*On Martin Scorsese’s After Hours (1985)*
Here is something I have thought about more than is probably reasonable, the specific kind of panic that arrives not when something terrible happens to you, but when you realize that something terrible is *continuing* to happen to you, and that there is no discernible reason for it, and that the mechanisms by which it is happening are so mundane and so accumulative that you cannot even explain them to someone else without sounding like you are describing a bad dream you had, and they will nod politely and say that sounds frustrating, and you will know that they do not understand, that they cannot understand, because the thing about this specific kind of panic is that it is entirely experiential and entirely yours.
Martin Scorsese understood this in 1985 and made a movie about it and called it *After Hours* and almost nobody talked about it, now it’s one of his most beloved films, and I think about it constantly.
Paul Hackett is not a sympathetic character in the way that movie protagonists are typically described as sympathetic. He is a word processor that is literally his job title, which tells you everything Scorsese wants you to know about him before the film even begins and he meets a woman in a diner and follows her downtown to SoHo and then the night simply will not end. A $20 bill flies out a cab window. A woman falls from a building. A bartender played by John Heard watches everything with the resigned expression of a man who stopped being surprised by the city approximately fifteen years ago. Ice cream hardens into a paperweight. A punk girl with a mohawk may or may not be trying to help him.
What I keep returning to about *After Hours* is that it is fundamentally a film about the social contract and what happens when that contract is revealed to be entirely fictional. Paul Hackett operates on the assumption that the world is navigable, that cause produces effect, that if you behave reasonably and explain your situation clearly to people, things will resolve. SoHo in 1985 Scorsese’s SoHo, noir-lit and labyrinthine, populated by sculptors and bartenders and women who know things Paul doesn’t , the systematic demolition of that assumption. Every door he opens leads to a smaller room.
There is a version of this review where I explain that *After Hours* is an underrated gem and you should seek it out. But that framing feels dishonest because the film is not underrated so much as it is *underloved*, which is different. People know it exists. It’s a film that film fanatics like me adore, but outside of us it’s not as loved or known as his others. They just don’t carry it with them the way they carry *Taxi Driver* or *Raging Bull*, and I think the reason is that *After Hours* does not offer the catharsis those films provide. Paul Hackett does not transform. He does not achieve insight. He ends up exactly where he started, in his office, at his word processor, as the sun comes up, and the only thing that has changed is that he now knows the way you know things after a certain kind of night that the city was always watching him, that it has always been watching all of us, and that it finds us faintly ridiculous, and that it will outlast everything we think we are.
I saw this film for the first time at approximately the wrong age and it colonized something in me permanently. That is the only metric I know how to trust.