit and buys strawberry ice cream [Figure 2.2].
After picking up a lighter that an unknowing police officer dropped and returning it to him, Escobar stares at his unrecognizable reflection in the store mirror in a striking mise-en-scene in which Escobar, The Colombian Man, faces Escobar The Drug Leader, all while his beautiful city thrives around him, unbeknownst to the presence of the most feared drug kingpin in the world at the time.
Trusting that his city won’t betray him, Escobar removes his sunglasses. As upbeat music picks up in the background, he proceeds to enjoy his ice cream in a public park, where, through another low-angled arc shot, we see the children playing through Escobar’s eyes and a nostalgic Escobar through an outsider’s eyes.
The sheer emotion portrayed by Wagner Moura, the actor playing Escobar, in this moment perfectly encapsulates both the simple contentedness Escobar feels at being able to live in the moment amidst his people and also the conflicting sadness and fear of knowing the end is near for him. This latter emotion is emphasized through the jump cut to a distanced shot, seen from an outsider’s perspective, of Escobar, alone, on the edge of the bench, with a look of dejected acceptance. I believe this moment in the show contradicts Gibson’s argument that Narcos fails to provide a nuanced look at the complex man behind the monster that Escobar embodied.
Returning to Gibson’s critique of Agent Murphy’s narration, although the commentary remained condescendingly naive for the majority of Pablo Escobar’s trajectory, it was in his final moments that the show realized its own errors in typecasting a conflict, a country, and a people through an anglicized lens that could never fully comprehend the issue.
In the scene where Escobar has been shot on the rooftop [Figure 3.0], and Agent Murphy is looking down at him, at the feared, untouchable kingpin he had obsessed over for so long, the camera jumps to an extremely close shot of Escobar’s eyes upside down, as seen from the vantage point of Murphy.
Complementing his narration, which “sagely” realizes that Pablo Escobar the drug leader is really just a man, and just as he is about to begin another philosophical rumination on the meaning of evil, his all-knowing narration is cut off by the triumphant shot of Colombian General Trujillo.
This small detail serves to not only poke fun at the wise, omniscient presence of Murphy’s classic American voiceover but having Trujillo then pronounce “Viva Colombia!” after officially killing Escobar further establishes that the victory is not thanks to American heroes, but due to the combined effort of many Colombian players as well — further challenging the notion of American intervention “saving” Colombia.
Some critics may argue that, while Narcos’ portrayal of Escobar’s generous, human moments alongside his acts of criminality undermines the stereotype of the untouchable, macho drug lord, the show has also glorified a man responsible for terrorizing an entire country for years.
This can be particularly troubling and controversial for a country that has worked so hard to build its reputation up and away from the cocaine king’s legacy. However, in the final episode of the second season, Escobar’s death, the show’s creators make clear that despite wanting to provide a nuanced look at Escobar the person beyond the world of his “business”, his horrific acts cannot ever be forgotten.
This is particularly clear in the scene right after Escobar’s rooftop shootout death, where real archival footage of Hermilda, Escobar’s mother, is played [Figure 3.1]. In tears, Hermilda proclaims to the cameras the nobility of her son, who has always been blamed for terrible things he is not guilty of and whose acts of goodness should not be ignored.
However, in synchronous contrast to this proclamation, the show replaces Hermilda’s footage with different real, news footage of many of Escobar’s worst exploits: the mass murders of hundreds of Colombian policemen, the Avianca Flight 203 airplane bombing in which he killed 107 innocent passengers, the dozens of schoolchildren he murdered through his aggressive bombing campaign in Medellin, and many more victims of Escobar’s dangerous whims.
Although the show attempts to move away from the stereotypical, one-dimensional representation of Escobar as drug leader, it remains equally adamant about presenting the facts of Escobar’s worst atrocities alongside the very real denial of those who loved him as family.
It is understandable why Gibson would criticize Narcos for utilizing an American narrator that perpetuates and generalizes hackneyed stereotypes of Colombia and Pablo Escobar. However, as is clear through the show’s transition into its later seasons, Gibson’s criticism of the portrayal of Escobar as drug lord is unfounded as he is not simply reduced to a stereotype, but rather effectively explored as a multi-dimensional person with conflicting traits.
Escobar’s family side, his populist side, and the show’s own self-recognition of its stereotypes all successfully work to go beyond the simple surface of the Colombian drug leader that Pablo Escobar’s name has come to evoke.
While there is always more to be done in achieving a perfectly unbiased, objective perspective, particularly in the portrayal of a real-life historical figure whose exploits touched many in negative and positive ways, Netflix’s Narcos at least attempts this feat and continues to correct itself along the way.
Works Cited
Gibson, Sarah. “How ‘Narcos’ Is Just Another Form of Cultural Imperialism.” Highsnobiety, 28 Sept. 2016.
Newman, Eric and José Padilha, directors. Narcos. Netflix, 28 Aug. 2015.
