Broomfield takes the rap

The making of Nick Broomfield's latest documentary, 'Biggie & Tupac', couldn't have been more fraught. And the fun's not over yet. Charlotte O'Sullivan asks the intrepid 54-year-old if he was the wrong man for the job

There's a moment in Nick Broomfield's 18th documentary when a hostile interviewee takes time out to criticise the film-maker's oeuvre. "I don't like your films. In Heidi Fleiss, you make yourself look so slick, and everyone else look like fools." Broomfield swallows a smile. Then he nods his head pensively and says: "Well, hopefully, this one will be much better."

Which begs an obvious question. Biggie & Tupac, an investigation into the unsolved murders of two of the world's most famous rappers, has already been a huge hit at Sundance. Supporters claim that the 54-year-old, Sussex-based Broomfield has risked his life in pursuing this case, and in the process has shed more light on it than any number of cops. He points the finger at Suge Knight, the head of Death Row records, and the Los Angeles Police Department. In fact, the evidence he has uncovered has become part of the biggest "wrongful death" lawsuit against the LAPD in US history.

Then again, last Friday I attended a screening of the film at the University of London's School of Oriental and African Studies, and many in the audience felt that Nick-the-maverick-private-dick had "trivialised" the issues and imposed a "white, middle-class perspective". Broomfield: selfless hero, or self-aggrandising villain? The jury, it seems, is still out.

As far as Broomfield is concerned, he's just doing his job. Talking to me in a small office in Covent Garden, he says languidly, "This black/white thing... You can't apologise for who you are. The fact that I do get on with it, and that I don't namby-pamby around, is why it works so well. I don't try to talk differently or be more hip than I am."

Broomfield made the film with his ex-partner, the American camerawoman Joan Churchill, and their 18-year-old son Barney. So, on top of the public-school accent, he boasted his very own little family unit. Maybe it was this double whammy that endeared him to Biggie's mum, Voletta Wallace, the respectable, retired teacher whose help proves invaluable in Broomfield's quest. Maybe it's what unnerved many in the Tupac camp who, let's put it this way, weren't quite as accommodating.

Broomfield's interview with Tupac's backing band, the ganja-loving Outlawz, sounds hilarious. "I hadn't done an interview since Kurt & Courtney," he drawls, "so I was pretty rusty and Barney got into a terrible state, too – probably his state reflected my inability to actually start the interview properly, because I was intimidated by them. And, by accident, Barney exposed some film that we'd shot and I got furious with him. It turned into this terrible family thing. It was a disaster."

Their problems weren't over. The band signed a release form, but Tupac's mum, Afeni (an ex-crack addict, as the film keeps pointing out) insisted Broomfield couldn't use the footage. "That's when we started getting 10 calls a day," says Broomfield. "In the end, I said, 'Actually, you need to deal with our lawyers'. So then they were constantly ringing up the lawyers, sort of like foolish intimidation. 'Cos you know, it doesn't mean a shit." Broomfield's face is flushed. "Then we had the Outlawz manager calling up and saying, 'Do you want to meet me man to man? I'm going to beat the fuck out of you'." Broomfield sighs. "At that point, it became apparent that Afeni had her own agenda. She wanted to do her own film about Tupac. [He coughs, theatrically]. And one started to suspect her own alignment with Suge Knight."

In the film, the news that Afeni has a working relationship with Knight appears deeply sinister. That's because Broomfield sees it that way. He tells me an unprintable story about Afeni's behaviour on the night of Tupac's death, which he, in turn, has been told by Tupac's friends; a story that completely buys into the idea of her as a calculating bitch.

He clearly believes what he's saying, yet it's so obviously in the realm of rumour. Which reminds me... In Kurt & Courtney, a bunch of grizzlers make dark allegations about Courtney Love and the events surrounding her husband's death. Maybe he just hates stroppy, ex-junkie females? "These people bring it on themselves" he says. "You think, 'Why are you being so selfish, so defensive?', and then you hear these stories..." Love, of course, took legal steps against Broomfield, which obviously registered. "I just thought, 'Let's not give Afeni an excuse for a lawsuit. This is a woman with millions of dollars at her disposal. Let's not go through another Courtney nightmare'."

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I'm still finding it hard to go with Broomfield's flow. But Afeni's such an interesting figure, I say. An ex-Black Panther, Afeni's closest friends, lovers and family all seem to be in jail, on the run or dead. It would have been nice to hear her version of events.

Broomfield admits that for his black producer, Michele d'Acosta (the one who organised most of the film's big coups), it was an "especial disappointment" that Afeni could not be in the film. D'Acosta had been working on the Tupac project for four years before she came to Broomfield with the idea. Apparently, she wanted the film to be more about "Tupac, the Black Panthers and what the FBI did to them".

Blimey, I say. Working with him was probably really frustrating for her. Broomfield smiles wanly. "I'm sure it was." And maybe it was hard, too, being the only non-blood relative? "Michele's one of the family," he snaps. Then adds suddenly, with a grin: "Probably what was hard was being propositioned by every guy in the film."

I ring Broomfield a few weeks later to see if there have been any legal developments. Any handy death threats, stuff like that. "Just tell me what you want me to do," he says with a snort. "Maybe you'd like me to throw myself under a bus. Maybe you'd like me to have an affair..." Well, I joke, I did mean to ask him if he'd ever propositioned Michele. There's a pregnant Broomfield pause. Then he says, archly: "I'm not in the habit of propositioning my employees." Employee? As producer, d'Acosta's name comes top of the credits. And anyway, I thought she was one of the family.

I ask Broomfield if he can put me in touch with d'Acosta. He says he doesn't know where she is. What about Barney? "Oh, he'll tell you all the bad stories." But he gives me the number anyway.

I ring Barney (now studying at the London School of Economics). "Michele's disappeared," he says. "I think she needed to take a breather." While making the film, she and he and Broomfield all shared a house in Santa Monica. "For most of a year we had non-stop contact – the door never closed."

Barney says he wouldn't have missed this experience for the world, but admits the strain got to him, too. "My parents," he says, "I mean, I got sick of them. You see them doing these things, and it completely demystifies their role as these figures who hand down morals. You know, it's a game. Nick would jump out of the car before people had time to compose themselves. Or would ask questions he knew the answer to. He knows what he wants before he goes in. He says he doesn't, but he does."

Broomfield Snr is a hard man to pin down. Ruthless, patronising, (not to mention patrician), he does play the fool in order to manipulate others and, in the process, make himself look good. On the other hand, he's very likeable and has made a gripping film. What you secretly hope is that d'Acosta makes another one and that, in it, she gets to the heart of the enigmatic Afeni Shakur. Biggie & Tupac is a piece of the puzzle. As Broomfield would be the first to say, it's by no means the whole picture.