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The French Connection

VERTAALD DOOR TRANSLATED BY TRADUIT PAR Sis Matthé

(1) The French Connection (William Friedkin, 1971)

It’s incredible how dazzling the effect of the slogan “realism” is in our culture. It’s a self-destructive, self-reducing mechanism. As soon as you wield that slogan, as soon as you adhere to that programme, as soon as you use that interpretational framework, you slide irresistibly from one “basic reality” to another. You irresistibly come sliding down the slide, never reaching the end point of a “true realism”, never arriving at the ultimate reality. Realism resembles a Zen thinking task, which spins your thoughts into an inextricable net. To get out of it, you have to take a kind of qualitative leap, out of the “spell” of realism. Because it’s sophistry, an optical illusion.

It remains a mystery to me why people keep falling for it. Why do people value The French Connection as a brave film about the decay of a metropolis, about the ravage of drugs, about the self-destruction of law enforcement? Why do people consider it a message to cinema audiences?

Philip D’Antoni, the producer of The French Connection (directed by William Friedkin, 1971) gave the film its “right dimension” when he said (in Variety of 24/11/71) that he was so proud of it because he was able to bring it in at half the price of his previous hit, Bullitt (directed by Peter Yates, 1968). To deliver a product with identical commercial success at half the price, that’s an achievement.

For that matter, what I wrote about Klute (directed by Alan Pakula, 1971) also applies to The French Connection: it’s a return to a theme of the previous century, where the city is once again viewed in moralistic terms as a place of decay. Moral decay, physical decay, decay of the city itself.

The belief in realism is perhaps nothing but a pan-moralistic view of reality, the placing of an adjective in front of reality. In realism, that adjective is tasked with making any further discussion unnecessary. It is said.

Image from The French Connection (William Friedkin, 1971)

 

This text originally appeared in Kunst & Cultuur 5, no. 6 (16 March 1976).

This translation was published by courtesy of Reinhilde Weyns and Bart Meuleman.

With the support of LUCA School of Arts, LUCA.breakoutproject.

ARTICLE
28.06.2023
NL EN
In Passage, Sabzian invites film critics, authors, filmmakers and spectators to send a text or fragment on cinema that left a lasting impression.
Pour Passage, Sabzian demande à des critiques de cinéma, auteurs, cinéastes et spectateurs un texte ou un fragment qui les a marqués.
In Passage vraagt Sabzian filmcritici, auteurs, filmmakers en toeschouwers naar een tekst of een fragment dat ooit een blijvende indruk op hen achterliet.
The Prisma section is a series of short reflections on cinema. A Prisma always has the same length – exactly 2000 characters – and is accompanied by one image. It is a short-distance exercise, a miniature text in which one detail or element is refracted into the spectrum of a larger idea or observation.
La rubrique Prisma est une série de courtes réflexions sur le cinéma. Tous les Prisma ont la même longueur – exactement 2000 caractères – et sont accompagnés d'une seule image. Exercices à courte distance, les Prisma consistent en un texte miniature dans lequel un détail ou élément se détache du spectre d'une penséée ou observation plus large.
De Prisma-rubriek is een reeks korte reflecties over cinema. Een Prisma heeft altijd dezelfde lengte – precies 2000 tekens – en wordt begeleid door één beeld. Een Prisma is een oefening op de korte afstand, een miniatuurtekst waarin één detail of element in het spectrum van een grotere gedachte of observatie breekt.
Jacques Tati once said, “I want the film to start the moment you leave the cinema.” A film fixes itself in your movements and your way of looking at things. After a Chaplin film, you catch yourself doing clumsy jumps, after a Rohmer it’s always summer, and the ghost of Akerman undeniably haunts the kitchen. In this feature, a Sabzian editor takes a film outside and discovers cross-connections between cinema and life.
Jacques Tati once said, “I want the film to start the moment you leave the cinema.” A film fixes itself in your movements and your way of looking at things. After a Chaplin film, you catch yourself doing clumsy jumps, after a Rohmer it’s always summer, and the ghost of Akerman undeniably haunts the kitchen. In this feature, a Sabzian editor takes a film outside and discovers cross-connections between cinema and life.
Jacques Tati zei ooit: “Ik wil dat de film begint op het moment dat je de cinemazaal verlaat.” Een film zet zich vast in je bewegingen en je manier van kijken. Na een film van Chaplin betrap je jezelf op klungelige sprongen, na een Rohmer is het altijd zomer en de geest van Chantal Akerman waart onomstotelijk rond in de keuken. In deze rubriek neemt een Sabzian-redactielid een film mee naar buiten en ontwaart kruisverbindingen tussen cinema en leven.

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