‘Cornbread Mafia’ review: True crime meets stoner comedy in this outrageous documentary

If the Cornbread Mafia story wasn’t true, you might think it was something the Coen brothers came up with. The stranger-than-fiction story of a ragtag group of “land-poor farmers” from Kentucky who become “the largest local marijuana operation in the United States” fits well with events like Raising Arizona And O brother, where are you? in terms of outlaw energy and Southern-fried comedy.

From the outset, documentarians Evan Mascagni and Drew Morris present the eponymous criminal organization with a disarming sense of humor. Cornbread Mafia begins on lush farmland, where brothers Joe Keith Bickett and Jimmy Bickett pull up in a van with a bed full of marijuana. Joe introduces himself and his brother from a script, but fumbles in his delivery. So, they’ll do another take… in which someone’s cell phone rings, interrupting Joe’s feed.

It’s a fun start that gives the audience permission to laugh with the Bickett brothers as their daring story unfolds. But more than that, by drawing attention to the artifices that exist in documentary filmmaking, Mascagni and Morris offer a subtle warning that every story is shaped by its narrator. What you see here may not be the whole truth, but it is the truth according to the Cornbread Mafia. And this truth is outrageously entertaining, while offering solid food for thought.

Cornbread Mafia is a gangster story with a comical twist.

In interviews with talking heads, the documentarians sit down with the Bicketts, a wide range of their notorious associates and even the occasional lawman to piece together the history of the Cornbread Mafia. Their stories are hilarious and bonkers, involving car chases, half-armed heists, baby tigers, and a stylish ally named Susie, who is introduced with the snarled non-sequitur: “I think the rats should die.”

You see, the Cornbread Mafia is not just a name. For their operation, they were inspired by the concept of omertà of the Italian mafia, that is to say a code of honor and silence which favored the community rather than addressing the cops. This mafia started in the 1970s with a group of farmers buying pathetic bags of marijuana from Mexico, until they did the math. A bag of marijuana cost $30, while a pound of tobacco cost $1.50. So, picking the seeds from their purchased bags seemed an almost inevitable step to make their fortune quite easily.

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The next step was to figure out how to develop a breed of grass that could give them the best bang for their buck. Enter Johnny Boone, whose quick mind not only expanded his operations across the country, hiding his crops in cornfields, but also led to the creation of the Kentucky Bluegrass marijuana strain.

Like any gangster story worthy of the name, Cornbread Mafia traces the ups and downs of their journey, from fugitives to folk heroes. Then it goes deeper, into contemporary politics, judicial hypocrisies and life-changing activism. Yet the filmmakers never let the big topics overshadow the exhilarating fun of being in (or near) the cornbread mafia.

Cornbread Mafia uses animation and Boyd Holbrook for its educational value and fantasy.

Rather than hiring actors for re-enactments, Mascagni and Morris use animation to illustrate these larger-than-life narratives, as well as complex explanations of the American justice system and the war on drugs.

The animations for both have a vaguely 70s feel School rock feel. Brightly colored pie charts illustrate a cheeky point about buyer demographics, while cartoon versions of the Bicketts and Boone escape the cops in a colorful van. Then, to refine transitions between interviews or give context to graphics, Boyd Holbrook’s soft, whiskey voice acts as narrator.

Some might scoff at how this animated approach weakens the criminality of the Mafia’s actions. As bobblehead potheads, they resemble the Scooby gang more than Scarface. But that’s precisely the point. Cornbread Mafia considers his subjects to be outlaws, but does not condemn them for their crimes. Instead, the document gives these producers space to express how they built an industry despite the poverty that threatened to suffocate their entire city. Like the smugglers or smugglers who were their ancestors (in some cases literally), they used their intelligence, resources, and friends to amass a fortune that could take care of them all. And that was the case until the federal government stepped in with a reckoning in the form of mandatory minimum sentences.

From there, Cornbread Mafia explores sentencing laws that consider non-violent drug offenses at the same sentencing level as double murder. (Unfortunately, this is not a hypothetical story, but a tragic true story tied to the saga of the Cornbread Mafia.) However, because this film reflects the lust for life and carefree energy of its subjects, Cornbread Mafia does not cautiously engage in a formal walk through history, politics, and opposing viewpoints. It’s the raucous dance of a documentary.

Cartoons, dulcet voiceovers and lively interviews challenge the narrative that drug dealers are bad guys, presenting these good ol’ boys as rebels with a wild streak. Like the outlaw folk heroes who preceded them, they are seductive rule-breakers who inspire fear, envy, and indignation. And Cornbread Mafia does the right thing by welcoming its audience into the grip of this American outlaw heritage.

In simple terms, Cornbread Mafia is a sensational true crime documentary that gives new verve to standard talking heads, rigorous re-enactments and voiceovers by relying on the crooked-smiling charms of its subjects. They are not asked to explain themselves, but invited to share their stories. And they do it with intoxicating joy and frankness. Cornbread Mafia is not only revealing and provocative; it’s also a lot of fun.

Cornbread Mafia was reviewed by SXSW.