If the story of the Cornbread Mafia weren’t true, you might think it’s something the Coen Bros. had dreamed up. The stranger-than-fiction tale of a motley band of “dirt-poor dirt farmers” from Kentucky growing into “the largest homegrown marijuana operation in the U.S.” fits in nicely with the likes of Raising Arizona and O Brother, Where Art Thou? in terms of outlaw energy and Southern-fried comedy.

From the jump, documentarians Evan Mascagni and Drew Morris introduce the eponymous criminal organization with a disarming sense of humor. Cornbread Mafia begins on lush green farmland, where brothers Joe Keith Bickett and Jimmy Bickett pull up in a pick-up truck with a bed piled high with marijuana. Joe introduces himself and his brother from a script, but fumbles his delivery. So, they’ll do another take… in which someone’s cell phone will blare, interrupting Joe’s flow. 

It’s an amusing beginning that gives the audience permission to laugh along with the Bickett brothers as their audacious story is unfurled. But more than that, by drawing attention to the artifice that exists within documentary filmmaking, Mascagni and Morris offer a subtle disclaimer that every story is shaped by its teller. What you see here might not be the whole truth — but it’s the truth according to the Cornbread Mafia. And that truth is outrageously entertaining, while offering some solid food for thought. 

Cornbread Mafia is a gangster story with a comic air. 

In talking-head interviews, the documentarians sit down with the Bicketts, a wide array of their notorious associates, and even the occasional lawman to reconstruct the history of the Cornbread Mafia. Their stories are hilarious and bonkers, involving car chases, half-cocked heists, tiger cubs, and an elegant ally named Susie, who’s introduced with the snarled non sequitur, “I think rats should die.” 

See, the Cornbread Mafia isn’t just a name. They pulled inspiration for how they operated from the Italian mob’s concept of omertà — meaning a code of honor and silence that favored community over going to the cops. This mafia began in the 1970s as a band of farmers who’d been buying pathetic dime bags of pot from Mexico, until they did the math. A baggie of marijuana was going for $30, while a pound of tobacco was $1.50. So, picking the seeds from their purchased dime bags seemed an almost inevitable move to grow a fortune fairly easily.

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The next bit was figuring out how to develop a breed of weed that could give them the most bang for their growing buck. Enter Johnny Boone, whose sharp mind not only grew their operation across the country, hiding their crops in fields of corn, but also led to the creation of the marijuana strain Kentucky Bluegrass. 

Like any gangster story worth its grit, Cornbread Mafia charts the heady highs and rough lows of their journey, from fugitives to folk heroes. Then, it goes further, into contemporary politics, judicial hypocrisies, and life-changing activism. Yet the filmmakers never let the big topics dwarf the rollicking fun of being in (or near) the Cornbread Mafia. 

Cornbread Mafia uses animation and Boyd Holbrook for educational value and whimsy. 

Rather than hire actors for reenactments, Mascagni and Morris employ animation to illustrate these larger-than-life tales, as well as complicated explanations about the American justice system and the war on drugs. 

The animations for both have a vaguely ’70s Schoolhouse Rock feel. Brightly colored pie charts illustrate a cheeky point about buyer demographics, while cartoon versions of the Bicketts and Boone skedaddle from the cops in a colorful pick-up truck. Then, to finesse  transitions between interviews or give context to graphs, the whiskey-smooth voice of Boyd Holbrook serves as narrator.  

Now, some might sneer at how this animated approach undercuts the criminality of the mafia’s actions. As bobble-headed potheads, they seem more like the Scooby gang than Scarface. But that’s precisely the point. Cornbread Mafia regards its subjects as outlaws, but it doesn’t condemn them for their crimes. Instead, the doc gives space to these growers to express how they built an industry despite the poverty that threatened to choke their whole town. Like the bootleggers or moonshiners that were their ancestors (in some cases literally), they used their wits, their resources, and their friends to grow a fortune that could care for them all. And it did until the Feds rolled in with a reckoning in the form of mandatory minimums. 

From there, Cornbread Mafia explores the sentencing laws that regard non-violent drug offenses on the same level of punishment as double murder. (Sadly, this is not a hypothetical, but a tragic true story that ties into the Cornbread Mafia’s saga.) However, because this movie reflects its subjects’ lust for life and devil-may-care energy, Cornbread Mafia doesn’t tread carefully into a formal march through history, politics, and opposing views. This is a raucous dance of a documentary. 

The cartoons, suave voice-over, 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 folk hero outlaws who came before them, they are beguiling rule-breakers who inspire awe, envy, and outrage. And Cornbread Mafia does right by them by welcoming its audience into the thrall of that outlaw American legacy. 

Simply put, Cornbread Mafia is a sensational true crime doc that gives fresh verve to the standard talking heads, rigorous reenactments, and voiceovers by leaning into the crooked-smiled charms of its subjects. They’re not made to explain themselves, but invited to share their stories. And they do so with joyfulness and frankness that is intoxicating. Cornbread Mafia is not just eye-opening and provocative; it’s also a hell of a lot of fun.

Cornbread Mafia was reviewed out of SXSW.