Wall of Paul

Everybody has a film that they’ll watch at the drop of a hat, even if they’ve seen it so many times they start quoting choice bits of dialogue when they’re under anesthesia. For a lot of people, it’s “Raging Bull” or “The Graduate.” For others, it’s “The Godfather” or “Dr. Strangelove.” God knows, I’ve seen each of those pictures several times over, and I’m virtually duty-bound to watch them again, and relatively soon. But my personal go-to movie, when all else fails, is William Friedkin’s “The French Connection.” I wouldn’t say it’s my favorite movie, because I really feel that making such a distinction is impossible— different films do different things for you. But I love every second of this picture. Just the sight of Gene Hackman’s tattered overcoat flapping in the wind gets me jazzed.

“The French Connection” is the single greatest New York City cop picture of all time. That’s not a theory. It’s an absolute fact of existence, like water boiling at 212 degrees, or President Bush sticking his head up his ass when he speaks. The amazing thing is that, even with its raw, brown-on-brown color scheme, hand-held camerawork, and pseudo-reprehensible central protagonist, “The French Connection” walked away with Oscars for Best Picture, Best Director (Friedkin) and Best Actor (Hackman) in 1971. And I’d argue that jazz trumpeter Don Ellis’ groundbreaking score, full of prolonged violin flat-lines and sawing cellos, should have won, too.

Hackman stars as Jimmy “Popeye” Doyle, a New York City plain-clothes detective who, along with his partner, “Cloudy” Russo (Roy Scheider, dryly amused and looking street-tough), almost literally stumbles upon a conspiracy to smuggle millions of dollars worth of heroin from France to New York City. Through endless rounds of wholly un-romanticized surveillance, Popeye and Cloudy determine that a New York-based small-timer named Sal Boca (Tony Lo Bianco) is serving as the middle-man between the American mob and a French drug smuggler (Fernando Rey.)

Popeye, who’s looking to make a bust, because that’s what he does, grows even more committed when he lays eyes on the suave smuggler and his vicious right-hand man (Marcel Bozzuffi). Charmingly nicknaming the Frenchmen “Frog One” and “Frog Two,” Popeye buckles down for a desperate cat-and-mouse game that takes place both on and under the streets of the city.

Going toe-to-toe with a multi-millionaire heroin smuggler is one of the few ways that Popeye could possibly be viewed as the good guy. He’s loud, obnoxious, racist, xenophobic, a poon-hound, curses like a sailor, drinks too much, and doesn’t really mind if he shoots the wrong guy while trying to shoot the right guy. He just reloads. Popeye might understand the ins-and-outs of the street like a porkpie-wearing Sherpa guide. But outside of that, he’s nuts, and its thrilling to watch him lock his jaws onto the case. You wouldn’t like him much if you met him in real life. But, as far as the universe of the movie goes, it sure is nice to have him on your side.

Special mention should be made of Ernest Tidyman’s straight-from-the-hip screenplay. Outside of a couple of “Shaft” sequels (and the original “Shaft” novel), Tidyman never wrote anything besides “The French Connection” that you’ve even heard of. But the dialogue here crackles, and is every bit as important as the action. Cynical banter between Popeye and Cloudy keeps the detectives themselves entertained as much as it entertains the audience, and there’s lots of it.

The Big Apple of “The French Connection” is the one that most New Yorkers experience on a day-to-day basis. Garbage-strewn lots lined with ancient tenement buildings blend into Greek diners that serve eggs with their grease and coffee. Bored commuters elbow each other for position on the subway. The movie is utterly true to the experience of surviving yet another day in the five boroughs. You can even feel the rattle and sway of the subway train beneath “Frog Two”’s feet while he races, panic-stricken, from car to car. He’s running, of course, because Popeye’s chasing him. But you’ve probably heard about that.

Rightfully revered as one of the great action sequences in movie history, the car chase in “The French Connection” - during which Popeye commandeers a citizen’s Pontiac and proceeds to total it while pursuing an elevated subway train - serves the dual purpose of providing the audience with an overwhelming dose of adrenaline while illustrating just how shit-crazy obsessive Popeye really is. That’s right— the action tells you something about the character, rather than simply hipping you to the director’s favorite lenses, or the immensity of the effects budget.

Friedkin swears that, after filming the sequence in a more controlled manner, he finally just climbed in the back seat with a camera and let a stunt man (and, occasionally, Hackman himself) drive like a lunatic through a string of crowded Bensonhurst intersections. It’s a miracle no one got killed, and the ends don’t justify the means. But, in this instance, I don’t really believe that, so it was worth it. Note, by the way, how the screeching tires and the car horn each add an element of unadulterated “Holy shit!” to the proceedings. Sound is brilliantly utilized throughout the movie, up to and including the very last shot.

You’ve never seen a cop work harder than Popeye Doyle does in “The French Connection,” because, to Popeye, compulsively wallowing in antagonism isn’t work, it’s fun. But he still has a hard metaphysical lesson coming his way, and it’s not the kind of thing you’ll find in “Dick Tracy.” When all is said and done, it seems, even the good guy can end up shooting at dust.

Rent the movie.