|
A distinct New York outlook, truculent pigs and dandified frogs in "a goddamn desert full of junkies." Gangbusters adjusted to grungy 1970s ambiguity kicks off with contrasting brands of brutality, a rubout that interrupts a tranquil Marseille stroll versus a riotous Brooklyn bust that introduces the gutter law in Santa's cap and beard. No need to look too hard for crime, the vicious Irish cop (Gene Hackman) heads off to the nightclub after a long day's work and his lizard brain inevitably zeroes in on the small-time hustler (Tony Lo Bianco) lounging opulently. A hunch is all it takes for obsession to seize hold, the narc and his partner (Roy Scheider) tug at the thread and find a Gallic kingpin (Fernando Rey) planning a business expansion, "89% pure junk," 60 kilos of it. "The son of a bitch is here. I saw him. I'm gonna get him." William Friedkin takes his mark from Siegel and Costa-Gavras, belligerent action portraits in quick, hard, racy strokes. Grain is the texture of choice, the brickier and danker the better, the snapshot of the city runs from Brooklyn Bridge traffic jams to Madison Avenue in the metallic grip of winter. The central joke is the extended flirtation between plebeian flatfoot and debonair lawbreaker, complete with an awkward dinner (the camera zooms from the visitor's restaurant banquet to the copper shivering outside with foul coffee) and underground two-step at the Grand Central Station subway, capped with a smile and a wave. By contrast, the famed Pontiac LeMans-elevated train pas de deux is a raging consummation, bumper-level POVs alternate with windshield reflections for a Ben-Hur effect. "Pay attention, we're going to ask questions later." Frankenheimer has the official sequel, Friedkin the unofficial one (To Live and Die in L.A.), Rush the coruscating caricature (Freebie and the Bean). Cinematography by Owen Roizman. With Marcel Bozzuffi, Frédéric de Pasquale, Bill Hickman, Sonny Grosso, and Eddie Egan.
--- Fernando F. Croce |