Last week, I showed William Friedkin’s The French Connection in my film history class to represent the era of the Film School Generation, which was that remarkable group of young directors who ruled Hollywood during the 1960s and 1970s. Enormously popular when released in 1971, The French Connection not only holds up 38 years later, but it looks amazingly fresh and “modern” compared to most films produced today, even those by hip, up-and-coming indie filmmakers. I saw the film when I was a kid and then again a few years ago, when I showed it for the first time as part of my film history class. But last week, I watched it with fresh eyes, partly because of a coincidence that had occurred the day before. Director William Friedkin came up in a conversation at Facets Multi-Media, where I also work, in the context of his early career as a documentary filmmaker in Chicago. And, it occurred to me as I watched The French Connection that the influence of that early experience is what makes the film as powerful as it is.

Over the years, many historians and critics have noted the film’s use of documentary techniques—most notably hand-held camera, natural lighting, overlapping dialogue, and extended takes—and their impact on the narrative and on the viewer. However, working at Facets the past few years has helped me see something specific about Friedkin’s documentary style that I had not noticed previously. The film’s down-and-dirty style derives from a short-lived Chicago-based documentary movement from the 1960s—now long gone and unchronicled in most documentary history books. A version of cinema verite, the visual style of this loose-knit movement included the use of hand-held camera, long takes, and direct sound, just like their well-known verite counterparts from New York—Richard Leacock, the Maysles, and others who were part of Drew Associates. And, the Chicagoans also took advantage of the new lightweight 16mm cameras and cableless sync-sound recorders. But, there was something more direct, earnest, and even anxious about Chicago’s answer to verite; theirs was a no-nonsense street style fashioned from the use of documentary as social activism.

'AMERICAN REVOLUTION 2' IS DOCUMENTARY AS SOCIAL ACTIVISM.

I don’t know much about the roots of this movement, though I’ll bet my peaked interest will shortly turn into a quest to uncover every bit of information that I can. I first became aware of it through the work of Kartemquin Films, which was founded as a documentary co-op in the 1960s to make films as a way to examine and critique social issues, problems, and contradictions by focusing on the stories of real people. In 1966, Kartemquin released their first film, Home for Life, which is a  powerful chronicle of two elderly people entering a home for the aged shot in the low-budget, no-frills style of other Chicago documentaries of the time. Long after most Chicago documentary filmmakers left town or moved on to other opportunities, Kartemquin remained in the Windy City, expanding its enterprise and broadening its arena to worldwide issues. The group’s most widely acclaimed film, Hoop Dreams, became their greatest commercial success, and it exhibits a more polished and eclectic documentary style than the group’s films from back in the day.

Other 1960s Chicago documentarians include Mike Gray and Howard Alk of the Film Group, who made the highly controversial American Revolution 2 and The Murder of Fred Hampton. The former included footage shot by Gray during the 1968 Democratic Convention in which we see large groups of protesters come up against Chicago’s infamous police force. Gray shoots film as he runs with a group of protesters while police herd, then chase, them through the Chicago Loop. Talk about street documentaries! The Murder of Fred Hampton features footage shot by Gray just hours after Black Panther Fred Hampton was gunned down in his apartment by Chicago police. Gray’s footage was used to dispel the version of events as detailed to the press by the Illinois state’s attorney, revealing his story to be a bold-faced . . . well, let’s just say it wasn’t accurate.

'THE MURDER OF FRED HAMPTON' REVEALS THE NO-FRILLS, STRAIGHTFORWARD STREET STYLE OF CHICAGO DOCUMENTARY.

Friedkin’s early contribution to this loose-knit Chicago documentary movement was The People vs. Paul Crump, a 1962 film about an African-American on death row for a 1953 robbery that had ended in murder. Of the four men convicted of the crime, only Crump was sentenced to the electric chair. The other three drew prison terms. Friedkin became interested in the case while working for the news department of a Chicago television station. He had worked his way up from the station’s mailroom back when TV was a live medium to become a director. The People vs. Paul Crump was produced as a news documentary during the earliest days of cinema verite, so it is not a pure example of this style; for example, it uses actors to recreate Crump’s past and a newsman to narrate parts of the documentary and interview some of the principle people involved in the case. However, it was shot by Bill Butler (who later used his hand-held abilities to great effect in Jaws) with the new lightweight 16mm cameras and portable sound equipment, giving the re-enacted scenes a sense of documentary immediacy and realism. Friedkin’s position on Crump was that he had been beaten into confessing by the Chicago police and that he was innocent of the all the crimes; others working on Crump’s behalf believed he was guilty but felt capital punishment was not warranted in his case. Unfortunately, The People vs. Paul Crump was not aired because lawyers felt accusations of police brutality and claims of Crump’s innocence would interfere with a stay of execution. No one wanted to air a film that might end up with Crump’s death by electric chair. Friedkin was angered that his work came to naught, and he argued furiously with one of the lawyers, claiming they did not have Crump’s interests at heart and were only trying to protect their own reputations. The People vs. Paul Crump was eventually exhibited at film festivals and other venues, where maverick producer David L. Wolper saw it. In 1965, he invited the young filmmaker to Hollywood. Friedkin made three documentaries for Wolper for ABC, including A Thin Blue Line, which was about law enforcement.

FRIEDKIN DIRECTS IN THE STREETS

The French Connection was Friedkin’s fourth narrative feature, but it was the film that announced him as an auteur. The slight storyline, which is very loosely based on the real-life exploits of New York cop Eddie Egan, is a simple police procedural tale in which detectives Popeye Doyle (Gene Hackman) and Buddy Russo (Roy Scheider) investigate a heroin trafficking ring based in Marseilles, France. However, it’s the visual style and treatment of the characters that make the film significant. The masterful hand-held camerawork by cinematographer Owen Reizman dominates the film. Its constant, jittery movement creates an unnerving tension that is not inherent in the storyline. The position of the camera within the personal space of characters keeps us in the moment with them, as though we are part of the action. We are simultaneously anxious at what we see but excited because we are a part of it. Though the camerawork seems loose and spontaneous, there is a pattern to the hand-held work in which the jittery quality is ramped up in relation to the amount of action and intensity in a scene. By the end of the film, the viewer is almost as jacked up as Popeye Doyle, who races through  the streets in cars or on foot to catch whatever suspect pops up on his radar.

The natural-looking lighting offers a gritty, downright ugly view of New York City that reveals the decline and despair of the inner city. During the 1970s, major U.S. metropolises were experiencing a physical deterioration, rampant crime, and an overall decay, creating a social issue that was much discussed and lamented at the time. In The French Connection, much of the action takes place in these streets as Popeye Doyle and his partner follow suspects under surveillance or chase them through neighborhoods that are neither quaint nor charming. Shots linger on the buildings, streets, alleys, and vacant lots, offering a documentary-like portrait of inner-city decay. The unglamorous, no-nonsense depiction of the life and energy of urban streets and neighborhoods recalls the Chicago style of documentary that Friedkin had been a part of.

'THE FRENCH CONNECTION' IS PROBABLY NOT GOOD FOR NEW YORK CITY TOURISM.

GENE HACKMAN IS TERRIFIC AS POPEYE DOYLE, BUT THE CHARACTER IS NO HERO.

The city of New York is not the only part of The French Connection that has been de-romanticized. The two central characters, Popeye Doyle and Buddy “Cloudy” Russo, are brutal, crude, and non-heroic. Unlike films in which gruff cops get their man because they are brutal and crude, The French Connection ends with the biggest drug dealer getting away, leaving the case in tatters. Those participants that are caught and sentenced get slaps on their hands, and the “connection” is not stopped. Popeye’s hard-boiled ways are not indicative of being a good cop; they represent his obsession with being a part of the continuous action of the streets. In this case, Popeye’s obsessive behavior causes him to accidentally shoot and kill another cop on the case who does do things by the book. Not only is Doyle unaware of the impact of his tunnel vision, he is not remorseful for killing a fellow cop. The critical depiction of law and order and the failure of the justice system to punish the drug dealers, who are seen living in wealth and splendor, remind me of Friedkin’s negative view of the police and justice system in The People vs. Paul Crumb.

On a side note: The DVD of The French Connection features the usual selection of dull behind-the-scenes and making-of documentaries, which are rarely insightful and tend to all look alike. Interestingly, the participants discuss cop Eddie Egan, whose famous drug case was the inspiration for the film’s storyline, as a heroic policeman. And, maybe he was. But, by association, Popeye Doyle is resurrected as a heroic, colorful cop who works against the odds to bust dope dealers. But, Popeye is anything but a hero, and this spin on the film rings false and hypocritical. The film would have been better served if the DVD’s extras had offered some insight into the styles and themes of Friedkin and the influence of the documentary mode on his work.

Documentary history books detail the work of the verite giants like Leacock, the Maysles Brothers, Drew, and Pennebaker, ruminating on the strengths of such films as Primary, Grey Gardens, Gimme Shelter, and Don’t Look Back. Yet, few mention the Chicago version of this movement, let alone chronicle its beginnings, evolution, and demise. I can understand how the subject matter of the East Coast verite filmmakers—JFK, the Rolling Stones, Bob Dylan, Jackie’s Kennedy’s crazy relatives—makes for exciting, even glamorous, viewing. But, I have to hand it to the young Chicago filmmakers who used their camera as weapons, turned media attention on the lives of the working class, were chased through the streets by cops, and threw themselves into a battle to save a prison inmate’s life. The footage looks rough; the camerawork isn’t always sharp; and sometimes the filmmakers were chased down or slapped around. Their films look tense, raw, tough—but, as the saying goes, that’s the Chicago Way.