Looking for Trouble - ANGEL HEART

Someone, at some point, deemed the month of November to be unofficially rechristened Noirvember, to celebrate the fine works of Film Noir.  I’m sure it was President Kennedy or Gandhi, someone important like that.  The thing is, as I mentioned last week, I’m not that into Noir.  At least, I didn’t think I was.  I never think, “I’m in a Noir mood,” or “that was a fine Noir movie,” or “hey, Noir is a thing, isn’t it?”  Weirdly though, I happen to own a ton of Neo Noir.  I just didn’t realize it was Neo Noir.  I love crime films, and grim cautionary tales about a doomed dope who can’t pull himself out of a downward spiral, and movies with sexy, deceptive women.  Lethal ladies, one might say.  No time for Noir, though.   

My problem was that I thought of Noir as a Genre (capital G).  That might be true for the classic black and white stuff, but Neo Noir is a sneaky bastard.  It turns out, Neo Noir can be hidden in any genre, as long as it includes certain themes.  There could be western noir, spy noir, space noir, talking animal noir, the sky’s the limit.  I already looked into sexploitation noir and nerd noir, so this time I went digging for some horror noir.  After briefly considering the 1990 remake of THE BLOB (probably not noir), I went with the obvious-to-anyone-but-me choice, 1987’s grim supernatural shocker, ANGEL HEART.

The Capsule:

It’s 1955, and two-bit Brooklyn private detective Harry Angel (Mickey Rourke) seems to have landed a honey of a case.  A sharp dressed business man named Louis Cyphre (Robert De Niro) wants Angel to dig up information on the once famous crooner, Johnny Favorite.  Seems Cyphre had a contract with Johnny, but the bum disappeared before he could collect.  The trail leads Angel from the beaches of Coney Island to the back alleys of Harlem, to the steamy streets of New Orleans, and things keep getting worse with every turn.  As Angel finds out, this Favorite cat was into some weird shit, running with both high society occult circles and the backwoods voodoo crew.  Neither take kindly to Angel’s snooping, nor do the local cops.  Between being attacked by a pit bull, sliced with a straight razor, and marked as a murder suspect, Angel’s only break is catching the fancy of a young mambo priestess named Epiphany (Lisa Bonet).  The affections of a good woman may not be enough to save Angel, who fears the closer he gets to Johnny, the deeper he digs his own grave.

I hope director Alan Parker didn’t bother to hold an audition, because Harry Angel is the part Mickey Rourke was born to play.  Rourke is a fascinating actor who has gone through several dramatic physical changes in his career.  For instance, here he is in his Chihuahua phase, which—clearly—is astonishing:

Rourke in his prime, the mid to late ‘80s, was no less interesting.  He was handsome, in a sordid sort of way, a look that would get him leading roles in torrid, sweaty movies like 9 ½ WEEKS and WILD ORCHID.  He also projected a damaged, vulnerable charm that made him perfect for downward spiral movies like BARFLY.  Harry Angel is both in equal measure.  Angel looks like he just rolled out of bed after a blackout, no matter what time of day.  His cheap suits are always rumpled and damp with sweat (hopefully), his hair is perpetually greasy, and you can practically smell him through the screen.  Still, he does alright with the ladies.  He’s like Casanova of the gutter.

There are so many little touches that make Angel an interesting character.  There are a few classic private eye clichés, like the gun he has casually stuffed in the desk drawer, amidst the matchbooks and gum stick, but most are unique.  His irrational fear of chickens is the bit that comes up most often and gets the best payoffs.  There could be a deeper reason when all the secrets are revealed, but it could just as well be an unrelated quirk.  Some people just have a thing about chickens.  

I also enjoy the way he constantly mispronounces everyone’s name, like when he says “Epithany” instead of Epiphany.  He pronounces Cyphre as “Cy-fe-air”, and when corrected, immediately calls him “Mr. Cyphers”.

Plus, for such a tough guy, Angel has a queasy constitution when it comes to blood.  Which is too bad, since he encounters a lot of it during his investigation.  The gore effects themselves are not excessive, but because the locations feel so grimy and sticky to being with, adding a few heavy splashes of blood turns things down right revolting.  Angel tends to stumble on the results of the violence rather than the event itself, but the aftermath—from headshots to hearts being cut out—is unsettlingly enough.  The most gruesome murder is merely described instead of being shown, thankfully.  Someone is choked to death with his own dick.  I mean someone cut it off and shoved it down his throat, not that it was some type of kinky contortionist accident. 

This might be a bold statement, but Lisa Bonet’s voodoo priestess Epiphany may be the sexiest creature ever captured on film.  She may even top Salma Hayek’s Santanico Pandemonium from DUSK TILL DAWN, and that, my friend, is a tall fucking order.  Epiphany has far more screen time than the vampire queen, and her character is considerably more fleshed out.  I mean that in the literary way, not the dirty way.  Although, also in the dirty way.  Epiphany is the opposite of Angel in every way, confident, raw, and fierce.  She is like an elemental force of nature.  The voodoo ceremony that Angel spies on out in the bayou maybe stereotypical to the point of offensive, but no fault can be found with Epiphany’s delirious, all-consuming dance.  Unless you are a chicken.

Rourke and Bonet have palpable chemistry, so it’s easy to buy that Epiphany would fall for Angel’s bad boy/doofus routine.  That chemistry comes in handy for their big sex scene in Angel’s flea bag hotel room.  It is quite intense, to say the very least.  Starting off with a sweet and sultry private dance to LaVern Baker’s Soul on Fire (super-hot mood music, by the way), the activities soon move to the bed.    The flow of rain dripping from leaks in the ceiling increases as the action gets heavier, until it is pouring down in a shower.  The effect adds a surreal, artful edge to the very detailed, almost soft-core throws of passion.  

Then shit gets reeeely weird.  The water slowly turns to blood, LaVern is overtaken by a sinister score, and Angel begins seeing visions.  There are flashes of a blood-soaked orgy, sudden acts of violence, and something that I still can’t quite wrap my head around, even after a frame by frame rewind.  Whatever it is, it’s disturbing.  When Angel snaps back, his hands are around Epiphany’s neck.  He pulls back in horror, just short of strangling the life out of her.  She’s okay, but geez, Angel, way to dump cold water on the sexy time.  Haven’t you heard of safe words? 

Incidentally, this movie was the reason Bonet got booted off her Cosby Show spin-off, A Different World, because the execs (which included Bill Cosby) thought her actions on screen were unbecoming of a Huxtable.  Try not to choke on the fucking irony.

Things really begin to spiral out of control for Angel after that point.  Since everyone he talks to ends up dead, the local cops are really breathing down his neck.  I remembered lead detective (Eliott Keener) from earlier watches, because he is the stereotypical butterball racist sheriff, but I was surprised to realize this time that his quieter, bumbling partner is a very young Pruitt Taylor Vince!  For the last twenty years or so, Vince has been the go to guy for psycho nutballs (last scene in Stranger Things 2 as a torturous hospital orderly).  With his huge frame and big, bald head, he’s instantly recognizable, but his signature feature is the crazy, rapid twitching thing he does with his eyes.  He looks completely different here, skinny with a full head of hair, but he was doing the crazy eye thing even back then.

In the end, all the bloody business leads back to where it started, with Cyphre.  For my money, Robert De Niro’s Lou Cyphre is the best human personification of the devil. [Spoiler for incredibly oblivious people].   This doesn’t include prosthetically enhanced monster versions of the devil, because nothing beats Tim Curry in LEGEND, but sans make-up, De Niro is king.  He does have a bit of the theatrical, with long, manicured nails and a pentagram ring, but De Niro’s performance is where the magic comes from.  Cyphre radiates a polite, subdued menace that saturates every scene he is in.  His every word measured, every action precise, but there is a little hint of glee in his eye watching Angel become more and more distressed.  

The big joke [actual spoiler] is that Cyphre has orchestrated the entire thing just to watch Angel suffer.  He could have pulled Johnny’s ticket at any point, but it’s so much more fun to watch Angel squirm as he slowly puts the pieces together.  When Angel sees the entire, devastating picture (which makes his hot and heavy encounter with Epiphany SO MUCH WORSE), resigning himself to his fate is his only option. Time to start thinking about apartment hunting in hell.

In retrospect, ANGEL HEART is about as Neo Noir as you can get.  The atmosphere is dark and oppressive right from the start.  Angel’s impending doom feels all but guaranteed.  Cyphre demonstrates a femme fatale does not always have to be female (although he does wear a dress at one point, which is weird).  It makes me wonder how many other noirs have been hiding in plain sight.  As a cinephile, it’s a little embarrassing I didn’t see it sooner.  I should try to be a little more observant.  Or as that lady from Coney Island would say, “Don’t be a gazoony, fella!”

C Chaka