The Brilliance of Michael Mann’s Films, 40 Years After His Debut

“All I am... is what I’m going after”.

This is a line spoken by Al Pacino in 1995’s sprawling crime epic Heat, but it can be tied to numerous other films as well. Namely, the films of director Michael Mann. Mann may be best known for Heat, his magnum opus (and a legitimate contender for my favorite film of all time), but over the course of 40 years, he’s proven himself to have one of the most consistently excellent repertoires of all American filmmakers. The playing field he returns to most is crime, whether it’s about thieves (Heat, Thief), hitmen (Collateral), serial killers (Manhunter) or detectives (Miami Vice). But it’s not just the broad umbrella of the crime genre that links these films together; it’s that line of dialogue quoted at the top, a thesis that acts as the Rosetta stone to Mann’s entire body of work.

Technically, Mann got his start in 1979 with The Jericho Mile, a made-for-TV movie that aired on ABC, but where he really burst onto the scene was his first theatrically released film, 1981’s Thief. Turning 40 years old at the end of this month (March 27th, 1981 was its release date), Thief still ranks as one of the greatest debuts of any filmmaker, showcasing a command of craft that few directors have been able to obtain at such an early career stage, and laying the groundwork for the rest of his filmography in the process. Thief revolves around Frank (James Caan at his best), a master safe-cracker who plans one last big score so he can go straight and settle down with his girlfriend, Jessie (Tuesday Weld). It’s a premise that’s been done to death in crime films, but Mann’s patient, character-driven approach takes it to a higher level.

Thief marks the advent of many things Mann would continue to explore throughout his career, but above all else, it’s where Mann’s fascination begins with protagonists entirely defined by their professions, tied inextricably to their own codes of honor. Frank is damn good at his job, as we see in the instant-classic opening sequence, a bravura seven-minute showcase of Frank’s safe-cracking skills. It’s almost painterly in a way, as we watch him bust open the safe in painstaking, procedural detail, told without a lick of dialogue. Frank may aspire to leave the criminal life, but throughout the film, we know deep down that he’s nothing without his job, adding an extra layer of poignancy and tragedy to the proceedings. He dreams of a normal life, but as he explains to Jessie: “I have run out of time. I have lost it all. So I can’t work fast enough to catch up. I can’t run fast enough to catch up. And the only thing that catches me up is doing my magic act”. It’s this unwavering dedication to craft that defines so many of Mann’s protagonists, as well as the intersection of the professional and the personal, and it all began with Thief.

Thief is also where Mann’s defining stylistic flourishes as a director begin. Mann sets it in his hometown of Chicago, and although the film is grounded in reality, the visual and aural landscape Mann paints ends up resembling something like Blade Runner. The night scenes are astoundingly gorgeous; neon lights reflect off rain-soaked streets and car windshields as Tangerine Dream’s intoxicating synth score (which was somehow panned by critics upon release) pulsates over the action, simultaneously sounding of-its-time and futuristic. This cool, neon-lit atmosphere would not only be found in Mann’s later work like Miami Vice and Collateral, but also influenced modern neo-noirs like Drive and Nightcrawler (the synth score is also a forebear of Oneohtrix Point Never’s work on Uncut Gems).

Mann’s work after Thief was highly acclaimed (Manhunter is regarded as one of his best, but I haven’t yet gotten around to it; The Last of the Mohicans was a major commercial success), but it wasn’t until 14 years later when he would truly cement his name in cinema’s upper echelon with Heat. Heat is a towering, staggering Los Angeles crime epic, with a sprawling scope and complete command of craft that hasn’t been matched in the years since its release. Its DNA can be found in practically every heist film from the past 25 years (Christopher Nolan has been vocal about its influence on The Dark Knight, and it certainly shows in that film’s opening sequence; Ben Affleck’s The Town is essentially a Heat remake set in Boston instead of L.A., and the list goes on). Its iconic shootout in downtown L.A. is arguably the greatest action sequence ever filmed, and its dialogue-driven diner showdown is a masterful pairing of two powerhouse actors on a level we haven’t really seen since. Heat is a rare perfect film, one whose influence will stretch far and wide for as long as heist movies are still being made.

For those unfamiliar, Heat’s basic premise follows police lieutenant Vincent Hanna (Al Pacino) as he tracks down professional bank robber Neil McCauley (Robert De Niro) and his team.

Similarly to Frank from Thief, Neil is planning one last big heist before going straight, while Hanna’s home life is rapidly deteriorating. Mann’s fascination with protagonists defined by their professions reaches its apex here, as he applies it to both main characters instead of just one. For Neil, making scores is the only way he knows how to make a living, operating by a mantra of “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”. Hanna is also unwaveringly dedicated to his job of taking down criminals, so much so that his third marriage is on its way out. Neil and Hanna may exist on opposite sides of the law, but it’s this dedication and determination that links them together, both men working toward a goal that neither will give up on.

It’s this attention to detail and precise characterization that elevates Mann’s films beyond mere crime sagas. Heat works as an engaging crime thriller, to be sure; as mentioned above, the sequence where a bank heist escalates to a large-scale cops-vs-robbers shootout throughout the city’s financial district is still unparalleled in terms of throat-grabbing viscera and thrills, a cacophony of deafening gunfire and crystal-clear action. Additionally, the film opens with an armored-truck robbery that’s almost just as thrilling; with the right sound system, a moment involving a truck crash is enough to knock the viewer right out of their seat. But beyond the action, Heat is a film grounded in its characters, a film with a deep understanding of humanity that most films of its ilk lack. Mann is fascinated with what makes these people tick, with what drives them to their respective goals. Both Neil and Hanna are outsiders to society who operate by their own codes of honor. Neil’s apartment is empty and desolate, completely devoid of furniture, and he hardly has any kind of social life, while Hanna has alienated practically everyone in his personal life.

Another facet that makes Heat—and Mann’s other films—so different from other crime films is the vulnerability of his characters. Both Neil and Hanna are cloaked in macho posturing and hardened masculinity, but are able to let their guards down in unexpected ways. Neil ends up falling for a woman he meets at a bookstore, Eady (The Leftovers’ Amy Brenneman), and he sees her as a way out of the life he lives, an embodiment of the ideal future he aspires to. In a conversation on a balcony overlooking the distant, twinkling lights of the city, Neil explains to her: “I’m alone, I am not lonely”. With her by his side, that could change; she’s his gateway to a normal life. Hanna lets down his guard with his stepdaughter, Lauren (a young, pre-fame Natalie Portman), who suffers from depression. In a crucial scene involving her late in the film, Hanna is given a moment of empathy that we hadn’t seen from him previously; Pacino does some of his most understated work here, Hanna’s face broken and crushed, doing away with his hardened exterior. In arguably the best scene in the entire film, Neil and Hanna meet at a diner over a cup of coffee, laying themselves bare in conversation. It doesn’t change Hanna’s desire to take down Neil, but it brings the two men to a mutual understanding of each other’s motivations and goals, even while on opposite sides of the law. It’s this in-depth characterization and humane touch that elevates Heat from a simple crime saga to one of the greatest films ever made.

After Heat, Mann’s work starts to get interesting. 1999’s The Insider, also starring Pacino in addition to Russell Crowe, is one of his best, following a 60 Minutes producer (Pacino) who gets information from a whistleblower (Crowe) about the corruption and wrongdoings of a major tobacco company. Although it’s not a crime story like most of his previous work, it still touches on the central theme of many of his films: how far are you willing to go for your job and to protect your reputation? It’s a fantastic film, but it’s after that where things get interesting. 2004’s Collateral sees Mann returning to the playing field of Heat and Thief, following a Los Angeles hitman (Tom Cruise) who hops in a cab and instructs the driver (Jamie Foxx) to take him to several hits over the course of one night, the stakes growing higher and higher as the hours progress.

What immediately sets Collateral apart from Mann’s previous work is the fact that it’s all shot digitally and handheld. As such, Collateral has a real sense of immediacy to the action, making the viewer feel as if they’re right there in the middle of it all. The nighttime colors are brighter and pop right off the screen, and the grainy cinematography lends it a look unlike anything that had come before it (indeed, it was the first Hollywood film to use the Thomson Viper FilmStream Camera, the specific digital camera in use here). Mann’s experimentation with digital photography had yet to reach its peak—that would be Miami Vice—but Collateral has a lot of other things going for it. Cruise is at his absolute best here, a steely, chilling villain unlike any other character he’s played. Foxx nails the gravity and existentialism of his character’s situation, this one-in-a-million chance encounter that he’ll never recover from. It could’ve been anybody else in that cab.

As mentioned above, 2006’s Miami Vice—an adaptation of the 1980s TV series, which Mann was an executive producer on—is where Mann’s experimentation reaches its absolute apex. It’s my second favorite film of his behind Heat, and another rare perfect film in my eyes. Received negatively by critics upon release, it’s gained a reappraisal and a cult following in the years since, and as great as the film is, it’s not hard to understand why it was so polarizing initially. The film is a wholly unique experience simply unlike any other; it’s fascinating that a major studio like Universal would agree to even back it in the first place, let alone with a $135 million budget. It’s one of the most experimental and unconventional Hollywood films ever made, one where Mann was free to run wild and fully indulge in his auteurist impulses.

Miami Vice essentially follows detectives Sonny Crockett (Colin Farrell) and Ricardo Tubbs (Jamie Foxx) as they go undercover in a Colombian drug ring, quickly finding themselves in over their heads. But this isn’t really a film about the story; in fact, it follows one of the most unorthodox story structures I’ve ever seen, basically beginning and ending seemingly mid-scene. The opening sequence throws the viewer in headfirst, wasting no time getting straight to the action. From there on out, the film just moves; there’s no expository dialogue, no holding the audience’s hand to explain what’s going on. It’s a film purely driven by its visual storytelling, letting its images speak for themselves. As previously mentioned, Miami Vice uses the same digital photography as Collateral, but to an even greater effect here. The colors are astounding, a landscape awash in cool, neon shades of blue, pink, and orange. The night scenes look crystal-clear, an almost dreamlike quality to many of them. Watch as a shootout unfolds under a humid thunderstorm, the digital camerawork enhancing the fuzzy, slightly orange sky above, as mesmerizing and entrancing an action scene as there ever was. A film driven more by colors and visual landscapes and facial expressions than it is by dialogue and standard plot movement, Miami Vice shares more in common with expressionism than it does with the bright, poppy entertainment of the ‘80s staple that spawned it. It’s a miracle that it even exists, and I hope its stature only continues to grow in the coming years.

I haven’t seen any of Mann’s work since (2009’s Public Enemies and 2015’s Blackhat), but they landed with more mixed receptions. Still, Mann’s filmography is one of the greatest and most fascinating of the last several decades, with his rich character work and exploration of the point where professional and personal lives intertwine separating his work from the vast majority of the crime genre. With his debut turning 40 at the end of the month, it’s as good a time as any to appreciate him.