The French Connection

That, the film suggests, is the way it is with
cops and crooks, now and forever. It's an eternal struggle with no clear winners. About 25 minutes into the movie, there's a memorable scene in which Doyle and partner "Cloudy" Russo (Roy Scheider) roust a seedy bar in which everyone appears to be carrying one sort of drug or another. It's a noisy ritual of bluster and humiliation, but neither the busters nor the bustees pretend that what's happening will change anything. Though Doyle and Russo sweep the bar clean of drugs, it's one bar in a city filled with them, and it will be just as full of drugs tomorrow.

But these are better-than-average cops, as it
turns out. And the whole bust is largely a ruse so Doyle and Russo can talk to
a friendly informant without blowing his cover. We first meet them cornering a
user, then chasing down a small-time Brooklyn dealer. And now they're on to
something even bigger. It's all about moving up the food chain one link at a
time.

That attention to the realities of the drug trade
makes the film work. Without much setup, Friedkin plows into the heart of the
story and lets viewers put it all together with his characters. Of course,
viewers might have known some of it from headlines already. Though the credits
maintain that the film is a work of fiction, it's a names-changed version of a
true-life story, fictionalized by screenwriter Ernest Tidyman (author of Shaft) from a non-fiction
account by Robin Moore.

Friedkin never tries to shake off the grit of the
real, using New York locations brilliantly, and finding moments of cinéma
vérité poetry in seemingly casual moments, like this shot in which a watchful
Doyle stands in the cold, choking down pizza and coffee while the bad guys
enjoy a feast:

Friedkin packs the film with moments like those,
building tension out of the drudgery of police work, then exploding into scenes
like the justly famous car-vs.-subway chase:

I'd seen moments from that chase for years, held
up as an example of what makes the film great. And it is a great sequence. But it's
even better in context, arriving after many scenes of false starts, wrong
turns, and frustrating dead ends, like a brilliantly staged cat-and-mouse game
on the subway involving Doyle and Fernando Rey's smooth French gangster. The
explosions have even more impact when you first get to see the fuses slowly
burning down.

It's also what most imitators don't get. You can
put together the most exciting sequence ever filmed, and it won't
matter—or at least won't matter beyond the seconds it takes to
unfold—if the material around it isn't there. Watching The French
Connection
now, I kept thinking of how someone from the Bruckheimer school would shoot it,
with many more cuts and much more straightforward, dumber storytelling. (Which
isn't to launch into a things-sure-were-better-then rant; there's a clear line
between this film and the Bourne movies, and I think those are terrific.)

I can't wind this down without talking about Gene
Hackman's performance as Doyle, a character whose job consumes his every
moment. The film suggests that Doyle has a reputation as a ladies' man, and one
scene has Scheider finding him handcuffed to the bed after a tryst gone kinky.
But the film largely elides over anything personal. Whatever pleasures life has
to offer—a chance to pass out in a seedy bar, a one-night-stand with a
much younger woman, a beer with his partner—get squeezed between, and
sometimes not even between, his on-duty moments. (Hackman would use the same
gift for obsession to play Doyle's introverted flipside in Coppola's The
Conversation.)
Even his darkly witty, occasionally racist, openly hostile manner on the job
can be seen as an act created toward the end of getting the job done. If you
can't call him a good man, you can call him a good cop and for the sake of the
city, it might be better not to make that sort of distinction at all, even if he's just keeping up his side of a fight without end.