To Live And Die In L.A.

A reckless Secret Service agent goes outside the law to catch the counterfeiter who murdered his partner, a man who was just three days away from retirement...

I first saw To Live And Die In L.A in the theatre when I was in 5th grade.

I went with an adult family friend who would often take me to movies or to video arcades, probably because my parents were divorced, so my Dad lived in a whole other state across the country, and also because my mom probably needed a break from me, as I had a tendency to get into shit as a kid. To be fair, that wasn't totally my fault. After all, it was the 80s, and I lived that Goonie life, so I was just this side of feral. If we weren't building janky ramps to jump our bikes off, or breaking into abandoned houses or construction sites, or exploring creeks, or skateboarding in culverts, or crawling through ditches, basically riding young and wild and free around the neighborhood like a pre-teen BMX gang of troublemakers straight out of an 80s kids' movie, there's a good chance we were lighting things on fire, or shoplifting, or fighting rival groups of kids who lived a couple of streets away (Fuck you, Eric and Mike Allen). Like I said, we got into shit. So me going to this movie was just an example of the boot of adult suprevision we occasionally had to live beneath back then, because we were children.

Although to be fair, going to To Live And Die In L.A. maybe wasn't the best choice to take a 10-ish year old kid too, but whatever...

Anyway, my math teacher–who looking back now I realize was a huge sweater-wearing dork–was also in attendance that night, and he was scandalized that I was at an R Rated movie. His name stared with an H, I want to say Higgins, but that could just be Magnum PI memories kicking in. Whatever, my point is, I have no other memory of this film but that anecdote, the shock on Mr. Higgins' face when he asked what I was doing at an R rated movie the next day in school. Nothing came of it, but other than some vague recollections of bungie-jumping happening in the film, that's my only real memory of it.

So I decided to rewatch it.

Admittedly, I was a little worried. The 80s were a... unique time, a big, weird, irredeemably ugly time, and still so 1950s naive-stupid too, but a 1950s naive-stupid in a really coked-up kind of way. This was especially true when it came to dealing with Boomer-created bullshit like the Satanic Panic, or Tipper Gore vs 2 Live Crew, or the fact that Madonna was wearing a "boy toy" belt buckle, 0r our Boomer parents occasionally remembering we were around. In general, it was a decade where it felt like everyone's parents were away for the weekend, and things were starting to get a little out of hand. This of course meant that it was also a really dangerous time, one where so many of us either lacked all self-awareness of that danger, or assumed that it wouldn't happen to us. I mean, surely that weird van isn't actually following us, right? Looking back, yeah, sure, the 80s were also fun in its way, but also, really not. If I could go back in time and live things all over again, I would not want to relive the 80s. It really was a weird decade. For good and for ill, it was a really weird decade.

And nothing makes that more clear than the media of the time. Pee Wee. Any Chevy Chase, or John Candy, or Robin Williams comedy. The John Hughes films. The Tim Burton films. Wall Street. Top Gun. Beverly Hills Cop. Rocky IV. Revenge of the Nerds. 9 1/2 weeks. But above all else, the 80s is maybe best defined by its love of the Serious Cop Show, that bombastic douchebag of a reactionary panic-filled misogynistic bigot of genre, that pompous self-serious idiot with all its dumb copaganda cokehead "living-on-the-edge" bullshit and it's completely false world of constant danger, fast cars, quick draws, and loose ladies nonsense. The Serious Cop Show is what the 80s really were like, not what it depicted, but the attitudes and beliefs that the genre represented.

So, I was worried. Because just looking at To Live And Die In LA, it's obviously a very, very serious Serious Cop Show. Was I wasting my time? What if it’s so far up its own ass that it’s inside out? What if it’s nothing but a melodramatic short actor dude peacocking fake tough guy garbage? What if it’s this absolute fantasy jerk-off of "what life is like when you're walking the Thin Blue Line" nonsense? What if it's one of the seeds that eventually gave bloom to Trump and January 6th?

Basically... what if it’s dumb as shit? 

But then I was like, who cares? I have no investment in this film. Like I said, I barely remember it. And it’s a quiet Saturday afternoon. I mowed the lawn like a good citizen. I showered. I had a nice breakfast sandwich and a big Bloody Mary. I’ve taken a gummy, and otherwise have no plans on leaving this couch. Fuck it, right? Besides, a mid-80s Dafoe movie? In his first big breakthrough performance? (after Streets of Fire, obviously) C'mon. C'mon! You know ol' Willem is gonna be unhinged, so either way, there's that at least. So yeah, this is a good idea. It's gonna be a winner.

Fuck you, Mr. Higgins, I'm gonna watch To Live And Die In L.A..

So, let us return together now, my friends, to the mean, sun-baked streets of Los Angeles, 1985, for a tale of morality and karma and bad decisions, where no one gets away clean under those smog-hazed L.A. skies...

After foiling a casually racist and cliched assassination attempt by an Islamic jihadist on President Reagan, Secret Service agents Richard Chance and Jimmy Hart are assigned to the Los Angeles office to investigate a big counterfeiting ring.

So, right away, there's some unanswered questions.

Like, why the terrorist was on the roof of the hotel? What was his plan? Was he going to repel down the side of the building and blow himself up outside of the floor the president was on? If so, wouldn’t throwing him off the building, where he then blew up in mid-air, have just accomplished the same thing? Also, did Hart scale the side of the building like Spider-Man? How did he get up there? Was there a ledge beneath him? Sadly, we don't get any answers, except for what Jimmy's fate will soon be in this film, as in the immediate aftermath, he wearily declares himself to be "too old for this shit" and then reminds Chance that he's only three days away from retirement.

Basically, Jimmy Hart is a dead man walking.

So of course, Jimmy Hart stakes out a warehouse in the desert by himself, and it turns out that the warehouse is used by the artist-slash-counterfeiter Eric "Rick" Masters. Eric "Rick" Masters. Eric "Rick" Masters. Why? I mean, sure... you could say that Rick is short for Eric, I guess, but this is a story, not real life, why not just name the character Rick and cut out the middle man? Whatever, anyway, as the foreshadowing foretold, Jimmy is dramatically shotgunned to death by Eric "Rick" Masters and his bodyguard, Jack, who I assume goes by the nickname "Ack".

When Jimmy's body is discovered, Chance is furious.

The problem here is that Richard Chance is the kind of cowboy cop who tucks his football jersey into his dad-jeans, all while wearing a tiny scarf. He's out there on the streets, running around in his little city-guy cowboy boots, pointing his gun all over. He doesn't care, people! He's on the edge! He’s out of control! He tells John Vukovich, his new partner (who is played by John Pankow, who played Ira in the 90s sitcom I really regret rewatching, Mad About You, and he plays John Vukovich basically the same way, so it ends up seeming like a dark mirror alternate universe version of Ira, which is a weird sensation), anyway, Chance tells John that he is going to take down Eric "Rick" Masters by any means necessary.

And thus, the plot is established.

Chance and Vukovich first arrest Carl Cody, who works for Eric "Rick" Masters, after he makes a delivery to Eric "Rick" Masters' attorney Max Waxman, a crooked ex-hippy lawyer who says shit like "groovy" unironically, who has also lied to Eric "Rick" Masters and said that Carl never actually delivered the money. Chance and Vukovich place Waxman under surveillance, but while Chance is busy forcing his confidential informant, a stripper named Ruth who he threatens to send back to prison unless she has sex with him, to have sex with him, Vukovich falls asleep, so they miss the moment when Eric "Rick" Masters and his girlfriend, Bianca, show up at Waxman's office and murder him.

Chance arranges for Cody's supervised release, wanting to use him to find Eric "Rick" Masters, even though everyone tells him not to do it, because Cody will try to escape, but Chance doesn't listen, and Cody escapes, because Chance is a fuck-up. Vukovich meanwhile, convinces Eric "Rick" Masters' attorney, Bob Grimes, to arrange a meeting between them and Eric "Rick" Masters, where they pose as off-shore bankers from Palm Springs, looking to buy a million dollars in fake bills, by very cleverly tying sweaters around their necks and wearing pastels Izods.

But when the suits in the L.A. Secret Service office won't give him the $30,000 in front money he needs, Chance gets Vukovich to help him in rob Thomas Ling, a man that Ruth learned will be carrying $50,000 in order to purchase a bunch of stolen diamonds.

This goes bad, because once again... Chance is a fuckup.

They end up murdering Ling "by accident" under the Sixth Street Viaduct, and are almost immediately set upon by Ling's associates, all of whom have machine guns, and they aren't afraid to use them in the middle of a major American city while hanging out the windows of their fast-moving vehicles. This results in an extended car chase that races along the famous L.A. river, and through the various alleys and warehouses near my aunt's old loft apartment, and over the train tracks outside of downtown L.A.. Chance and Vukovich finally manage to escape by going the wrong way on the freeway.

It's a good chase. Top notch shit.

But I'd expect no less from the director of the French Connection.

Unfortunately, Chance and Vukovich find out the next day, while at their daily briefing (like in Hill Street Blues,, that Ling was actually an undercover FBI Agent, and his associates and their machine guns all belonged to an FBI detail that was there to protect Ling during a big stolen diamond bust, and that... technically... Chance and Vukovich are now part of the effort to find the men responsible for robbing and killing Ling.

Oopsie-doodle!

Chance is like "y'know what? You can't make an omelet without breaking some eggs," and rededicates himself to stopping Eric "Rick" Masters and avenging his dead partner, Jimmy Hart. He pays Eric "Rick" Masters the front money and arranges the $1 million exchange. Meanwhile, consumed by guilt, Vukovich meets with Bob Grimes, Eric "Rick" Master's attorney, for legal advice, because despite being a grown man with a government job who is living in Los Angeles, Grimes is apparently the only lawyer he knows (L.A. Law, anyone?). Grimes advises him to testify against Chance in exchange for a lighter sentence, but Vukovich refuses to implicate his partner, because that's the essense of what it means to be a cop in America, always be willing to aid your fellow cops in getting away with crimes, especially if it's murder.

This is called The Blue Wall of Silence.

Meanwhile, Chance manages to recapture Cody, who has been sitting on his girlfriend's couch the whole time, and the only reason it took Chance this long to find him is because he's a terrible detective on top of being a fuck-up, a rapist, and a murderer. To celebrate, Chance makes Ruth have a bunch more sex with him, or he'll send her back to jail, in an extended sequence that might not actually have a saxophone playing, I can't remember, but at the very least, it's heavily implied.

At this point, it's all a mad rush downhill to the climax, where twists abound, some vengence is had, and other vengence is denied, followed by an epilogue that shows that on the mean streets of L.A., no one comes out clean…

Truly skewering commentary.

Fin.

I really thought I had no recollection of this film, but I guess I'm like my stepdad now, I got about five minutes into the movie, and was like “oh, yeah… I remember this. I’ve definitely seen this…”

One thing that I wish I would've remembered though, is that part of this movie takes place during a Los Angeles Christmas. If I had known that before I sat down to watch it, I would’ve waited until the holidays, so that I could have added it to my list of Traditional Christmas Movies.

Alas...

Called "The West Coast Miami Vice" To Live And Die In L.A. is the perfect “serious” 1980s crime movie, meaning that it is almost impossible to take this film serious at all. Don't get me wrong, it's fucking gorgeous, and the car chase is totally great, but the story is absolutely ridiculous. Bombastic and full of shit in a way that reminds me of that guy, the one at the end of the bar, telling you all his war stories and how he's been there, how he knows things, how he's seen things, and there is never a single fucking moment where you believe anything he's fucking saying. It's Cliff Claven. This film is the cinematic version of Cliff Claven.

I mean, god love the 80s, like I said, it was real fucking dumb time back then, and people just ate this kind of shit up, but there is never any point in this film where it feels like it’s a portrayal of actual real life. Not a single moment. And this is a film that is very obviously supposed to be serious. It's supposed to be “dark" and “hard hitting.” This film was meant to be a very “gritty and realistic” portrayal of real life cop stuff. And hands down? This shit is silly. It's Miami Vice. It's Hill Street Blues. It's Wiseguy. It's fucking Hunter. I'm not saying that those shows don't hold a special place in my heart, but they're all the same kind of stuff.

And that stuff is silly.

I recently rewatched the pilot episode of Hunter.

If you haven’t done this, this is something you should do, find the pilot episode of Hunter on YouTube and watch it, and keep in mind, this show was supposed to be the real fucking deal, a glimpse into what life on the streets was like for cops in the big city. It wasn't a joke. It wasn't an action series. Hunter was treated like The Wire of its time, or at least it acted that way. Go watch the opening scenes, it's the most ludicrous, most laughable, piece of shit ever. It feels like an overly-obvious broad parody meant to skewer all these shitty cops shows (which they later did, it was called Hammer). It's absolutely insane with how bad and stupid and fake and ridiculous it is.

That's what this film feels like.

Based on the novel by Gerald Petievich, who wrote the screenplay with William Friedkin, who directed it, more than anything else, this film feels like a desk-jockey dude's "manly" fantasy, which means that it's heavy on the homoeroticism. But this is Friedkin, right? He made Cruising, so I know he was doing that on purpose, but the question is, was anyone else, especially in front of the camera, even aware? They say that Verhoeven never explained to the cast of Starship Troopers what he was doing. Could this be the same thing? Maybe. Who knows. I couldn't even begin to guess. I mean, sure, Dafoe probably knew, maybe, but to be fair, this could just be Dafoe bringing his own energy to the production, and Friedkin was cool with it. Either way, this is a gorgeous film that is chock full of non-stop faux-tough guy bullshit and homoeroticism, the overwhelming majority of it coming from this little leprechaun-looking "knee up" cool guy.

But all that said, To Live And Die In LA truly is the most 80s shit ever.

Steven James, famous for the incredible American Ninja franchise, shows up. Then there's Eric "Rick" Masters' art in the movie, and Bianca's dance troupe? It couldn't be 80s gaudier. The way the airports are places you can just stroll in and out of in this movie? At one point, Chance casually fires a "warning shot" in the men’s bathroom at LAX, and outside... no one is concerned. As Denise Huxtable showed us, it was just a completely different world back then.

Then there's end...

God damn, that epilogue. Dark Ira. Absolutely laughable.

You wouldn’t be blamed for assuming that the opening song is another classic by Mr. Smuggler's Blues himself, Glenn Fry, either, but it’s not, because the music in this film is composed and performed by the 80's legend, the trio of white English guys inexplicable named... Wang Chung.

Yep. Wang Chung.

Plus, I love the fact that this production actually made over a million dollars in counterfeit money, using actual counterfeiters as consultants. And while, most of it was burned after it was used, one crew member took about $500 home, and his kid found it, and started buying candy for all the kids like a newly minted big man, like a drunk who just won big on the ponies, strutting back into the bar that kicked him out the night before for not being able to pay his tab and buying everyone's drinks. I mean, if there's a better microcosm of what the 1980s were like than that, I don't know what it could be.

Well... there is a ton of ball-kicking in this film.

That feels very 80s too. There's like three or four scenes where grown men are kicking each other in the balls during a fight. And it's always a surprise move too, like "Hi-yah!" right in the dingle-dangles. I feel like that's another good indication that you're watching a movie from the 80s, if at one point you find yourself saying quietly to yourself: "God damn, there's a lot of ball-kicking in this movie." At one point, Dafoe kicks one guy in the balls, and I’m not saying that it doesn’t look like it hurts, because it does, it looks like he totally connects, but it's in that way where it’s not a kick so much as a “nut tap” kind of hit? I think it's because the scene feels very tightly confined, so there isn't a lot of room for leg extension, and Dafoe goes for it, and it’s the silliest looking little kick, but he totally gives the other guy a little toe-tap right on the balls. It's simultaneously the silliest thing ever, and also, looks like it hurts so bad. Then, mere moments later, Dafoe shoots that same guy in the balls. Right in the balls. I know it’s not supposed to look like he shoots him in the balls with a ketchup bottle, it's supposed to look like testicle-blood, but it does, it looks like they splattered that poor guy in the nuts with ketchup.

Maybe that's another 80s indication, the blood is so fake. It's so fake. Honestly, it's such a garish red, that I wondered if it was a deliberate choice.

There’s also a ton of 80s nudity of course. After all, this is a "gritty" drama, and that means boobs, people. Boobs and butts. That's life on these mean streets, here in Boob City. Titty time. I'm with the FBI, Federal Boob Inspector... And the most notable part about all of this is how there was a completely different definition of what it means to be "camera ready" for "naked day" in a Hollwood film back then, then there is now. Natural boobs. Regular looking butts. Hairy as fuck. Nobody's worked out extra hard for a week and dehydrated themselves for their big "suns out, buns-out" scene. It's all underwhelmingly natural. And pale.

Plus, there's a lot of high thigh and uncomfortable-looking butt floss appearing here as "normal" everyday clothing too, mostly on Ruth, who to be fair, is playing a stripper, so whatever. Ruth is played by Darlanne Fluegel, an actress who looks like the dictionary definition of what an 80s Hollywood film "love interest" looked like. I'm sure I'm not alone in remembering her from Billy Crystal and Gregory Hines' weirdly brief foray into action movies, the surprisingly violent buddy cop comedy, Running Scared, where she also played a love interest.

Also...

Perhaps most notably, especially for the time, there’s a clear cock shot, as well as an extended look at a pair of 1980s-level hairy testicles and man-butt, all of which belong to this fucking guy…

God damn, it is really hard to take this motherfucker seriously.

So... I guess we probably have our answer as to why this film was considered to be so gritty and hard-hitting, and also why Mr. Higgins was so scandalized to see me there: Male Nudity.

'Murica!

In the end, To Live And Die In LA is a gorgeous film. Gorgeous. It’s a film that reminds you that Los Angeles really is a city of so many different worlds, all them crammed right next to each other. It's definitely fun, in its way, but god damn is it silly. Silly. Bombastic. Heavy-handed. Just a bunch of nonsense. And all the while, you can't help but feel that at no time does the film understand that any of this is true. But then, that was also the 80s, right?

Definitely worth a watch sometime.