I spoke of “movie” earlier, as a kind of facility or fluency-the ability to keep the screen alive with sights and sounds that are beautiful and provoking. In short, it's like good writing, and it's a proof that authorial style can exist in film. No personal style today, I suggest, is as articulate or as pleasing as that of Michael Mann. And there is no picture of his that I'd sooner watch again tonight than Heat, an extended inquiry into the notion that the cop and the criminal-Al Pacino and Robert De Niro-are so alike, they could swap roles. I “love” the film, not least in the use of the stars, the fabulous supporting cast, and the riveting views of Los Angeles. But here's the rub. Its climax is not from life, it's from a movie. And so Heat is a sign of a dreadful disease in films today-the way movies are about themselves and not life. So the fascination is corrupted. Well, it's something to talk about over a cup of coffee.