So, we don’t really write negative reviews here at Mid Century Cinema, for two reasons. First, we’re not in the review game. In fact, we’re a little wary of that enterprise, in which creative people work long and hard to produce something they value, and then someone else wanders by and passes summary judgement on it. Certainly, as we’ve discussed, there is a productive role for movie “reviews” in this world, especially as a valuable consumer service and guide, but we’re more about talking about the movies, and have no interest in telling people what to like. We love to argue, but that’s not a productive argument—the wine you like is the wine you like, and the movie you like is the movie you like (even if we quietly suspect that as fine wine and fine movies are acquired tastes, “what you like” might actually evolve over time). Second, what with the finite lifespan and all, we’d just as soon spend the time we devote to talking about the movies diving into the deep end of contributions that we value, treasure and revere. There are exceptions, of course—it can be productive and stimulating to participate in debates about serious or significant films which we want to offer some dissent, like many of Clint Eastwood’s mid-career cop films, or the art house favorite Something Wild, which made us quite angry. But in general, we lean away both from reviews, and rank negativity.
Of course, that’s more of a guideline than a rule, so here, then, are some dissenting thoughts about William Friedkin’s To Live and Die in L. A., which we only just saw for the first time, on the recommendation of a friend. The recommendation was well intentioned and made good sense (released in 1985, it’s arguably sort of a “70s Film” with it’s no good guys, feel bad vibe, and unhappy ending and all—that does sound like our sweet spot). But we hated it. Hated it.
If you liked it, you’re in good company. Often too-generous Roger Ebert gave it four stars; the Village Voice called it a “near masterpiece”; the New York Times was reluctantly but sincerely friendly. And we can say two nice things about it: the cinematography, by the great Robby Müller, is spectacular, and there are two clever plot twists (in an otherwise painfully predictable movie) that we didn’t see coming. Nevertheless, hate: not too strong a word to describe our reaction. Cliché riddled, incoherently motivated, implausibly plotted, and so steeped in the worst aesthetic sensibilities of the vacuous 80s (Wang Chung is in the house) that it plays like a rejected draft episode of Miami Vice.
Things get off to a very bad start when we meet hotshot-T-man-who-looks-a-little-like-Ray-Liotta, and his older, wiser partner, who actually and un-ironically says “I’m getting too old for this shit.” Oh, and he’s three days from retirement. So yes, might as well put him in a red shirt and have him beam down to the planet with Kirk. Or have him go, alone and without backup, into a very dangerous place.
So when (non-spoiler alert) he dies, not-Ray-Liotta guy has to avenge his death, whilst walking sequentially through rehearsals of woodenly acted scenes requisite to every cop film in human history: confrontations with his by-the-book lieutenant, reluctance to team up with a new partner who just doesn’t understand, sparring with the tough talking DA who won’t give in, and treating shabbily an impossibly hot snitch (if she doesn’t talk – and sleep with him – he’ll have her parole revoked) who knows more dirt than the shoeshine boy from Police Squad. Along the way he first bends rules and then commits major felonies in his pursuit of (a modest measure, actually) of vengeance; as the body count mounts it’s hard to believe dead-partner guy would have thought the effort remotely worth the cost.
Worse still – a major pet peeve of ours (and we can forgive much in the service of a good yarn) – essential plot points utterly depend on preposterous choices, impossible twists, and rank stupidity. Sure, earnest partner guy (a lifer – his father and brother were cops – insert sobs here) might sign on for a little evidence lifting, but no way does he participate in an unrelated armed robbery (which seals the fate of his character); when guy-who-looks-like-Richard-Roundtree arranges to have you murdered in prison, actually, you’re as good as dead; and it’s impossible to believe that our “hero” would fall for the story that allows criminal miscreant John Turturro (in a solid performance) to slip through his fingers—surely no one in the audience buys it, and their whole careers aren’t even on the line. And while we’re at it, if, in the grand finale, Willem Defoe (also fine), knew what we surprisingly learn he knew all along, surely he would not expose himself to that level of vulnerability (which seals the fate of his character). Oy.
There is a great car chase in To Live and Die in L.A., as Friedkin obviously relished the opportunity to top his legendary (and narratively purposeful) sequence from The French Connection (a great film). If you love a good car chase, you can fast forward through the movie (it’s about ninety minutes in) and check it out. Committed to watching the film, we fast forwarded through the chase, which served no purpose at all, other than to show that it could be done. But really, we recommend skipping the whole thing.