"I'm getting too old for this s**t," one character utters early on in this stylish 1985 thriller from the formidable William Friedkin. The veteran director doesn't bring much of his recent black humour to this hard-boiled cop thriller, but the brutal cynicism is present and correct. After the questionable Cruising and the forgotten comedy Deal of the Century, this was Friedkin back on Sorcerer form.
William Peterson, who would smoulder even more intensely the following year in Michael Mann's Manhunter, plays Secret Service agent Richard Chance. And boy does he take chances. A thrill-seeker who spends his spare time bungee-jumping off bridges, when his soon- to-retire partner is gunned down he goes after the culprit with reckless abandon. His prey is Rick Masters (Willem Dafoe), a completely amoral counterfeiter who slaughters with a smile.
Chance is paired with a by-the-book agent named Vukovich (John Pankow), who's dragged deeper into this violent mess thanks to a ruthless code of honour. What ensues is an action thriller somewhere between the rawness of Friedkin's own The French Connection and the glossy buddy thrillers that were soon to become a Hollywood staple. There are shoot outs, intricate car chases, fist fights, and a conspicuous amount of ball-kicking.
You can forgive some of the film's flaws for their pay-off. Sure, Chance might blunder into situations with face-palming recklessness, but that's consistent with his character. Similarly, even when the storytelling is stripped down to the point of being nonsensical (characters leap about locations in the space of a jump cut), you accept it for the thrilling briskness and the efficiency of storytelling.
You won't be surprised that Peterson excels at glowering and Dafoe revels in his menace. Chance isn't a complex character but he does take us on a journey, from sympathy to something like repulsion. He exploits others and ignores the rule of law to get the job done – so, is he so different from the villain he's preying upon?
Par for the genre, women are sidelined as strippers or victims, although in Friedkin's defence the ample nudity is generous to both genders. Plus, in a thematic sense, one could see the film as one big critique of the single-minded alpha male. If there are winners in the end, it's not who you'd expect.
On the whole, however, expectations are satisfied more than they are defied. Cliché follows cliché, but it's all done with great energy and style. L.A. is perennially clad in orange sunset, and the saucy 80s rock soundtrack (from British new-wavers Wang Chung) locks the film in time. Mann would remake his own 80s effort with Heat in 1995, providing the final word on the L.A. neo-noir genre. But in To Live and Die we see its overture: a relocated Miami Vice writ large. It's nasty, dated, and fun.
William Peterson, who would smoulder even more intensely the following year in Michael Mann's Manhunter, plays Secret Service agent Richard Chance. And boy does he take chances. A thrill-seeker who spends his spare time bungee-jumping off bridges, when his soon- to-retire partner is gunned down he goes after the culprit with reckless abandon. His prey is Rick Masters (Willem Dafoe), a completely amoral counterfeiter who slaughters with a smile.
Chance is paired with a by-the-book agent named Vukovich (John Pankow), who's dragged deeper into this violent mess thanks to a ruthless code of honour. What ensues is an action thriller somewhere between the rawness of Friedkin's own The French Connection and the glossy buddy thrillers that were soon to become a Hollywood staple. There are shoot outs, intricate car chases, fist fights, and a conspicuous amount of ball-kicking.
You can forgive some of the film's flaws for their pay-off. Sure, Chance might blunder into situations with face-palming recklessness, but that's consistent with his character. Similarly, even when the storytelling is stripped down to the point of being nonsensical (characters leap about locations in the space of a jump cut), you accept it for the thrilling briskness and the efficiency of storytelling.
You won't be surprised that Peterson excels at glowering and Dafoe revels in his menace. Chance isn't a complex character but he does take us on a journey, from sympathy to something like repulsion. He exploits others and ignores the rule of law to get the job done – so, is he so different from the villain he's preying upon?
Par for the genre, women are sidelined as strippers or victims, although in Friedkin's defence the ample nudity is generous to both genders. Plus, in a thematic sense, one could see the film as one big critique of the single-minded alpha male. If there are winners in the end, it's not who you'd expect.
On the whole, however, expectations are satisfied more than they are defied. Cliché follows cliché, but it's all done with great energy and style. L.A. is perennially clad in orange sunset, and the saucy 80s rock soundtrack (from British new-wavers Wang Chung) locks the film in time. Mann would remake his own 80s effort with Heat in 1995, providing the final word on the L.A. neo-noir genre. But in To Live and Die we see its overture: a relocated Miami Vice writ large. It's nasty, dated, and fun.