I remember the first time the name William Friedkin came to my attention. I was just a 12-year-old kid, wandering the streets of Manhattan, exploring bookstores and hobby shops. On one Saturday, I stumbled upon a movie memorabilia store on Bleecker Street. As I entered, my eyes were drawn to a massive poster intended for display in subway stations. The image captivated me—a truck in heavy rain, precariously balanced on a rickety rope bridge. The poster simply read, “A William Friedkin Film, SORCERER.” It was a mysterious and intriguing piece of art, and I couldn’t resist buying it and hanging it on my wall.
Not long after, I discovered that the same director had a film showing at the Hollywood Twin, a newly converted revival house in Times Square. The movie was called The French Connection, and it completely blew me away. The gritty and raw nature of the film resembled a documentary, and the protagonist, a cop, was far from likable. He was a crude racist who reveled in the worst aspects of his job. Despite his flaws, I found myself rooting for him. The movie had a cold yet explosive vibe, and that car chase scene was absolutely insane.
What struck me even more was how The French Connection portrayed New York City. It depicted the city as a violent and unforgiving place, teetering on the edge of chaos. It captured the danger and soul of the city so vividly and honestly. As I grew older, I appreciated the film even more for its outstanding acting and insightful examination of social class. But at that moment, I was simply overwhelmed by the power of its imagery.
From there, I delved into more of Friedkin’s filmography. The Exorcist, Cruising, To Live and Die in L.A., and eventually Sorcerer itself (which had been unavailable for years due to a rights battle). Each of his movies shocked, thrilled, and subverted my expectations. Sometimes they left me confounded, provoked, or angered. And I loved that. Friedkin’s movies were electric, and I became an unwavering fan, obsessively seeking out every interview and piece of information about the filmmaker and his work.
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Today, his personal history is well-documented, thanks in part to his autobiography, The Friedkin Connection, a captivating and entertaining account of his extraordinary life. It all started in Chicago, with a challenging childhood that was redeemed by the love of his mother. He found work at a local television station and stumbled into making documentaries, one of which literally saved its subject from the electric chair. Hollywood beckoned, but his first two films—Good Times and The Night They Raided Minsky’s—didn’t fully reflect his hard-hitting sensibilities.
However, Friedkin soon embarked on more ambitious projects, including Pinter’s The Birthday Party and The Boys in the Band, before achieving his breakthrough with The French Connection. The Exorcist solidified his position in the filmmaking world, and he used his status to take risks and push boundaries.
While it’s often said that the New Hollywood era allowed directors a great deal of freedom, the truth is that the movies we now revere were made by courageous filmmakers who had to fight tooth and nail for their visions. Coppola with The Godfather, Scorsese with Taxi Driver, and Spielberg with Jaws—these iconic films required immense determination and bravery. Friedkin’s films were no exception. He paid a price for the chances he took, earning him the moniker “Hurricane Billy”. However, after meeting and marrying his soulmate, the remarkable Sherry Lansing, his life seemed to find a calmer rhythm.
I was fortunate enough to make my own films and even luckier to have had the chance to get to know William Friedkin to some extent. He insisted on being called “Billy”, and I was always struck by his kindness. Although I regret not being as close to him as I could have been, as he was warm and welcoming, I sometimes felt intimidated by his intellect and hesitated to reach out. Billy was an autodidact, with knowledge spanning a vast range of subjects and artists. He loved stirring things up and relished engaging in lively debates. His honesty, which I’ve come to deeply treasure, was sometimes too much for others.
Contrary to his reputation for ferocity, I only knew him as intellectually curious, someone who generously shared his time and insights. When I embarked on a journey to Paris to direct an opera, he was the first person I called. Despite his incredible success in the film industry, Friedkin had also become a brilliant opera director, and he provided invaluable guidance and support as I navigated through the production. I often worried that my panicked calls and barrage of questions might have annoyed him, but he never showed the slightest hint of annoyance. Instead, he inspired and encouraged me beyond measure.
Throughout the years, Friedkin became increasingly aware of his mortality, yet he spoke of it without self-pity. He seemed at peace, accepting the relentless passage of time. While he was often regarded as confident, some even saw him as arrogant, I sensed humility in his conversations with me. He frequently downplayed his own contributions, likening his work to a “quick lunch” in comparison to the “gourmet dinner” of the directors he admired. He saw himself as a mere craftsman, but perhaps that’s precisely why he was an artist.
The last time I had the privilege of seeing him was just a few months ago. We had dinner at his and Sherry’s beautiful home, and it was a typical lovely evening. However, deep down, I think I sensed that it might be the last time I would see him. During dessert, overcome with emotions, I blurted out, “I love you.” For a moment, I expected him to make a sarcastic remark, as was his style. Instead, he touched my hand and responded, “I love you too, James.”
His response brought tears to my eyes. Yes, Friedkin was known for his humor, toughness, and darkness, but beneath it all was an immense wellspring of soul and sensitivity. It had to be there; it was evident in his work. William Friedkin was an authentic, one-of-a-kind artist—a giant in the industry.
