N.B. Spoilers within.
This is an underrated, sublimely realized black comedy by the (at the time) struggling Scorcese. There is a perfect balance here between the big picture-uptown white-collar insurance guy out of his league in night-time bohemian SoHo-and infinite numbers of details within. Scorcese has taken a great script by Joseph Minion and crafted a piece of comedy, suspense, self-exploration, plenty of twists, and interpersonal discovery. Our lead, Paul Hackett (the subtle and brilliant Griffin Dunne) is the most hapless "hero" to grace the screen in a long time. Whatever can go wrong does go wrong. As Paul steps into the next venture, there is no telling what will come of it. The script keeps the viewer constantly on edge and clueless as to what to expect next. Paranoia becomes rampant.
The music that frames the picture-a youthful symphony by Mozart-defines the outwardly tidy guidelines of Paul's world (number crunching and computer interfacing). But even the small glimpse we get of that world says that all is not right. The trainee whom Paul is overseeing (a small part for Bronson Pinchot-see "True Romance") hates the job and wants out of it. Then there is that telling moment where Paul looks around him and watches everything flow by in its idiosyncratic motion. The quick vision is both sexy and unsettling. He's having a momentary insight, but exactly into what? Is his whole life here empty and pointless? Is he bored out of his mind? Scorcese never lets us know for sure. But then Paul meets Marcy in the diner and the fun begins.
We can't know if Murphy's Law applies to Paul all the time, but it certainly does on this fateful night. There is a flat-out poetic shot of Paul's sole 20-dollar bill floating from the cab into oblivion, and this is just the beginning. This brings up my first observation, though, on Scorcese: his stunning and beautiful camera work. It flows, it jumps, it's liquid, now it interrupts jarringly. The whole effort contributes to the anxious nature of the story and of how Paul never feels completely grounded while he's out of his territory.
The multitudes of characters that Paul meets are all convoluted stories unto themselves. Kiki (a smoking-hot Linda Fiorentino-where has she gone?), Marcy's artist roommate, and the ultimate 80s bohemian; her leather-bound friend Horst (a menacing Will Patton); the "nice" waitress (Teri Garr) with more baggage than Paul can handle; Gail (the hilarious Catherine O'Hara) who will turn on Paul in a big way; Tom the bartender (John Heard), himself a ticking time-bomb; Cheech and Chong, industrious through the long night, and the solution to who the bad SoHo burglars are; but especially there's Marcy (the luscious Rosanna Arquette). She is sweet, good-hearted, ditsy, but full of dark secrets. A lot of these are spilled, others only suggested. The rape story, for example...hard to understand until you've seen it, but it's full of comedy. Arquette plays Marcy just right, a girl who is just short of being completely unhinged, but who still stumbles ahead smoothly and confidently if not a good bit clueless-ly. This is one unique character. Her suicide contributes much to Paul's emotional weight-how exactly did he contribute to it?-and also to the comedy's being so black.
"After Hours" occupies an era that is pre-ATMs and cell phones, but there are Checker cabs, subway tokens, gritty artists' lofts, and rotary phones. Punk is king. The picture strikes me as being linear, yes, but also kaleidoscopic: Paul meets and re-meets the same characters throughout, but each time this happens, his circumstances have taken a new turn. The story is also full of strange details that help knit the whole together. An example: the subject of burns and scars. There is this brief focus on burns and burn treatments. Marcy's cream, her trip to the drugstore to get it, the book of gruesome pictures that Paul can't keep himself from...then Marcy floats back in (he slams the book shut) and what is she holding? A candle with a huge flame! Ha! It's details like these that make the movie feel so integrated. (Even Kiki tells Paul she has "horrible, ugly scars.") Finally, and this part is truly sick, once Marcy is dead under the sheet, Paul can't help but inspect her body for those suspected burn marks. Ugh
I have to mention the last of Paul's meetings, when there is absolutely nowhere else to turn: June, at the club (Verna Bloom), seems to be the only person who truly understands his predicament and who helps to finally "rescue" him, but her means are highly suspicious. Is she also trying to kill him? What a stroke. One of the key themes of the flick is that everyone Paul encounters is for the moment his savior, but who soon leads him into more trouble than he already has. It is Paul/Upper East Side/trying-his-best versus the nighttime/living-on-the-fly/Downtown mentality, and "After Hours" places the two mindsets at opposite ends of the universe.
Scorcese, temporarily abandoning the beleaguered "Last Temptation," hit the mark spot-on with this wonderful comedy. In the process he proved his love for the medium, not to mention loving all the memorable characters that inhabit the wacky, unpredictable story. I also think this is Griffin Dunne's pinnacle: he perfectly inhabits a role where everything is falling apart around him but where he hangs on and finds something inside that keeps plugging on until the sun rises again. Polished, inspired, funny, and disturbing film making. Highly recommended.
