James Gray on William Friedkin: Understanding the Enigmatic Artistry and Emotional Depth

William Friedkin, the renowned film director, is remembered by James Gray for his influential and powerful work.

I have a vivid memory of the first time I discovered the name William Friedkin. I was just twelve years old at the time and used to explore Manhattan on my own. I had a fascination for bookstores and hobby shops, but what truly captivated me were the dingy places that sold peculiar collectibles. One Saturday, I stumbled upon a movie memorabilia store on Bleecker Street. As I entered, my eyes were immediately drawn to an enormous poster meant for display in subway stations. The image depicted a truck on a rickety rope bridge, leaning precariously to the right in the pouring rain. It bore the words "a William Friedkin Film, SORCERER." It was a mysterious and captivating piece of art, and I couldn't resist purchasing it for $10, which was all the money I had on me. I proudly displayed it on my wall.

Not long after, I discovered that the same director had a film showing at the Hollywood Twin, a recently converted revival house in Times Square. The film was called The French Connection, and it left a profound impact on me. It was unlike anything I had ever seen before. The movie had a raw and gritty quality, reminiscent of a documentary one might stumble upon while watching PBS. The protagonist, a cop, was far from the typical hero. He was a crude racist who reveled in the worst aspects of his job and made nonsensical remarks like "Ever pick your feet in Poughkeepsie?" He lived in squalor and seemed utterly unlikable. Yet, despite all of this, I found myself rooting for him. The film had a cold yet explosive atmosphere, and the car chase scene was nothing short of lunacy.

But what struck me the most was the portrayal of New York City, the place I called home. It was depicted as a vision of hell, an enormous garbage dump that was violent, unforgiving, and devoid of hope. It captured the danger and soul of the city so vividly and truthfully that I couldn't help but love it. As I grew older, I came to appreciate the film for its brilliant acting and its examination of social class. However, at that moment, I was simply overwhelmed by the power of its imagery.

This was just the beginning of my journey into the world of William Friedkin. The Exorcist, Cruising, To Live and Die in L.A., and finally Sorcerer itself (which had been unavailable for years due to a rights battle) followed. Each film shocked, thrilled, and subverted my expectations. There were moments when I was confounded, provoked, and even angered. And yet, I was grateful for these experiences. The movies were electrifying. I became an unabashed Friedkinophile, devouring every interview and tidbit of information I could find about the filmmaker and his work.

Today, his personal history is well-documented, and his autobiography, The Friedkin Connection, provides a fascinating account of his extraordinary life. It all began in Chicago, where he had a challenging childhood that was ultimately redeemed by the love of his mother. He found work at a local television station and soon delved into making documentaries. One of his documentaries, The People vs. Paul Crump, even saved its subject from the electric chair. Eventually, he made his way to California, but his first two films, Good Times and The Night They Raided Minsky's, did not reflect the hard-hitting sensibility that would come to define his work.

However, Friedkin's ambition soon led him to more daring projects, such as Pinter's The Birthday Party and The Boys in the Band. It was with The French Connection that he truly broke through, and The Exorcist solidified his place in the film industry. With his newfound status, Friedkin took risks and pushed boundaries.

While it is often said that the New Hollywood era granted directors unprecedented freedom, the reality is that the films we now revere were made by courageous filmmakers who had to fight tooth and nail. Coppola with The Godfather, Scorsese with Taxi Driver, and Spielberg with Jaws all faced their own battles. Friedkin was no exception. Each of his films was a testament not only to a specific moment in time but also to the artist behind them. He paid a price for taking risks and became a "legendary" figure in the industry. However, after meeting and marrying his soulmate, Sherry Lansing, his life seemed to find a more tranquil rhythm.

As fate would have it, I had the privilege of making my own films and getting to know William Friedkin on a personal level. He insisted that I call him "Billy," and I was always struck by his kindness. We may not have been as close as we could have been, but he was always warm and welcoming, encouraging me to reach out. However, I must admit that I often felt intimidated by his intellect and was sometimes afraid to call him. Billy was an autodidact with an insatiable thirst for knowledge. There seemed to be no subject, artist, or detail that he was not familiar with. He had his own opinions and loved to engage in spirited debates. No matter how controversial the topic, he believed it was worthy of examination. He thrived on intellectual discourse, and his unfiltered honesty, which I now deeply cherish, could be overwhelming for some.

He had earned the nickname "Hurricane Billy" due to his reputation for ferocity, but I never witnessed that side of him. To me, he was an intellectually curious man who generously shared his time. When I embarked on a journey to mount an opera in Paris, my first call was to Billy, who had become a brilliant opera director in addition to his spectacular film career. He provided invaluable guidance and support, engaging in ongoing conversations as I navigated through the production. I often worried that I might be burdening him with my panicked calls and endless questions, but he never showed the slightest hint of annoyance. Instead, he inspired and encouraged me beyond measure.

As the years went by, he began speaking more frequently about his own mortality, yet he did so without a trace of self-pity. He seemed at peace, accepting the relentless passage of time. While many considered him confident, even arrogant, he often downplayed his own contributions. He referred to his work as a "quick lunch" compared to the "gourmet dinner" of the directors he admired. He dismissed himself as a mere craftsman, but perhaps that is precisely why he was an artist.

The last time I saw him was a few months ago. We had dinner at his and Sherry's beautiful home, and it was a delightfully pleasant evening. However, there was an unspoken feeling that it might be our final meeting. At some point during dessert, overcome by emotion, I blurted out, "I love you." I expected a sarcastic response, but instead, he reached out and touched my hand, replying, "I love you too, James."

His words moved me to tears. Behind all the humor, toughness, and darkness, there was a wellspring of soul and sensitivity. It had to be there; it was evident in his work. William Friedkin was genuine, one-of-a-kind, and full of vitality. He was a giant in the industry.

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