Blow follows the trajectory that all drug dramas, especially the “based-on-a-true-story” variety, must follow. The early carefree days are followed by really big trouble. The only endings possible are death, prison or recovery. Traffic and Requiem for a Dream are recent, serious films that focus on the decline. Blow is much more about the ascent. But when the inevitable crash and burn comes, we are shown the face of George Jung, a face ravaged by life, a face weirdly distorted beyond its years by drugs and all the attendant tragedy.

After nearly two hours of the impossibly handsome Johnny Depp, who is poorly disguised by the layers of gooey “old” make-up and the pillow tied around his middle for the last scenes, the real George Jung’s face is a shock. His face is more of a cautionary tale than all the fall in the rise and fall of George Jung, as portrayed in Blow.

Blow begins with George in his hometown, somewhere in Massachusetts, in the early 1960s. It’s a grim existence, full of money troubles, a nasty mother, cold weather and disapproving neighbors. Ray Liotta plays George’s father, and it’s wonderful to see him in a role where he’s not a psycho. Rachel Griffiths plays mom, not quite so successfully. She struggles a bit with the accent, occasionally sounding like the Brit she is.

As soon as he is old enough, George takes off for California with his friend Tuna, the very large and highly amusing Ethan Suplee. By now it is 1968, and Manhattan Beach is where they land, an amusement park of surf, sand, beautiful women and marijuana. Through George’s main squeeze, stewardess Barbara (Franka Potente, the magnificent Lola from Run, Lola, Run), George and Tuna meet Derek Foreal, a hairdresser who sells pot as a sideline. Paul Rubens is Derek, and he gives the role fairly subtle shadings considering that like all hairdressers Derek is “flamboyant” and Paul is best-known on camera as Pee-Wee Herman.

These friends go into business together, taking advantage of Barbara’s freedom from luggage inspection as she travels, Derek’s connections and George’s and Tuna’s delight in life on the beach. In no time, demand outstrips supply, and they take off for Mexico to find a more direct supply.

Since this is pre-war on drugs, these happy campers wander around Mexico asking, “Donde esta el pot?” They find plenty, and start having much too good a time transporting and selling. The inevitable setbacks start. Barbara dies of cancer. George gets caught and does a brief stint in jail. Again, fortunes change and George’s cell mate is a Colombian (Jordi Molla) who introduces George to Pablo Escobar.

Soon George is doing for cocaine what he had been doing for marijuana. We learn in voiceover that if you tried cocaine in the late 1970s or early 1980s, it was probably courtesy of George, since he imported about 85 percent of the cocaine coming into the United States. Being a red-blooded American, I found it impossible not to smile in appreciation at the pride in such entrepreneurial capitalism. George is quite a salesman.

In the heady swirl of drugs and success, George falls for Mirtha, a beautiful Colombian from a prominent family. They marry and have a daughter, but both develop serious coke habits that eventually contribute to their downfall. Penelope Cruz is Mirtha, and as lovely as she is, she isn’t nearly as attractive as Johnny Depp. She’s also stuck with the part of the spoiled, hysterical avaricious brat. Their scenes together generate little heat. Even when she’s not screaming, she’s so fidgety that she seems ridiculous next to the quiet but thoroughly winning performance by Mr. Depp.

“Greed is good” said Gordon Gekko in Wall Street. Yes, the scourge of drugs is terrible and has done damage to many lives here and abroad. But it is a lot more fun to watch the rise and fall of drug dealers than the rise and fall of Wall Street weasels who wreck as many lives with their corporate shenanigans. George Jung’s greed is dressed up in cool sunglasses, hilarious fashions, good times, hot tunes and a romantic outlaw persona no arbitrage specialist could muster, no matter how nice his suit. Even mob yarns seem a little short on style and fun by comparison.

Blow reminded me most of Boogie Nights, with its stress on the innocence, camaraderie and initial harmlessness of unwholesome activities that eventually cause irreparable long-term damage. But that last shot of George Jung’s face is a frightening reminder of the wages of the drug life.