Ridley Scott's American Gangster is a movie of excess, and not only in the figure of its charismatic protagonist, heroin kingpin Frank Lucas (Denzel Washington). Lucas, thanks in no small part to Washington's compelling performance, looms larger than the gangster stereotypes he re-enacts: the hair-trigger temper; the ruthless dedication to his "business" interests; and, of course, the penthouse apartment, limousine, and beautiful wife. But we've seen this material excess before, heard this rise to power tale before, and so Scott (with screenwriter Steven Zaillian) compensates with narrative excess. His would-be epic samples from police procedurals such as Serpico; attempts an anti-Drug War message ala Traffic; and borrows its familial tensions from The Godfather. It's a well-intentioned move, one that tries to breathe new life into a too-often formulaic genre. But lost in the excess is the movie's emotional core. As Lucas's mentor, "Bumpy" Johnson, put it in an early scene, "That's the way it is now. You can't find the heart of anything, to stick the knife. Forget it, Frank. There's no one in charge." As American Gangster rapidly cuts from one scene to another, never slowing down to establish narrative coherence, it's easy to feel that no one's in charge.

The film opens in 1970's Harlem, with the amoral Lucas lighting a man on fire before unloading a clip into his flaming body. His business-like approach to violence serves him well; with the death of "Bumpy" Johnson, Harlem's criminal world suddenly has a vacuum. As Johnson's driver, Lucas becomes an unexpected successor, gradually consolidating his hold on Harlem, whether through savvy business dealings or brutal violence. Taking his mentor's words to heart, he cuts out the middleman, going straight to Vietnam for his heroin. Having cornered the market on cheap, potent dope, he feels confident enough to execute a rival in broad daylight. Harlem, it seems, belongs to him.

On the other side of the law, however, stands "boy scout" cop Richie Roberts (Russell Crowe). From the outset, Crowe's Roberts is a mumbling, unkempt figure in a safari shirt; the counterpoint to Lucas's restrained, tailored-suit gangster. He's honest to a fault (though his ex-wife accuses him of being an honest cop so he can be a dishonest husband), and after being shunned by his corrupt co-workers ends up working the major narcotics detail. There, Lucas finally comes to his attention.

The dual-protagonist crime drama - the play of cop and criminal headed for collision - has a long pedigree, from DePalma's The Untouchables to Michael Mann's Heat. Scott's epic scope has more in common with the latter film, which set Robert DeNiro against Al Pacino. Both movies run well close to three hours and, despite impressive supporting casts, live or die by their lead performances. In American Gangster, Washington's Lucas has the naturally charming smile that belies a cold, shark-like mind, while Crowe's seemingly scatterbrained Roberts reveals an iron will at the film's end.

But this is Washington's film - fitting, given the title - and he simply out-acts Crowe. This is not necessarily a matter of talent: Washington simply gets more screen time in which to develop Frank Lucas. Crowe, meanwhile, has the unenviable job of attempting a nuanced performance across from Denzel Washington - most of which he gives, presumably, while the camera is looking elsewhere. (Crowe's always been capable of such nuanced performances, but only in, unsurprisingly, Mann's The Insider did he receive the necessary screen time.) Other talented actors are similarly mishandled, with Cuba Gooding, Jr. making a brief appearance as Nicky Barnes, and Ruby Dee playing Mama Lucas. On the other end of the spectrum, Josh Brolin's Detective Trupo, whose only function in the story is to represent "crooked cops," has way too many scenes, as does Armand Assante's caricatured Dominic Cattano, head of the Cattano crime family.

Though Harris Savides's cinematography gives American Gangster an underlit feeling of calm menace, the consistent visual aesthetic doesn't compensate for the sprawling mess of a story. When, for example, Scott shows us the consequences of Lucas's ascent - the oozing, infected arm of a junkie; the bodies decaying in Harlem apartments; the death of Roberts's partner - it's as though he wants to take in everything. This lack of focus masquerading as epic sweep makes it impossible to find the heart of American Gangster. The final product, like much of Scott's work, is as frustrating as it is fascinating. It's a Frankenstein of a film: shambling from scene to scene, the spark of life glinting in its eye - a glint that never quite materializes.

Or stay here and watch the trailer for Cane Toads: An Unnatural History. See the world through the eyes of a cactus! Or a toad.