It's a genre movie but the director, William Friedkin, knows how to put them together effectively.
We have two Secret Service agents. One (Peterson) is a reckless rule-defying loose cannon; his partner (Pankow) is more principled, or uptight, if you like. Peterson bungee jumps from high bridges. During a chase, when Peterson is laughing, Pankow is grimacing with anxiety.
Their prey is a master counterfeiter (DaFoe). DaFoe is like neither of the cops. He's extremely organized. He tells the truth and fulfills his promises. He's an artist, not only with engraved plates but with a paint brush. A man of his word. He really only has one kink -- he's a remorseless cold-blooded killer when it's in his interests to be one. And when he gets burned up, he REALLY gets burned up. DaFoe loses in the end, but then everyone loses, one way or another.
The best-known scene (justifiably) is the car chase that takes place in the wrong direction, against traffic, on the Long Beach Freeway. It is gripping, precisely choreographed, and must have been dangerous to shoot. These are not computer-generated images either. That eighteen wheeler we see jackknifing among dozens of whirling cars is a real eighteen wheeler jackknifing among dozens of whirling cars. No exciting music during the pursuit, only the sound of engines in overdrive and vehicle horns shrieking alarms in the key of F. The high-speed pursuit by this time, though, was not an original idea. It was original with "Bullitt" (1968), and that's still the best example. After "Bullitt" this car chase -- ALL car chases -- were variations on a theme of director Peter Yates, a former racing car driver himself, and Philip D'Antonio.
Friedkin has directed with a maximum of speed and action scenes, none of them gratuitous. Lots of shots of people running full tilt along city streets. Plenty of violence, although it isn't wallowed in. It's not a Bruce Willis action/comedy. There are few dull moments to bore the kids.
Really, this is one of the better efforts of Friedkin and his editor. For instance, there is a shot between DaFoe's burning the funny money and Peterson's meeting with the judge. It's simply a high-angle shot of a dozen pedestrians walking through the plaza in front of a government building. But Friedkin frames it so that, from this distance, the equidistant palm trees loom over the people and throw lengthy shadows across the tiles of the pavement. The composition is impressive.
If the performances don't shoot out the lights, they get the job done in a most professional manner. Peterson is physically nimble and obviously does most of his own stunts. He played football at school, and it shows. And the parts are complex too. The bad guys don't fit easily into any stereotypes, except one ham-handed heavy who spits on his victims after blowing their heads off. The good guys are hardly saintly. Peterson's character has a snitch working for him, Darlanne Fluegel, a tall thin sexy blond. He's keeping her out of jail, and in return she feeds him information and certain other perquisites. When she turns to him for comfort or understanding, he is off on some other planet, frantically chattering on about basketball while she weeps. "What would you do if I STOPPED giving you information?", she asks Peterson at one point. "I'd revoke your parole and send you back to the joint," he answers tonelessly. "Would you do that? Would you REALLY do that?" He turns and walks out the door without a word. He's really a mean guy. Mean to everyone, including his new partner, Pankow.
Three particularly enjoyable features of the film. The location shooting and photography by Robby Muller is great. He manages to make smoggy San Pedro look almost artistic with its oil refineries and its multitude of distant floodlights providing patterns of globular glow. "The stars are God's eyes," says Fluegel to Peterson, who disagrees with her. One advantage of living in San Pedro is access to Papadakis Tavern. Great Greek food. Tell Nick I sent you.
Wang Chung's theme music is simple but it zaps you with its percussion and its simple, pounding succession of four electronic notes. Carl Orff with syncopation. A distant train rushing through a flat landscape is introduced by a passage for what sounds like Peruvian nose flutes or shakuhachis.
Then there is the performance of Dean Stockwell as an expensive and expert criminal defense lawyer. He underplays the part, but he's just fine. Our two heroes have just stolen fifty thousand dollars from the FBI and Pankow explains the situation to Stockwell, who gives him a few words of advice and adds, "Of course I can't be directly involved in this." "How much would it cost for you to be indirectly involved?" asks Pankow. Stockwell looks up at him, puffs a cigar, and answers smoothly, "Fifty thousand dollars." Nobody laughs. Friedkin knows how to lay out a funny line.
We have two Secret Service agents. One (Peterson) is a reckless rule-defying loose cannon; his partner (Pankow) is more principled, or uptight, if you like. Peterson bungee jumps from high bridges. During a chase, when Peterson is laughing, Pankow is grimacing with anxiety.
Their prey is a master counterfeiter (DaFoe). DaFoe is like neither of the cops. He's extremely organized. He tells the truth and fulfills his promises. He's an artist, not only with engraved plates but with a paint brush. A man of his word. He really only has one kink -- he's a remorseless cold-blooded killer when it's in his interests to be one. And when he gets burned up, he REALLY gets burned up. DaFoe loses in the end, but then everyone loses, one way or another.
The best-known scene (justifiably) is the car chase that takes place in the wrong direction, against traffic, on the Long Beach Freeway. It is gripping, precisely choreographed, and must have been dangerous to shoot. These are not computer-generated images either. That eighteen wheeler we see jackknifing among dozens of whirling cars is a real eighteen wheeler jackknifing among dozens of whirling cars. No exciting music during the pursuit, only the sound of engines in overdrive and vehicle horns shrieking alarms in the key of F. The high-speed pursuit by this time, though, was not an original idea. It was original with "Bullitt" (1968), and that's still the best example. After "Bullitt" this car chase -- ALL car chases -- were variations on a theme of director Peter Yates, a former racing car driver himself, and Philip D'Antonio.
Friedkin has directed with a maximum of speed and action scenes, none of them gratuitous. Lots of shots of people running full tilt along city streets. Plenty of violence, although it isn't wallowed in. It's not a Bruce Willis action/comedy. There are few dull moments to bore the kids.
Really, this is one of the better efforts of Friedkin and his editor. For instance, there is a shot between DaFoe's burning the funny money and Peterson's meeting with the judge. It's simply a high-angle shot of a dozen pedestrians walking through the plaza in front of a government building. But Friedkin frames it so that, from this distance, the equidistant palm trees loom over the people and throw lengthy shadows across the tiles of the pavement. The composition is impressive.
If the performances don't shoot out the lights, they get the job done in a most professional manner. Peterson is physically nimble and obviously does most of his own stunts. He played football at school, and it shows. And the parts are complex too. The bad guys don't fit easily into any stereotypes, except one ham-handed heavy who spits on his victims after blowing their heads off. The good guys are hardly saintly. Peterson's character has a snitch working for him, Darlanne Fluegel, a tall thin sexy blond. He's keeping her out of jail, and in return she feeds him information and certain other perquisites. When she turns to him for comfort or understanding, he is off on some other planet, frantically chattering on about basketball while she weeps. "What would you do if I STOPPED giving you information?", she asks Peterson at one point. "I'd revoke your parole and send you back to the joint," he answers tonelessly. "Would you do that? Would you REALLY do that?" He turns and walks out the door without a word. He's really a mean guy. Mean to everyone, including his new partner, Pankow.
Three particularly enjoyable features of the film. The location shooting and photography by Robby Muller is great. He manages to make smoggy San Pedro look almost artistic with its oil refineries and its multitude of distant floodlights providing patterns of globular glow. "The stars are God's eyes," says Fluegel to Peterson, who disagrees with her. One advantage of living in San Pedro is access to Papadakis Tavern. Great Greek food. Tell Nick I sent you.
Wang Chung's theme music is simple but it zaps you with its percussion and its simple, pounding succession of four electronic notes. Carl Orff with syncopation. A distant train rushing through a flat landscape is introduced by a passage for what sounds like Peruvian nose flutes or shakuhachis.
Then there is the performance of Dean Stockwell as an expensive and expert criminal defense lawyer. He underplays the part, but he's just fine. Our two heroes have just stolen fifty thousand dollars from the FBI and Pankow explains the situation to Stockwell, who gives him a few words of advice and adds, "Of course I can't be directly involved in this." "How much would it cost for you to be indirectly involved?" asks Pankow. Stockwell looks up at him, puffs a cigar, and answers smoothly, "Fifty thousand dollars." Nobody laughs. Friedkin knows how to lay out a funny line.