The French Connection remains the most visceral and least urbane encapsulation of urban crime of the New Hollywood movement. William Friedkin’s squalid depiction of cops and crooks revels in ambiguity, both moral and narrative. It’s a work of technical virtuosity: the wavering camerawork shares a voyeuristic gaze with New York’s embryonic independent film scene, yet cinematographer Owen Roizman manages to capture the concrete carrion of pre-gentrification New York with lush washes of sunlight and articulate compositions. And the good guys (Gene Hackman and Roy Scheider) are undeniably the good guys, but whether they’re “good” is irrelevant.
Cedric Jimenez seems to have studied Friedkin’s film, as well as the other staples of New Hollywood, in preparation for The Connection (released as Le French in its native country). Rooted in the same source material as The French Connection, Jimenez’ drama similarly jettisons facts and reality in favor of thrills. It focuses mostly on the French authorities’ attempts to thwart the drug pushers, and the bureaucratic red tape in which everything becomes entangled. It’s an admirable effort, and sometimes displays a certain sure-handed sense of rhythm on Jimenez’ part, who deftly imitates the various masters of 1970s American cinema. But The Connection too often feels like one of the myriad diluted relics from the wake of Friedkin’s film, so deeply in debt of its influences it never finds its own identity.
Our hero is clean-cut Magistrate Pierre Michel, a fairly banal character brought to life by the versatile Jean Dujardin. Ineffably handsome and effortlessly suave, he adds a subtle flair to the vaguely generic role of good-guy-who-may-lose-his-family-to-his-job (admittedly an American-centric trope). Magistrate Michel makes it his mission to take down drug lord Gaetan Zampa (Gilles Lellouche, doing what he can with a lame villainous role), who faces opposition from within and without. Drama ensues.
Lellouche gets one good scene early on, during which he serenely forces one of his cronies to snort a frightening amount of smack as an (allegedly) Italian sort of parental disciplinary action. Without raising his voice, Lellouche conveys utter power under control. When he begins to slowly lose that power later in the film and the story reverts to standard gangster violence, you think back to this scene, and you wish Jimenez had given Lellouche more moments like this one.
The Connection is adequate, but nothing special. The film oscillates between Friedkin-inspired voyeurism, Scorsese-inspired controlled mania, and pedantic studio-regulated drama. Jimenez falls far short of the brilliance of the two aforementioned auteurs, but as far as studio movies go, The Connection displays admirable aspirations and occasional moments of radiance. The problem is the jarring transitions—or lack thereof—between styles, which undermines the mostly naturalistic feeling and kills the rhythm. (His use of pop music is aces, though, and the score, used sparingly, evokes the appropriate emotions.) Jimenez begins the film with drifty shots of a duo riding a motorcycle, soon revealed to be assassins. Within the first several moments, Jimenez throws away the possibility of a lean film. Belying Friedkin’s efficiency, he uses copious unnecessary cuts which offer nothing of value. Friedkin has always been a precise filmmaker, rarely giving into indulgence. His shot selections and cuts sizzle with purpose.
The heart and soul of The Connection is Dujardin, who is, as you may remember, the first Frenchman to snag a Best Actor trophy at the Oscars. The guy has one of those faces that can clearly yet coyly convey emotion. He can steal a scene without lapsing into capital-A Acting, and enthralls with just a sly facial tic or enunciated word. He got to show off his comedic chops in Scorsese’s The Wolf of Wall Street, a film so rife with excellent performances that Dujardin’s went largely unmentioned. Notice his timing, his rhythm. As Magistrate Michel he projects an air of knowingness without losing track of the inner turmoil. He gets a few emotionally wrought scenes to add to his portfolio, particularly one in which he finds out a young woman he knew died of an overdose. Having to keep his composed mien, his eyes show pain while his mouth and voice maintain the facade. (It certainly helps if you speak French and can appreciate his selected enunciations.) When bad things happen to Michel—and this being a crime drama modeled on The French Connection, bad things certainly happen—we only care because Dujardin makes us care. He’s so damn likable. The rest of The Connection is okay.
