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The French Connection

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First Presented at the American New Wave: A Retrospective, Bangor University, 4 July 2017

Within the latter three months of 1971 two of the most influential American Police Thrillers were released. One was to fit naturally into the aesthetic of New Hollywood and its creation echoed the narrative of auteur cinema and innovation that would define an era “of stylistic experimentation” (Langford 2010, 134). The other was directed by an old hand who started in Hollywood in the 1940s, was based on a script that several stars had circled and starred the then “world’s favourite movie star” (Life 1971). Although both films were financial successes, the critical reactions were polarised. Of the major US critics only Jay Cocks of Time (Jan, 1972) praised Dirty Harry (Lev 1999), whereas The French Connection was widely lauded and went on to win five academy awards, including Best Picture, Best Director and Best Actor.

This paper will discuss the reactions and suggest that the critical establishment of the time misunderstood Dirty Harry due to its elements of classical form, ignoring its subversive representations and assuming a conservative spectating position, whereas they praised The French Connection for the technical proficiency, which allowed them to remain distant from the film’s narrative, observing the protagonist, rather than identifying with him.

The narrative of the Hollywood New Wave is one in which an auteur led cinema emerged from the ashes of the Studio System. Within this a new, younger, set of film-makers embraced techniques from outside of Classical Hollywood to infuse existing genres with new life. The French Connection sits happily within this. The director, William Friedkin, began his career in TV in Chicago making documentaries, moving into feature films during the 1960s with some critical, if not box-office, success. The French Connection seemed a radical departure from his two previous films, both adapted from stage plays, but his work in television and his commitment to researching the reality of Police work, by spending time on patrol with Eddie Egan (the inspiration for Jimmy ‘Popeye’ Doyle), created a sense that The French Connection was a film rooted in reality. Indeed its story was loosely adapted from real events, chronicled in Robin Moore’s book of the same name and Friedkin worked closely with his cinematographer Owen Roizman in eschewing traditional lighting and blocking techniques to create a news-report aesthetic (Friedkin 2013, 161). The casting of relative unknowns in the main roles aided the mimetic quality of the film as did the film’s marketing. 20th Century Fox’s Press Book informed that “The French Connection… is a perfect example of the truism that reality is nearly always more dramatic and unpredictable than fiction.” The use of locations across New York (Webb 2014, 78), many of which were in poorer areas previously unseen in mainstream US film, added to this sense of reality. This was also brought to the representation of the main-character Doyle played by Gene Hackman (an actor unknown enough to be subsumed into the character), who is shown to be a racist, a boot fetishist, and an obsessive who ultimately fails to catch the chief criminal behind the film’s drug smuggling operation. If anything the film’s high modality allowed for this representation to be excused as, in the words of Life magazine’s Richard Schickel, it “comes closer to the real thing… than any other movie detective I’ve ever seen” (1971, 31). A theme that emerges when interrogating the critical reaction is that the violence and racism evident in The French Connection is excused, or justified, by its technical freshness, a freshness that connotes a high modality. By taking The French Connection as an accurate depiction of policing, the racism and brutality that Doyle displays can be justified by film-makers and spectators who can retain the critical distance of knowing that this is “how things are”.

When revisiting the opening of The French Connection one is struck by how discordant it is, both in the non-diegetic music that accompanies the titles and in the Marseille prologue which established the documentary style of the film. The prologue details a brutal assassination, a sequence to which the audience are un-aligned as the characters and action of the scene are mostly unconnected to the main plot. The victim, a Detective, is unidentified before his death, as is his killer Nicoli.  What is evident, however, is how Friedkin’s use of documentary style camera techniques keeps the spectator remote from the action. The following scene introduces us to Doyle and his partner Russo as they interrogate a black suspect – throughout point-of-view shots are avoided, with the camera taking positions distant from the action or behind windows and doorways. In this way the spectator remains distant, but also conscious of the supposed reality implied by the camera techniques.

These techniques are particularly evident during the car chase in which Doyle pursues Nicoli who has hijacked an elevated train. For many this sequence has become celebrated not only for its technical proficiency but also because some of the filming took place for “real”, unplanned and without permission (Friedkin 2013, 179). This creates a simultaneous closeness and distance; while the film maintains its high modality (although the car chase is fiction) the narrative of its filming adds to the spectating experience. In affect the effort to create a realistic film draws attention to its construction. The overall effect is of a film that appears different to Classical conventions, however I would suggest that the technical elements of the film hide what is, in many ways, a conservative narrative.

The nature of threat in The French Connection is represented as externalised and other. The very unfamiliarity of its technique and representation of New York is distancing to a mainstream audience, its locations unfamiliar and its procedural elements oblique. The film’s antagonist, Charnier, is represented as a binary opposite to Doyle – he is urbane where Doyle is uncouth and boorish; Charnier is bringing drugs into America, suggesting the threat is primarily an externalised one. The French Connection continually pushes the problems of crime away, indeed the nature of Doyle himself is alienating – so much as to make identification with him difficult – something enhanced by the lack of subjective camera techniques. During the car-chase, for example, we only once see Doyle’s point of view; mostly the camera is mounted on the car’s bumper, with reaction shots of Doyle shot from outside the car. This distance creates a safe area in which the spectator, or critic, can appreciate the technical proficiency of the film while not being asked to identify or support some of Doyle’s morally problematic actions. Due to the lack of identification an element of social critique can be assumed, allowing the spectator to see Doyle as a representation, rather than as a person with whom they can align. This is confirmed by the ending which fails to resolve the narrative in a typical way, displaying text to explain that the main narrative has remained unresolved, and that Doyle’s character’s arc is also incomplete.

Dirty Harry, on the other hand, has the look and feel of a Classical Hollywood text that attempts to hide its construction from the audience, by creating a realistic diegesis. It’s creation certainly had a more traditional narrative being a star vehicle directed by Don Siegel who had started in film-making with Warner Brothers in the 1930s (Siegel 1993, 35). A star vehicle, Eastwood’s importance was reflected in the marketing, in which his gun-toting image predominated. No doubt for some critics this was already an issue – the 1967 US release of Sergio Leone’s Dollars Trilogy was financially successful but often criticised for their perceived level of violence, “wooden” performances, cheap production values and their very validity as Westerns (Frayling 1998, 121-123).

Given that Dirty Harry was produced in a seemingly mainstream manner (despite Eastwood’s independence through his own production company Malpaso Productions) it would suggest a traditional subject position. However this ignores several important features – most particularly how it interrogates the spectatorship process and how it draws parallels between its protagonist and antagonist. Most of the reviews are based on an assumption that Callahan is a right wing figure and that the killer, Scorpio, represents the counter-culture. However several times the text queries these assumptions, and presents alternate readings that subvert surface ideas.

The opening of Dirty Harry immediately signals a desire to make the spectator conscious of their manipulation and places the film within a generic tradition by linking back to the Western. The San Francisco Police Memorial board shown as the films’ opening shot starts in 1878, during the frontier period. This ties the film to the Western (something enhanced by Eastwood’s presence) and simultaneously places the film in a mythic tradition, rather than one that reaches for realism. As the image dissolves through a Police Star to a low angle staring up at Scorpio and his rifle several associations are made; one that Scorpio is aiming at the Police (their bodies are metaphorically in the line of fire); or that the violence that Scorpio represents is deeply tied to the Police themselves. The film then cuts to Scorpio’s point of view and a voyeuristic, and indeed scopophilic, gaze is assumed. Initially the film-makers are willing to place their audience in a position that is both comfortable and uncomfortable in which the gaze is aimed towards a traditional image of desire (a young woman in a swim suit) immediately disrupted by the violence that ensues. The next scene introduces Callahan, eyes covered by sunglasses and the emphasis on point-of-view is re-iterated as he climbs to the spot where Scorpio was shooting from. This parallel continues throughout the film in which both Scorpio and Callahan are seen to be spying on the world around them, and indulging their gazes. During one pursuit of a suspect Callahan is taken to be a Peeping-Tom as he spies on “Hot Mary”; later on stake-out he spies on a naked young woman, and her guests, in her apartment commenting to himself “You owe it to yourself to live a little Harry.” That both cop and killer indulge in violent and voyeuristic behaviour is made clear suggesting a closeness between the two, which only diverges through the targets of their gaze.

The critics’ identification of Scorpio as a hippy skews the film towards one in which a figure of the establishment, Callahan, kills a figure of the counter-culture. However this ignores several details. Although Scorpio has long hair his clothing only comes to match counter-culture clichés in the final third of the film – previously he has dressed conservatively. He also shows proficiency with a sniper rifle and a submachine gun, indicative of military training (as are his highly shined military boots). This suggests to us that Scorpio, rather than a hippy, is actually a returning Vietnam veteran, a suggestion backed by director Siegel (Siegel 1993, 370). Scorpio is a mix of signifiers: Siegel cast Andy Robinson because he had the “face of a choir-boy” (Don Siegel quoted in The Dirty Harry DVD Collection (2009)) and would subvert ideas about what killers looked like. I would go further and suggest the Scorpio exists as a composite of several notorious killers from the 1970s, most obviously the San Francisco-based Zodiac killer who sent letters taunting the police, but also campus shooter Charles Whitman and Charles Manson. Also contradicting the idea that Scorpio is a counter culture figure is his desire to kill black people, young people and homosexuals – cornerstones of the civil rights movement. As Pierre Greenfield suggests,

Scorpio is the true redneck. “My next victim will be a Catholic priest or a nigger,” is the last sentence of his ransom demand. His kidnap victim is the very Catholic sounding Anne-Marie Deakin. She is fourteen” (Greenfield 1976, 36)

Parallel with this is the representation of Callahan himself and although he does demonstrate some racist behaviour, this is counterpointed in several way. We may argue that Callahan’s gaze is resolutely heteronormative (as opposed to Scorpio’s) however, the assumption that he is simply a right wing figure is undermined. He himself has long hair, and is chided about it by his superior. During the telephone chase he is propositioned by a gay-man, who identifies as Alice. Although this moment is not a particularly forward thinking representation of homosexuality, it is important as Alice sees Callahan as a reasonable target for his advances – in effect that Callahan’s heterosexuality is not obvious to everyone. Callahan’s use of violence and love of high powered guns is parodied later in the same scene as Scorpio remarks on the Magnum .44, “My, that’s a big one” which draws comparison with Scorpio’s own use of high powered weaponry and acknowledges the absurdity of the Magnum and the phallic obsession that lies behind the choice of such a weapon, and the genre itself. Callahan’s relationship to race is also discussed within the film. Many critiques seized on the race of the bank robbers that Callahan shoots after his lunch is interrupted, but they also miss the relationship that Callahan has to the black doctor in the next scene (they grew up together in a mixed race neighbourhood) or the fact that the film shows the reaction of the mother of the murdered black boy (who lived in the same neighbourhood Callahan grew up in (Street 2016, 75)). These elements do not necessarily excuse or justify racist behaviours, but they do suggest that the depiction is more complex than first discussed. Another key element is Eastwood’s position within the diegesis. During 1971 two other Eastwood films were released, Play Misty for Me and The Beguiled, the former directed by Eastwood himself, the latter by Siegel. Each film examines the Eastwood persona, both working to undermine the dominant male character that most critics took Eastwood to represent. During the bank heist Callahan strides in front of a cinema showing Play Misty, acknowledging the constructed nature of his image, as do the film’s self-reflective moments when the meanings behind Callahan’s nickname are addressed.

The choice to film at familiar landmarks of San Francisco is key, and contrasts starkly to The French Connection. Siegel chose “monumental architectural landmarks from City Hall to Kezar Stadium, preferring wide open space (in expansive 2.35:1[1] Panavision)” (Webb 2014, 140), highlighting the very public nature of American violence. Dirty Harry refuses to suggest that crime and violence are not part and parcel of the urban experience, contrasted to Friedkin’s own shock at finding he could film so much of The French Connection close to his home (Friedkin 2013, 147). Dirty Harry also allows the civic structures to exist next to crime, with them often being used as the back-drop, or juxtaposed through comparison – San Francisco is a city in which strip clubs and playgrounds co-exist. Two separate scenes play out against religious imagery; one a large neon sign that declared “Jesus Saves”, the other the giant cross atop Mount Davidson – both are part of the film’s subversion of traditional American spaces – that offer neither shelter nor safety. As Joe Street discusses in detail, the choice of San Francisco is a culturally significant one as it acts as a nexus of several, contradictory, elements of American life. San Francisco was closely associated with the counter-culture of the 1960s but earlier than this, during the 1800s, it was home to “the largest vigilante movement in American history” (Street 2016, 57). During the 1960s the city was noted for its left-leaning administration, however then Mayor Alioto was “quite prepared to allow the SFPD tactical squad to use violent tactics to quell disturbances during the 1968-69 student strike” (Street 2016, 61). It is within these contradictions that Dirty Harry is set, starkly demonstrated as the film moves between public and private space suggesting a similarity between both that is absent in The French Connection in which the criminal activity is confined to the back streets of New York. In this Dirty Harry points to the contradictions of an urban environment that seeks to be inclusive but also safe. During the scenes in Kezar Stadium the camera moves away, via helicopter, from Callahan torturing Scorpio. The arena is a place of sanctioned violence during American Football games, but is transformed to a place where the violence is tantalisingly hidden and ambiguous. Here the spectator is asked whether they want to see this and whether the actions are justified, especially as we discover that his actions fail to save Scorpio’s victim, and initiate his release from custody. The closing moments see Callahan throw his badge away, a late change to the film (Siegel 1993, 375). Several commentators suggested a similarity to the ending of High Noon (Fred Zinnemann, 1952) but failed to detail one key difference. In High Noon Will Kane leaves with his wife and the promise of a new life. Harry Callahan, a widower, leaves behind everything he knows with his badge, making the ending a bleak commentary on the possibility of solutions to America’s law and order problems.

In conclusion, this paper has explored how the contemporary critical reaction to The French Connection and Dirty Harry differed and has also posited that this is due to the differing formal aspects of the films, and that the reactions privileged form over content. Further, that the radical appearance of The French Connection, which simultaneously created a high modality and drew attention to its form, suggested to the critics that the film itself was representing something radical. In opposition the conservative formal elements of Dirty Harry and its clear genre roots masked the subversive and reflective elements in the text, which came to say something much more problematic – that the violent crime in America is rooted within itself, rather than coming from an external threat. By applying elements of intertext and acknowledging the complex relationship the spectator has to a film such as Dirty Harry, that employs Classical style knowingly, we can see how multiple readings and critiques become possible beyond those of the contemporary critics.

References

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Cocks, Jay (1972) Outside Society. Time. 03 January [online]. Available at www.time.com/time/printout/0,8816,879053,00.html [accessed 20 January 2009].

Crist, Judith (1971) Gripping and Gritty. New York Magazine. 25 October [online]. Available at https://books.google.co.uk/books?id=_OICAAAAMBAJ&pg=PA3&source=gbs_toc&cad=2#v=onepage&q&f=false [accessed 27 June 2017].

Crist, Judith (1971) Some Late Bloomers and a Few Weeds. New York Magazine. 10 January, 57 [online]. Available at https://books.google.co.uk/books?id=9DaEg2B7DfUC&printsec=frontcover&dq=new+york+magazine+1972&hl=en&sa=X&ved=0ahUKEwjZsLf3q97UAhVnKcAKHVRcARA4HhDoAQgxMAM#v=onepage&q=new%20york%20magazine%201972&f=false [accessed 22 June 2017].

Frayling, Christopher (1998) Spaghetti Westerns: Cowboys & Europeans from Karl May to Sergio Leone. London: I.B. Taurus.

Frederick, Robert B. (1971) Review: ‘The French Connection’. Variety. 6 October. [online] Available at http://variety.com/1971/film/reviews/the-french-connection-2-1200422615/ [accessed 6 June 2017].

Friedkin, William (2014) The Friedkin Connection. New York: Harper Collins.

Greenfield, Pierre (1976) Dirty Dogs, Dirty Devils and Dirty Harry. The Velvet Light Trap. No1, Fall pp 34-37.

Greenspun, Roger (1971) The French Connection. The New York Times. 8 October [online] Available at http://www.nytimes.com/movie/review?res=EE05E7DF173EE565BC4053DFB667838A669EDE [accessed 8 June 2017].

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Kael, Pauline (2000) Deeper into Movies. The Essential Kael Collection: From ’69 to ’72. London: Marion Boyars Publishing.

Langford, Barry (2010) Post-Classical Hollywood: Film Industry, Style and Ideology since 1945. Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press.

Lev, Peter (1999) American Films of the 1970s: Conflicting Visions. Austin: University of Texas Press.

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Schickel, Richard (1971) A real look at a tough cop. Life. 19 November, p13 [online] Available at https://books.google.co.uk/books?id=GEAEAAAAMBAJ&printsec=frontcover&dq=life+magazine+1971+november&hl=en&sa=X&ved=0ahUKEwjB38zDrN7UAhXCCsAKHamMDxUQ6AEIMjAD#v=onepage&q=life%20magazine%201971%20november&f=false [accessed 6 June 2017].

Siegel, Don (1993) A Siegel Film: An Autobiography. London: Faber and Faber.

Street, Joe (2016) Dirty Harry’s America: Clint Eastwood, Harry Callahan and the Conservative Backlash. Gainesville: University Press of Florida.

Webb, Lawrence (2014) The Cinema of Urban Crisis: Seventies Films and the Reinvention of the City. Amsterdam: Amsterdam University Press.

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The Dirty Harry DVD Collection (2009) USA: Warner Home Video

[1] As opposed to 1.85:1 for The French Connection.

One of them is a loner who gets thrown every dirty job in town. His solution: shoot his .44 Magnum and damn the consequences. The other is a blue-collar roughneck, a porkpie-hat wearing boot fetishist as likely to shoot a colleague as he is a bad-guy. Welcome to 1971. Welcome to the birth of the modern action hero. It wasn’t a smooth delivery. The critics reacted with catcalls of “fascist”. Roger Ebert wrote, “if anybody is writing a book on the rise of fascism in America, they ought to take a look at Dirty Harry”. Garrett Epps of The New York Times asked “Does Popeye Doyle Teach us to be Fascist?”, deciding no, but that The French Connection is a “celebration of authority, brutality and racism” (which sounds pretty fascist to me). Dirty Harry on the other hand “is a simply told story of the Nietzschean superman and his sado-masochistic pleasures”. Pauline Kael, never a fan of Eastwood, described Dirty Harry as a “right wing fantasy” and The French Connection as featuring “the latest model sadistic cop”. Vincent Canby, also in The New York Times, decried Dirty Harry with the criticism, “I doubt even the genius of Leni Riefenstahl could make it artistically acceptable”. Something about these films got up the nose of American critics. Perhaps this was only made worse by their popularity with audiences. But how did early 70s cinema come to embrace these men, and the McClanes, Riggs and Cobrettis to follow?

Looking back over the history of cinema two types of film dominated action before 1971; the western and the war film. It all changed, in the 1960s as the cops began to take over. They brought the action into the city, finding a new wilderness among the streets and the neon lights. Cities became the new frontier, dark, shadowy and fuelled by drugs. It reflected the changes in American society; the huge rises in crime, particularly mugging, had Americans scared to walk city streets. This was a different America and it needed different heroes. The French Connection and Dirty Harry redefined how America’s heroes would look and act, casting a shadow over action cinema for a generation to come. The story goes that 1960s cinema ended in counter-culture revolution. Led by Bonnie and Clyde (Arthur Penn, 1967), The Graduate (Mike Nichols, 1967) and Easy Rider (Dennis Hopper, 1968) the audience found themselves on the side of the law-breakers, railing against society, whether it be the cops, the banks or the politicians. Take a closer look and another, parallel, story comes clear. The success of films like The Dirty Dozen (Robert Aldrich, 1967) and Sergio Leone’s Dollars trilogy, alongside the earlier, harsher Bond films, showed that there was an audience for tough heroes. What was different about them was how they abandoned the codes of the past – these guys were selfish, in it for themselves, often only doing the right thing incidentally. These weren’t the classic heroes of the past, the sort that Joseph Campbell wrote about. They were anti-heroes, the dark shadows of heroism. Ever since WW2 heroes had been getting darker, as if the horror of human behaviour exposed in Europe and the Far East had leached out the possibility of anybody being truly good. Even John Wayne got in on the act in The Searchers (John Ford, 1956). It’s difficult to imagine now because, by and large, today all movie heroes are anti-heroes. Go back to the 1940s and watch Errol Flynn or James Stewart and see men who do right because it’s right to do it. As American life got more complicated, with conflict at home and abroad, it became harder and harder to find purity in anyone’s motives. It would get worse before the 60s was out.

Charles Whitman climbed a tower at the University of Texas in Huston in August 1966 and started shooting. He killed 14 and wounded 31 before the Police shot him. The shadow of the Zodiac killer settled over San Francisco in the late 1960s as he taunted Police with his letters. He was never found. And in 1969 Charles Manson’s ‘family’ broke into 10050 Cielo Drive murdering, among four others, Sharon Tate, pregnant actress and girlfriend of Roman Polanski: all three helped signal a change. Nobody was safe anymore, not even Hollywood stars. It was the final nail in the coffin of 60s optimism. All the leaders, Kennedy and King, were dead. The movie heroes of old didn’t cut it (just watch Wayne’s self-directed Green Berets (1968) or Brannigan (Douglas Hickcox, 1975) for evidence). America needed new symbols to help it feel safe at night. Cue Jimmy ‘Popeye’ Doyle and ‘Dirty’ Harry Callahan, although in many ways The French Connection and Dirty Harry couldn’t be more different. The former was directed by a precocious young director from TV noted for several art-house style films, the latter made by one of Hollywood’s old hands, who could trace his career back to Hollywood at its peak in the 1930s and 40s. But what both William Friedkin and Don Siegel understood was that the time was ripe for a new, tougher, more cynical hero.

Friedkin had been circulating for several years in Hollywood and had been tipped as a hot director. He mastered his craft making documentaries on the streets of his home town Chicago, working areas other film-makers wouldn’t touch like the black South-Side. He was an abrasive young man, supremely talented, directing for TV in his early twenties. Siegel began at Warner’s back when the Studio System was in its heyday. He began in the Film Library Department, moving through the company to Editorial and Insert departments. Here he contributed to some classics like The Roaring Twenties (Raoul Walsh, 1939) and Confessions of a Nazi Spy (Anatole Litvak, 1939). He worked with such greats as Michael Curtiz (director of The Adventures of Robin Hood (1938) and Casablanca (1942)) and Howard Hughes, eventually graduating to directing at Hughes’ RKO. The movie he will always be remembered for, other than Dirty Harry, is Invasion of the Body Snatchers (1962), regularly cited as the best B-movie ever made. An efficient director, Siegel worked quickly and effectively. He shot what he needed, scouted his own locations and liked to collaborate. He was just the sort of director Clint Eastwood appreciated. By 1970 Friedkin’s career was stalling. He was making movies, dramas such as The Boys in the Band (1970), but his films weren’t making any money. That would all change after an encounter with Howard Hawks. “People don’t want stories about somebody’s problems or any of that psychological shit”, Hawks told him, “What they want is action stories. Every time I made a film like that, with a lotta good guys against bad guys, it had a lotta success, if that matters to you”. It mattered to him alright. His next film was The French Connection.

Siegel and Eastwood first met on Coogan’s Bluff (1968), an early attempt to translate Eastwood’s Spaghetti Western success to America. It worked, with Eastwood starring as an Arizona lawman relocated to New York to extradite a suspect. It featured some brutal action, including a great bar fight. Coogan’s single minded pursuit of hippy suspect Ringerman, and willingness to ignore regulations, served as a prototype for Harry. With Dirty Harry they were able to create a purer distillation of the action formula from Coogan, dumping the unnecessary love interest, turning the conflict between Harry and Scorpio into the focus. Watch Harry again and it might even seem that the sado-masochistic relationship between cop and killer is its own sort of twisted romance, camera flying away from the stadium to protect their privacy when they are finally alone. The producer of The French Connection, Philip D’Antioni, previously brought Bullitt (Peter Yates) to the screen in 1968. Inspired by real events, and the book by Robin Moore, The French Connection provided a chance to repeat the earlier success. For that purpose he demanded one thing from Friedkin, a car chase to beat the one in Bullitt. Both the chase and its filming are now legendary but are just one part of a film which constantly innovates and defies convention. Filming in a down and dirty documentary style, casting a character actor, Gene Hackman, in the lead, allowing cast to improvise (a cast which included real life “Popeye” Eddie Egan as Doyle’s boss), and taking cues from The French New Wave, The French Connection is like nothing else produced in Hollywood at the time. It’s also groundbreakingly violent. Just witness the car-crash victims; they’re nothing to do with the plot but Friedkin lets his camera linger over the mess of their bodies. Then think about that final shot. What other Hollywood film leaves the audience with such a bleak and unresolved ending, Doyle charging off into the darkness having shot one of his own colleagues?

You can see how real life events influenced Dirty Harry. Check out Scorpio and you can see the influence of Manson, the Zodiac killer and Whitman; Scorpio represented everything that was going wrong with America, and he could even have been a returning Vietnam veteran with his military boots and rifle proficiency. Those who read Callahan as an authoritarian figure taking on a hippy loner miss the point, though. Yes Scorpio is all that’s bad but Harry’s not much better. As the film plays out, a teasing parallel between Scorpio and Harry emerges, they’re both voyeurs, both loners, both killers. Their combat is a dance to the death across the streets of San Francisco. That late 60s anti-authoritarian streak runs through Callahan and Doyle and shows that these films have more in common with the Easy Riders of this world that you might think. Both are fierce individuals, outsiders who don’t fit in to society – but the difference is they’re there trying to make it work. Both films hinge on their heroes. They’re a strange pair, both loners paired with partners whose normalcy only highlights their extremes, both isolated by society. Friedkin pulls no punches in his depiction of Popeye as a slovenly, driven and violent man. Watch the scene where Frog One, Charnier, enjoys a three course meal while Popeye stands outside drinking stale coffee and eating greasy pizza. It’s a wonderful evocation of the thankless task that stands before the police; the street smart blue-collar worker living in a small apartment that resembles a prison cell versus the urbane French charmer with a house on the Riviera. Dirty Harry‘s opening shots, hovering over a memorial board to San Francisco police men points to the danger and thanklessness of the task. In some senses they’re the reincarnation of the Western hero dragged into the city, the lone gunman dealing with injustice. But in the city their actions provoke outraged responses, the cushion of myth having been removed. Just like Will Kane in High Noon (Fred Zinnemann, 1952), who like Harry throws his badge away, they’re abandoned by the townsfolk and have to do what’s best on their own.

Initial reaction to both films was fierce, many critics highlighting the violence, but Dirty Harry was by far the most kicked about. Harry’s perceived racism was a particular bone of contention, despite the fact that he has friends and enemies of different races. Both Siegel and Eastwood have been on record defending the films from such accusations. In his autobiography, A Siegel Film, the director described his approach, “If I do a film about a murderer, it doesn’t mean that I condone murder. If I do a film about a hard-nosed cop, of course it doesn’t mean I condone all his actions. I find it very difficult to explain my reasons for making a film like Dirty Harry, other than I’m a firm believer in entertainment, hoping that every picture make will be a commercial success. Not once throughout Dirty Harry did Clint and I have a political discussion.” Similarly The French Connection found its critics, suggesting the film to be racist and authoritarian, but it also registered far more supporters. It was a huge box-office success ($30million plus in the US alone) and won five Oscars, including best director. Dirty Harry won no awards, but took over $28 million and cemented Eastwood’s star status. The impact of these two films still resonates through their sequels and imitators. As Eastwood proved in Gran Torino (2008) he has never really escaped the shadow of Callahan. The lone cop, the disregard for superiors, for red tape and rules, the brutality of the violence; these can all be seen in modern action movies. Check out the rivalry between John McClane and his slick European rival, Hans Gruber, in Die Hard (John McTiernan, 1988); it clearly echoes Doyle and Charnier. What is Riggs but Callahan pushed to his logical, suicidal extreme? How about that scene in Lethal Weapon (Richard Donner, 1987) with the jumper? Straight out of Dirty Harry. Come to think of it aren’t both Die Hard with a Vengeance (John McTiernan, 1995) and 12 Rounds (Renny Harlin, 2009) just two hour remakes of the phone chase in Dirty Harry? Look at any cop-thriller or action film from the 1980s or 90s and the influence of Doyle and Callahan is clear. Fascist Super Cops? No. Fascists aren’t free thinkers, they don’t possess the cynical edge of these men, the individuality. The critics saw the violence, but missed the point. The audience got it. And we’re still getting it today.

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