- William Friedkin's striking To Live and Die in L.A. plays out like an alternate-universe episode of Miami Vice in which the two detectives are a dangerous obsessive and a reluctant pushover. With that combination, a lot can go wrong. It starts off like so many other police dramas with an aging investigator (Michael Greene) just short of retirement. With only three days to go, he strikes out to investigate a forgery operation run by a creep named Masters (Willem Dafoe) and never comes back. His former partner, a loose cannon named Chance (William Petersen) vows revenge. "I'm gonna bag Masters, and I don't give a shit how I do it." That's how these law enforcement vendettas are supposed to go, right?
- Trouble is, Chance may be too loose of a cannon. We get some early insight into his character from his exploitative sexual relationship with a pensive parolee named Ruth (Darlanne Fluegel), whom he extorts for information on Masters. Ignoring the objections of his yielding new partner Vukovich (John Pankow), Chance steps even further over the line when he steals front money for a sting operation. Too bad he stole it from an undercover FBI agent (Michael Chong) who gets killed in all the confusion. Oh, and did I mention the film's famous car chase? Friedkin doesn't quite top his work in The French Connection, but To Live and Die in L.A. features one of the more surreal pursuits you're ever likely to see on film. I'm talking about driving the wrong way on the highway, careening through the Los Angeles River basin, and getting shot at by an unexpected army of G-Men. And all against the backdrop of an especially smoggy 80's L.A. and accompanied by the sounds of Wang Chung.
- But I've neglected one of the key ingredients to this film's success, namely Masters himself. Dafoe, whom I respect more with each new role of his I encounter, is absolutely mesmerizing as a strangely aesthetic crook who takes a perfectionist's pride in his work when he isn't burning his own paintings in effigy or filming weird sexual trysts with his strangely disinterested assistant (Debra Feuer). Incidentally, the counterfeiting that you see onscreen is real, which lends a strange meta-narrative to the entire proceedings. Despite looking like Andy Warhol, Masters spends much of the movie slicing through his former associates, tough (Steve James) and sleazy (Christopher Allport) alike, in a quest to keep himself out of jail. One of his former accomplices, a scumbag named Carl Cody (John Turturro), is so intimidated by Masters that he won't even inform on him after the counterfeiter tries to have him killed. Between getting targeted by Masters and chased through airports by Chance, you almost start to feel sorry for the bum.
- Above all, To Live and Die in L.A. is a sterling example of the power of skillful, intentional exaggeration. Sadly, most modern action dramas are completely inept at the mode of self-conscious stylistic absurdity featured in this and its aforementioned spiritual predecessor, Miami Vice. That's not to say that modern films aren't absurd, but rather that they very rarely succeed in wielding their absurdity to achieve positive ends. In contrast, To Live and Die in L.A. features a completely insane car chase shootout and half a dozen implausible character arcs, all of which serve to perfectly deconstruct the standard cop revenge story. When Vukovich transforms at the end of the film into L.A.'s newest reckless avenging angel, it doesn't make a lick of sense. And yet, his decision is completely consistent with the bizarre 80's L.A. ethos that Friedkin so wonderfully portrays. It's always a treat when a film's cinematography, action sequences, acting, and set design all meld so well together, even when the final product is completely, endearingly absurd.
- I didn't mention Dean Stockwell as the project observer (sortof), Jane Leeves as the unexpected present, or Robert Downey Sr. as the Secret Service Chief. Also, a brief glimpse of Gary Cole in his first film role.
- Based on the novel by real-life Secret Service Agent Gerald Petievich.
