There’s a pleasing symmetry to Heat, built into its conceit but filled out by the direction, which plays out a cat-and-mouse game with a seductive balance that transcends words. Though Mann devotes several pages of dialogue to a meeting between De Niro and his co-star Al Pacino, he’s a minimalist as a writer and a maximalist as a filmmaker, an orchestrator of sound and image. Despite the sprawl of its three-hour run time and its obligation to serve so many characters and subplots, what’s striking about Heat-and about Mann’s work more generally-is how it’s as architecturally spare as Neil’s house, and as clearly thought-through as one of his operations. But he doesn’t need to, because the image alone is so swooningly romantic, and so revealing of Neil’s tormented attempt to square his personal desires with his criminal philosophy. On a screenwriting level, Mann hasn’t done much to establish this relationship, which is one of many in a film that employed about two dozen of Hollywood’s best character actors in 1995. All around them, Los Angeles is arrayed as Neil sees it every night, as a display case full of beautiful, glittering jewels, there for the taking. His mantra: “Don’t let yourself get attached to anything you’re not willing to walk out on in 30 seconds flat if you feel the heat around the corner.” Yet Neil gets lonely like anyone else, and he’s drawn into a relationship with a graphic designer (Amy Brenneman), whom he takes to his castle in the sky. Neil’s dedication to the job forbids any personal connections. As with the home of William Petersen’s tormented detective in Mann’s superb 1986 thriller Manhunter, the space mirrors the man: It’s clean, spare, focused, and more than a little distant.
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In Michael Mann’s crime epic Heat, Robert De Niro plays Neil McCauley, a professional thief who resides in-and presides over-a modern home of glass and steel overlooking Los Angeles.