On the surface, To Live and Die in L.A. (a.k.a. Police fédérale, Los Angeles) may appear to be your average crime picture, but it doesn't take that long to realize that there's something utterly unique going in-between all the macho posturing. I mean, I can't think of any other police procedurals that boast interpretive dance sequences (with a definite Liquid Sky vibe) and tortured painters who burn their own artwork. Well, first of all, there ain't no police in this movie. The shady protagonist may look like a cop on the edge (his propensity for jumping off bridges does nothing but foster this edgy perception), but he's actually a federal agent who protects the President of the United States when he or she is in town. When the so-called Commander-in-chief is not in town, he and his fellow agents are in charge of busting up counterfeiting rings. Anyway, this is one of few films of its type that I watch on a regular basis. The uniqueness I was alluding to before I got sidetracked is the main reason I keep coming back this energetic thriller about a reckless agent hellbent on avenging the death of his partner at the hands of an inflexible forgery artist. With no obvious "good guy" to root for, the William Friedkin-directed film, based on the book by Gerald Petievich, has an uneasy quality about it. Of course, I found this ambiguity to be very appealing, as the prospect of watching a battle between two clearly defined versions of good and evil is something I'm not that interested in.
Probably not the first, and definitely not the last film to feature a scene where a bedraggled government employee on the cusp of retirement verbally communicates his frustration over the fact his physically demanding job and advanced age are at odds with another to a younger, more rambunctious co-worker. But when smeared in the gaudy veneer of Los Angeles circa 1985, as photographed by Robby Müller, things that would normally come off as trite are rendered fresh and exciting.
The city of L.A. is presented as a rundown, unorganized mess. (I loved the constant shots of the industrial landscape.) However, the city also comes across as a beautiful and strangely surreal place.
An overly spry William Petersen leads the manly contingent of the cast as the vengeful Richard Chance, a federal agent who wants bust a ruthless counterfeiter so badly, that he is willing to break the very laws he's been hired to enforce. Backing up him is the squirrel-like John Pankow as John Vukovich, Chance's new by-the-book partner. These two are great at spouting tough guy dialogue and what not, but it's their intense acting during the film's most famous sequence: the extended car chase, that deserves the majority of the praise. Actually, the amazing work of the stunt drivers is probably the real key to the chases' success. Nevertheless, I thought they played up the confusion as to who they were being chased by perfectly, as Mr. Pankow's incoherent blubbering and Mr. Petersen's icy determination gave the reckless pursuit an added sense of danger.
Proving that his bad guy chops are impeccable in the underrated Streets of Fire, Willem Dafoe tackles another scumbag role in the form of Rick Masters, a counterfeiter/artist/sadist. While not as overtly sinister as Raven (his Streets of Fire character), his turn as the unbending producer of funny money is just as ominous. The fact that Willem's face, when photographed from an unflattering angle, has a real mask-like quality to it that just screams "I'm one depraved motherfucker!" really helped in the demonization department.
Engaging in some of the best scantily clad lounging I have ever witnessed in a motion picture, Debra Feuer and Darlanne Fluegel (Eyes of Laura Mars)are the principal ladies in the lives of the troubled men that populate To Live and Die in L.A. Similar in function, yet totally different when it comes to temperament, Debra and Darlanne not only provide the film with some much needed sexiness, but also manage bring out the guy's softer sides.
The statuesque Fräulein Feuer plays Bianca Torress, the dancer/partner/girlfriend of Rick Masters, and carries herself with a dignified air (even when a mute Jane Leeves is giving her a foot massage). While the lithesome Juffrouw Fluegel (by the way, I love their vowel-heavy f-names) plays Ruth Lanier is Richard Chance's informant/fuck buddy, and is not dignified at all (her day job as a strip club cashier doesn't exactly help this dignity deficiency). Either way, I thought the both were tremendous at conveying the stresses that come with being the girlfriend's of men who live their lives on the wild side (which is in the same zip code as "the edge").
The amount of daring it took to allow Wang Chung to score the film cannot be quantified. A music score that is almost a character onto itself at times, the new wave band, probably best known for their nonthreatening brand of pop rock, create an invigorating soundtrack that repeatedly injects the proceedings with an added oomph. A chaotic mix of drum machines and synthesizers, their bold sound is inexplicably in perfect harmony with every scene. Frantic during the film's many chase sequences, restrained during the quieter moments.
It's true, that some find their music to be distracting... a nuisance, if you will. Yet, I can't imagine the film without it. Take the scene where we see Willem Dafoe's Rick Masters doing what he does best, for example. The way their thumping beats accompany the counterfeiting process was seamless. Now, I wouldn't say that Wang Chung is the sole reason the film doesn't end up being another in a long line of benign thrillers, but it does help solidify its standing as one the most electrifying action flicks from the 1980s.
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