A Prickly Appreciation of Michael Mann
Why studios continue to give Michael Mann millions of dollars to direct movies is a mystery to me.
But I am very happy that they do.
I saw “Public Enemies” by myself at the Court Street multiplex in Downtown Brooklyn early on a summer evening. My fellow theatergoers included a crying baby and a guy who yelled “Yeah, fuck the po-lice!” after the cop who beats up Dillinger’s girlfriend gets reprimanded.
The movie is a step up from “Miami Vice,” which is faint praise at best. There’s one good sequence (the night shootout/car chase) and two memorable scenes (the aforementioned beating and the guy who played Jose Yero in “Vice” explaining to Dillinger why the mob won’t protect him any longer) and a whole lot of shaky camerawork and thin chracterizations.
I don’t need to see the movie again, wouldn’t recommend it to any of my friends and think that the $100 million spent making “Public Enemies” could almost certainly have been put to better use.
Here’s why I’m glad that they bankrolled this rather useless movie: it’s not a can’t-miss sequel, a can’t-miss sequel adaptation of one of the best-selling books in history or a can’t-miss sequel adaptation of a twenty-five year-old cartoon series that was created to sell toys directed by the fucktasticingest man-boy currently blowing shit up in Hollywood.
Michael Mann probably doesn’t have another great film in him. That’s cool. He gave me my favorite movie; a fatless, full-throated adaptation of one of the worst books ever written; and one of the only truly adult movies ever made. He seems far more interested in pushing the envelope of what digital cameras can bring to the screen than in story, character or dialogue, though his eternal theme of Men Doing Work That They Love But It Destroys Them In The Process is thankfully still present.
At least the man still tries to do something his own self rather than bogart off an established audience. At least he’s still engaged (albeit marginally) with the workings of power, capital, addiction and lust on both individuals and society. Michael Mann may not be vital any longer, and I certainly wouldn’t give him a nine-figure budget until he feigned interest in telling a good story once more, but I’m willing to fork over my twelve bucks in acknowledgment that he is now The Last of the Mohicans.
