Al Reilly (Timothy Hutton) is the son of a New York cop and a former cop himself. Having put himself through law school, Reilly is now an assistant district attorney. When Reilly is assigned the case of Mike Brennan (Nick Nolte), a popular detective who claims to have killed a Puerto Rican drug dealer in self-defense, everyone assumes that Al will come down on the side of Brennan. Instead, Al discovers that Brennan is corrupt and that the shooting is connected to a drug lord named Bobby Texador (Armand Assante). Bobby just happens to be married to Nancy (Jenny Lumet), who is Al’s ex-girlfriend.
Nobody was better at capturing the hustle and the gritty language of New York City politics than Sidney Lumet and some of the best scenes in Q&A are the ones where characters like Al, Brennan, and even Bobby are just hanging out and being the New Yorkers that they are. The dialogue in those scenes crackle with cynicism, as everyone knows better than to trust anything that anyone says. Coming after Serpico and The Prince of the City, this was Lumet’s third film to focus on corruption in the NYPD. It was a world that Lumet obviously knew well and he brings the eye for detail that a story like this needs to hold our attention.
Unfortunately, the plot of Q&A is often too dependent on melodrama and coincidence. Asking us to believe that Bobby would just happen to be married to Al’s ex is asking a lot. As opposed to the documentary feel of Serpico and especially The Prince of the City, Q&A feels like an extended episode of a cop show, with little of the moral ambiguity that Lumet brought to his best films. Q&A is good but its never as good as it could have been.
As an actress Jenny Lumet doesn’t really have the depth necessary to make Nancy a believable character. (Francis Ford Coppola wasn’t the only director to miscast his daughter in 1990.) But the rest of the cast is uniformly excellent, with Luis Guzman, Fyvush Finkel, Lee Richardson, Paul Calderon, Charles S. Dutton, and Patrick O’Neal all turning in good supporting performances. Of the leads, Hutton is often overshadowed by the more flamboyant performances of Nolte and Assante but, overall, he does a good job of anchoring the film’s story. Nolte is excellent in the role of Mike Brennan. It’s just too bad that the film eventually turns him into a standard movie villain.
Sidney Lumet would return to theme of New York political corruption with the underrated Night Falls On Manhattan.
1984’s The Killing Fields opens in 1973. While America is distracted by the growing Watergate scandal and the final battles of the Vietnam War, the nation of Cambodia descends into chaos. Civil War has broken out between the Cambodian National Army and the Khmer Rouge, a savage communist group led by Pol Pot. In its desire to return Cambodia to “year zero,” the Khmer Rouge targets anyone who is considered to be too educated or too urban.
Sent to cover the war, journalist Sydney Schanberg (Sam Waterston) meets up with his translator, Dith Pran (played, in an Oscar-winning performance, by Haing S. Ngor). For two years, Schanberg covers the war in Cambodia, taking pictures of bombed out cities, dead Cambodians, and the bullying teenagers who seem to make up the majority of the Khmer Rouge’s membership. The Khmer Rouge’s leadership may claim to be creating an equal society but it’s hard not to notice that they act like gangsters, posing with their cigarettes and making a great show over deciding who will live and who will die. In 1975, when it becomes apparent that the Khmer Rouge have won the war, the press and the diplomats all prepare to evacuate. Sydney and his colleagues are able to return to their home countries. Dith Prain’s family escape but Dith Pran himself is left behind in Cambodia where, disguising himself as a disabled beggar, he witnesses the horrors of the Khmer Rouge’s Year Zero.
The Killing Fields is an accidental anti-communist film. Director Roland Joffe, produced David Puttnam, and screenwriter Bruce Robinson were all men in the left and, in the film, Sydney Schanberg puts the blame for the rise of the Khmer Rouge directly on the American bombing campaign of the early 70s. The film somehow has the audacity to end with John Lennon’s Imagine, a song that epitomized the worst excesses of the Khmer Rouge’s philosophy, playing over the end credits.
I’ll be the first to admit that the film probably does have a point about the bombing of Cambodia. The chaos that followed the bombing undoubtedly helped the Khmer Rouge to both organize and to bring in new recruits. In this film, the Khmer Rouge commanders love to show off their power because, as Cambodians, they had previously been made to feel that they had no control over their destinies. However, in the scenes with Dith Pran faces the horrors of the reeducation camps and discovers the fields full of skulls and other human remains, the viewer is reminded that it takes more than confusion to lead to this type of concentrated brutality. It takes a group of people brainwashed by a destructive ideology.
(How destructive was the Khmer Rouge’s Maoist philosophy? The Khmer Rouge’s plan was to return Cambodia to being an agricultural society, one where the State stood in for both family and religion. To do so, cities were razed. People who were considered to be intellectuals and free thinkers were tortured and executed. Doctors were murdered. Having bad eyesight was considered to be a sign of intelligence and, as such, people who wore glasses were specifically targeted. As Dith Pran says in the film, the Cambodians who survived were told that they no longer had families, friends, or beliefs. Now they were to only worry only about serving the organization, the Angkar.)
It’s the scenes of Dith Pran in Cambodia that drive home the powerful anti-communist message that the filmmakers were perhaps not aware that they were delivering. Haing S. Ngor was not a professional actor when he played Dith Pran. Instead, he was a gynecologist and an obstetrician who, after the Khmer Rouge came to power, pretended to be dumb to survive. Like Dith Pran, he was sent to a reeducation camp and he eventually escaped by making his way through the area that Dith Pran called “the Killing Fields.” Unlike Dith Pran, Ngor’s family did not survive. (After being sent to work on a rice farm, his wife died in childbirth.) In the film, when we see Dith Pran discovering the Killing Fields for the first time, we are witnessing Haing Ngor recreating the moment that he discovered them. The pain and the horror in his eyes is not only Dith Pran’s but also Haing Ngor’s and every other Cambodian who was forced to flee their country to escape the Khmer Rouge. The film may blame America for the rise of the Khmer Rouge but Ngor’s performance makes it clear that only the Khmer Rouge can be blamed for what happened after they came to power.
The film was nominated for Best Picture of 1984 but lost to Amadeus. Dr. Ngor did win the Oscar for Best Supporting Actor, becoming the second non-professional (after Harold Russell for The Best Years of Our Lives) to do so. Ngor went on the appear in a handful of films before being murdered in 1996. Three members of a street gang were convicted of the murdering Ngor while attempted to rob him. (Ngor was shot when, after giving them his Rolex, he refused to surrender a locket that contained a picture of his late wife.) In 2009, Kang Kek lew, a Khmer Rouge official on trial for war crimes, claimed that Ngor’s murder was actually ordered by Pol Pot, the leader of the Khmer Rouge.
The Killing Field was obviously meant to be primarily critical of American foreign policy but, intentionally or not, it has since proven itself to be one of the strongest anti-communist films ever made.
Three years after blowing up the town of Hope, John Rambo (Sylvester Stallone) is …. workin’ on the chain gang…. (I hope you sang it.) However, Colonel Sam Trautman (Richard Crenna) has a suggestion for Rambo. He can get a full pardon if he infiltrates Vietnam and investigates what might be a POW camp….
So begins 1985’s Rambo: First Blood Part II!
When viewers first met John Rambo in 1982’s First Blood, he was a drifter who was obviously uncomfortable with dealing with other people. Haunted by both his experiences in Vietnam and the way he was treated when he returned to his own country, Rambo was someone who largely wanted to be left alone. He was the ultimate outsider. When he asked Brian Dennehy’s Sherriff Teasle where he could get a cop of coffee, Teasle told him to go over the border and have his coffee in Canada. (Is there anything more insulting than to tell a Vietnam veteran to go to Canada like a draft dodger?) Rambo was someone who could take care of himself. He was someone who knew how to survive in the wilderness. But, in the first movie, he was not superhuman. Rambo was considerably banged up by the end of First Blood. The other thing that is sometimes overlooked is that, as far as his time in Hope was concerned, Rambo never deliberately killed anyone. The only person who died in First Blood was a sadistic police officer who was so determined to get a shot at Rambo that he accidentally tumbled out of a helicopter. When Rambo fought, it was in self-defense. Rambo had plenty of opportunities (and, by today’s cultural standards, reasons) to kill Sheriff Teasle and his deputies but he didn’t. Things are a bit different in the sequel. Rambo: First Blood Part II transforms Rambo from a relatively realistic character into the comic book action hero that everyone knows today. Rambo’s gone from being a hulking drifter to being a muscle-bound warrior.
The film doesn’t waste any time getting Rambo out of prison and over to Thailand. The obviously duplicitous Murdock (Charles Napier) tells Rambo that his mission is solely to take pictures and not to engage with the enemy. (You may be wondering why anyone would recruit Rambo for a mission that doesn’t involve engaging with the enemy and it’s a fair question.) Soon, Rambo is in the jungles of Vietnam, meeting up with a rebel named Co (Julia Nickson), and heading up river with a bunch of pirates. Needless to say, Rambo is soon engaging with the enemy.
Rambo: First Blood Part II is an undeniably crude film. Clocking in at 96 minutes, the film makes it clear that it doesn’t have any time to waste with characterization or debate. Sylvester Stallone rewrote James Cameron’s original script and he gives a performance that has little of the nuance that was present in the first film. And yet, the film has an undeniable hypnotic power to it. It’s pure action. Rambo exists to blow up his enemies, whether it’s with a gun or an explosive arrow or the missiles fired from a stolen helicopter. Because the bad guys are all arrogant sadists who exist to remind American viewers of the humiliation of its first military defeat, there’s an undeniable pleasure in watching them get defeated by one motivated warrior who refuses to be held back by the paper pushers in charge. Murdock tells Rambo not to rescue any POWs. Rambo responds by machine gunning Murdock’s office. It’s pure wish fulfillment and it is cathartic to watch. It’s perhaps even more cathartic to watch today, after the twin traumas of the COVID lockdowns and the chaotic withdrawal from Afghanistan. Murdock becomes a stand-in for every incompetent bureaucrat who ever let America down. The Murdock who tells Rambo not to rescue any Americans is little different from the men who told business that they had to close and who tried to dictate whether or not people could leave their homes. The Murdock who was prepared to leave American behind is the same person who did leave Americans behind in Kabul. Rambo’s anger is the anger of everyone who values freedom above obedience.
Rambo kills a lot of people in the sequel but none of them are American. He’s a patriot, albeit an angry one who will never forgive his country for not caring about its veterans as much as they cared about it. “Do we get to win this time?” Rambo ask Trautman and it’s a moment that, like much of the movie, is both crudely simplistic but is powerful in its refusal to be complicated. Rambo: First Blood Part II is a fantasy but it’s also a plea to be allowed to succeed. Forget the rules. Forget the regulations. Just allow the people to win.
Rambo: First Blood Part II (1985, dir by George Pan Cosmatos, DP: Jack Cardiff)
Former player-turned-manager Joe Torre (Paul Sorvino) faces the challenge of his career when he’s hired as the new manager of the New York Yankees. Working with a team full of tired veterans and troubled rookies and having to deal with opinionated owner George Steinbrenner (Kenneth Welsh), Torre leads the team to the World Series. Meanwhile, Joe’s brother, Frank Torre (Robert Loggia), battles for his life when it’s determined that he needs a heart transplant. Soon, the team is playing for Joe and winning for Frank.
I guess this was made for HBO, after the Yankees beat the Atlanta Braves in the 1996 World Series. I was just a kid in 1996 and I certainly wasn’t a baseball fan at the time so I didn’t watch that World Series when it was played. Luckily, so much footage from the series is included in Curveballs Along The Way that I now feel like I did watch the entire thing. Curveballs Along The Way is a good film for baseball fans. Paul Sorvino comes across as being the ideal manager. He’s who you want in your team’s dugout, going with his gut and deciding whether to replace the pitcher or keep him in all the way through the final inning. The main appeal of the film, though, is all the real game footage that is used. Of course, you can see most of that footage on YouTube now so I guess there’s really no point to watching the movie unless you’re a big fan of Paul Sorvino or Robert Loggia.
Curveballs Along The Way is a baseball movie that celebrates the game and that people that play it and, most importantly, it was better than Here Come The Tigers. I liked it.
All I did was ask Tubi for a good baseball movie and it recommended this.
Here Come The Tigers is about Eddie Burke (Richard Lincoln), a small-town cop who reluctantly agrees to coach a Little League team that no one expects to do well. Eddie takes the Tigers to the championship, despite the fact that all the kids are weirdos who don’t look like they’ve ever held a bat before. One kid suffers from terrible flatulence. One kid is always picking his nose. Another kid is all about Star Wars, which makes him the least offensive of them all. There’s a lot of humor but none of it is funny. There’s a lot of characters but none of them stand out. I didn’t know anyone’s name until they were all introduced before the championship game.
Here Come The Tigers was obviously inspired by The Bad News Bears. By inspired, I mean that it basically is The Bad News Bears, just without the charm or the important message about adults need to back off and just let their little leaguers enjoy the game. I can also tell that this was meant to be a family film but it seems like any parents who watched it would probably become nostalgic for a time before they had children. The kids in this movie are so disgusting that they’re sometimes impossible to watch.
The kids who made up the bad news Bears won you over. The Tigers just make you want to leave the ballpark.
I was recently trying to remember if I had ever seen a truly great (as opposed to just good) film about a comedian. The closest I could come up with was the original Fame but, while that film does feature Barry Miller as an aspiring comedian, he’s only a part of the ensemble. He’s not the sole focus of the film and his most memorable moment is when he get taunted by Richard Belzer and then bombs on stage.
Why do movies about comedians often seem to fail? Some of that is because they star people who aren’t necessarily believable as comedians (The Comedian) and they try to cover up that fact by including way too many shots of people laughing uproariously in response (Man of the Year, the HBO television series I’m Dying Up Here). Another major problem is that comedians themselves tend to be a bit difficult to take when they’re not on stage. Having to spend 90 to 120 minutes hanging out with a group of emotionally closed-off people who won’t stop trying to be funny can be exhausting. It’s really not as surprise that many movies (Lenny, Funny People, Joker) about comedians tend to portray them as being seriously damaged people. Punchlineis an interesting example of a film that managed to feature not only a miscast and not particularly funny star (Sally Field, in this case) but also a group of comedians (led by Tom Hanks) who come across as being a real chore to hang out with.
All of that brings us to 2018’s A Futile And Stupid Gesture, an exhausting biopic about National Lampoon-founder Doug Kenney. The film establishes itself from the start by featuring a gray-haired Martin Mull as who Doug Kenney would have grown up to be if he hadn’t died mysteriously at the age of 33. While Mull narrates, Will Forte (who was so brilliant in Nebraska) plays the youngish Kenney. Meanwhile, a host of 21st century comedy all-stars play the comedy all-stars of the 1970s, with only Joel McHale’s Chevy Chase and Nelson Franklin’s PJ O’Rourke making much of an impressions. Our narrator mentions that most of the actors don’t look like the characters that they’re playing because this is the type of movie where the fourth wall is repeatedly broken. A lot of people credit Adam McKay with making it trendy to break the fourth wall. In reality, it was Michael Winterbottom with 24-Hour Party People. Either way, it’s one of those things that’s been done so many times that it no longer feels the least bit subversive. A Futile and Stupid Gesture is so extremely stylized (here comes another fantasy sequence!) that it actually feels more desperate than clever.
A Futile and Stupid Gesture is a tiring film, largely because everyone in the movie is such a quip machine that you get sick of listening to them after the first few minutes. The film makes the argument that Kenney’s refusal to stop making jokes was because of the trauma of losing his brother when he was younger but that still doesn’t make the film’s version of Kenney any less exhausting as a character. To be honest, though, just about every character in the film is exhausting. So many famous lines are uttered that I was ready to throw a shoe at the television by the time Michael O’Donoghue (Thomas Lennon) said, “I don’t write for felt.” Between this film and Saturday Night, I’ll be very happy to never see another movie featuring someone playing Michael O’Donoghue.
It’s a shame it’s not a better film because one does get the feeling that the film was coming from a place of love. Director David Wain has directed some funny movies and he was one of the people behind Children’s Hospital, one of my favorite shows. I wanted to like this film and I feel a little bit guilty that I didn’t. But, in the end, it’s hard not to feel that maybe a better tribute to Doug Kenney would have been to have filmed Bored of the Rings.
Death Race (2008) is the kind of movie that feels like it was engineered in a lab specifically to test how much nonsense an audience will tolerate as long as things explode every ten minutes. Directed by Paul W.S. Anderson, a filmmaker whose entire career seems built on the philosophy of “style over literally anything else,” the film doesn’t so much tell a story as it barrels through one at full speed, flipping off logic, subtlety, and occasionally even coherence along the way. And yet—this is the annoying part—it works. Not in a “this is a good film” sense, but in that grimy, late-night cable, “I probably shouldn’t be enjoying this as much as I am” way.
The premise is pure pulp: in a dystopian future where the economy has collapsed (because of course it has), prisons have turned into profit-generating entertainment hubs. The main attraction is the Death Race, a gladiatorial car battle where inmates drive weaponized vehicles and murder each other for the amusement of a bloodthirsty audience. Jason Statham plays Jensen Ames, a wrongfully convicted ex-racer forced to step into the role of a masked legend named Frankenstein. It’s as blunt and ridiculous as it sounds, and the movie never once tries to elevate it beyond that. There’s no pretense of social commentary that isn’t immediately undercut by another machine gun turret popping out of a car hood.
Anderson directs the whole thing like he’s permanently hopped up on energy drinks and early 2000s music video aesthetics. The camera is constantly moving, cutting, shaking, and occasionally losing track of what’s happening entirely. Action scenes are edited within an inch of their life, creating a sense of chaotic momentum that’s exciting in the moment but completely disposable five seconds later. It’s visual junk food—greasy, loud, and weirdly satisfying even when you know it’s terrible for you.
A huge part of why Death Race remains watchable—arguably the biggest reason—is the decision to cast Jason Statham in the lead. This is exactly the kind of role his entire screen persona was built for, and the film leans on that heavily. Statham doesn’t bring depth or complexity, but he brings something more valuable here: credibility. You believe he can survive this world. You believe he can drive, fight, and endure the endless barrage of chaos being thrown at him. In a movie this dumb, that kind of grounding goes a long way. Swap him out for a less naturally commanding actor, and the whole thing probably collapses under its own stupidity.
That’s not to say he’s delivering some kind of nuanced performance. He isn’t. He operates in that familiar Statham mode—minimal dialogue, maximum scowl, and a constant sense that he’s two seconds away from breaking someone’s arm. But that simplicity works in the film’s favor. He becomes the one stable element in an otherwise unhinged movie, a human anchor that keeps the madness from drifting into outright parody. The choice to center the film around him is one of the few decisions here that feels genuinely smart, even if everything surrounding it is chaos.
Then you’ve got Joan Allen, who plays the prison warden with a level of icy commitment that almost tricks you into thinking the movie has something deeper going on. She treats the Death Race like high art, which is both hilarious and oddly effective. There’s a strange tension between her seriousness and the film’s inherent stupidity that gives Death Race a bit more texture than it probably deserves. She’s acting in a better movie that doesn’t exist, and somehow that makes this one more watchable.
But let’s not kid ourselves—this is not a good film. The characters are paper-thin, the dialogue is aggressively functional, and the plot moves forward with the grace of a sledgehammer. Emotional beats land with a dull thud, and any attempt at stakes is drowned out by the next explosion or metal-on-metal collision. It’s the kind of movie where you can predict every major turn five minutes in advance and still not care because you’re too busy watching a car fire a missile at another car.
What makes Death Race oddly compelling, though, is how completely it commits to its own stupidity. There’s no wink to the audience, no self-aware humor trying to soften the edges. It plays everything straight, which paradoxically makes it feel more honest than a lot of “so bad it’s good” movies. It’s not trying to be clever or subversive—it just wants to show you armored cars smashing into each other while people scream and things explode. And on that level, it absolutely delivers.
There’s also something weirdly nostalgic about it. It feels like a relic of a very specific era of action filmmaking, where grit meant desaturated colors, shaky cameras, and protagonists who communicated exclusively through clenched jaws and short sentences. It’s pre-Mad Max: Fury Road, pre-the current wave of more thoughtfully constructed action cinema. Death Race exists in that awkward middle ground where filmmakers had access to bigger budgets and better effects but hadn’t quite figured out how to use them with any real finesse.
And yet, despite all its flaws—or maybe because of them—it’s entertaining. Not in a “this is a masterpiece” way, but in that guilty pleasure sense where you’re fully aware of how dumb it is and still having a good time. It’s a film that succeeds almost accidentally, powered by sheer momentum and a refusal to slow down long enough for you to think too hard about what you’re watching.
In the end, Death Race is a mess. A loud, clunky, overedited mess with delusions of intensity and a complete disregard for nuance. But it’s also a perfect example of a movie that’s entertaining despite itself. It shouldn’t work, and on paper, it really doesn’t. But between the explosions, the ridiculous premise, and—crucially—Statham’s perfectly calibrated presence, it finds a groove and sticks to it. You don’t respect it, you don’t admire it—but you kind of enjoy the hell out of it anyway.
The Shamrock Kid (James Ellison), Lucky (Russell Hayden), and the Colonel (Raymond Hatton) ride into the town of Cattle Junction. They are on the trail of a group of outlaws who have been causing trouble but everyone in town mistakes them for being outlaws themselves. Feisty ranch owner Anne Hayden (Julie Adams, beautiful as always) even locks them in a basement to keep them from causing trouble! Far more serious, though, is Jim Morgan (Stephen Carr), who tries to hire the men to force the ranchers off of their property.
This is a typical homesteader vs ranchers film. The story behind the making of the film is more interesting than the film itself. It was one of six films that the director and the cast shot concurrently over the course of a handful of days. Each day, the cast and crew would set up at a different location and shoot scenes for all six films. The other interesting thing about this film is that Elllison and Hayden were better known for playing Hopalong Cassidy’s sidekicks than for being leading men. Like Fuzzy Knight (who appears in this film), Ellison and Hayden were born sidekicks. They were likeable but not particularly convincing as being tough lawmen.
This film has all of the familiar faces who usually appeared in these films, actor like Fuzzy Knight, George Cheseboro, Tom Tyler, and Bud Osborne. Fans of the B-western genre will be happy to see them but the overall film is memorable only for Julie Adams. I wonder if this movie was a hit in Colorado.
Back in the day, The Guvnors were one of the most feared and powerful firms around. Based in London, this group of football hooligans were famous for the brutality of their fights. More than 20 years later, they’ve all retired from hooliganism and, more or less, gone on to live normal lives. (One of them is a cop!) Their former leader, Mitch (Doug Allen), preaches non-violence and worries about his son copying his past mistakes. When he runs into the former members of a rival firm at a soccer game, he makes a point of shaking hands with them. The past is over.
When young drug dealer Adam (Harley Sule) takes over a London manor estate, he is eager to fight the former members of the Guvnors so that he can establish that he and his gang are now in charge of the neighborhood. Mitch tries to ignore him until a former Guvnor, Mickey (David Essex), is murdered in his home. Mitch gets the old firm back together again for one last brawl.
Also know as Hoodies vs Hoodlums, The Guvnors is gritty but contrived, with action that plays out at a slow pace while managing to hit just about urban gang movie cliche imaginable. There was a lot of potential to the idea of Mitch getting the old gang back together again but it doesn’t happen until nearly an hour into this 95-minute movie so, with the exception of a sepia-toned flashback, we don’t really get much of an idea of who these people were in the past. Doug Allen project quite authority as Mitch but rapper Harley Sule (credited here as Harley Sylvester) is unimpressive in the role of Adam. He doesn’t come across as being a dynamic enough leader to take over a manor estate, let alone defeat a group of middle-aged football hooligans.
Despite a premise with a lot of kick, The Guvnors misses the goal.
“They say there’s just enough religion in the world to make men hate one another, but not enough to make them love.” — Louis Cyphre
Angel Heart is one of those ’80s movies that sneaks up on you, starting like a gritty detective yarn before plunging into supernatural muck that leaves you questioning everything. Alan Parker’s 1987 neo-noir gem, adapted from William Hjortsberg’s Falling Angel, stars Mickey Rourke as Harry Angel, a down-and-out private eye in 1955 New York who gets pulled into a case that reeks of bad karma from the jump. It’s casual viewing at first—rain-slicked streets, fedoras, the whole bit—but Parker’s got a critical eye for blending hardboiled noir with occult horror, making it stick like gum on your shoe long after the credits roll.
Harry’s your classic hard luck of a gumshoe, hustling divorce cases in a dingy office when this slick mystery man named Louis Cypher (Robert De Niro, chewing scenery with devilish glee—get the name pun?) hires him to track down Johnny Favorite, a crooner who vanished after World War II. Cypher’s got cash to burn and an unsettling vibe that hints at deeper darkness, pulling Harry into a web of lies from the start. Harry follows the trail from NYC’s jazz dives to the steamy underbelly of New Orleans, where voodoo rituals, bloody murders, and hallucinatory nightmares start piling up like bodies in a back alley. Parker does a solid job adapting the source material’s clash of noir cynicism with Southern gothic rot, but his direction leans too heavily on the style of what he thinks a Southern gothic noir is supposed to look like—overripe with misty bayous and candlelit rituals—instead of letting the narrative drive the supernatural melding with the hardboiled detective beats.
What hooks you early is Rourke’s performance—he’s at his pre-meltdown peak here, all brooding intensity and rumpled charm, nailing the everyman unraveling under cosmic pressure. De Niro’s Cypher is a masterclass in minimalism; he lounges in that art deco office peeling a hard-boiled egg with surgical precision, dropping biblical barbs that land like gut punches. It’s not showy, but every word drips menace, elevating the whole film from B-movie territory to something almost operatic. Then there’s Lisa Bonet, fresh off The Cosby Show, diving headfirst into an X-rated role as Epiphany Proudfoot, Johnny’s daughter with a voodoo twist. Her steamy, sweat-drenched sex scene with Harry is erotic nightmare fuel—raw, uncomfortable, and unforgettable, pushing boundaries in a way that got the film slapped with an X rating before settling on R. Parker’s not afraid to get gory either; decapitations and ritual killings hit with visceral thud, but it’s the psychological slow burn that really twists the knife.
The film’s neo-noir DNA shines through in its voiceover narration, shadowy cinematography by Michael Seresin (those rain-lashed rooftops and fog-shrouded bayous are poetry), and a Trevor Jones score laced with eerie blues that pulses like a heartbeat from hell. Parker shifts gears from straight detective procedural to full-on supernatural dread, introducing occult hints gradually—a creepy voodoo ceremony here, a phantom vision there—until the genre flip feels inevitable yet shocking. New Orleans becomes a character itself, all humid decay and ritual undercurrents, contrasting sharp with New York’s cold urban grind. It’s Parker’s only stab at horror (he’s more Mississippi Burning or The Commitments guy), but while he nails the glossy nightmare aesthetic, the heavy stylistic hand sometimes overshadows the organic fusion of noir fatalism and otherworldly dread that the story begs for.
Critically, though, Angel Heart isn’t flawless. The late-game turns pack a wallop but drag a bit in laying out their logic, making you question the elaborate cat-and-mouse when a quicker path might’ve sufficed. Some dated effects in the dream sequences feel cheesy now, a minor blemish on an otherwise polished gem. Pacing sags slightly in the middle as Harry chases red herrings, and while the cast is gold, supporting players like Brownie McGhee as Toots Sweet add flavor without always deepening the mystery. Still, these are nitpicks; Parker’s atmospheric command and thematic depth—exploring guilt, denial, and the inescapability of one’s darker impulses—elevate it above pulp, even if the visuals occasionally feel more like a mood board than narrative propulsion.
Thematically, it’s a devil’s playground. Angel Heart riffs on classic Faustian tropes, but Parker’s critical lens probes deeper into fractured identity and moral rot. Harry’s journey mirrors the novel’s hardboiled cynicism, but the film amps the supernatural, turning noir fatalism into outright damnation. Mirrors recur obsessively—shattered glass, reflections warped by blood—symbolizing a crumbling self-image as buried truths bubble up. Voodoo isn’t just window dressing; it’s woven into the fabric, blending African diaspora mysticism with Catholic guilt for a uniquely American horror. Parker’s post-war setting adds layers, nodding to shell-shocked vets and racial undercurrents without preaching, letting the era’s shadows do the talking, though one wishes the story’s momentum had guided the gothic flourishes rather than the other way around.
Visually, it’s a feast. Seresin’s camera glides through rain-swept nights and candlelit rituals with painterly flair, while Parker’s British outsider gaze infuses Americana with alien menace—think Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil but grimier. The egg-peeling scene alone is iconic, De Niro’s Cypher dissecting morality with yolk-stained fingers. And those final confrontations? Subtle, actor-driven tension that relies on faces, not effects, delivering chills through implication rather than revelation. Jones’ score weaves jazz horns with dissonant strings, amplifying the bluesy fatalism; it’s the perfect auditory companion to Harry’s descent, grounding the style in emotional truth.
For fans of the genre mashup, Angel Heart is essential—think Chinatown meets The Exorcist, with Parker’s glossy sheen making it pop. Rourke’s turn here is arguably his career best, raw and vulnerable before the tabloid implosion; De Niro proves he’s the king of charismatic evil. Bonet’s bold pivot shocked audiences, earning a career-defining role that proved her chops beyond sitcom smiles.
Rewatch value is sky-high; the slow build rewards patience, and clues hidden in plain sight make it a puzzle box. It’s not subtle—Cypher’s name screams spoilers—but that’s part of the fun, a winking nod to infernal cleverness. Parker’s eye for detail shines in production design: peeling wallpaper in tenements, incense-heavy apartments, gator-infested swamps. It’s immersive, oppressive, and oddly seductive, with every frame dripping atmosphere that pulls you deeper into the haze, even if the narrative sometimes plays catch-up to the visuals.
In a sea of jump-scare slop, Angel Heart stands tall as thoughtful horror-noir that lingers because it forces you to confront the monster in the mirror. If you’re digging into ’80s cult classics or just crave a detective tale with teeth, fire it up. It’s flawed, yeah—style occasionally eclipsing story—but those flaws make it human, much like Harry himself.
Al Reilly (Timothy Hutton) is the son of a New York cop and a former cop himself. Having put himself through law school, Reilly is now an assistant district attorney. When Reilly is assigned the case of Mike Brennan (Nick Nolte), a popular detective who claims to have killed a Puerto Rican drug dealer in self-defense, everyone assumes that Al will come down on the side of Brennan. Instead, Al discovers that Brennan is corrupt and that the shooting is connected to a drug lord named Bobby Texador (Armand Assante). Bobby just happens to be married to Nancy (Jenny Lumet), who is Al’s ex-girlfriend.
Through the Shattered Lens 