The Friedkin Connection: A Memoir

by William Friedkin

  Imagine how life changes for a young filmmaker with a successful film. Suddenly people you don’t know invite you to dinner parties; you get scripts from every studio; executives who turned The French Connection down are now calling you for lunch. Or dinner. Come meet the wife. Your closest friends, agents, and business associates are overjoyed. The best tables at the best restaurants are yours for the asking. You don’t travel by subway anymore, you ride in limos. Why rent an apartment or a house when you can buy or build one? It seemed to me then I was on a merry-go-round that would accelerate forever.

  When a film opens to good reviews, it’s often mentioned as a contender for one or more major awards, but they don’t necessarily materialize. I never thought The French Connection was awards material, but slowly it started to pick up support from critics and the various guilds. The Kansas City Film Critics Association named it Best Film and Hackman Best Actor. The National Board of Review, a society of critics from around the country, gave Hackman its Best Actor Award. Gerry Greenberg was nominated as Best Editor by the American Cinema Editors. Ernest Tidyman was given the Writer’s Guild Award for Best Screenplay, which he also won from the Mystery Writers of America. Then the New York Film Critics gave Hackman its Best Actor Prize. When I won Best Director from the Director’s Guild, I felt a sense of pride and purpose I had never experienced.

  The French Connection was the toast of the Golden Globe Awards presented by the Hollywood Foreign Press in February of 1972. We were awarded five in all, including sound and editing. I received Best Director of a Drama and D’Antoni accepted Best Picture, Drama. Improbably, we were now serious contenders for the Oscar. Phil and I celebrated with a steam at the Paramount gym, where he first told me the story of the French Connection.

  I went to see Stan Hough in his office the following Monday. I thanked him for keeping the faith. He was a lot friendlier this time, and I believe sincere: “That’s all right, kid, you deserved it. You fought for what you believed.”

  “I know you were just doing your job,” I told him. He stood and offered his hand; as I took it, he actually smiled at me for the first time. “I hope we can do it again,” I said, and left. I meant it. He was a good man. If he hadn’t been all over me, the picture might have gone well over the $1.8 million it eventually cost.

  More important to me than the rave reviews were the calls from other directors, like Don Siegel, who made Dirty Harry that same year, and Sam Peckinpah, who said, “Great picture, but why the hell did you have to make it this year?” (Sam had brought out Straw Dogs that year.) The Director’s Guild Awards were held at the Grand Ballroom of the Beverly Hilton Hotel. I was amazed to think that my name was going on a short list of some of the greatest American filmmakers of the era: Frank Capra, John Ford, Joe Mankiewicz, Elia Kazan, and others whose films taught me the craft. The award was presented to me by John Huston, who said, “Wonderful film—wonderful,” when he handed me the large golden plate. When I finished thanking Phil and the cast, I noticed Alfred Hitchcock sitting with his family at a table just below the podium. I walked down the center flight of steps and stopped at his table. I was wearing a rented tux and a snap-on bow tie. Holding the award with one hand, I snapped my tie at him with the other and said, “How do you like the tie, Hitch?” He gave me a blank look. He didn’t remember his comment just four years before: “Mr. Friedkin, usually our directors wear ties.” But I did.

  About a month before The French Connection went into general release, I went on a publicity tour across the United States, winding up in San Francisco. I had eight o’clock dinner plans and finished my interviews around five. I remembered a package I had received before I left for the tour and tossed into one of my luggage bags. The parcel was neatly wrapped and sealed. After a shower, I decided to open it. Inside was a recently published novel I was only vaguely aware of called The Exorcist, by William Peter Blatty.

  The book had a curious cover photograph of what appeared to be the face of a young girl taken from an odd high angle, top-lit, with dark eyes, staring into the distance. The dedication was “For Beth,” followed by a page of quotations: From Luke (8:27–30), referring to Jesus’s confrontation with a man possessed by a devil, who said his name was Legion; an excerpt from an FBI wiretap of the Cosa Nostra, referring to the brutal murder of a man; and finally, a vivid quote from Dr. Tom Dooley, about the merciless killings of a priest, a teacher, and seven little boys by the Communists. This was followed by the words DACHAU, AUSCHWITZ, BUCHENWALD.

  I looked up from the page of disturbing quotations to the San Francisco skyline, the exquisite Golden Gate Bridge, and out to the bay. It was a crisp late afternoon, ripe with the promise of good food and good company, in the most beautiful city in America. I was in no mood for Dachau, or Auschwitz, but I reluctantly turned the page to: “Prologue: Northern Iraq,” and then another page, which began: “The blaze of sun wrung pops of sweat from the old man’s brow, yet he cupped his hands around the glass of hot sweet tea as if to warm them. He could not shake the premonition. It clung to his back like chilled wet leaves.”

  “He could not shake the premonition . . .” I turned once again to look at the city, and that was the last I saw of it, or anything else for the next three hours. I quickly finished the prologue, in which we are introduced to an unnamed Jesuit priest-archaeologist near the outskirts of Mosul in northern Iraq who, on a dig, uncovers an ancient green stone amulet of the demon Pazuzu. He prowls the ruins of the dig, where he sees a limestone statue with “ragged wings, taloned feet, a bulbous, jutting, stubby penis, and a mouth stretched taut in a feral grin: Pazuzu.”

  “He knew. It was coming. . . . Quickening shadows. He heard dim yappings of savage dog packs prowling the fringes of the city. The orb of the sun was beginning to fall below the rim of the world. . . . A shivering breeze sprang up. . . . He hastened toward Mosul and his train, his heart encased in the icy conviction that soon he would face an ancient enemy.”

  The prologue, about four and a half pages, contains no particular action or events. It simply sets the mood for the evil to come. I canceled my dinner plans and changed into the hotel bathrobe. Comfortable in an easy chair with a footrest, in front of a large panoramic window, I read on. The first chapter takes us to the red-brick and ivy suburb of the Georgetown section of Washington, D.C., where most of the novel is set. We are introduced to a movie star named Chris MacNeil, on location with a film shooting on the Georgetown campus, a Jesuit university. Chris is accompanied by her twelve-year-old daughter, Regan.

  Most of you are undoubtedly familiar with the rest of the plot. Regan becomes increasingly, unnervingly sick. Her personality and appearance change to a degree unfathomable by physicians, surgeons, and psychiatrists. A strong woman, Chris unravels, helpless to save her daughter. One of the psychiatrists, in desperation, suggests an exorcism; and though not religious, Chris turns to the priests at Georgetown for guidance. In his meditation on human suffering, sacrifice, and the mystery of faith, Blatty makes you feel as though the strange tale is happening before your eyes. The writing is graceful, the details incisive; Blatty presents the step-by-step demonic possession of an innocent twelve-year-old girl with clarity and intensity. Like most readers, when I finished the book I was profoundly moved and terrified. Parts of the novel are humorous, and so it fulfilled all three of my criteria for a good story: to make you laugh, cry, or be scared. My hotel room was dark now except for the glow of the reading lamp reflected in the large picture window, where seabirds flew past the soft pastels of the townhouses, silhouetted now and trimmed with golden necklaces of light. The bridges were muted by the fog, but moonlight outlined the surf breaking gently on the western shore. This peaceful view contrasted sharply with my emotions, stirred by transcendence and awe.

  Blatty, whom I hadn’t seen more than a few times since our disastrous first meeting at Blake Edwards’s office, had enclosed a brief note, asking me to read the novel as quickly as I could and give him a call. I did. When he picked up the phone, I s
houted, “Bill, my God, this is wonderful! What the hell is this?”

  I must have stammered because he interrupted, “Billy, I’ve sold the book to Warner Bros., and I’m going to produce it and write the screenplay, and I’d like to know if you’d be interested in directing it.”

  Unprepared as I was for his offer, I was immediately confident I could bring it off. I told Blatty I thought it would make a great film, but why me? The French Connection was getting good word of mouth, but my other films frankly suggested nothing on the scale of The Exorcist.

  “I sent you the book,” Bill explained, “because I remember our meeting outside Blake Edwards’s office about Peter Gunn, and how you had the balls to tell us what a piece of shit it was, even though it cost you a job; and I believe you’d never bullshit me.” He went on to explain how complicated the situation was. “I have to tell you there’s a Warner Bros. list of directors that includes Stanley Kubrick, Arthur Penn, and Mike Nichols, and you’re not on the list, but I have director approval.”

  As it turned out, Kubrick declined, explaining that he only developed his own ideas, and wanted no one else to produce his films. Penn said, “I’ve done films about violence”—in particular, Bonnie and Clyde—and he didn’t want to do anything similar. Nichols was concerned that it would be impossible to get a believable performance from a twelve-year-old girl as the incarnation of Satan.

  I called Fantozzi and told him about my conversation with Blatty. He called Frank Wells, vice chairman of Warner Bros. Wells said, “There’s no chance of this happening. None of us get Friedkin.”

  The forty-fourth annual Academy Awards were on a Monday night in early April 1972. The awards show was held at the Dorothy Chandler Pavilion in the Music Center in downtown Los Angeles. The nominees had to be in the pavilion by 4:00 p.m. We met at my business manager Ed Gross’s house in Beverly Hills at 1:30 p.m.—me; Ed and his wife, Marci; my agent, Tony, and his wife, Patti, all of us in Ed’s white Rolls-Royce. We set out for Sunset Boulevard, heading east to pick up the Hollywood Freeway just a few miles away. Normally it would take half an hour with no traffic, but given that it was Oscar night, we allowed two and a half hours.

  I was nervous, but I tried to appear calm. I never expected to win an Oscar, certainly not for The French Connection. I was too deeply involved with the film after three years to see anything but its flaws, and there were many, as well as the difficulties we went through to get it made. Also, the subject matter never struck me as being Oscar-worthy. I thought at best, I had made a good B picture. I thought the chase played well, but I never expected it to be revered.

  About half a mile from the Hollywood Freeway, the Rolls broke down. We were at a traffic light at Sunset and Highland, and the engine died. It was just after 2:00 p.m. There was a gas station on the corner, so we all jumped out in our tuxedos and evening dress and pushed the car into the station. Passersby and motorists stared at us in disbelief. An attendant in oil-stained coveralls walked slowly toward us, shaking his head, opened the hood, and admired the intricacy of the engine block. He checked the oil, then got behind the wheel and tried to start the car, without success, before announcing in a Hispanic accent, “Muerto, dead. No battery.”

  “Can you get another one?” Gross asked.

  The attendant laughed, shook his head. “No, man, you gotta go to a dealer for this.”

  Ed is an eternal optimist. “Do you know if there’s one nearby?”

  Again the attendant shook his head and threw up his hands. “Not this neighborhood.”

  I couldn’t believe it. I was nominated for an Academy Award, and we weren’t going to get to the ceremony. The odds are about a hundred to one that you can score a taxicab off the street in Los Angeles, even on a main drag like Sunset Boulevard. It was almost three o’clock.

  There was one other car at the gas station, a beat-up old Ford. The owner was a guy in his thirties. Filled with equal amounts of self-confidence and apprehension, I approached him. “Sir, would you do us a great favor?”

  He stared at me as if I was in a weird outfit at a costume ball. “What’s that?” he asked, noncommittally.

  “Where do you live?” I asked.

  “In the Valley,” he answered. The San Fernando Valley was in the opposite direction to where we were going.

  “Look, if I gave you a hundred bucks, would you take us to the Academy Awards?”

  The guy stared at me as if I was putting him on. “Why?” he asked.

  “We’re nominated.”

  “Oh, yeah? What picture?”

  “French Connection,” I said hopefully.

  The guy looked at me quizzically. “What do you have to do with it?”

  “I directed it.”

  He paused and replaced the gas pump. If the ladies were appalled at the possibility of climbing into an old Ford in their most expensive evening dresses, they didn’t show it.

  “I’d like to help you guys, but I’m going home to watch the show with my wife. I left work early ’cause I promised her,” he said, heading for the kiosk and peeling off some bills to pay for the gas.

  “I’ll make it two hundred,” I pleaded.

  He got his change, then turned to me. “You directed The French Connection?” he asked again. I nodded. “What’s your name?”

  “Bill Friedkin. William Friedkin,” I corrected, in case he remembered the title cards. Then I threw in, “What picture are you rooting for?”

  Without hesitation he said, “Yours,” smiling.

  “Well”—I shrugged—“we’re not going to get there without your help.” I looked around; still no other cars at the pumps. The Rolls waited forlornly, its passengers now milling around, depressed. Ed looked in vain for a taxi at the busy thoroughfare.

  The guy sauntered back to his car. “If you win, you gotta promise me you’ll call my wife. She’ll never believe why I was late.”

  There were no cell or car phones in those days. “I swear I will. I’ll even call if we don’t win,” I said. “You got a piece of paper?” He wrote his name and home number in pencil on a greasy old card from the gas station. It was after three o’clock.

  The six of us jumped into the Ford. The women had to sit on the men’s laps. We couldn’t open a window because it would have ruined the women’s hair, so the ride was stifling and seemed endless. The traffic was terrible, as expected. The absurdity of the situation somehow eased my anxiety. We were crawling toward the Music Center as our driver eased in and out of lanes. It was 3:50 p.m.

  We turned off at Temple Street behind a long line of limos waiting to drop off at the Chandler Pavilion. About 4:10 p.m. we extracted ourselves from the Ford at the reviewing stand where Army Archerd, columnist for the magazine Variety, stood on a platform and briefly interviewed the nominees and celebrities as they entered the Chandler. Army had an uncanny talent for recognizing every person he ever met. I knew him fairly well, but when he glanced at the Ford pulling up in the long line of limos, he looked right past us to the next limo in line. This was not a good sign.

  Between us we came up with two hundred bucks for our intrepid and gracious driver. He refused to accept it, but he yelled just before he pulled away, “Don’t forget to call my wife!”

  As we ran toward the main entrance of the Chandler, waving our tickets, I gave him a thumbs-up. “You’re gonna win!” he shouted, and merged into the outgoing traffic.

  After congratulating my film’s nominees—Owen Roizman (camera), Chris Newman (sound), Gerry Greenberg (editor), Roy Scheider, and Gene Hackman—I made it a point to shake hands and wish good luck to my directing colleagues who were there: Franklin Shaffner, Peter Bogdanovich, and Norman Jewison. Kubrick would not leave his home in England, due to his aversion to flying.

  When the lights go down and the show starts, if you’ve got a nominated picture, your anxiety level soars. You can feel the bad will in the hall from those who are rooting for your competition. For me, recognition by my fellow directors and members of the other Academy
branches was an honor that will last the rest of my life.

  The show was hosted by Sammy Davis Jr., Alan King, Helen Hayes, and Jack Lemmon. It started with a nominated song: Isaac Hayes performing the theme from Shaft with a great backup band and hot dancers. It rocked the room, lifting my spirits. We were nominated for eight Academy Awards, but the early returns were not promising. Fiddler on the Roof won for sound and cinematography; Ben Johnson won Best Supporting Actor for The Last Picture Show over Roy Scheider. Then, all of a sudden, Gerry Greenberg won Best Editor, the first New York–based editor ever to do so. Later, Tidyman won for his adapted screenplay.

  Then came the Best Director category. Frank Capra was introduced and received the loud ovation he deserved. With him was Natalie Wood. They read out the nominees, and our faces flashed on the big screen. When Capra called my name, multiple images flashed through my mind’s eye: my loving mother, my uncle Harry, Paul Crump; Hitchcock . . . These and other people and places were with me as I ran up to the podium. This was unbelievable. Yes, I ran from my seat to the stage, as I remembered Frank Sinatra doing when he won the Best Supporting Actor Award for From Here to Eternity.

  Mr. Capra handed me the statue and whispered quietly, “Terrific, you deserved it.”

  I thanked Phil D’Antoni, and the cast, but I forgot to thank Ed Gross and Tony Fantozzi. I thank them now. I thanked the members of the Academy for the tremendous honor, which I hoped I would one day be able to live up to. As we walked off together, Capra handed me “the envelope” and the card, which read: “And the winner is—William Friedkin.” I did interviews in the press room, clutching my Oscar. Then I waited in the wings to see Hackman win and Phil D’Antoni pick up the Best Picture Oscar. In the end we took home five out of the eight major awards. Not exactly Gone with the Wind, but hey, ours was just a little cop picture.