To Live and Die in L.A.Rock band Guns 'n' Roses perhaps put it best: "welcome to the jungle", speaking of the untamed, manic energy that courses through the highways and streets of Los Angeles. The sun is bright, but the underworld is dark, and poised in opposing corners are the U.S. Department of the Treasury, "championed" by Richard Chance (William Petersen) seeking justice/revenge/dominance against the artist-turned-counterfeiter, Rick Masters (Willem Dafoe). Their battle is bloody and intense, and stretches across the city of angels, where neither are innocent, and both are a deadly threat.
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To Live and Die in L.A. ranks up there as one of my favorite "guilty pleasure" movies; don't let that make you think that the movie is not good--it is excellent--but it embodies a certain kind of drive, of aesthetic that marks it as a product of the '80s. In a lesser film, this might be a stigma, but in William Friedkin's stylish neo-noir action masterpiece, it is the hallmark of a tale that both exists within the varied tropes of its era and likewise subverts the associated cliches. A story about cops and robbers, the film plants Richard Chance and Rick Masters in those respective roles...but that distinction blurs as the story unfolds. At what point does the law become as great of a threat to public safety as the criminals which they are empowered to stop. After you watch To Live and Die in L.A., certain elements stick with you long after--the thumping, synthesized score by Wang Chung, the ballsy action set pieces, and the periodic one-liners which reveal more about the characters than face value. Rick Masters is no stranger to delivering a killing blow to other comrades-in-crime, and punctuates his executions with an attempt at riparte. Rick Masters in an artist--probably a good one in his field--but his verbal flourishes always sound forced. The subtlety here is that Rick is an artist in his soul, not really a criminal. He may be good at crime, but it isn't his really his milieu--it's just a way to pay the bills, even if "paying the bills" means he has to counterfeit the money himself. But Rick is a survivalist, and understands that it is "kill or be killed", and he must adapt to the world or die in it. On the other hand, Richard Chance is a U.S. secret service agent, tasked with protecting and serving, et cetera; but "Chance" (as he goes by) is so single-minded in his goal, so utterly oblivious (or ambivalent, can't say which is worse) about the consequences of his crusade to bring down Masters that he is not only willing to break the rules to get his way, but he often resorts to this action as his go-to response. Chance is stubborn, and refuses to adapt, and his arrogance mirrors the image of other '80s action hero icons, but the film hardly portrays him in any kind of sympathetic, "heroic" light. The opening of To Live and Die in L.A. is set during a speech by Ronald Reagan about the inevitability of death and taxes, and "taxation without representation is tyranny". But Chance becomes more of a tyrant, manipulating and bossing others around, like his lover/informant, Ruth Lanier (Darlanne Fluegel), exploiting the law and even breaking it in his personal crusade for vengeance against Masters, who is no saint, but arguably a more sensitive soul than Chance. Heroes have we none.
Both Chance and Masters' names are no coincidence of nomenclature; they evoke a basic characteristic about these two egos. Chance takes unnecessary risk, believes himself immortal--take his base jumping fetish to start--and willing to put others in harm's way to meet his ends. (Who does he serve and who does he protect?) Masters is detail-oriented, a tortured artist, and rarely leaves any opening of weakness. And like the consummate artist, he is such a master of his trade that his name is synonymous with counterfeiting on the streets, although one presumes that he would prefer his name to evoke art, not funny money. But Master--like so many trying to live (and not die) is sucked under in the economy of his time, and survives and thrives by crime. For Masters, fire is a purifying force, evidenced by his predilection to immolate his work--be it portraits or twenties. There is a philosophical edge here: no creation can exist without destruction. Similarly, Ruth tries to connect with Chance between bouts of making love and coercion, by talking about the "stars as eyes for god". Chance has no interest in philosophy, only in the thrills that come from the physical: sex, chases, fights, and leaping off of bridges, so Chance has no way to see the clues he should in his profession--he has to cheat. Vukovich may be the junior partner to Chance, but it is his legitimate detective work which is key in the investigation to corner Masters; but he is pulled down in the quagmire, and perhaps like Chance before, his soul suffers in the process. One of the more interesting part in To Live and Die in L.A. is when Chance and Vukovich go undercover in an effort to bust Masters, posing as money launderers from Palm Springs, meeting Masters first-hand at the gym he uses as a front. This is clever because unlike many other procedural thrillers, it gives an opportunity for tense interplay between the detectives and the counterfeiter, without the presence of the barrel of a gun--that comes later--and makes you wonder just how much one knows about the other at any given point. Superficially, the major players in To Live and Die in L.A. are men; but on repeat viewings, it's clear that both Chance and Masters have a woman behind them who is subtly pulling their strings. Listen closely to the information Ruth shares with chance about the diamond smuggler, both the delivery and in context with her motivations, and watch Masters' androgynous girlfriend, Bianca (Debra Feuer), his theatrical shadow and saboteur who emerges unscathed, and how she makes eyes at the silent Serena (Jane Leeves), and you begin to question the agency of the men in the picture at the denouement.
William Friedkin is a director whose work is truly multifaceted, and is no stranger to car chases (like The French Connection). And while it may seem like a case of trumping his own achievement, To Live and Die in L.A. boasts one of the most stunning examples in film, with the two appointed law enforcement officers--Chance and partner John Vukovich (John Pankow)--being chased down the wrong side of the freeway in heavy traffic by other law enforcement officers, endangering dozens of bystanders in the process, after they inadvertantly hold up another undercover officer to steal the front money necessary to entrap Masters. (Yeah, they get in pretty deep.) And when the undercover agent is accidentally killed during the heist, what's interesting is that although the FBI is actually responsible for pulling the trigger that kills him, the following bulletin they issue points the finger at the two unidentified men who robbed him for the murder, indicating that no branch of the law is really above deception. For the counterfeiting, Friedkin's attention to detail was so intense for this film, that he actually recruited the assistance of real counterfeiters who had done time to advise him on how to make the portrayal as authentic as possible. Needless to say, the production caught the attention of the actual Department of the Treasury, who kept a close eye on the film to ensure legal compliance. One of the stand-out directorial flourishes is a frequent barrage of dissonant rapid images--sometimes images that do not appear to be directly relevant to the scene--but images that nonetheless evoke a sense of a connected world, a "living city". In some cases, the flicker of images highlight the inner thoughts of a character reflecting on a traumatic event, other times they tease the audience with a snapshot, even a pantomime, of events to come. They are also a kind of pulse, jumbled, fevered, a hyperstimulation of energy and electric charge running through. Like another film by Friedkin--The Exorcist--cited for showcasing a subliminal message in the form of a flash of the face of the devil, To Live and Die in L.A. utilizes this effect to subconsciously drive the psyche into this state of mine, immersing the viewer through a seduction by adrenaline. Even at the end of the credits, a quick couple of images reflect the lingering presence of Chance when all is said and done, with Vukovich adopting his persona. In this way, To Live and Die in L.A. comes across with its own raw edge--like that of a serrated blade--as a kind of "street-level poetry".
Recommended for: Fans of a gritty and cynical crime drama, filled with morality as clear as mud, copious amounts of violence, and vicious characters motivated by selfish needs for money, power, and more. Where else to set it but L.A.?
Both Chance and Masters' names are no coincidence of nomenclature; they evoke a basic characteristic about these two egos. Chance takes unnecessary risk, believes himself immortal--take his base jumping fetish to start--and willing to put others in harm's way to meet his ends. (Who does he serve and who does he protect?) Masters is detail-oriented, a tortured artist, and rarely leaves any opening of weakness. And like the consummate artist, he is such a master of his trade that his name is synonymous with counterfeiting on the streets, although one presumes that he would prefer his name to evoke art, not funny money. But Master--like so many trying to live (and not die) is sucked under in the economy of his time, and survives and thrives by crime. For Masters, fire is a purifying force, evidenced by his predilection to immolate his work--be it portraits or twenties. There is a philosophical edge here: no creation can exist without destruction. Similarly, Ruth tries to connect with Chance between bouts of making love and coercion, by talking about the "stars as eyes for god". Chance has no interest in philosophy, only in the thrills that come from the physical: sex, chases, fights, and leaping off of bridges, so Chance has no way to see the clues he should in his profession--he has to cheat. Vukovich may be the junior partner to Chance, but it is his legitimate detective work which is key in the investigation to corner Masters; but he is pulled down in the quagmire, and perhaps like Chance before, his soul suffers in the process. One of the more interesting part in To Live and Die in L.A. is when Chance and Vukovich go undercover in an effort to bust Masters, posing as money launderers from Palm Springs, meeting Masters first-hand at the gym he uses as a front. This is clever because unlike many other procedural thrillers, it gives an opportunity for tense interplay between the detectives and the counterfeiter, without the presence of the barrel of a gun--that comes later--and makes you wonder just how much one knows about the other at any given point. Superficially, the major players in To Live and Die in L.A. are men; but on repeat viewings, it's clear that both Chance and Masters have a woman behind them who is subtly pulling their strings. Listen closely to the information Ruth shares with chance about the diamond smuggler, both the delivery and in context with her motivations, and watch Masters' androgynous girlfriend, Bianca (Debra Feuer), his theatrical shadow and saboteur who emerges unscathed, and how she makes eyes at the silent Serena (Jane Leeves), and you begin to question the agency of the men in the picture at the denouement.
William Friedkin is a director whose work is truly multifaceted, and is no stranger to car chases (like The French Connection). And while it may seem like a case of trumping his own achievement, To Live and Die in L.A. boasts one of the most stunning examples in film, with the two appointed law enforcement officers--Chance and partner John Vukovich (John Pankow)--being chased down the wrong side of the freeway in heavy traffic by other law enforcement officers, endangering dozens of bystanders in the process, after they inadvertantly hold up another undercover officer to steal the front money necessary to entrap Masters. (Yeah, they get in pretty deep.) And when the undercover agent is accidentally killed during the heist, what's interesting is that although the FBI is actually responsible for pulling the trigger that kills him, the following bulletin they issue points the finger at the two unidentified men who robbed him for the murder, indicating that no branch of the law is really above deception. For the counterfeiting, Friedkin's attention to detail was so intense for this film, that he actually recruited the assistance of real counterfeiters who had done time to advise him on how to make the portrayal as authentic as possible. Needless to say, the production caught the attention of the actual Department of the Treasury, who kept a close eye on the film to ensure legal compliance. One of the stand-out directorial flourishes is a frequent barrage of dissonant rapid images--sometimes images that do not appear to be directly relevant to the scene--but images that nonetheless evoke a sense of a connected world, a "living city". In some cases, the flicker of images highlight the inner thoughts of a character reflecting on a traumatic event, other times they tease the audience with a snapshot, even a pantomime, of events to come. They are also a kind of pulse, jumbled, fevered, a hyperstimulation of energy and electric charge running through. Like another film by Friedkin--The Exorcist--cited for showcasing a subliminal message in the form of a flash of the face of the devil, To Live and Die in L.A. utilizes this effect to subconsciously drive the psyche into this state of mine, immersing the viewer through a seduction by adrenaline. Even at the end of the credits, a quick couple of images reflect the lingering presence of Chance when all is said and done, with Vukovich adopting his persona. In this way, To Live and Die in L.A. comes across with its own raw edge--like that of a serrated blade--as a kind of "street-level poetry".
Recommended for: Fans of a gritty and cynical crime drama, filled with morality as clear as mud, copious amounts of violence, and vicious characters motivated by selfish needs for money, power, and more. Where else to set it but L.A.?