Relentless Withholding: Michael Mann’s Public Enemies

Public Enemies movie poster


Khoi Vinh right­ly observes in Min­i­mal­ism, Michael Mann and Mia­mi Vice that “Mann has pro­duced a taut, styl­is­tic and often bru­tal­ly imper­son­al fil­mog­ra­phy that seems most inter­est­ed in the con­cept of work” (via Dar­ing Fire­ball). I whol­ly under­stand and laud the aim of a min­i­mal­ist, “relent­less­ly with­hold­ing” nar­ra­tive, but I don’t believe it’s igno­rant or pop­ulist to demand more. Mann has proved again and again to be a mas­ter at man­ag­ing both char­ac­ter devel­op­ment and cold hard plot, par­tic­u­lar­ly in his mas­ter­piece Heat. So to my eyes, Pub­lic Ene­mies marks a regres­sion. The dan­ger in per­pet­u­at­ing mul­ti-mil­lion dol­lar movies with­out an inter­est in human beings is entire mul­ti­plex­es full of soul­less spe­cial effects show­cas­es like Trans­form­ers. Vinh goes on to appre­ci­ate Mann’s con­struc­tion of the film as a form of design, not least because Mann com­mis­sioned Neville Brody to design a type­face New Deal, and the whole arti­cle is a must read.

The curse of avid­ly fol­low­ing any par­tic­u­lar artist is that one is set up for dis­pro­por­tion­ate dis­ap­point­ment when­ev­er their lat­est work doesn’t mea­sure up to their very best. Mann is one of my own per­son­al favorite film­mak­ers, and for the record, I would cite Thief, Heat, The Insid­er, and Col­lat­er­al as his best and some of my favorite movies over­all. As for the rest: Man­hunter suf­fers from the usu­al crit­i­cisms levied against Mann (dat­ed, styl­ized, and over­se­ri­ous). The Last of the Mohi­cans is over­rat­ed (famous most­ly for its catchy score and cap­tur­ing Daniel Day Lewis on film at his most hunky). Ali was a rel­a­tive­ly con­ven­tion­al biopic. And final­ly, I was down­right shocked by how gar­ish, emp­ty, and, well, just how bad Mia­mi Vice was (on first view­ing, at least).

Johnny Depp in Michael Mann's Public EnemiesJohn­ny Depp as John Dillinger: “We’re hav­ing too good a time today. We ain’t think­ing about tomor­row.”

Atyp­i­cal­ly for the genre, all three of Mann’s biopics are focused on a lim­it­ed time­frame. The Insid­er, Ali, and Pub­lic Ene­mies all exam­ine famous fig­ures as adults, dur­ing the most active and famous por­tions of their lives. Pub­lic Ene­mies can’t help but be ham­strung by the rules of non­fic­tion, which is by def­i­n­i­tion less dra­mat­i­cal­ly inter­est­ing than fic­tion. Fic­tion is care­ful­ly craft­ed by an author, and non­fic­tion is messy seri­ous of events that won’t slot into Aristotle’s Poet­ics, Joseph Campbell’s The Hero With a Thou­sand Faces, or Robert McKee’s screen­writ­ing for­mu­lae that we as a cul­ture find cathar­tic in art almost by detault. Ali is also a casu­al­ty of this equa­tion; it’s a biog­ra­phy, not a nar­ra­tive. That doesn’t explain the bril­liance of The Insid­er, which I con­sid­er a tri­umph. Per­haps it’s because its sub­ject Jef­frey Wigand is not in the same league of fame as Muham­mad Ali or John Dillinger, allow­ing the audi­ence to dis­cov­er more than they may already know. I would argue that The Insid­er is actu­al­ly about some­thing big­ger than the life sto­ry of one man; it ques­tions whether integri­ty, puri­ty, and hon­esty have a place in a mod­ern world run by cor­po­ra­tions.

Before I enu­mer­ate my com­plaints about Pub­lic Ene­mies, it must be said that it’s whol­ly engross­ing. Mann’s cus­tom­ar­i­ly deep research results in a char­ac­ter­is­ti­cal­ly high lev­el of verisimil­i­tude through­out. Many sequences were shot in the actu­al his­toric loca­tions, includ­ing a raid on a safe house at Lit­tle Bohemia Lodge in Man­i­tow­ish Waters, Wis­con­sin, a jail­break from Lake Coun­ty jail in Crown Point, Indi­ana, and Dillinger’s death at the Bio­graph The­ater in Chica­go. The action is vis­cer­al and the sus­pense is nail-bit­ing, espe­cial­ly a sequence in which John Dillinger (John­ny Depp) brazen­ly strolls through the Spe­cial Crimes Unit offices the day before he is to die. One might assume this aston­ish­ing event to be a fab­ri­ca­tion for dra­mat­ic pur­pos­es, but Roger Ebert says it’s “based on fact”).

Any fol­low­er of Mann’s work will be unsur­prised to see that Pub­lic Ene­mies is visu­al­ly beau­ti­ful. Cin­e­matog­ra­ph­er Dante Spin­ot­ti pre­vi­ous­ly shot Man­hunter, Last of the Mohi­cans, Heat, and The Insid­er on film — how quaint! — but here turns to dig­i­tal video, with which Mann and Dion Beebe exper­i­ment­ed on Col­lat­er­al and Mia­mi Vice. The scenes set in a dim­ly-lit F.B.I. tele­phone sur­veil­lance office look par­tic­u­lar­ly strik­ing on dig­i­tal video. Stan­ley Kubrick sought nat­ur­al light so dear­ly that he famous­ly helped devel­op spe­cial lens­es capa­ble of shoot­ing by can­dle­light for Bar­ry Lyn­don, so one sus­pects he would have loved the tech­nol­o­gy now avail­able.

Ter­ri­fy­ing, pet­ri­fy­ing gun­fights have been a trade­mark of Mann’s since his ear­li­est fea­ture The Keep. He has per­fect­ed it by Pub­lic Ene­mies, in which the tight chore­og­ra­phy and extreme vio­lence is matched only by the con­cus­sive sound design. These sequences hark back to the inno­v­a­tive urban fire­fight in Heat, when to the film­mak­ers’ hap­py sur­prise, the actu­al pro­duc­tion sound proved more ear­split­ting than was pos­si­ble with post-pro­duc­tion foley effects. When I saw Pub­lic Ene­mies in the the­ater, the first reel was marred by ter­ri­ble sound (an improve­ment over my first view­ing of Mia­mi Vice, which was almost inaudi­ble through­out). Once resolved, the vol­ume was loud enough to almost phys­i­cal­ly feel the force of bul­lets splin­ter­ing walls, tree trunks, and back­ground per­form­ers. Mann used to reserve his epic gun bat­tles for cli­max­es, such as when Frank (James Caan) raids the mobster’s house in Thief, and Gra­ham (William Peter­son) sin­gle-hand­ed­ly attacks The Tooth Fairy’s (Tom Noo­nan) lair in Man­hunter. The shootouts grew to mas­sive scale and epic lengths in the lat­er films, like the unnerv­ing night­club raid in Col­lat­er­al, and espe­cial­ly the cat­a­clysmic down­town LA shootout that occurs rough­ly in the mid­dle of Heat, which the film remorse­less­ly builds towards and then thor­ough­ly explores the ram­i­fi­ca­tions.

Johnny Depp and Marion Cotillard in Michael Mann's Public EnemiesJohn­ny Depp and Mar­i­on Cotil­lard in Pub­lic Ene­mies: “I was raised on a farm in Moooresville, Indi­ana. My mama ran out on us when I was three, my dad­dy beat the hell out of me cause he didn’t know no bet­ter way to raise me. I like base­ball, movies, good clothes, fast cars, whiskey, and you… what else you need to know?”

In con­trast, much of Pub­lic Ene­mies is a long, sus­tained chase — a struc­tur­al con­ceit Mann seems to have been embrac­ing ever since Col­lat­er­al. As Fer­nan­do F. Croce observed on The Auteurs, “Mann has grad­u­al­ly shift­ed from an image-based artist to a move­ment-based artist. Make that a sen­sa­tion-based artist” … “Mann’s char­ac­ters are dream­ers pos­ing as tough guys.” Mann punc­tu­ates the con­stant for­ward motion of the plot with action set pieces includ­ing at least two jail breaks, sev­er­al bank rob­beries, and a chaot­ic raid on a safe house. Both jail breaks are clever, in which the auda­cious Dillinger large­ly exer­cis­es brains over brawn, and designs each at least part­ly to humil­i­ate the law­men. In the first, Dillinger gets him­self delib­er­ate­ly locked up in order to bust his asso­ciates out. In the sec­ond, they make their get­away in the sheriff’s own car.

Dillinger died in 1934, mark­ing the twi­light of the clas­sic gang­ster era in more ways than one. His activ­i­ties insti­gat­ed the cre­ation of the F.B.I. and the pass­ing of laws that inhib­it­ed crim­i­nal enter­prise, mak­ing him very unpop­u­lar with the orga­nized crime fam­i­lies that were hap­pi­ly oper­at­ing with rel­a­tive free­dom before he start­ed show­boat­ing and stir­ring things up. His crim­i­nal career coin­cid­ed square­ly with the Great Depres­sion era. Mann refrains from show­ing the stereo­typ­i­cal Hoover­towns or des­ic­cat­ed farm­steads direct­ly, but the large­ly unspo­ken eco­nom­ic strife hangs over every­one nev­er­the­less. One of the rea­sons Dillinger became such a folk hero is that he care­ful­ly cul­ti­vat­ed a Robin Hood per­sona by very delib­er­ate­ly tak­ing care not to rob indi­vid­u­als, but to steal from banks and, by proxy, the vil­i­fied fed­er­al gov­ern­ment.

Con­tem­po­rary media hype made Dillinger a celebri­ty, and ulti­mate­ly one of the last roman­ti­cized crim­i­nals to be able to hide out in pub­lic. Mann depicts this idol­iza­tion sub­tly. For instance, when the gang refresh­es them­selves at a farm­house after break­ing out of jail, the woman of the house qui­et­ly begs Dillinger to “take me with you.” Note she spec­i­fies “me,” despite hav­ing chil­dren in tow. Most peo­ple still know his name today, despite him lack­ing a mem­o­rable nick­name like his peers Pret­ty Boy Floyd and Baby Face Nel­son. Inci­den­tal­ly, Baby Face por­trayed in Pub­lic Ene­mies by actor Stephen Gra­ham as dan­ger­ous­ly unhinged and mur­der­ous. He has the crim­i­nal mind, but unlike Dillinger lacks the dis­ci­pline to make it work for him. The dynam­ic is sim­i­lar that that of Neil vs. his way­ward hench­man Wain­grow in Heat. Dillinger can’t do what he does alone, but any asso­ci­a­tion with a man like Baby Face courts dis­as­ter.

In Knives Out for Michael Mann, Kim Mas­ters dish­es the lat­est dirt on Mann (via In Con­tention). Anony­mous gos­sip has him as one of the most dif­fi­cult and even irre­spon­si­ble direc­tors work­ing today, and stu­dios may no longer wish to front his high price tag for movies that aren’t prof­itable. I usu­al­ly protest when I hear stu­dio exec­u­tives com­plain­ing about “dif­fi­cult” film­mak­ers — of course film­mak­ers are dif­fi­cult — they’re the artists and stu­dio exec­u­tives are busi­ness­peo­ple. With­out dif­fi­cult artists, the accoun­tants and MBAs that run the movie indus­try would have no “prod­uct” to sell. I usu­al­ly dis­miss the com­ments of exec­u­tives that get paid more than the artists they sup­pos­ed­ly enable to express them­selves. But if the rumors about Mann are true, he’s more than just dif­fi­cult. In the case of Mia­mi Vice, he report­ed­ly dis­re­gard­ed the safe­ty of his crews by film­ing in the Gulf Coast as Hur­ri­cane Kat­ri­na bore down — fol­lowed by an actu­al gun fight on the set. Con­di­tions were so bad on the set of Pub­lic Ene­mies that Depp report­ed­ly stopped speak­ing with Mann.

Marion Cotillard in Michael Mann's Public EnemiesMar­i­on Cotil­lard as Bil­lie: “They’re look­ing at me because they’re not used to hav­ing a girl in their restau­rant in a $3 dress.”

Accord­ing to Scott Shoger’s Hol­ly­wood Goes Gang­ster, Dillinger was a movie buff, and was even semi-seri­ous­ly plan­ning a movie about him­self not long before his death (an intrigu­ing fact we don’t see in Pub­lic Ene­mies). The last movie he saw was Man­hat­tan Melo­dra­ma, for which Clark Gable he won an Oscar. Being Dillinger’s last movie tick­et gave the film an unde­ni­able mar­ket­ing boost. Mann shows Dillinger in a state of rever­ie as he watch­es key excerpts that had some per­son­al rel­e­vance to how he saw him­self. Shoger also states post-Hays Code Hol­ly­wood had an unwrit­ten agree­ment to not pro­duce explic­it biopics of actu­al gang­sters, lest they con­tribute to their celebri­ty and glo­ri­fy the crim­i­nal lifestyle. This self-cen­sor­ship more or less held until Arthur Penn’s Bon­nie & Clyde (1967). As such, only a few movies have told John Dillinger’s sto­ry, includ­ing The FBI Sto­ry (1959, with Jim­my Stew­art), The Lady in Red (1979), and at least two sim­ply called Dillinger (1973 and 1991).

In think­ing about Pub­lic Ene­mies, I can’t help but keep going back to Thief and Heat, and it doesn’t sur­vive the com­par­i­son. Maybe the real John Dillinger just isn’t as inter­est­ing as two of Mann’s pre­vi­ous fic­tion­al thieves (or in Mann’s par­lance, “guys that pull down scores”): Neil (Robert De Niro) in Heat and Frank (James Caan) in Thief. Pub­lic Ene­mies is all sur­face, with­out the rich char­ac­ter­i­za­tion of Thief and Heat. Pub­lic Ene­mies left me grasp­ing at the tini­est of frag­ments in search of depth or sub­text: a lit­tle look by an actor, a telling line of dia­logue, any­thing. But there isn’t much there. Roger Ebert appre­ci­ates the refresh­ing lack of back­sto­ry con­ven­tion­al in both the biopic and gang­ster gen­res. I agree with him in prin­ci­ple, but would like to point out that nei­ther Thief nor Heat fea­tures back­sto­ry — both flesh out its char­ac­ters with what you might call “now-sto­ry.”

While Pub­lic Ene­mies often feels trag­i­cal­ly lack­ing in dra­mat­ic inter­est, vir­tu­al­ly every sin­gle char­ac­ter in Heat has a back­sto­ry, even the get­away dri­ver Don­ald (Den­nis Hays­bert) that dies before the car goes one block. Here, we don’t learn any­thing about any­body. Aside from Dillinger him­self, the one char­ac­ter we prob­a­bly need­ed to learn the most about is Melvin Purvis (Chris­t­ian Bale). Purvis is a cold fish out­ward­ly, such as when we dis­pas­sion­ate­ly guns down Pret­ty Boy Floyd (Chan­ning Tatum) after giv­ing him one last chance to sur­ren­der. We can infer that he’s a cold, steely G-Man with a par­tic­u­lar exper­tise in sharp­shoot­ing. Bale’s per­for­mance con­veys sad­ness and guilt over what he’s doing — the ques­tion­able moral­i­ty of defeat­ing gang­sters with tor­ture and often even out­right sum­ma­ry exe­cu­tion. Heat’s cops and rob­bers are both fas­ci­nat­ing, but who cares about Purvis’ safe­ty, or if he achieves his aims? The only scene in which Bale and Depp share the screen marks one of the few sparks of life in the entire movie, but it’s frus­trat­ing­ly brief and unfor­tu­nate­ly visu­al­ized through the old cliché of char­ac­ters speak­ing through bars. The old Mann would have turned it into a sev­er­al minute long con­ver­sa­tion, a cen­ter­piece of the film.

Anoth­er frus­trat­ing cypher is the man Purvis drafts as as con­tro­ver­sial expert on Dillinger. Charles Win­stead (Stephen Lang), was an actu­al his­toric Texas Ranger, but unless I missed some­thing, the movie doesn’t iden­ti­fy him at all, and in fact sug­gests that he’s from the wrong side of the law, being that he’s so famil­iar with orga­nized crime and the arche­typ­al gang­ster mind­set. We learn noth­ing of him aside from the fact that he’s clever and sus­pi­cious­ly insight­ful at pre­dict­ing Dillinger’s behav­ior. He’s a bit sin­is­ter, and rough and street­wise in man­ner and dress, so per­haps the point is just that he’s not the type that J. Edgar Hoover (Bil­ly Crudup) would con­sid­er good G-Man mate­r­i­al: young, clean cut, col­lege edu­cat­ed sorts like Hoover’s man-crush Purvis.

Christian Bale and Billy Crudup in Michael Mann's Public EnemiesJ. Edgar Hoover (Bil­ly Crudup) recruits Melvin Purvis (Chris­t­ian Bale) for “A mod­ern force of pro­fes­sion­al young men of the best sort.”

What do we learn of the main man him­self? Dillinger was a self-cre­at­ed celebri­ty ahead of his time: media-savvy and always ready to pro­duce a good, con­cise catch­phrase at the drop of a hat. The most telling rev­e­la­tion about his char­ac­ter comes from a dying col­league John “Red” Hamil­ton (Jason Clarke), who, in his dying moments, choos­es to arm­chair psy­cho­an­a­lyze his part­ner in crime, say­ing he’s unable to let any­one down. Real­ly? When did the film illus­trate this aspect of his char­ac­ter? All we can infer from his onscreen behav­ior is that he’s loy­al to the woman he loves (although not so loy­al that he doesn’t lat­er go out on a date with a hook­er while his girl­friend is in prison — although to psy­cho­an­a­lyze him our­selves, this action is prob­a­bly a not-very-sub­con­scious deci­sion to allow him­self to get caught, AKA “sui­cide by cop”). Just as he was able to casu­al­ly stroll through his to-be cap­tors’ offices with­out being caught, Dillinger is a ghost that goes through life with­out mak­ing any kind of impact. Neil in Heat may have had no friends, fam­i­ly, or even fur­ni­ture, but he had a code: “Don’t let your­self get attached to any­thing you are not will­ing to walk out on in 30 sec­onds flat if you feel the heat around the cor­ner.” Like Neil in Heat and Frank in Thief, Dillinger doesn’t have an exit strat­e­gy from his lifestyle until he meets a woman. Neil found love and want­ed to pull a final score and then dis­ap­pear for­ev­er. Dillinger wants the girl and an ongo­ing crime spree. Only when she is tak­en from him does he con­sid­er a final score to retire on.

A sur­pris­ing num­ber of name actors appear in tiny roles, includ­ing David Wen­ham, Lily Tay­lor, Leelee Sobies­ki, Stephen Dorff, Emi­lie de Ravin (from the TV series Lost) and even singer Diana Krall in a cameo. One pos­si­ble expla­na­tion is that they sim­ply want­ed to work for Mann in any capac­i­ty. Or maybe their roles were larg­er before the edit­ing process. One in par­tic­u­lar that stands out is Gio­van­ni Ribisi as Alvin Karpis, a high lev­el fix­er and orga­niz­er, sort of like the skeezy but cold­ly pro­fes­sion­al Nate (John Voight) in Heat.

Mann often catch­es a lot of flak for his typ­i­cal pauci­ty of female char­ac­ters, but also for the few he does fea­ture being rather prob­lem­at­ic. It’s obvi­ous that Mann is inter­est­ed in sto­ries about men (gang­sters, cops, thieves, etc.). In my opin­ion, it doesn’t nec­es­sar­i­ly make him a misog­y­nist if his sto­ries don’t always fea­ture full, rich­ly drawn female char­ac­ters. But curi­ous­ly, Bil­lie in Pub­lic Ene­mies may not be one of Mann’s most inter­est­ing female char­ac­ters across his body of work, but she is more com­plex­ly drawn than any of the male char­ac­ters in Pub­lic Ene­mies. We learn a lit­tle about her, cer­tain­ly more than we do about any­one else, but I still don’t get why she would drop every­thing and run off with a gang­ster. Bil­lie remains in love with Dillinger and faith­ful to him even when tor­tured and sen­tenced to a two-year jail term. True, she’s a young woman trapped in a dead-end job and the sub­ject of racism (she’s part Native Amer­i­can). A good con­trast is the char­ac­ter of Eady (Amy Bren­ne­man) in Heat, whose com­plex rela­tion­ship with the crim­i­nal Neil I found not only plau­si­ble but sad­ly mov­ing. Cotil­lard is fine, but I think Brenneman’s touch­ing per­for­mance as a crush­ing­ly lone­ly woman vul­ner­a­ble to a charis­mat­ic but con­trol­ling old­er man real­ly helped me under­stand her desire to run away. Both Eady and Bil­lie are will­ing to aban­don their lives, such as they are, or even impli­cate them­selves for a man that could be arrest­ed or killed at any moment.

Must read: Neville Brody’s fave film fonts and open­ing sequences, from The Guardian

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The Impostors

The Impostors movie poster


Stan­ley Tucci’s The Impos­tors (1998) is with­out a doubt one of the fun­ni­est and most pure­ly enjoy­able movies I’ve ever seen. And that’s real­ly say­ing some­thing, con­sid­er­ing its milieu is the job­less­ness, des­per­a­tion, and loom­ing inter­na­tion­al con­flict of The Great Depres­sion. Bald­ly com­posed as a lov­ing homage to old-school Hol­ly­wood screw­ball come­dies, it has the feel of a filmed stage play like Peter Bogdanovich’s Nois­es Off (1992) crossed with the loosey-goosey, mak­ing-it-up-as-they-go-along feel of a Marks Broth­ers or Lau­rel & Hardy romp. The pro­duc­tion val­ues may be frankly rather cheap, but it turns its bud­get into a virtue as the same sets are redressed over and over to amus­ing effect, and final­ly as the entire sound­stage-bound façade is unveiled dur­ing a cel­e­bra­to­ry dance num­ber that breaks the fourth wall. Refresh­ing­ly, The Impos­tors is an affec­tion­ate pas­tiche, and not satir­ic or iron­ic in the least.

Olive Platt and Stanley Tucci in The ImpostorsTo life… and its many deaths.”

The free­wheel­ing farce is above all a love let­ter to the craft of act­ing. Arthur (Tuc­ci) and Mau­rice (Oliv­er Platt) are two per­pet­u­al­ly out-of-work actors so enam­ored of their cho­sen pro­fes­sion that they will not con­sid­er pur­su­ing any oth­er line of work even when faced with star­va­tion. Their dai­ly rou­tine con­sists of stag­ing act­ing exer­cis­es for them­selves in pub­lic, dup­ing passers­by into serv­ing as their par­tic­i­pa­to­ry audi­ence, like a pro­to­type of mod­ern-day pranksters Improv Every­where. An esca­lat­ing series of mis­ad­ven­tures final­ly deliv­ers them into a sce­nario in which their act­ing skills for once become use­ful: the oppor­tu­ni­ty to por­tray fab­u­lous­ly rich cruise ship pas­sen­gers, to save the day, and of course to die mag­nif­i­cent­ly heart­break­ing deaths while doing so. One could argue that what Arthur and Mau­rice want, even more than to eat, is the oppor­tu­ni­ty to die in front of an audi­ence. It’s worth not­ing that most of the legit­i­mate pas­sen­gers are any­thing but; most have either lost for­tunes dur­ing the Depres­sion, are con­spir­ing to steal new ones, or plot to wreak ter­ror­ist hav­oc in the name of fas­cism.

Lili Taylor and Campbell Scott in The ImpostorsThe dan­ger of the chase has made you per­spire. It has made me also… moist.”

Tucci’s paean to act­ing attract­ed an ensem­ble cast to die for, includ­ing a dream team of 1990s indie super­stars includ­ing Lily Tay­lor, Steve Busce­mi, Hope Davis, Isabel­la Rosselli­ni, Tony Shal­houb, and Camp­bell Scott (who shame­less­ly steals and runs away with the movie with a sub­lime­ly odd char­ac­ter that answers the unasked ques­tion: what if Mar­vin the Mar­t­ian were a lovestruck Nazi?). A great many oth­ers would achieve greater fame lat­er: Ali­son Jan­ney (The West Wing), Alfred Moli­na (Spi­der-Man 2), Michael Emmer­son (Lost), and Richard Jenk­ins (The Vis­i­tor — read The Dork Report review). And there’s still room in the souf­flé for wild­cards like Scot­tish come­di­an Bil­ly Con­nol­ly and a cameo by a man­ic Woody Allen in a super­flu­ous (but still fun­ny) skit.

Sad­ly, The Impos­tors was not near­ly as much of a crit­i­cal or com­mer­cial suc­cess as Tuc­ci and Scott’s acclaimed Big Night (1996), which may or may not have any­thing to do with the fact that Tuc­ci has only direct­ed two films since (Joe Gould’s Secret in 2000 and Blind Date in 2008). Let’s hope he and Big Night co-direc­tor Scott con­spire again soon in the future.

Buy the DVD from Ama­zon and kick back a few pen­nies to The Dork Report.