G-Men vs. counterfeiters. Does anyone give a flying fuck about that conflict? I don’t. Lucky for us, I don’t think that William Friedkin does, either. The poisonous relationships among the characters and the seedy sunbaked surfaces of 1980s Los Angeles are what matters here. This is a noir so fatalistic and pessimistic that even the score by slick synthesizer pop purveyors Wang Chung (Friedkin was a big fan of their breakthrough album) effortlessly simmers in its shadows. The most charismatic guy on screen is Willem Dafoe’s glowering villain while William L. Peterson’s lawman-on-the-edge feels more like the film’s pawn. After his partner is killed in action, mere days before retirement, Peterson becomes ever more obsessed with bringing down the bad guys and then begins his path to oblivion. This is a distancing film. It makes little effort to cozy up to us. Its lead characters barely have enough charm to win over their mothers. Even Friedkin’s camera doesn’t get too close to them. He paints the story largely in master shots, even in its most pivotal moments. Friedkin uses master shots to show us bloody conflicts like Woody Allen uses master shots to show us bickering Manhattan intellectuals discussing Kierkegaard. It’s eccentric as hell. It throws us off, but in a good way.