Sorcerer is one of the films Tarantino has used to measure the ambition of action cinema. His admiration for William Friedkin makes sense in the face of a suspense that makes you feel the weight of vehicles, the fragility of bodies, and the possibility that any effort could end badly.
Sorcerer as a benchmark of demanding filmmaking
The oral history of Sorcerer published by the Cinémathèque française on March 29, 2024, includes a comment from Tarantino: when he feels he is pushing his own limits far, Friedkin's film reminds him of a standard that is difficult to reach. The publication preserves the testimony, although it does not pin down the original date of the statement in that passage.
The 1977 film also appeared among his picks for Sight and Sound in 2012. Taken together, those two facts document a specific admiration without turning it into a full ranking of Friedkin's filmography. The interest lies in a work that continues to function for him as both a viewing experience and a measure of cinematic ambition.
Sorcerer, also known as The Wages of Fear, brings together men who have reached a state of economic and personal confinement. The job they accept promises a way out, but it requires transporting unstable explosives across terrain that threatens to destroy them. The danger is not a secondary obstacle in the journey: it is the condition of the contract.
The prior setup matters because it keeps the characters from being reduced to anonymous drivers in a big sequence. They arrive with different pasts and with reasons they cannot easily return to their former lives. The audience does not need to admire them in order to understand the pressure that makes a desperate task seem acceptable.
The suspense of moving a few feet
In Sorcerer, moving forward can demand more tension than a fast chase. Every vibration of the vehicle and every irregularity in the road matters because we know what it is carrying. The film teaches us to watch motion through a logic opposite to speed: what matters is that the trip keep going without an unexpected jolt.
The crossing of the bridge concentrates that experience. Water, rain, and the unstable structure make it impossible to think of the landscape as decorative background. The environment alters decisions and narrows the margin of control. The viewer's attention shifts from the whole vehicle to a support, a wheel, or a gesture, because any of those details could decide the outcome.
Cooperation has a practical value here. The men may distrust one another, but the job requires them to coordinate actions and accept help. The film does not turn that necessity into immediate friendship. It keeps the tension between the obligation to collaborate and the desire to protect an individual interest.
It also manages exhaustion. Overcoming one obstacle does not restore the original conditions: there are fewer forces, fewer resources, and less certainty. The accumulation means that a new difficulty weighs on top of what has already been lived through. The suspense includes bodily memory, even while the viewer remains seated.
The noise of the engines adds to that pressure. It can sustain a sense of continuous strain, of a machine working at the limit. Its interruption changes the meaning of the space because moving and stopping present different dangers.
That impression of materiality does not require romanticizing the filming conditions or inventing risks taken by the crew. It is possible to describe what the images produce without claiming that everything happened without preparation or safety resources. The construction of danger on screen and the concrete history of how it was shot are related matters, but they are not the same.
Friedkin, the city, and the cost of pursuit
The French Connection, from 1971, makes it possible to observe another side of that energy. The police chase unfolds in an urban space occupied by people who are not part of the protagonist's target. The movement has consequences all around it. The tension also comes from the sense that the pursuer may be putting much more than his own life at risk.
As a critical comparison, both films give weight to friction with the physical world. The character's will is not enough to arrange the space in his favor. Streets, traffic, mud, or deteriorated structures resist. The competent hero may act decisively and still remain exposed to a reality that does not guarantee success.
That changes the audience's relationship to efficiency. An action can seem admirable because of its difficulty and questionable because of its cost. Friedkin does not need to stop the story to formulate that contradiction: he can make it visible in the very sequence that creates excitement. The viewer takes part in the impulse and perceives its consequences.
Sorcerer adds a dimension of wear and tear that extends the danger beyond a spectacular moment. The journey can consume the ability to imagine what comes next. Reaching a point does not guarantee getting back the life that was being sought. The financial promise that set the action in motion grows smaller and smaller in the face of the experience that has been gone through.
Tarantino's testimony, as recorded by the Cinémathèque, finds especially clear meaning there. The film offers something harder to reproduce than a single image of danger: a progression in which every effort leaves a mark and the world seems to keep pressing even after a sequence has ended. His admiration can be measured in that desire to confront the film again.
Check out the selection of filmmakers and actors admired by Tarantino.