Saturday, August 14, 2004


I love Michael Mann so much. Loved him for 25 years now, since I caught the splendid Jericho Mile on TV, all hard-ass male attitude and real prison footage and a hero who doesn't quite change...and oh, the little spins and twists stolen from the Rolling Stones. Stuff, in short, that everybody else proceeded to borrow from for the next...25 years.

And I pretty much loved Collateral, too, because I fell hard for Jamie Foxx while watching him just walk from one side of the stage to the other on an HBO special and destroy the audience with laughter. And Tom Cruise being shiny silver evil and not completing anyone at all. And L.A. shimmering at night and untranslated Spanish and, boygasm, Mark Ruffalo shorn close and tight. And ahem, Bardem. Just lonely man central and snappy dialogue, and a true use of the L.A. subways and the reason why digital video was invented--to go into dark scary places.


Do not, repeat, do not, Michael Mann, cast the impeccably sexy/tough Jada Pinkett Smith and then...make her crawl around on the floor of a dark room, defenseless and panting. Because even if the script believes it, and you believe it...Jada Pinkett Smith's body wants to be doing more than that. She is no damn damsel, and her very musculature knows it.

And you know it, too, Mr. Mann.


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