After the flat and uninspired comedy Deal of the Century, William Friedkin made perhaps his most stylistically satisfying picture, To Live and Die in L.A., based on a novel by former Secret Service agent Gerald Petievich. The story follows two Secret Service agents as they attempt to bring down a successful counterfeiter, and like Friedkin’s previous movie about law enforcement, The French Connection, the moral line between good and bad is blurred almost to extinction. In some ways, agent Richard Chance (William Petersen) is more corrupt and dangerous than Popeye Doyle because of his willingness to circumvent authorization in pursuing his case when he believes the stakes are high enough. This includes stealing federal money, covering up a murder, extorting sexual favors and information from a woman on parole and numerous other infractions, all in the name of doing what is right and getting his man.

The man Chance is so doggedly pursuing and willing to bend the rules to capture is Rick Masters (Willem Dafoe), the best counterfeiter in the country, who has evaded arrest thanks to his conservative, quiet demeanor. Masters doesn’t reveal too much to his partners and certainly not his clients. In his first major film role, Dafoe shows the flashes of steely brilliance that we have come to take for granted throughout his lengthy career, a career filled with vastly different types of performances. Keeping himself drawn in but capable of sudden bursts of violence when prodded, Dafoe evokes the intelligence and careful planning needed to successfully counterfeit money. It is in these scenes, in which Masters patiently and artfully handcrafts and then sells bills, where Friedkin demonstrates the two sides of this master criminal: calm, collected and totally focused when forging currency, contrasted with the violence and uncertainty of distribution and evading capture on the streets.

As Friedkin designs the plot around the combative relationship between the risk-taking Secret Service agent and the controlled counterfeiter, the movie builds tremendous tension not only towards a potential showdown but also through the various ways Chance goes beyond the boundaries of the law to capture his target. The centerpiece sequence is the car chase down a city freeway, during which Chance drives his car against oncoming traffic while trying to escape men with guns. Friedkin intended for this chase to surpass that of The French Connection, and while it doesn’t have the same inherent sense of immediate danger (due to Friedkin shooting this one more safely), it certainly delivers. Though nearly ten minutes, Friedkin never lets the energy dip as Chance and his partner (John Pankow) avoid one pitfall after another. And because it is set in Los Angeles, we get a real sense of the landscape as it differs from the cramped, contaminated, subway-dotted streets of New York City. Instead, under the beautiful California sun, we see how the widespread LA streets allow for more potential obstacles and how far the cars have to travel to evade one another. In the end, the chase takes on a symbolic quality: as long as he keeps taking huge risks, Chance will never fully elude the consequences of his actions, which in this case is an enormous pile-up along a major Los Angeles freeway.

In his memoir, Friedkin states that finding Petievich’s novel helped him realize what kind of projects he most enjoyed doing. Stripping everything down to its basic elements, Friedkin utilized many of the same tactics from his most celebrated pictures: no stars, little to no recognizable landmarks or locales, plenty of hand-held camerawork and a lengthy car chase as the essence of the story’s relentless tension and energy. Yet, this is not a remake of The French Connection, but, like Sorcerer, a reimagining of a story and style previously realized. Friedkin intended to depict the differences in 1980s Los Angeles from 1970s New York City and went for “something more in the unisex style,” he wrote. Thus, he hired a female production designer, set decorator and costume designer in order to realize this unique look. The result is something that today feels eternally vintage yet perfectly represents the mood and attitude of the time and place: agitated, hard-edged, and tinged with surreal beauty thanks to the Californian climate. Such a mixture also fits the characterization of Chance as played by Petersen. Ruggedly handsome but with a nervous energy that causes him to act impulsively, he befits the city in which he toils. He desires to put the criminal behind bars, but the lengths he is willing to go are exemplified in his fondness for bungee jumping. In one scene, he describes the feeling of free-fall as “your balls go up in your throat,” and Friedkin makes it clear that this complete abandon of any restrictions gives Chance the feeling of freedom to do what he wants the way he wants to, consequences be damned.

Friedkin stated in his memoir his belief that the studio did not do enough to promote the movie, leading to low grosses and another failed opportunity to gain a lengthy contract. Like Sorcerer, To Live and Die in L.A. is rightfully seen as the exciting and provocative look at the relationship between good and evil, as well as the enormous potential for both each human being possesses. Cynical but not jaded, Friedkin illustrates that crime will always exist and the law will always need enforced. Yet, the pull towards evil-doing disguised as virtue always looms as the best option. As long as police are needed, corruption will occur. Debates over such topics still resonate today, although it isn’t entirely clear we have learned enough from lessons of the past. Like Doyle and Charnier, whose method is a better philosophy to support: Chance or Masters? The answer may be as elusive as a counterfeit twenty-dollar bill.