BLUE VELVET (1986)

Director: David Lynch

Writer: David Lynch

Producer: Fred Caruso

Cast: Kyle MacLachlan, Isabella Rossellini, Dennis Hopper, Laura Dern, Dean Stockwell, George Dickerson, Hope Lange, Priscilla Pointer, Frances Bay, Fred Pickler, Brad Dourif, Jack Nance, J. Michael Hunter, Ken Stovitz, Jack Harvey, Jon Jon Snipes, Dick Green, Peter Carew, Leonard Watkins, Moses Gibson, Philip Markert, Selden Smith, Donald Moore, A. Michelle Depland, Katie Reid, Michelle Sasser, Sparky (the dog), Angelo Badalamenti, Jean Pierre Viale, Robert J. Maxwell (uncredited)

When his father (Jack Harvey) suffers a health crisis, college student Jeffrey Beaumont (Kyle MacLachlan) returns to his small hometown of Lumberton, North Carolina. While walking home from visiting his father in the hospital, Jeffrey discovers a severed, human ear lying in a field. He brings the body part to Detective Williams (George Dickerson) at the Lumberton Police Department. Jeffrey’s curiosity is roused, and he learns from Detective Williams’ daughter, Sandy (Laura Dern), that she overheard her father often mentioning the name of Dorothy Vallens in connection to his other current cases. Vallens (Isabella Rossellini) is a local nightclub singer whose apartment is near the field where Jeffrey found the severed ear. Jeffrey begins his own investigation by sneaking into the singer’s apartment. The young amateur sleuth is soon embroiled in the dangerous circumstances of Dorothy Vallens’ life.

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I have never been a fan of films that are so obtuse or personal on the director’s part that I can’t possibly interpret them as having any meaning or narrative coherence. Directors creating such works will probably write everyone off who does not “get it” as either being ignorant or wanting to be spoon fed all their entertainment. Such directors are usually affecting cultural and intellectual superiority, when they can’t just admit that they are so self-indulgent that they won’t bother to tell a story well. The late filmmaker David Lynch often comes perilously close to fitting into that category, yet his work can usually hold my attention.

The recent passing of David Lynch has prompted me to revisit some of his films. He is such an idiosyncratic filmmaker that his work can be interesting and head-scratching (Lost Highway-1997) or utterly confusing and irritating (Inland Empire-2006). Nevertheless, each of his films seems to establish a mood all their own, which is probably why David Lynch has inspired the stylistic term “Lynchian.”

Although I am trying to reacquaint myself with some David Lynch films and have not seen all his work, I will probably always feel that Blue Velvet is THE David Lynch movie. I think it is the most accessible of his films, while it still benefits from those touches of Lynchian weirdness.

Now, I suppose that the more erudite among you are probably poopooing me as the most shallow of Lynch-film watchers. Sure, this schlockoholic likes Blue Velvet because it fits a genre and has a coherent plot. However, what I like most about the film are the oddball characters with behaviors we can’t quite understand, but can try to interpret, and the bits of incongruous humor. These are things that do not appear just to fulfill any mystery story or crime drama expectation. They add a grotesque flair to this genre film that makes it distinctive and offbeat, just as any dangerous and bizarre experience should feel to both the film’s protagonist and the audience.

Artist that David Lynch is, he also presents imagery that can be a bit perplexing, causing us to ask: Why do we need to see bugs crawling beneath the front yard of a cozy home in the suburbs, and why must we zoom into the dark abyss of a severed ear? These stylistic touches are meant to be disturbing and perhaps never intended to make any sort of statement. We may attach meaning to them or simply be a bit weirded out. Either reaction serves to make this movie unique and atmospheric without making a jumble of the story.

I am certainly not the first to state that Blue Velvet is about corruption. More specifically, I think it is about the perception of that corruption; a filmic painting displaying corruption in contrast to the idyllic setting it infests. That corruption is not presented as a process. Rather, it is shown as already established and perhaps intrinsic to all things. An example of this is the front yard in that postcard-perfect slice of American suburbia teeming with voracious insects that seem engaged in an unsavory orgy of consumption, copulation, or combat. That thriving nastiness has always been there just beneath the proper, placid surface.

Such a perspective applies to the some of the denizens of Lumberton. The police department has a corrupt detective who has been in cahoots with the criminal element long before the story begins. The Lumberton criminals we meet are presented, without any backstories, brandishing their eccentricities to leave us wondering how such behaviors became instilled in them. This sudden confrontation with unpredictable evil leaves us just as unnerved as Jeffrey Beaumont, the young hero of the story. As most of the narrative is from Jeffrey’s perspective, there is no storytelling cause-and-effect preparation helping us assimilate to the unsettling reveal of the corruption already underway in idyllic Lumberton.

The corruption element can also taint the seemingly decent people we are inclined to root for. Our hero, Jeffrey Beaumont, becomes ensnared in the dangerous situations resulting from local chanteuse Dorothy Vallens being controlled and abused by local criminal Frank Booth. At first, it seems that Jeffrey is simply an impetuous, young adventurer wanting to find clues to a crime. Once we see him hiding in Dorothy Vallens’ apartment spying on the distraught, beautiful woman, we may be seeing him indulging his voyeurism. This aspect of Jeffrey’s character was made much clearer in some excised footage meant to take place earlier in the story that underscored Jeffrey’s conflict between his prurience and his basic decency. We are shown corruption as something everyone must grapple with.

Kyle MacLachlan made his feature-film-starring debut in David Lynch’s previous film, the ill-fated, big-budget, 1984 adaptation of Frank Herbert’s science-fiction novel Dune. MacLachlan would also star as FBI agent Dale Cooper, the hero of Lynch’s cult television series Twin Peaks (1990–91); its prequel film, Twin Peaks: Fire Walk with Me (1992); and the 2017 television series revival, Twin Peaks: The Return.

As Blue Velvet’s Jeffrey Beaumont, MacLachlan seems guileless, yet his character’s curiosity may be leading him into indulging darker impulses. Of course, our own curiosity is waiting to be sated by Jeffrey’s investigations, so we identify with him, even if his motives may not be totally pure. He still seems moral and is upset by the injustice and brutality he witnesses, but his sensitivity does not make him an infallible hero. Jeffrey Beaumont is both physically and emotionally vulnerable in the dangerous situations he faces.

The daughter of actors Bruce Dern and Diane Ladd, Laura Dern, would begin her acting career at a very young age and have quite a prolific career herself. Like her Blue Velvet co-star Kyle MacLachlan, Dern would continue to work in further David Lynch film projects: Wild at Heart (1990), Inland Empire (2006), and with MacLachlan in the 2017 Twin Peaks: The Return series.

As Lumberton Police Detective John Williams’ teenage daughter, Laura Dern’s Sandy seems to be the most unsullied character in Blue Velvet’s community. She becomes Jeffrey’s reluctant cohort in his investigation when he gently coerces her assistance to help him gain access to the apartment of the mysterious Dorothy Vallens. During the rest of the movie, Sandy is Jeffrey’s confidant. Dern’s Sandy has appealing, nice-girl chemistry with MacLachlan’s Jeffrey. She also expresses the film’s theme of lurking corruption when she half-jokingly tells Jeffrey, “I don’t know if you’re a detective or a pervert.”

Our neo-noir femme fatale here is Isabella Rossellini. She is shrouded in mystery and misery as The Slow Club’s lounge singer, Dorothy Vallens. This was only the Italian actress’s second American film, and Rossellini gives a very brave performance. Her character is only glamorous when in the nightclub spotlight. The rest of the time, we see her as a tragic and tortured woman on the verge of a nervous breakdown. Her beauty entices Jeffrey Beaumont, and her plight earns his sympathy and compels him to continue his risky investigation.

If ever there was a scene-stealing performance, it is Dennis Hopper’s as the despicable Frank Booth. He is full of bizarre quirks and outbursts that are usually profane and threatening or funny. His psychotic temperament drives his every scene to an unpleasant conclusion. Frank Booth is the volatile thug that has made Dorothy Vallens his virtual prisoner. Frank seems to actually revere Dorothy as he cries during her nightclub performance of “Blue Velvet.” Otherwise, she is nothing but his long-suffering slave. While we hate his guts, we still see he has some unspoken mental conflicts probably responsible for his manic and violent behavior.

Dean Stockwell manages the impossible feat of stealing his single scene in the film from Dennis Hopper. As the “suave” Ben, Stockwell is an eccentric criminal crony of Frank Booth, yet another of the many oddballs in the criminal underworld of Lumberton. There is really no plot purpose served by Ben and his scene; it is just a weird and wild stop during Frank’s nighttime road trip. This adds to the unpredictable nightmare vibe of the film.

Although now regarded as a classic from an important filmmaker, when Blue Velvet was first released, many were either nonplussed or offended. This was no mere crime thriller; while it dallied in the genre, its main goal was to evoke a unique atmosphere by contrasting the comforting stability of small-town America with the unsettling reveal of lurking, inexplicable evil. Whether you call it a mystery yarn, crime drama, or neo-noir, Blue Velvet is stylized filmic fabric hung from the genre curtain rod. It needs that genre support for its display, but its style is what intrigues, shocks, and fascinates.

WHITE HEAT (1949)

Director: Raoul Walsh

Writers: Ivan Goff, Ben Roberts, adapting the story by Virginia Kellogg

Producer: Louis F. Edelman

Cast: James Cagney, Virginia Mayo, Edmond O’Brien, Margaret Wycherly, John Archer, Steve Cochran, Wally Cassell, Fred Clark, (and uncredited cast members) Robert Ossterloh, Paul Guilfoyle, Ford Rainey, Ian MacDonald

In the Sierra Nevada Mountains, Arthur “Cody” Jarrett (James Cagney) and his small gang rob a mail train, killing several men in the process. U.S. Treasury agents, led by Phillip Evans (John Archer), find the body of one Jarrett gang member (Ford Rainey) and connect him to the robbery. To establish an alibi and avoid being nabbed for a federal crime, Jarrett turns himself in for another robbery he arranged to be committed in another state during his mail train heist. Jarrett’s plan is to do just a couple of years in prison for the lesser crime, and then he and his gang can spend the mail train loot when he is released. T-man Evans plants one of his men, Hank Fallon (Edmond O’Brien), as a convict in Jarrett’s prison to try and ingratiate himself with Jarrett to learn where the stolen mail train money is and get the evidence needed to bust Jarrett for the crime. Meanwhile, “Ma” Jarrett (Margaret Wycherly) informs her son that his wife, Verna (Virgina Mayo), and Jarrett gang member “Big Ed” Somers (Steve Cochran) are plotting against him.

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That little tough guy, James Cagney, was synonymous with the gangster film genre in the 1930s. The former vaudevillian made his name acting in such Warners Bros. crime films as Sinners’ Holiday (1930) and Public Enemy (1931). He would also appear in comedies and even get the chance to show off his dancing skills in 1932’s Taxi!

While Cagney became one of Hollywood’s biggest money-makers during the Great Depression, he did not appreciate how he and many other talents at Warner Bros. Pictures were treated. Head of the studio, Jack L. Warner, referred to his stubbornly principled star as “that little bastard.” Gagney would use Yiddish to cuss out Warner, leaving the studio boss to ask others what he was being called. The good old days were certainly a lot more colorful before HR policies.

Cagney had walked out of Warner Bros. more than once. After the success of his Oscar-winning performance in Yankee Doodle Dandy (1942), Cagney decided to leave the studio to start his own independent film production company. After making two films with limited success and a third one that was a financial disaster (1948’s The Time of Your Life), Cagney was enticed back to Warner Bros. for one of his greatest pictures, the noirish crime thriller White Heat.

The movie opens with the mail train robbery by the Jarrett gang and never stops moving. Between Jarrett’s evasions from justice, the treasury agents’ pursuit, a federal undercover man trying to join up with Jarrett’s gang, and the treachery of Jarrett’s wife and her lover in the Jarrett gang, we are all waiting for Cagney’s murderous mama’s boy Cody Jarrett to raise hell settling scores.

At 50 years of age, James Cagney was still a dynamo playing the villainous lead in White Heat. Of course, Cagney was not only the biggest star in the film but also returning to a gangster role of the type that had earned him his early success. Cagney tweaked his role to be even more extreme. There is not only a flawed morality in Cagney’s Cody Jarrett, but some psychological quirks that manifest as sudden, severe headaches and an obvious relish he takes gunning down his enemies.

The only one in his gang Cody Jarrett trusts is his devoted mother, “Ma” Jarrett (Margaret Wycherly). She has Cody’s back when he is incapacitated by his headaches, and she is all too aware of the treachery possible from the rest of the Jarrett gang. Ma Jarrett may have been inspired by the probably exaggerated reputation of Ma Barker, the matriarch of the 1930s Barker-Karpis Gang. They were public enemies responsible for a series of robberies, kidnappings, and murders.

Virginia Mayo was another vaudevillian that made it big in the movies. By the time of White Heat, she was at the peak of her fame and had just begun a six-year series of films at Warner Bros. As Verna, Mayo may be the beauty to Cagney’s beast, but her beauty is only skin deep. She is introduced as a perfectly made-up gun moll snoring away in the bedroom of the country cabin hideout for the Jarrett gang. She grumbles about her boredom while on the lam, but she provides Cody Jarrett with the kind of fun he needs. However, Verna has been playing up to another member of the gang that is as impatient as she is to live it up with the loot.

Steve Cochran immediately projects unsavory confidence as “Big Ed” Somers. Perhaps his character’s tryst with Virginia Mayo’s Verna was a just reward for Cochran having already appeared in four of Mayo’s earlier films. Cochran’s Big Ed is champing at the bit to take over Cody Jarrett’s gang and girl. Big Ed’s ambition is obvious to Jarrett. The furtive glances Big Ed trades with Jarrett’s wife Verna let us in on their affair. Once Cody Jarrett begins his short stretch in the pen, Big Ed plans to take Jarrett’s place permanently.

The good guys are U.S. Treasury agents trying to nail Jarrett. They are led by John Archer as Phillip Evans. Archer’s Evans is dedicated. Period. His only character distinction is his always-in-control manner and a great voice. That voice may explain why Archer starred as The Shadow on that crimefighter’s radio program from 1944 to 1945. Archer also deserves credit for fathering beautiful actress Anne Archer.

Edmond O’Brien plays the other featured T-man hero in White Heat: undercover specialist Hank Fallon. He assumes the identity of Vic Pardo, a con sent to the same prison cell as Cody Jarrett. It is interesting watching Fallon try to break the ice with Jarrett without seeming too eager. Jarrett is wary of letting anyone get too close to him except his bad ole ma. There is a fair amount of suspense created as Fallon must avoid being exposed as an imposter. Beyond Fallon’s law enforcement objective, we learn nothing about this T-man, either, except that he has an interest in fishing.

I find it interesting that the representatives of law and order, without any emotional depth, are meant to engage the audience’s support. Sure, these T-men do their important duty, but it is the institutions they work for that earn our respect. That is certainly an admirable attitude if the just standards for those institutions are maintained. This was certainly indicative of a post-Great Depression-and-World War II-era mindset, which had reverence for the agencies that should maintain social stability and prosperity.

The real emotional pull for the audience in White Heat is the almost morbid fascination we must have for the conflicts and duplicity within the criminal element. Since this is a James Cagney-starring film, that interest is wisely focused on his Cody Jarrett character. We may root for justice to be served to Cody Jarrett, but we also can’t help but thrill a bit to his remorseless violence and seeing what further actions his trauma may drive him to. This role is a fine example of why many actors find it more satisfying to play villains. Sins are more exciting to perform than virtues; actors can let out their inner animal that social norms urge us to keep caged.

White Heat is usually classified as film noir, yet it is hardly typical of the genre. While it has plenty of crime happening, it is strangely lacking in that crucial film noir element of temptation and moral degradation. All the main characters are established as being either good or evil, and they do not deviate. We are never in doubt as to what any of these characters are after or capable of. Even Jarrett’s unfaithful wife Verna is almost immediately known to us as completely untrustworthy. Jarrett has never really seemed to have much trust or respect for her. Our only surprise about Verna is a reveal of the violence she commits. The femme fatale’s purpose of many noir films is fulfilled here by Hank Fallon. He is the betrayer trying to gain Jarrett’s trust and camaraderie through duplicity. This happens during a particularly vulnerable time for Jarrett, yet Fallon’s moral righteousness is never in doubt, and we realize the validity of his tactics.

White Heat was a financial and critical success that re-established James Cagney as a box-office draw. It has become one of the films always gracing greatest movies lists, and it has certainly influenced many crime-centric films ever since. After watching White Heat, I can’t help but see a bit of Cagney’s Cody Jarrett bubbling up though Jack Nicholson’s Joker in Batman (1989). Some of White Heat’s themes and situations recur and are reworked in Reservoir Dogs (1992). These observations in no way diminish those latter films. They just demonstrate that a great movie can have a lasting impact.

VICE SQUAD (1982)

Director: Gary A. Sherman

Writers: Sandy Howard, Kenneth Peters, Robert Vincent O’Neill, Gary A. Sherman (uncredited)

Producer: Brian Frankish

Cast: Season Hubley, Gary Swanson, Wings Hauser, Nina Blackwood, Pepe Serna, Joseph DiGiroloma, Beverly Todd, Maurice Emanuel, Wayne Hackett, Kelly Piper, Sudana Bobatoon, Lydia Lei, Michael Ensign, Fred Berry, Nicole Volkoff, Hugo Stanger, Stack Pierce, Nate Esformes, Kristoffer Anders, Joseph Baroncini, Tom Brent, Grand L. Bush, Marilyn Coleman, Stacy Everly, Cliff Frazier, Lyla Graham, Ark Wong, Vincent J. Isaac, Cyndi James-Reese, Robert Miano, Barbara Pilavin, Donald Rawley, Cheryl Smith, Richard Wetzel, Jonathan Haze

Ramrod (Wings Hauser) is a sadistic pimp in Los Angeles. He severely assaults one of his hookers, Ginger (Nina Blackwood), who soon dies in the hospital just as vice squad detective Sgt. Tom Walsh (Gary Swanson) is trying to get her to finger Ramrod as her attacker. Walsh convinces Princess (Season Hubley), another prostitute and friend of Ginger, to be wired for sound and entice Ramrod to be her pimp. Upon hearing the audio evidence he needs, Walsh’s team arrests Ramrod. As Ramrod is being taken to headquarters for booking, he escapes and is loose in the city. While the LAPD patrol the city to recapture him, the psychotic Ramrod is hellbent on seeking vengeance against Princess.

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Research for an aborted television documentary on prostitution led to a script for the intense crime thriller Vice Squad. The story depicts one awful night in the seedy world of LA’s pimps, prostitutes, and the law enforcement officers that must confront them. Unlike many mainstream film and television presentations of the time, this movie does not glamorize the sex workers or detectives, nor does it moralize. It presents interesting and extreme situations in a sordid environment and leaves it to the audience to decide how to feel about the characters. The filmmakers just take us for a wild and dangerous ride.

Director Gary Sherman had previously made two very idiosyncratic horror films: Death Line (1972), aka Raw Meat, and Dead & Buried (1981). I had been intrigued about Vice Squad because of Sherman’s involvement and the infamous balls-to-the-wall performance of Wings Hauser as the vile pimp Ramrod. Sherman was not stepping very far away from the horror genre directing such a monstrously evil character.

Season Hubley is terrific in her leading role. We are introduced to her as a loving mother sending her little girl (Nicole Volkoff) off to San Diego to stay with a grandmother. This lady seems to be the perfect picture of domestic, single-parent responsibility. Then, in a grubby, bus station restroom, she transforms into the solo prostitute Princess. She positively struts out into the dark streets of LA to get down to the shady business of turning tricks to make her living. Her carriage and attitude are not from any sense of pride but seem due to a mindset that she adopts to get the job done. Once things escalate into danger, there are still nuances to Hubley’s performance that really work to put us inside her character’s skin.

Gary Swanson plays vice squad detective Sgt. Tom Walsh. He is shown just doing his job with a day-by-day attitude, but he is obviously dedicated. Walsh is probably frustrated by the seeming futility of his job, which comes to a head when he tries to get the hospitalized Ginger to accuse Ramrod of her beating. She is so afraid and dominated by the vicious pimp who assaulted her that she dies without divulging any useful information. Walsh has compassion that seems to be suppressed most of the time, but he vows to make Ramrod pay for his crimes.

A key scene for both Walsh and Princess is when he summons her to help him set up Ramrod for an arrest. Emotions for both characters run hot as Walsh rather ruthlessly coerces Princess’s cooperation, yet he also comforts her as she sobs hysterically over her murdered friend Ginger. The performances build into an emotional collision that has real impact on the viewer and bonds us with the characters.

We have already been shown just how sadistic Ramrod is when he terrorized Ginger. But he seems even more despicable once Princess must entice him to be her pimp to get him arrested. He manhandles and demeans her while praising her beauty to pressure her into joining his stable of hookers. Wing Hauser plays Ramrod as such a cocksure misogynist that we are fully invested in hoping for his downfall. Ramrod is just the sort of fiend that could give pimping a bad name.

Ramrod’s arrest is when things really start to get out of control. Once Ramrod is confounded by anyone, he turns into an unpredictable berserker. After escaping from custody, Ramrod is running on pure rage that drives him through one victim after another to locate the object of his vengeful desire: Princess.

Prior to this film, Wings Hauser was probably best known for his role of nice guy Greg Foster for four years on CBS Television’s soap opera series The Young and the Restless (1973—present). Hauser had visited the set of director Sherman’s previous film, Dead & Buried, and the two hit it off. Sherman says he sensed an inner rage in Hauser that he thought could be channeled effectively into the Ramrod character.

Hauser’s enthusiasm seems evident in his sociopathic portrayal, which is probably what the film is most remembered for. His performance does not contain typical movie villain schtick; there are no clever one-liners and elaborate schemes, just a few threats and very impulsive action. Ramrod is a confident and soulless sadist without any doubts or regrets. Wings Hauser also sings the film’s opening and closing theme, “Neon Slime.” It certainly sets the mood of LA criminal decadence very effectively by having the film’s villain doing that vocal.

As a crime thriller amidst the sex trade, Vice Squad is certainly intense, but it never plays out like a typical exploitation movie. The nudity is fleeting and there is never any sense of the erotic. We meet a few of the johns that Princess picks up, and the situations may turn out to be funny, weird, or upsetting for her. As coolheaded and experienced as Princess is, sometimes even she is taken aback or cheated.

Vice Squad is quite violent, yet there is even more suggested than shown. Why it really registers is because the action is not stylized to an impossibly exaggerated or heroic degree. The violence hurts, people bleed, and there is pain and fright expressed.

The film still manages to alleviate the grim intensity for brief moments with odd bit parts by eccentric characters infesting the underbelly of Los Angeles. There are also two hapless vice squad partners, detectives Kowalski (Joseph Di Giroloma) and Mendez (Pepe Serna), that provide some laughs at their expense.

Vice Squad has all the ingredients for an exploitation film, yet its tone is more sincere without losing any energy. We are tantalized by dangerous and salacious behavior without it ever made to seem appealing. We spend the night on the sleazy streets of LA as all hell breaks loose. There are offbeat characters and situations presented without any character arcs or lessons learned. We can only speculate on the lasting effect of the events upon some of the characters, which is never declared. We are left to sort out our own feelings about this world of vice once we’ve spent some harrowing time on both sides of the law.

TO LIVE AND DIE IN L.A. (1985)

Director: William Friedkin

Writers: William Friedkin, Gerald Petievich (adapting his novel)

Producer: Irving H. Levin

Cast: William Petersen, Willem Dafoe, John Pankow, Darlanne Fluegel, Debra Feuer, John Turturro, Dean Stockwell, Michael Greene, Steve James, Robert Downey, Sr., Christopher Allport, Valentin de Vargas, Jack Hoar, Michael Chong, Michael Zand, Jackely Giroux, Jane Leeves, Donnie Williams, Earnest Hart, Jr., Gary Cole (uncredited), Jason Ronard (uncredited) 

U.S. Secret Service agent Jimmy Hart (Michael Greene) is killed two days before his retirement by Los Angeles counterfeiter Eric “Rick” Masters (Willem Dafoe). Hart’s young partner, Richie Chance (William Petersen), vows to avenge Hart by doing anything it takes to arrest Masters. 

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I have almost no use for action movies anymore. I can still enjoy a vintage Clint Eastwood, Charles Bronson, or Chuck Norris flick. However, these days when almost anything one can imagine can be portrayed on the screen, the main focus for many films is just trying to outdo images of what has gone before. Spending more money on CGI and green screen effects never makes a script better. When all else fails, filmmakers will resort to shaky cam and fast cut editing to try fooling us into thinking something is evermore intense while neglecting good storytelling. All of this excess is a waste, because the action is usually so contrived that it becomes ridiculous. Worst of all is that the characters involved in these feats are usually interchangeable, snarky badasses trying to ape James Bond, Dirty Harry, and Rambo antics in films devoid of wit or grit. 

By the mid-1980s, I was already becoming aware of the action films’ idiotic excesses, as they were becoming a specific and generic genre. That’s why To Live and Die in L.A. was a refreshing kick in the ass. It is a neo-noir film and crime thriller that has style without larger-than-life heroics. Actually, the only character in the film that seems truly heroic is Jimmy Hart, the veteran U.S. Secret Service agent who is killed off early in the film. 

Probably the real reason that To Live and Die in L.A. flirts with the action film label is that it has a long and exciting car chase rivaling director William Friedkin’s other epic achievement of motorized mayhem in 1971’s The French Connection. There are no other action set pieces in the film; only brief foot chases and quick bursts of violence. What we witness are not superhuman feats and physics defying stunts, but rash and ruthless acts that give this film an edge. 

The two main protagonists are, as director Friedkin puts it, two sides of the same coin. Both U.S. Secret Service agent Richie Chance and counterfeiter Rick Masters are involved in risky professions that cross personal and legal boundaries. Chance seems driven not only by his one honorable sentiment of avenging his partner’s death; he gets an adrenalin rush facing danger. Masters affects a hip and avant-garde persona as a frustrated artist while making a living as a counterfeiter who must often resort to cold-blooded acts of violence. These two men are deliberate and unrepentant about how they achieve their objectives. It is probably no accident that both characters have similar first names. Ironically, the actors portraying them, William Petersen and Willem Dafoe, also have nearly identical first names. Dafoe’s actual given first name at birth was William. 

In this very early film role, William Petersen is really fine as our “hero.” His Richie Chance probably approaches his job as a macho challenge that gives him the same sense of satisfaction as his bungee jumping off of a bridge. Initially, we are probably going to think such a gung-ho attitude makes him someone to admire. We can also empathize with his payback agenda against Rick Masters, even if Chance steps over the legal line to try nailing him. However, Chance already has a history of ruthless behavior. He has been using parolee Ruth Lanier (Darlanne Fluegel) sexually and as his informant. If she does not cooperate, he will get her parole revoked. Frankly, U.S. Secret Service agent Richie Chance is an asshole. 

Another standout performer here who was also about to achieve stardom is Willem Dafoe. His hip and cold-blooded counterfeiter, Rick Masters, is one of my favorite villains. When dealing with anyone in his illegal line of business, he is utterly deadpan. Masters doesn’t raise his voice, even in the most violent situations, and he will savor the moment with an irreverent comment before pulling the trigger. His motivations are never explained, yet we see his artistic endeavors that he seems conflicted about. Masters might be trying to purge some inner turmoil though his art, but it is the technical application of his talents making counterfeit money that fulfill his comfortable and unconventional lifestyle. 

 

John Pankow, as Chance’s new partner, John Vukovich, gives us the clearest indication of just how extreme and out of control these situations have become. He wants to be a by-the-book agent, while still being loyal to his partner. Like Chance, he feels a need to prove himself, if only because he comes from a family of policemen. In a world full of sociopaths and users, Vukovich is being tested and incredibly stressed. He reminds us of the very real physical and legal dangers involved in his career and his association with his reckless, fellow agent. 

Friedkin made a deliberate choice to depict the seamy side of Los Angeles. We spend our time in taverns, a strip club, prison, warehouses, small apartments, and the streets of East L.A. The poshest accommodations shown are those of counterfeiter Rick Masters and the sleazy lawyers (Dean Stockwell and Christopher Allport) that he associates with. (Who says crime does not pay?) Striking shots of sunrises and the catchy, synthesized soundtrack by Wang Chung (Jack Hues and Nick Feldman) compliment the mood of this environment perfectly. All of this seems bleak and a bit surreal. Such an atmosphere suits the attitudes in a film that Friedkin says is about a counterfeit world; the money and the relationships in this neo-noir tale are fake. 

Despite the stylistic trappings of the film, it always rings true. No one is portrayed as infallible and pure. The main protagonists, Chance and Masters, are polar opposites in temperament. But aside from Agent Chance’s noble goal of bringing his partner’s killer to justice, he can be just as unpleasant as the criminal Masters. Director Friedkin stated that he was depicting the very thin line between law enforcers and lawbreakers. 

This film is distinguished by its authenticity. The co-screenwriter and author of the original novel, Gerald Petievich, was actually an agent of the U.S. Secret Service. In an early scene, we see the creation of Rick Masters’ funny money; courtesy of the ex-con counterfeiter that the film employed to show us all how it is done. Unfortunately, a kid of the film’s prop master tried to pass one of the phony bills at a store, which resulted in the real U.S. Secret Service hassling director Friedkin and his poor prop master. 

To Live and Die in L.A. is an unsentimental reflection of ’80s attitude. Duty and machismo is shown to be as shallow as greed and fashion. The film plays the flip side of the crime thriller by refusing to romanticize the motives or abilities of its protagonists. It does so with a sense of style and ends on a nihilistic and almost mystic note. That makes this movie far more memorable than any of the era’s typical macho fantasies about saving the day with bullets, explosions, and wisecracks.