The memory of Biggie Smalls is like Yiddish: a cultural treasure that must be preserved. Is it a coincidence that in the nearly 12 years since Big’s murder, Brooklyn has become nearly unrecognizable to those of us who grew up in the 1990s? Do the hipster-trash of Colonial Williamsburg love Big Poppa?

I couldn’t be back home yesterday for the Brooklyn premiere of Notorious, but Politico contributing editor Ben Adler was, and he wrote the following dispatch from the Brooklyn Academy of Music. If you don’t know, well now you know.

In 1999, two years after Notorious B.I.G.’s death, Mos Def concluded his five-minute-long track "Brooklyn" with the borough’s biggest boast of all: "Where one of the greatest MCs was a local cat." You knew whom he meant. Biggie looms large over our local culture, especially hip-hop culture. When I was in high school it was simply received wisdom that Biggie was The Greatest Rapper Ever. His image adorned billboards on Flatbush Ave., his mural was spray painted on riot gates on Fulton and DeKalb. Just the other day I saw a kid on the train, who must have been ten or so when Biggie died, sporting an over-sized Biggie Smalls T-shirt. In Brooklyn Biggie inhabits a plane above other rappers. He’s an enduring icon, akin to Bob Marley, on college campuses.

Thursday night I had the honor of attending the Brooklyn premiere of "Notorious," the two hour bio-pic, produced by Puff Daddy — that’s what I still call him — and Biggie’s mom, Voletta Wallace, at the Brooklyn Academy of Music (BAM) just blocks from where Biggie grew up on the corner of Fulton and St. James. It was cohosted, naturally, by the borough president’s office. [Although we all know it's Biggie Smalls For Mayor -- ed.] And it was a madhouse. Trying to get in the front door was like talking your way into the Limelight in the mid 90’s with crowds in black coats and bouncers waving everyone off. I had to use the name of my connection, the president of BAM, about four times just to get into the lobby to meet her. Despite their best efforts at crowd control, both cinemas simultaneously showing the flick were filled beyond capacity, with people standing at the back and to the side.

From the beginning, the scene at BAM was a celebration of not just Biggie’s life and lyrical genius, but the borough that raised him. "Let’s liven this up, this is Brooklyn" one man shouted before the programming had even begun. Borough President and official booster Marty Markowitz spoke, and the Rev. Jesse Jackson appeared on stage to deliver his stock phrases, "Save the children! Keep hope alive!"

The film itself is not an especially great work of filmic art. Most of the personal details and career turning points are already known to any rabid hip-hop fan. But as an homage it is exemplary. It was shot on location and its musical choices are above reproach: only Biggie’s best. Much to my surprise and relief, Puffy’s maudlin tribute to Biggie, "I’ll be missing you," was nowhere to be heard. But Black Moon’s "Who Got Da Props," another great early-90’s Brooklyn-based hip-hop anthem, was heard in the background. The characters were appropriately nuanced and rung true: Voletta was tough; Puffy was a talented marketer and positive influence on Biggie, but also a self-aggrandizing clown; and Biggie was generous and fun-loving but also temperamental and immature. 

The film’s stars and its backers hung around for a panel after the screening. Ms. Wallace was there, as was a Brooklyn rapper who calls himself Gravy (acting under his birth name Jamal Woolard), who played Biggie with almost uncanny accuracy. So was Biggie’s son, who was not even born when he died and who plays him as a child in the movie, and his widow, Faith Evans. Mister Cee from Hot 97 was in attendance, which was only natural: he was the driving musical force behind much of Biggie’s classic debut Ready To Die. [Or, as 50 puts it on 'How To Rob': "I'm 'bout to stick Mister Cee/that n**** still eatin' off Big's first LP" -- ed.]

I cornered Marty Markowitz and asked him about Biggie’s significance. Much to my surprise, he had something reasonably worthwhile to say. "He reasserted Brooklyn’s creative leadership," the borough president said. "His death, although tragic, led to a more [positive] message in hip-hop." I doubt Markowitz has been listening to much recent commercial rap. I wouldn’t call it positive. But I would say that the shockwaves of Tupac and Biggie’s murders did help squash the coastal feud and make rappers realize that beefs should not be taken too far. If only it didn’t have to come at such a cost.

Ben Adler, from the People’s Republic of Park Slope (P.R.O.P.S.), is a contributing editor to Politico and the Internet Food Association.