The great William Friedkin has passed at age 87.

I was going to begin my brief obit (other obligations are pressing as we speak) with a headline that shouted “drat!…zounds!…now Friedkin will never come clean on the French Connection censorship thing!”

Because it is entirely fair and logical to presume that no one in his inner circle will now come forth to sully the late director’s name by confirming the likely truth of the matter, which is that “Hurricane Billy” did, in fact, either ask for or approve the censoring of the Act One N-word scene in his 1971 Oscar-winning crime flick.

So yes, I’m a little bit angry and muttering “curses, foiled again!…he snuck out like a cat burglar!” But let’s put that story aside and show proper respect to a great, outspoken, occasionally turbulent director who ruled the ’70s with enormous drive and primal hunger and churning ambition.

Friedkin was one of those seriously ballsy grade-A hot shots who flourished when big-boy auterism was in flower…from the early to late ’70s he was one of the leaders of the “Easy Riders, Raging Bulls” motorcycle club, standing side by side with Steven Spielberg, Brian DePalma, Francis Ford Coppola, Robert Altman, George Lucas, Martin Scorsese, Woody Allen, Sidney Lumet, Stanley Kubrick, Bob Fosse, et. al.

And yet, truth be told, Friedkin’s serious golden god period lasted only eight years, or from ’70 through ’77…a chapter that encompassed the making and release of four grade-A films — The Boys in the Band (’70 — a delicious zeitgeist-capturing bitter comedy that I own on Bluray and watch every couple of years), The French Connection (’71 — his finest and most vigorous and super-adrenalized achievement — a truly great film…winner of four Academy Awards, including Best Picture), The Exorcist (’73 — an excellent, wholly believable horror classic….his commercial peak achievement) and Sorcerer (’77)…a first-rate, hugely ambitious action action thriller that not only disappointed commercially but killed Friedkin’s career momentum.

He recovered, of course, but Friedkin never reclaimed that special current of dynamic power and auteurist urgency…from the late ’71 opening of The French Connection through the collapse of Sorcerer six years later he was damn near king of the fucking world.

Hurricane Billy kept that major-auteur-fascination thing going for another seven years (’78 through ’85)…galloping along on his mighty egoistic steed with the making of four more films…The Brink’s Job (’78), Cruising (’80), Deal of the Century (’83) and To Live and Die in L.A. (’85), his second best urban crime flick and arguably his third best of all time.

A 35-year downshift period followed, during which time Friedkin directed The Guardian, Blue Chips, Jade, Rules of Engagement, The Hunted, Bug, Killer Joe and the forthcoming Venice Film Festival non-competitive selection, The Caine Mutiny Court-Martial.

If the keepers of Friedkin’s legacy want to do the right thing, they’ll push for the restoration of that censored French Connection scene and erase all copies of the edited bullshit 2021 version. If the Disney guys have any decency they’ll just forget about the whole matter…they’ll say “look, Friedkin was in his late 80s and censoring that scene was completely out of character for a guy known for his ballsiness and obstinacy, so let’s just forget it happened and restore the footage and be done with it.”

The 60th anniversary of the JFK assassination is three and a half months away. The usual conspiracy titillations will be reconsidered, but no one will ever know anything conclusive about an alleged conspiracy because two witnesses to the murder who had cameras (Abraham Zapruder and Mary Moorman) were too cheap to buy better cameras, and a third witness (Orville Nix, who died in 1972) has two strikes against him — he shot his Dealey Plaza footage with a mildly shitty 8mm camera, and was either too dumb or too lazy to shoot the Kennedy motorcade from a reasonable distance.

If Zapruder had shot the murder with color film inside a decent 16mm camera instead of an 8mm Bell & Howell Zoomatic Director Series Model 414 PD…if Moorman had used a movie camera instead of a black-and-white Polaroid Highlander 80A…if Nix had used a 16mm color movie camera with a decent zoom lens….all three had their unique motives and economic limitations and that’s understandable, but from a forensic perspective they sorta kinda blew it.

Imagine being Orville Nix at 12:28 pm on 11.22.63, standing on the grass in Dealey Plaza between 80 and 100 feet away from Elm Street, all pumped and primed with his 8mm color camera…

Interior Nix dialogue: “Okay, I can hear the motorcycles and the cheering…the Kennedy motorcade is coming down Main Street and will be cruising down Elm in a minute or two…maybe I should run over to Elm to get a decent shot of the President and his wife and Governor Connally??…naahh, it’s better to stand 80 to 100 feet away…that way my family and friends can see the grassy knoll hillside and the plaster walls and the bright blue sky…who needs to capture film of the actual faces of President Kennedy and Jackie?…the green grass and the panoramic vistas are better.”

In the meantime, what about that mysterious muzzle flash and the legend of Badge Man?

HE to JFK conspiracy pallies (including Joseph McBride and Oliver Stone): “A rifle muzzle flash is said to be barely detectable above a grassy knoll wall. Or at least, so says assassination researcher Robert Groden.

Groden’s film A Case for Conspiracy shows a flash above the small concrete wall at frame # 24 in the Nix film, which is the same instant as frame # 313 in the Zapruder film.

Last night Jett told me he recently re-watched Some Like It Hot (having seen it many times), and it suddenly hit him that (a) Tony Curtis‘s Joe character is a truly odious womanizer and (b) he doesn’t like him very much, and that Joe’s ugliness colored Jett’s basic attitude about the film.

I found this a familiar and even vaguely amusing viewpoint as this is a typical Millennial thing (moral condemnation + faint notions of cancelling directed toward a self-absorbed prick who wouldn’t fit into today’s realm).

My response: “But that’s the point of the character. Joe is ‘a liar and a phony’, as he admits to Marilyn Monroe‘s Sugar at the very end, but he gradually develops empathy and a conscience after putting on a wig and falsies and wearing a dress and thereby realizing ‘how the other half lives.’

“Joe feels so badly about lying to Sugar (i.e., pretending to be a Shell Oil heir) and then breaking her heart when he and Jack Lemmon‘s Jerry are forced to go on the lam in order to avoid Spats Columbo and his gang that he gives her the only item of value between them — a diamond bracelet that Joe E. Brown‘s Osgood Fielding had given Lemmon’s ‘Daphne’ (and which Joe has technically stolen).

“This is part of his third-act redemption,” I went on. “This plus Joe’s admitting to Sugar that he’s the same kind of thoughtless cad she’s been emotionally bruised by so often.

“Whenever a flawed movie character lets his guard down and admits to a significant moral failing, he’s taken a slight but significant step toward becoming a better human being.”

Example: The last-minute emotional breakthrough experienced by Anthony Quinn’s Zampano in Federico Fellini’s La Strada. A terrible brute throughout the whole film but at the very last minute he realizes who and what he is. His weeping on the beach symbolizes a kind of redemption. Small but noteworthy.

After 21 months of scintillating baby vibes within a passive, moody or euphoric, in-and-out dynamic, the suddenly much-more-verbal-and-assertive Sutton actually called me “papa” a few times yesterday and two or three times motioned me to sit down next to her (patting the seat to indicate where I should plant my butt) and reached out and took my hand and led me around several times.

Her moods are rather moody as she’s now in her “terrible two” phase and giving her mother attitude (it began several weeks ago), but from my humble perspective it’s quite a thing when your granddaughter suddenly addresses you by name and urges you to do this or notice that with three- or four-word sentences.

Hundreds of billions have been through this, but it was the first time for this particular horse.

Last night I drove all the way to Pleasantville’s Jacob Burns Film Center (45 minutes) to see Christian Petzold‘s Afire. Then I had to drive back, of course — another 45 for a total travel experience of 90 minutes.

Afire really isn’t worth all that time and gasoline. Because it requires the viewer to spend the entire running time (103 minutes) with one of the emptiest, most self-absorbed, clueless and physically unattractive characters I’ve ever hung with in my moviegoing life.

We’re speaking of Thomas Schubert‘s Leon, a fat, seemingly untalented, self-deluding writer for the first 85 or 90 minutes. And yet following a third-act tragedy that I won’t disclose, Leon suddenly becomes a gifted writer. Quelle surprise!

And so the film, we realize, isn’t as much about pudgy, fucked-up Leon as the difference between spinning your wheels for no discernible reason and writing true and straight about something real. And what improving your game can sometimes involve (i.e., a horrific inferno, the charring of flesh, the blackening of bones, being faced with terrible finality).

So the ending isn’t half bad but the first 85 or 90…God! Immature, pissed off, lost-in-the-proverbial-woods Leon obsessing about the highly attuned, rail-thin Nadja (Paula Beer) and never making any headway because he’s such a fleshy, mopey, self-deluding asshole.

Yesterday’s boilerplate: “While vacationing by the Baltic Sea, writer Leon (Schubert) and photographer Felix (Langston Uibel) are surprised by the presence of Nadja (Beer), a mysterious young woman staying as a guest at Felix’s family’s holiday home. Nadja distracts Leon from finishing his latest novel and, with brutal honesty, forces him to confront his caustic temperament and self-absorption. An encroaching forest fire threatens the group as Nadja and Leon grow closer, and tensions escalate when a handsome lifeguard and Leon’s tight-lipped book editor also arrive.”

If I was a film director I wouldn’t dare make a movie as thin, irritating and lacking in tension as the first two acts of Afire are. I was instantly annoyed and glancing at my watch and feeling sorry for myself, being stuck with this obviously not-very-good film and coping with air-conditioning that was too cold.

All I can say is thank God Schubert never gets naked, and double thank God he and Beers never do the actual deed. (Early on sex happens off-screen between Beer and another guy who’s mainly gay.) That’s not saying stuff doesn’t happen between them, or that their interactions aren’t faintly interesting from a certain perspective.

I was just grateful that Petzold respected the sensibilities of persons like myself. His discretion was gratifying. For he spared me the sight of Leon’s cashew-sized appendage…down on my knees!

In a comment HE reader Canyon Coyote tried to casually normalize beefalo + thin girl relationships, which he says are par for the course in his neck of the woods. I’ve spotted such pairings but c’mon, they were highly unusual before the obesity plague began to encroach roughly 20 years ago.

As I noted yesterday, Schubert is actually a bit heavier than John Belushi in Animal House and not that far from his appearance during his final Chateau Marmont cocaine speedball chapter, and only a few heaping plates of pasta short of obese. Just saying.