It’s snowing outside, but I can feel the heat rising off the concrete, smog coats the air, the palms stand stark still, a cicada’s buzz fills my ear. A close-up of Willem Dafoe and his brutalist bone structure, wide lips, brow knotted, cheekbones I want to curl up and sleep inside. Dressed in all black, he takes a Zippo to the edge of a painting, then: a burning; flames engulf the portrait of a woman with fiery red hair. Immediately, we’re plunged into the fire that threatens to engulf its master.
~
I crush a lot. I mean a lot. Various vapid, burning frenzies fill my mind. Seconds, hours, days, weeks, months, years — my mind’s conjured passion waxing and waning with my moods, the seasons, my relationship status.
~
William Friedkin’s 1985 neo-noir thriller, To Live and Die in L.A., brims with sensual amorality set to a pulsing, synthetic soundtrack. Secret Service Agent Jimmy Hart (Michael Greene) is days away from retirement but sees out one last attempt to catch an elusive counterfeit artist, Rick Masters (Dafoe). The chase is devoid of reason, it’s intense, feverish, pure adrenaline. It’s the feeling that threatens to burst from your chest when you drive the wrong way down the highway. Hart is killed and after discovering his body in a dumpster, Hart’s partner and best friend, Richard Chance (William Petersen), vows to catch Masters and doesn’t give a shit how he does it. His soon-to-be new partner, John Vukovich (John Pankow), bears witness. In the cycle of revenge and the pursuit of justice that propels perp and cop towards each other, we see A Crush in action.
~
Sometimes it’s the yearning that sustains us. Other times it’s the ache. You know, the hurt. The voluntary, self-inflicted pain that is wanting another who is either unattainable or not yet ours (though no one is ever “ours,” not really).
~
Masters moves through his partnerships with aplomb; he’s upfront about who he is: calculating, ruthless, unforgiving, and dependable — he openly frequents the same gym several times a week, and is an easy man to find. When done wrong, he doesn’t hesitate to murder co-conspirators. At the same time, he is loving, understanding, and generous. He is tender towards Bianca (Debra Feuer) — his partner in business and pleasure, who we meet after a synth fuelled dance routine wherein latex-clad limbs swirl around each other. Their relationship exudes eroticism. After Bianca’s performance, Masters greets her, wordlessly, with an open-mouthed, hand-behind-the-neck kiss. When she mentions a bad dream from the night before — tell me — he beckons to know her more. She’s his equal. What are we gonna do about it? Take care of our problem. Later, Bianca toys with a client — he never talks to me about his business — but we already know that she’s in on it. They fuck, fluidly, while a camera captures their bodies tangled in a sea of red. At one point, he gives her a gift: another woman.
Chance is chaotic, selfish, vengeful, and has little consideration for the feelings of those around him; his tunnel vision collides into one image of the future: Masters, dead. He blackmails and withholds affection from his lover and informant, Ruth (Darlanne Fluegel). When we see them interact for the first time, he greets her with a request, is there anything you can give me on Rick Masters? She asks what he’d do if she stopped giving him information: I’d have your parole revoked. Even though Ruth’s intel brings Chance closer to his goal, he has zero regard for her personhood. After Chance successfully intercepts the $50,000 deal Ruth tipped him to, he returns to her, manic and oblivious to her anguish at the possibility of being snuffed by those she sold out. Similarly, he bullies Vukovich, I wouldn’t have done it if I was with somebody I didn’t trust, coaxing an accomplice to the schemes he believes will bring legitimacy to the force he serves all while satiating his need to live life on his terms as he inches closer towards the object of his obsession.
~
In the overwhelming, all-consuming shadow of a crush, what we long for is the annihilation of the self in the other. The intense bodily sensations when you know they’re in the same room as you, the elation when you text them or they text first, when they lock eyes with you and your heart stops, the moment when you accidentally brush against their skin. When you can’t look at them because it’s just too much. A crush can be otherworldly, but they’re always devastating. The internal chaos. You can’t sort out the mess. They plague your every thought. You simply can’t function.
~
Everything Chance hunts slips away when he is obliterated the second he shoots Masters’ forever tobacco sucking right-hand. Ruined by the insanity of his feelings and his need to live perpetually on the edge — of a beam, of life; forever chasing euphoria, just one more minute, one more foot, one jump, one thrill towards weightlessness — results in his own undoing.
Possessed by a calm, calculating serenity, Masters destroys everything he creates: he burns his art, his play money, his studio, and encourages his lover to indulge in the wants that stretch beyond him because he accepts her freedom. Ultimately, he is devoured by a fire he started. Masters wholly embraces his desire by doing what it asks of us all: he lets go.
Once desire is actualized, consummated, there is no tension. Pull the string taut and pluck it, it vibrates. Let the string fall flat, it sways. Two frequencies. Neither better than the other. Only different. I prefer a plucking; petal after petal. If only you could have done it better.
~
Vukovich pays a visit to Ruth, who’s packing to leave the city, and informs her that Chance is dead. He steps dutifully into the role his partner leaves behind. You’re working for me now. A flash of the intimacy Ruth shared with Chance streams before us and then her resignation to the reality that even in death, he grasps her. The final shot is one we’ve seen before: Chance parking his jeep on her front lawn. The electric buzz picks up, and the cycle begins again.
~
The only one to get out is Bianca. Masters’ lover speeds off in the black Ferrari, with their homemade videos and her lover, Serena (Jane Leeves). The zen, wanton criminal set his babe up for success. Forget a crush: that’s love, baby.
It’s snowing outside, but I can feel the heat rising off the concrete, smog coats the air, the palms stand stark still, a cicada’s buzz fills my ear. A close-up of Willem Dafoe and his brutalist bone structure, wide lips, brow knotted, cheekbones I want to curl up and sleep inside. Dressed in all black, he takes a Zippo to the edge of a painting, then: a burning; flames engulf the portrait of a woman with fiery red hair. Immediately, we’re plunged into the fire that threatens to engulf its master.
~
I crush a lot. I mean a lot. Various vapid, burning frenzies fill my mind. Seconds, hours, days, weeks, months, years — my mind’s conjured passion waxing and waning with my moods, the seasons, my relationship status.
~
William Friedkin’s 1985 neo-noir thriller, To Live and Die in L.A., brims with sensual amorality set to a pulsing, synthetic soundtrack. Secret Service Agent Jimmy Hart (Michael Greene) is days away from retirement but sees out one last attempt to catch an elusive counterfeit artist, Rick Masters (Dafoe). The chase is devoid of reason, it’s intense, feverish, pure adrenaline. It’s the feeling that threatens to burst from your chest when you drive the wrong way down the highway. Hart is killed and after discovering his body in a dumpster, Hart’s partner and best friend, Richard Chance (William Petersen), vows to catch Masters and doesn’t give a shit how he does it. His soon-to-be new partner, John Vukovich (John Pankow), bears witness. In the cycle of revenge and the pursuit of justice that propels perp and cop towards each other, we see A Crush in action.
~
Sometimes it’s the yearning that sustains us. Other times it’s the ache. You know, the hurt. The voluntary, self-inflicted pain that is wanting another who is either unattainable or not yet ours (though no one is ever “ours,” not really).
~
Masters moves through his partnerships with aplomb; he’s upfront about who he is: calculating, ruthless, unforgiving, and dependable — he openly frequents the same gym several times a week, and is an easy man to find. When done wrong, he doesn’t hesitate to murder co-conspirators. At the same time, he is loving, understanding, and generous. He is tender towards Bianca (Debra Feuer) — his partner in business and pleasure, who we meet after a synth fuelled dance routine wherein latex-clad limbs swirl around each other. Their relationship exudes eroticism. After Bianca’s performance, Masters greets her, wordlessly, with an open-mouthed, hand-behind-the-neck kiss. When she mentions a bad dream from the night before — tell me — he beckons to know her more. She’s his equal. What are we gonna do about it? Take care of our problem. Later, Bianca toys with a client — he never talks to me about his business — but we already know that she’s in on it. They fuck, fluidly, while a camera captures their bodies tangled in a sea of red. At one point, he gives her a gift: another woman.
Chance is chaotic, selfish, vengeful, and has little consideration for the feelings of those around him; his tunnel vision collides into one image of the future: Masters, dead. He blackmails and withholds affection from his lover and informant, Ruth (Darlanne Fluegel). When we see them interact for the first time, he greets her with a request, is there anything you can give me on Rick Masters? She asks what he’d do if she stopped giving him information: I’d have your parole revoked. Even though Ruth’s intel brings Chance closer to his goal, he has zero regard for her personhood. After Chance successfully intercepts the $50,000 deal Ruth tipped him to, he returns to her, manic and oblivious to her anguish at the possibility of being snuffed by those she sold out. Similarly, he bullies Vukovich, I wouldn’t have done it if I was with somebody I didn’t trust, coaxing an accomplice to the schemes he believes will bring legitimacy to the force he serves all while satiating his need to live life on his terms as he inches closer towards the object of his obsession.
~
In the overwhelming, all-consuming shadow of a crush, what we long for is the annihilation of the self in the other. The intense bodily sensations when you know they’re in the same room as you, the elation when you text them or they text first, when they lock eyes with you and your heart stops, the moment when you accidentally brush against their skin. When you can’t look at them because it’s just too much. A crush can be otherworldly, but they’re always devastating. The internal chaos. You can’t sort out the mess. They plague your every thought. You simply can’t function.
~
Everything Chance hunts slips away when he is obliterated the second he shoots Masters’ forever tobacco sucking right-hand. Ruined by the insanity of his feelings and his need to live perpetually on the edge — of a beam, of life; forever chasing euphoria, just one more minute, one more foot, one jump, one thrill towards weightlessness — results in his own undoing.
Possessed by a calm, calculating serenity, Masters destroys everything he creates: he burns his art, his play money, his studio, and encourages his lover to indulge in the wants that stretch beyond him because he accepts her freedom. Ultimately, he is devoured by a fire he started. Masters wholly embraces his desire by doing what it asks of us all: he lets go.
Once desire is actualized, consummated, there is no tension. Pull the string taut and pluck it, it vibrates. Let the string fall flat, it sways. Two frequencies. Neither better than the other. Only different. I prefer a plucking; petal after petal. If only you could have done it better.
~
Vukovich pays a visit to Ruth, who’s packing to leave the city, and informs her that Chance is dead. He steps dutifully into the role his partner leaves behind. You’re working for me now. A flash of the intimacy Ruth shared with Chance streams before us and then her resignation to the reality that even in death, he grasps her. The final shot is one we’ve seen before: Chance parking his jeep on her front lawn. The electric buzz picks up, and the cycle begins again.
~
The only one to get out is Bianca. Masters’ lover speeds off in the black Ferrari, with their homemade videos and her lover, Serena (Jane Leeves). The zen, wanton criminal set his babe up for success. Forget a crush: that’s love, baby.