Review: To Live and Die in L.A.

[The following review contains MAJOR SPOILERS; YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED!]

William Friedkin’s The French Connection ends with the protagonist, Detective “Popeye” Doyle, accidentally gunning down a fellow officer. While his partner is justifiably appalled by the act of friendly fire, Doyle remains callously indifferent: his quarry is still in the wind, and as he vanishes into the shadows, fruitlessly continuing his single-minded hunt—the image suddenly smash-cuts to black.

To Live and Die in L.A.—the director’s companion piece/spiritual sequel to the aforementioned film—is equally bleak in its tone and themes, despite its comparatively sunny West Coast setting (exquisitely captured by Robby Müller’s sweltering, neon-drenched cinematography). There are no heroes in this cops-and-robbers story, no angels in the city, no moral shades of gray; every hand is bloody, every soul tarnished. William Petersen’s character, secret service agent Richard Chance, is no better than the criminals that he pursues. At best, he’s an unhinged, irresponsible adrenaline junkie, treating his work as merely another aspect of his thrill-seeking lifestyle—apprehending suspects and bungee jumping in his spare time are, from his perspective, essentially indistinguishable, providing the same “rush.” At worst, he’s outright corrupt—frequently violating due process, explicitly breaking the law in order to obtain (inadmissible) evidence, and sexually exploiting his female informants (indeed, since consent cannot be given under duress, we should call him what he truly is: a rapist).

In a major departure from traditional genre convention, however, Chance’s inexcusably reckless behavior has realistic repercussions. His attempt to fund his own unauthorized investigation by robbing an alleged diamond smuggler, for example, inadvertently exposes an unrelated undercover operation and puts him in the crosshairs of the FBI. Eventually, the fatal consequences of his misguided choices catch up with him in spectacular fashion: he meets an abrupt, unceremonious demise well before the plot arrives at its fiery grand finale, leaving his straight-laced, by-the-book partner (whose previously unshakeable values have gradually eroded over the course of the narrative) to clean up his mess.

Ultimately, Chance is a study of self-sabotage that borders on masochism—a hauntingly authentic personification of social decay that makes To Live and Die in L.A. a worthy addition to Friedkin’s unapologetically cynical oeuvre.