After Hours

I love this vision of Soho as a soaking wet small town full of lunatics who want to ruin a spiritually coked up guy’s dick in one way or another. Even when it’s quiet or slow it’s still tense and frantic. Paul doesn’t really want anything beyond sex and then sleep and then sex again. This isn’t a guy struggling for meaning, this is a rat in a maze full of other rats who are able to move the walls around and won’t tell him how to do it. Nobody ever gives anybody a straight answer, every conversation is transactional. This is usually the case in Scorsese films but by limiting the scope of the story to one night instead of several decades the impact changes from the deterioration of the soul to the deterioration of the mind. When Griffin Dunne finally breaks and let’s his confusion boil over into rage he’s framed against a brightly lit brick wall like a standup. It’s almost a relief when Catherine O’Hara starts leading a Frankenstein-style mob around in an ice cream truck, at least the rules of that dynamic are clear.

Always nice to see Bad Brains get a paycheck. Never has one man paid more dearly to cum.

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