Say hello to Scarface on December 9, 1983
Miami. The word hangs in the humid air like the promise of a particularly potent Cuban cigar. A place where the American Dream hadn't just arrived; it had hot-wired a speed boat and was doing donuts in the intercoastal waterway. And into this glittering, grimy tableau of excess and ambition, right on the precipice of Christmas consumerism, arrived a cinematic detonation: Scarface , opening nationwide on December 9, 1983. BAM! A visual and auditory assault that immediately separated the squares from those who understood that style is a moral imperative. Brian De Palma and Oliver Stone—those enfants terribles of cinema—had taken the relatively quaint, black-and-white 1930s gangster archetype and injected it with enough pure, unadulterated flesh, flash, and fury to make Howard Hawks spin in his grave, likely shouting for a proper tailor. It wasn't just a movie; it was a manifesto wrapped in a white linen suit, slightly tailored at the waist, worn by a man with the eyes of a shark ...