The French Connection

 

I suppose it’s telling that, facing a rare free weekday afternoon and looking for a feel-good movie, I chose The French Connection.

Regular readers know I am a devotee of Seventies crime movies. I rarely pontificate on the “importance” of films, but I do believe The French Connection is a seminal event in the genre. Crime movies were different after this. They had to be.

A problem with seeing anything as often as I’ve seen The French Connection is that little flaws become more obvious and TFC has its share.

·         Cloudy (Roy Scheider) asks Popeye (Gene Hackman) how he was supposed to know a guy they busted had a knife when it was he who hollered, “Watch out, Jimmy! He’s got a knife—” when the action went down.

·         Why do the smugglers leave the Lincoln with the drugs at the waterfront? I’m willing to say the plan was to have it picked up to transfer the drugs, reported as stolen, and returned intact, but there are far easier ways.

·         Why do they buy the junker car to store the money? Why not just put it back in the Lincoln?

·         Why take Doyle and Russo to the site of a horrible car crash to take them off the case? They’re Brooklyn narcotics detectives. Why are any of them even there?

·         How does the conductor (or whatever he is) of the subway train not know the Transit cop has been shot? What happened to all the people who fled toward the front of the train?

·         Why doesn’t the dead man’s switch engage when the motorman passes out? (Yes, I read The Taking of Pelham One-Two-Three.)

                                                

None of that matters.

There are lots of movies where any of the above would take me out of the story. Not here. I saw The French Connection for the first time in a theater (a double-feature* with M*A*S*H, no less) and noticed none of those things. The film engrossed me from the opening credits. Martians could have delivered the drugs and I wouldn’t have cared.

 It’s the attitude. It sweeps you into Popeye’s world to see things through his perspective, even when he’s not ion camera. As great as the chase is—and it still has to be in the top five ever—the scene I remember best is the two cops walking into the bar and Popeye says, “All right, Popeye's here! Get your hands on your heads, get off the bar, and get on the wall!” Every line in that scene shows Popeye controls the situation less because he has the badge than because he has the will.

 The original heroin test. (“Blast off: one-eight-oh. Two hundred: Good Housekeeping Seal of Approval.”) Picking up the initial thread while out for an after work drink. (“He’s spending money like the Russians are in Jersey.”) Tearing apart Devereaux’s car. Stalking Frog One through the abandoned crematorium with Russo darting from cover to cover while Popeye walks right up the middle. Popeye and Frog One getting on and off the subway train and Frog One’s little finger wave goodbye. Popeye mimicking that wave when the cops come for the arrests. The continuation of Popeye’s obsession even after he learns it’s Mulderig he shot. (“That son of a bitch is here. I saw him. I'm gonna get him.”) The film keeps you in the moment, and in the moment it all makes sense.

 And Don Ellis’s soundtrack. So far ahead of its time we’ll never catch up. Never intrusive, always uneasy, propulsive when necessary. There are less than 25 minutes of music in the movie and every second has a purpose. Ellis was an innovator throughout his career but his soundtrack for The French Connection may be his masterpiece. (Ellis died in 1978 at the age of 44. I’ll always be sorry I never saw his band in person.)

The French Connection and the first two Godfather films hold positions in the cinematic pantheon of crime stories not unlike the relationship of Beethoven symphonies to Mozart’s. The Godfather and The Godfather Part 2 perfect the conventions that have come before. The French Connection throws open the door of what is to come. There is a little overlap, but once that genie is out of the bottle there’s no going back.

 (* - Note to readers not of a certain age: There was a time when a person could pay for one movie and legitimately see two.)

The French Connection

It’s safe to say The French Connection is a seminal film. Not just among the all-time greats, but as influential a movie as one can think of. All subsequent crime films had to take The French Connection into consideration when making artistic decisions. (The Godfather is not a crime film. It’s an epic soap opera about criminals. One of a handful of the greatest films ever made, but it’s just proof that no genre is irredeemable when done properly.) I’ve lost track of how many times I’ve seen The French Connection, and I can reliably be counted on to watch the chase scene anytime some Facebook reference gets me to looking at car chases in general. (The Seven Ups will also get a chunk of my time in those circumstances.)

A couple of years ago I wrote a post about the greatest screen adaptations of all time, particularly those where the film exceeded the book. Jaws. The Godfather. L.A. Confidential. I mentioned The French Connection, too, but it had been years since I read the book. I decided it was time to renew acquaintance. I was 15 years old and had never read such a documentary account of the innards of a detail police investigation when I read it the first time. I wondered how it would hold up to my more experienced eyes.

I needn’t have wondered. In fact, I wish I hadn’t. To be fair, the book is dated. Tastes, even

in reportage, have changed dramatically. Robin Moore’s The French Connection came years before Tom Wolfe’s The Right Stuff. Still, it’s been a long time since I read such a deadly dull recitation of events that are themselves not inherently interesting.

Legend has it that much of the movie was improvised, even though Ernest Tidyman won an Oscar for his screenplay. He earned it, if only for getting people to realize Moore’s examination of every goddamn tree in the forest could be turned into an entertaining and still realistic film. Where Tidyman and William Friedkin use Popeye Doyle’s obsessive investigational techniques to hold together what is, when viewed closely and critically, a pretty flimsy plot, they never let you forget what’s at stake. Sure, Popeye’s an asshole—so was Eddie Egan, the cop that character is based on—but we’re fascinated to watch how he relentlessly pursues an investigation no one else has much confidence in. (When Doyle’s boss, Samuelson—played by the real Eddie Egan—asks Popeye’s partner if he agrees with Doyle’s wild claims, the best Buddy Russo can come up with is, “I go with my partner.”)

Granted, the film has the luxury of making the entire investigation seem as if two cops and two feds handled it all; in fact there were over a hundred investigators. The film also has the advantage of being able to gloss over things the book pretty much has to explain. The problem is that those are often the best parts of the book. How they figure out who Patsy Fuca (Sal Boca in the movie) really is. How they get the name of Jean Jehan (Alain Charnier in the film) after following him to his hotel. That was fascinating. Unfortunately it’s only about 20% of the book. The rest is spent describing, in detail, which streets the cops followed Patsy down as he tried to lose them. Then which streets they travelled trying to find him after he gave them the slip. Gruesome detail of the most tedious events until it’s hard for a reader who knows what’s going on to figure out where they are. Maybe a native New Yorker would bask in the intimacy. I’m a country boy and it just got tedious.

The French Connection is a wonderful example of how fiction can tell a better truth than facts. The filmmakers made up almost everything about the main story except for its inciting event—Egan and Grosso actually did stop by the Copa for a drink when they stumbled across Fuca and his friends throwing money around “Like the Russians were in Jersey,” to use a line from the movie. Little throwaway lines characterize the cops and provide backstory better than twenty pages of minutiae.

I already considered The French Connection a film that exceeded its source material; I

underestimated how much. No need to read the book. Watch the movie, understanding it’s a fictionalized account and what really happened took a lot longer and was a lot harder than what you see. (Not that the real cops weren’t extraordinarily lucky a few times.) Keep all that in the back of your mind and enjoy one of the best examples ever of not letting facts get in the way of the truth.

(Someday I’ll get around to breaking down Don Ellis’s superb soundtrack.)

The Book was Better

Sure it was. Except when it’s not. Some books have extraneous elements or plot holes or things that just don’t make sense. There’s also the inconvenient fact they they’re two distinct storytelling media. Some things that work in a novel won’t work on screen. This is often—maybe even usually—to the novel’s advantage, but not always. There are examples both ways, but today let’s focus on three examples where the movie is far superior to the book and one where the film is much different but at least as good.

The French Connection. (1971) Directed by William Friedkin. Screenplay by Ernest Tidyman. Based on the 1969 book by Robin Moore. Oscars for Best Picture, Best Director, and Best Screenplay.

What strikes one here is how the movie captures the aura of the book while making major plot changes. Take the famous chase scene. There’s nothing remotely close to that in the book. No plot reason to even have it. Friedkin and Tidyman (and producer Phillip D’Antoni) needed to show Popeye’s intense, even fanatical, focus on this case and they didn’t have the kind of time Moore had in the book to let the endless surveillances play out. So they took advantage of the visceral reactions to be inspired from an action scene to describe Popeye’s obsessed character as well in seven minutes as it is in the rest of the movie combined. (This is the example of the movie not necessarily being better, but much different and it still works.)

The Godfather (1972) Directed by Francis Ford Coppola. Screenplay by Mario Puzo and Coppola, based on Puzo’s 1969 novel. I’ve heard The Godfather described as “the best bad book ever written.” I can’t argue with thOscars for best Picture and Best Adapted Screenplay.

 

It’s actually two books in one. We all remember the romanticized gangster story, but there’s a loooong digression into life in Vegas that I’d call a soap opera but that’s an insult to daytime television. The movie cuts almost all of that shit, giving us just enough to let us know who Moe Greene is and why Michael has him shot in the eye, which was the only part of that subplot worth paying attention to, anyway.

Jaws (1975). Directed by Steven Spielberg. Screen play by Peter Benchley and Spielberg, from Benchley’s 1974 novel. (No Hollywood screwing around there. The movie appeared on screens 16 months after the book dropped.) No Oscars in the three categories we’re tracking here. Spielberg’s one failure was bringing Jaws out the same year as Cuckoo’s Nest.

 

The police chief’s wife has an affair with the marine biologist in the book and it’s stultifying to read. Absolutely not a goddamn thing worth knowing happens. Someone must have told Benchley the book needed sex. Spielberg had the innate good sense to know the real story was the three men on the boat that should have been bigger, so he got his movie onto the water as quickly as possible and changed movies forever. Not necessarily for the better in the long run, but that’s not his fault. Jaws is a masterpiece.

L.A. Confidential (1997) Directed by Curtis Hanson. Screen play by Brian Helgeland and Hanson, from James Ellroy’s 1990 novel. Oscar for Best Adapted Screenplay; nominated for Best Picture and Best Director but lost both to Titanic, which is a travesty I’ll carry a grudge for to my dying day.

The only one of the four where I saw the movie first. It’s damn near a perfect movie and I was like a kid Christmas morning when I finally opened the book, which is a glorious mess. Ellroy’s at the peak of his writing power here, but the story is out of control. The last 30 or 40 pages are nothing more than two or three characters at a time standing around trying to explain to each other what the fuck just happened here, and it still doesn’t make any sense. Helgeland and Hanson ruthlessly cut unneeded scenes, plots, characters—whole books’ worth of shit—and pulled in little bits of the surrounding LA Quartet novels to create one of the great crime films ever made.

I’m sure you have your own favorites. Let’s hear them.

Pass the Popcorn, Please

It’s been a while since I commented on movies I’ve seen recently; binge-watching The Shield has taken up most of our TV viewing time. But, we have seen a handful, and I’m stuck for a blog post today, so here goes.

Pain & Gain. Didn’t know what to expect, adding this to the Netflix queue on a recommendation, and was pleasantly surprised. Mark Wahlberg and Dwayne Johnson play a pair of muscleheads who lust after The American Dream™ (no, not Dusty Rhodes) and decide to get it by kidnapping millionaire Tony Shalhoub. Loosely based on a true story, this is a comic noir of half-baked ideas and half-assed execution. The kidnappers lack discipline, experience, and a clue, and things go as badly as one might expect. Director Michael Bay plays it for laughs and gets the tone just right. (Yes, that Michael Bay. Thus might be my favorite movie of his.) Lots of fun. Wahlberg and Johnson are well cast; Shalhoub is as good as always. Ed Harris makes a cameo appearance, and, as usual, is as good as it gets. Not a timeless classic, but a couple of hours of off-kilter fun.

Ride the High Country. George Pelecanos got to program an evening of Turner Classic movies; this was one of his picks. (I hope to get to them all.) Randolph Scott and Joel McCrae play a pair of over-the-hill lawmen who team up to guard a gold shipment from the wildcat miners to the bank. Unknown to straight-arrow McCrae, Scott and his young sidekick plan to steal the gold. The kid falls for a farmer’s daughter (Mariette Hartley in her first role), and things go bad at the camp, leading to a hazardous trip down the mountain where you don’t know who to trust. The two old pros play it out to the end in a movie that could have been cliché-ridden but instead gives a new look that presages the new wave of Westerns Clint Eastwood was about to start. Directed by Sam Peckinpah, and hints of where he’ll go with The Wild Bunch are evident. Far better than I expected from a 1962-vintage Western.

American Hustle. Meh. Lots of good bits that didn’t add up to as much as they could have. Too long, and I have an impression the original cut was even longer. (The voice-over near the beginning jammed exposition down your throat like a freshman composition major summarizing Genesis.) The director seemed to want to make a Scorsese picture, and only Scorsese should try that. (Not even him, sometimes.) Christian Bale was good, though he often seemed to be doing an Al Pacino impression, which made me think of how much better Pacino would have been when he was the appropriate age. The women carry the movie; Jennifer Lawrence steals all her scenes, in a good way. Louis CK was perfectly cast. Not a waste of time, but not something that deserved bumping to the top of the queue. (As we did.)

The Seven-Ups. Another of Pelecanos’s picks. In the style of the French Connection (directed by French Connection’s producer, Philip D’Antoni), Roy Scheider leads a team of cops that investigates only crimes with a penalty of at least seven years. His snitch (Tony LoBianco) is playing both ends against the middle. Lots to like, but it never grips you like The French Connection. Not only does the whole not exceed the sum of its parts, it doesn’t quite equal it. Best car chase ever though, covering more ground, units coming and going, and all doing stuff cars can actually do. No jumping or flying or rolling and continuing to run or shit like that. Just serious driving, well photographed. (For those who wish to cut to the chase, here it is. The cop in the trunk is Ken Kercheval, who would go on to play Cliff Barnes in Dallas.)

Recently Watched Movies, February 2014

A mixed bag of movies the past few weeks. Ran the gamut from historically great to god awful and everything in between.

The Place Beyond the Pines. Sufficient material here for three good movies, none of which got made. All had promise, none were fully developed, and the whole didn’t hold together because of it. John McNally teaches his students the concept of having too much story for the container; this is a good example.

Get Shorty. Again. I’m not going to say any more than I have to, if that. This has become the official “This is How We Spend Dana’s Birthday” movie. Yay, me.

The Gang That Couldn’t Shoot Straight. I’d wanted to see this for years, as I’m a Jimmy Breslin fan, and it stars Jerry Orbach and Robert DeNiro. Turned it off after twenty minutes. Too stupid for a 58-year-old man to spend two of his remaining hours watching.

Deceptive Practices. A memoir—of sorts—of Ricky Jay, probably the greatest living practitioner of the art of sleight of hand. More of a documentary than a show of his skills, there is still enough here to drop your jaw half a dozen times. The respect and affection Jay shows for his mentors is palpable, and takes the film to another level. (For an extended look at Jay’s skills, search YouTube for Ricky Jay and His 52 Assistants.)

Bosch. Saw the pilot as part of an Amazon Prime test drive and liked it. Titus Welliver is perfectly cast. Now let’s hope they make the rest of them.

Jack Reacher. Saw the first half hour visiting my parents a few months ago and it wasn’t as bad as I’d expected. Figured what the hell, watched the whole thing and liked it quite a bit. The ending cheats, but Tom Cruise pulls it off, once you get past the fact he’s not 6’6” and 250 pounds.

The French Connection. Yes, I watched it again, on the Blu-Ray The Beloved Spouse bought me for Christmas. Stayed up until 2:15 AM watching the extra features. I’ve seen it enough times close enough together to spot a few holes, and I don’t care. It’s easy to forget how The French Connection changed crime movies—I was 15 when it came out, so I wasn’t fully aware then—but a lot of the old movies don’t hold up after the changes it wrought.

The French Connection

As my Facebook friends can attest, I’m been on a French Connection jag for a couple of weeks. Started on the way to Bouchercon, when I toyed with the idea of stopping by a “Welcome to Poughkeepsie” sign to get a picture of me running my fingers between my toes. (If you don’t get it, look it up. I’m not your mother.) My clean living paid off when HDNET movies put it on the air a few weeks ago. I’ve watched it twice, and still have it on the DVR. At least one more viewing is in order before I’m sated.

Why? It’s a good movie and all, but what has driven me to obsess over it?

First, it’s not a good movie; it’s a great movie, on multiple levels. It’s one of those films that stands up to compressed, repeated viewings because there’s more to see each time. The more familiar I become, the more things I notice anew. How the Marseilles scenes tie into what’s to come. Roy Scheider’s amused reaction when Gene Hackman presses the junkie on whether he’s ever picked his feet in Poughkeepsie. (You’re welcome.) How they work in the young woman with Charnier is his girlfriend and not his daughter. A hundred other things.

The writing. The willingness to let actors walk the streets of New York, not speaking, for extended periods of time. Actors who can pull that off. Don Ellis’s soundtrack is sparse and edgy; unsettling, not scary. The atmosphere is dingy, everywhere, pretty much all the time.

My friends Doug and Eric are far more knowledgeable about movies than I am; I suspect this is something you could get away with in the 70s. Maybe auteurs trusted their audiences more; maybe the suits gave them more leeway. The budget was small, which meant nothing could be snazzed up, even if they wanted to. Every cent they spend went into the story and the characters. Even the famous car chase scene—maybe the best ever filmed, though The Seven-Ups is right there with it—shows Popeye for what he is: a man obsessed. His actions at the end seem inevitable after the chase.

We have to be told everything today. Well, maybe we don’t; those in charge of entertainment think we do. I can’t imagine an American studio making The French Connection today. Or Dog Day Afternoon. They took a shot at The Taking of Pelham 1-2-3 a few years ago, “updated” it. I have yet to hear of anyone who liked the new one better.

The Brits and Irish still pull these off. Harry Brown, The Guard, In Bruges have “production values” that probably wouldn’t pass muster here. Too dim. Likely done on the cheap, and they look it in many ways. The emphasis on storytelling—from the writers, the director, the actors, the editors, the set designers, everyone involved—showing an almost pathological aversion to anything flashy. These films don’t try to be gritty; they are. The stakes are far more personal than apocalyptic, which is where all true drama lives: inside the people.

I promise not to bitch about movies not being as good as they used to be for a while. Right now I have to chase some kids off my lawn.