After HoursI think that, at one point or another, every guy has a night like Paul Hackett's. Sure, maybe it's not to the extreme level of hell that Paul (Griffin Dunne) is forced to endure, but all those familiar elements are there. And for guys who know what it's like to have worked those "9 to 5" desk jobs, who--one night--feel that serendipitous spark of attraction toward a pretty girl like Marcy Franklin (Rosanna Arquette), they might be thinking, "hey, maybe tonight's the night for that rare romantic encounter, or the chance to meet 'that special someone'", only to find it doesn't go quite as planned...well, we all know the spiral into insanity that follows. Paul's gonna have a rough night.
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Maybe that's why After Hours resonates so much for me--I've known girls like Marcy...heck, I've dated a girl like Marcy (and am thankful to say no longer). And Marcy's just Paul's "gateway drug" into the madness of "after hours" SoHo, where "different rules apply". The world of After Hours looks like Gottfried Helnwein's "Boulevard of Broken Dreams" dipped in Salvador Dali's palette of surrealism, and Paul's misadventure is a Kafka-esque descent into a neon hell with characters that act as though they were part of some alternate version of reality as we know it. Paul gets a bevy of mixed messages for the first portion of the film from Marcy--and to an extent from her roommate, sculptress Kiki Bridges (Linda Fiorentino), who presents enigmatic allusions about burns and difficult to interpret moments of awkward sensuality. It's not at first, not at the coffee shop, but from the moment he enters this bizarre otherworld that everything gets turned on its head, and Marcy goes from beguilingly perky to unnervingly bipolar. Marcy shares highly sensitive information about herself to Paul which makes him justifiably uncomfortable, but are so overly dramatic and implausible, that they veer heavy into black comedy by virtue of their absurdity. In truth, Marcy is very pleasant at first, and it does seem like fate that after following up about the enigmatic "plaster-of-Paris-bagel-and-cream-cheese-paperweights" solicited by Marcy on behalf of her friend, Kiki, he manages to reach her again, and she invites him over after midnight. Is Paul getting any tonight? Is Marcy on the verge of a psychotic episode? I'm going to bet on the latter. Everything seems to be turned on its head, and Paul struggles to adapt to the madness that slowly encapsulates him. After Hours has loads of great scenes, but two of my favorites are both monologues. The first is given by Marcy, when she tells Paul about her ex-husband, and his psychologically scarring obsession with The Wizard of Oz, as well as his even stranger fetish associated with it. The other monologue comes from Paul, when he gives an account of the events thus far to a milquetoast stranger who mistakes his intentions, but lets him use his phone, anyway, only to get hung up on by the cops. And as Marcy had a crazy story to tell, now...so does Paul.
Martin Scorsese directs After Hours, and it's a rare film for him, and a welcome departure from his stable of intense (but amazing) dramas. Scorsese also contributes to the screenplay adapted from Joseph Minion, who stole some of it from radio artist Joe Frank--the larceny would make Neil and Pepe proud (played by Cheech and Chong in the film, respectively). Howard Shore scores the film--a personal favorite film composer of mine--alongside really apropos and jarringly comical musical selections. Teri Garr (as Julie the waitress) doing the "mashed potatoes" to the Monkees' "Last Train to Clarksville" is delightfully silly. Like many comedies of its ilk, After Hours banks on entertaining us by providing us with increasingly insane scenarios, leaving us to wonder how Paul will get out of this situation. Most of Paul's experiences are tangentally related to the possibility of a romantic encounter, but are all possessed by an off-putting anxiety evoking a "fight or flight" response; this is represented best by the crude drawing Paul sees in the men's room at the Terminal Bar. But what I've always enjoyed especially is just how simply it is for Paul to be seduced into the madness to begin with. After Hours stays funny by never allowing Paul any kind of real footing in his insane journey; one bad turn leads to a worse one, and hilarity ensues. The iconic screaming plaster sculpture is not just a representation of Paul's unease and escalating anxiety and cold terror at this strange city after dark, but in the end, it is the embodiment of Paul, literally--metaphor made flesh...and newsprint. But Griffin Dunne really shines as the unfortunate Odysseus in this twilight zone of Lower Manhattan, becoming ever more disheveled outrunning a mob led by a lunatic soft-serve attendant (Catherine O'Hara), threatened by underground punk rockers with electric razors, and needing some fare for the subway because the rates went up after midnight, and his only twenty flew out the window of the cab. Getting back to work never felt like so much of a vacation.
Recommended for: Fans of comedies where a likable everyman is plagued by a series of unfortunate events, and for those who have been up way past their bedtimes and gotten a glimpse of the surreal world that lurks...after hours.
Martin Scorsese directs After Hours, and it's a rare film for him, and a welcome departure from his stable of intense (but amazing) dramas. Scorsese also contributes to the screenplay adapted from Joseph Minion, who stole some of it from radio artist Joe Frank--the larceny would make Neil and Pepe proud (played by Cheech and Chong in the film, respectively). Howard Shore scores the film--a personal favorite film composer of mine--alongside really apropos and jarringly comical musical selections. Teri Garr (as Julie the waitress) doing the "mashed potatoes" to the Monkees' "Last Train to Clarksville" is delightfully silly. Like many comedies of its ilk, After Hours banks on entertaining us by providing us with increasingly insane scenarios, leaving us to wonder how Paul will get out of this situation. Most of Paul's experiences are tangentally related to the possibility of a romantic encounter, but are all possessed by an off-putting anxiety evoking a "fight or flight" response; this is represented best by the crude drawing Paul sees in the men's room at the Terminal Bar. But what I've always enjoyed especially is just how simply it is for Paul to be seduced into the madness to begin with. After Hours stays funny by never allowing Paul any kind of real footing in his insane journey; one bad turn leads to a worse one, and hilarity ensues. The iconic screaming plaster sculpture is not just a representation of Paul's unease and escalating anxiety and cold terror at this strange city after dark, but in the end, it is the embodiment of Paul, literally--metaphor made flesh...and newsprint. But Griffin Dunne really shines as the unfortunate Odysseus in this twilight zone of Lower Manhattan, becoming ever more disheveled outrunning a mob led by a lunatic soft-serve attendant (Catherine O'Hara), threatened by underground punk rockers with electric razors, and needing some fare for the subway because the rates went up after midnight, and his only twenty flew out the window of the cab. Getting back to work never felt like so much of a vacation.
Recommended for: Fans of comedies where a likable everyman is plagued by a series of unfortunate events, and for those who have been up way past their bedtimes and gotten a glimpse of the surreal world that lurks...after hours.