‘Thief’ and the Linguistics of Michael Mann

I’ve said it before but it warrants repeating — Michael Mann is the most cerebral filmmaker working in Hollywood today. He immerses himself in research about the characters, the careers and lifestyles of his film’s subjects. He doesn’t approach a story from the outside but, rather, exhausts all resources to inject himself into the subject and then creates the story. His films are littered with details, many of which gloss right past the viewer. A lesser filmmaker would make it a point to cut to such details, making sure the audience is bluntly aware of them and to point out just how much the filmmaker knows, but not Mann. You’re either on board and an active viewer or you’re not. The level of involvment is entirely up to the viewer. The next time you watch Miami Vice, pay close attention to the shot of Tubbs and his girlfriend Trudy asleep in their bed together. You’ll notice all of Trudy’s fingernails carefully manicured and grown, except for her trigger finger, which has been filed down.

That level of thought and detail is also present in the linguistics of all his characters. That’s not a comment about the quality of his dialogue, although he is certainly a talented dialogue writer. I’m referring more specifically to the morphology and syntax of his characters; the actual words they choose to construct their sentences and the social reasons those choices were made. It’s one thing to write clever, interesting dialogue. It’s another thing to get inside the heads of the characters and understand exactly the whys and hows of what they speak.

The best example of this is in his first feature Thief (1981). It’s a story about Frank (James Caan), an ex-con who’s lost eleven years of his life in prison and is desperately trying to make up for it. He’s a torn and tragic soul; struggling to obtain all the things he wants his life to be and simultaneously acknowledging that he can never reach them. The time he’s lost isn’t marked just by years but also by his lacking of development and the crucial formative periods of our lives when we learn how to communicate “appropriately” in our given social environment. During the period of time when most people are out in the world learning about professional and personal relationships and the best way to communicate in them, Frank was in prison.

In prison there’s no reasoning or rationale, there’s simply what is and what isn’t. Frank’s entire set of communication skills are based around this premise. If something is going to happen, might as well just get right into it. There’s no evaluating or pondering, talking about things isn’t going to change the circumstances; everything is black or white.

This is the mindset he has when approaching his new girlfriend Jessie (Tuesday Weld), an almost total stranger. When Frank is two hours late for their dinner date he has to hunt her down at a bar. Upon finding her, Frank isn’t apologetic, he isn’t compassionate and understanding. Most people would know that they’re in for an ear full and approach the situation with a bit of humility. Whether they were truly sorry or not, they’d play the role because that is what they are supposed to do. In Frank’s mind, there’s a perfectly valid reason for his tardiness. He feels that once he explains that reason to Jessie that all will be forgotten and the night can move on. Since that’s the case, there’s no need to play games with the semantics of the conversation.

Frank: Let’s go, I got my car parked out in the red.

Jessie: What the hell are you doing here?

Frank: Finding you.

Jessie: Get away from me, you are two hours late. I do not need this, I do not need to be humiliated.

Frank: Wait a minute, I want to talk to you.

Jessie: No.

Frank: I will take you for coffee and explain. What’s the big god damn deal?

Jessie: You take me anywhere, that’s a big laugh.

Frank: Look, maybe there is a reason. Did you ever think of that?

Jessie: I don’t know the reason. I don’t want to hear the reason. There is no reason. That’s it.

Frank: Look, you were looking forward to this. [Frank lifts Jessie off the bar stool and drags her out of the bar.]

Frank’s life is a constant race to catch the dangling carrot in front of him. He has neither the time nor the inclination to feign emotions for the sake of interpersonal communication. There was a perfectly good reason why he was late and once that is explained it should be the end of the conversation. But that’s not how most people operate. Instead of realizing this, Frank becomes indignant in the car.

Frank: Look, in what I do there are sometimes pressures. What the hell do you think that I do? C’mon, c’mon. C’mon! Every morning I walk in for five months, say hi, what the hell do you think that I do?

Jessie: You sell little fucking cars, that’s what you do.

Frank: I wear $150 slacks. I wear silk shirts. I wear $800 suits. I wear a gold watch. I wear a perfect, D-flawless three karat ring. I change cars the way other guys change their fucking shoes! I’m a thief. I’ve been in prison, alright?

Jessie: So what. I don’t care.

Frank: So what?

Jessie: Don’t tell me.

Frank: So what? I never even told my wife that!

Jessie: I don’t care!

Frank: Who is now gone. Did I ever come on to you?

Jessie: No.

Frank: You see?

Jessie: See? See what?

Frank: See, I am a straight arrow. I am a true blue kind of a guy. I’ve been cool. I am now unmarried, so let’s cut the mini-moves and the bullshit and get on with this big romance!

This is an atypical example of the typical “getting to know you” scene. Frank doesn’t court women, he chooses them and they are then expected to keep up. Frank has chosen Jessie and it’s now clear that she is, in at least some fashion, attracted to Frank. Frank knows this and in his mind they can dispense with the time-consuming process of feeling each other out. He knows what he needs to know so they should just get right down to it. But inside this scene is much more. Frank is essentially condensing the first 6 months of every relationship into a few lines. He’s telling Jessie, as best he can, all about himself — who he is, how he dresses, how he conducts himself, his personal and professional history, his past relationships and what he does for a living. To Frank, getting to know someone is just a simple exchange of facts. He doesn’t have time to bullshit or play games and he projects that characteristic onto Jessie. “Here’s who I am in a few sentences, now you tell me.” It’s not that Frank doesn’t want to experience romance, he simply doesn’t have time to. It’ll be just fine with him to acquire a romance, like one would acquire an 18-volt cordless drill.

If you’re starting to feel like Frank doesn’t respect Jessie you’re both right and wrong. Frank was state-raised, bouncing in and out of foster homes. He drifted into a life of crime and then spent more than a third of his life in prison. No one ever concerned themselves with Frank’s interpersonal needs. Frank’s not bitter about that, he simply isn’t aware that it (or the lacking of it) exists. People in his life can be separated into two categories — those that were “true blue” with him and those that attempted to do him harm. This scene is his attempt at expressing to Jessie that he’ll be “true blue” with her. He won’t abuse her, physically or verbally, he won’t cheat on her, and he’ll provide her with every tangible thing she ever desires. In that regard, Frank respects her. This scene is about Frank being vulnerable and letting Jessie know all the good things he’ll do for her, but it’s wrapped in the context of an argument. Mann will juxtapose this scene with the next (an absolutely brilliant, classic scene that takes place in a diner) where Frank will essentially outline to Jessie all the things he won’t be able to provide her and all the ways he doesn’t respect her, wrapped in the context of a heartfelt, warm conversation.

It would appear that the above scene is all about Frank opening up. Even his body language suggests that he’s opening up, and, in a sense, he is. Frank is essentially telling Jessie all the ways he’s going to disrespect her. In the beginning of the scene Jessie talk about her ex-husband who was a drug runner and is now dead. Frank tells her “he was an asshole. He put you in a box.” Later in the scene Frank reveals to her his “life” — a child-like collage he made in prison of various pictures he cut out from newspapers and magazines. He points to the female figure in the upper-left corner of his paper creation and says “that would be you.” Frank is doing exactly what Jessie’s ex-husband did, he’s putting her neatly into a box in the exact spot he wants her to be in and in the space he predetermined her to be. He’s not going to be there for her emotionally. He won’t be able to grow, be it alone or together with her in their relationship. His life has exact boundaries of what is allowed inside and it’s Jessie’s turn to take her place in that corner of his life. Frank is willing to allow her to occupy that role and he’s more than happy to provide for her physically but, in the end, with Frank, “nothin’ means nothin’.” There would be malice involved if Frank was conscious of it all but he genuinely believes this is how things are and, in his own way, he’s being upfront and honest.

The overriding theme is speed and the lack of time. Everything must be sped up in a failed attempt to “catch up.” Hell, Frank even avoids having to wait the requisite nine monthsto have a child by adopting one. That sense of a lack of time is what propels his interpersonal communicative traits both in his above-mentioned personal life and also in his professional life. The language Frank uses for business is slightly different but done with with that same sense of “making up for lost time.” All of the dialogue between himself and his associate Barry (James Belushi) is a series of dispatches containing only pertinent and relevant facts and information. There’s no small talk, no chit chat. Even after completing the safe cracking in the film’s big heist scene there are no words of congratulations or celebration. There is only what Frank is doing and what he intends to do.

When dealing with his business associates — be it Barry, his fence, or Leo (Robert Prosky) his new boss — there are almost never any contractions used by Frank. “Can’t” is can not. “What’s” is what is. This is not an insignificant choice and it’s done precisely so that Frank doesn’t have to repeat himself. There is a large difference between the two sentences “I’m gonna tell you what’s up” and “I am going to tell you what is up,” especially in a place like prison. The latter implies that what is to follow is not just a casual passing of news but a declaration of facts, consequences, and intentions. There’s more weight given to the second sentence and the listener knows that what they are about to be told is important. While contractions trim sentences down they also remove much of the intensity of the desired effect and, therefore, open Frank up to the possibility of having to repeat or explain either himself or what he’s saying. Two things Frank doesn’t have time to do. It’s not often you see a film’s themes and story taken to the laborious extreme of also being expressed through linguistics.

172,800. That’s how many frames of film there are in a 2-hour movie. That’s 19,843 square feet to tell a story. There are filmmakers who look at that and see a daunting number, wondering how they’re going to fill it. Then there are filmmakers who look at that and see a daunting task, wondering how they’re going to squeeze everything they have to say into that small of a space. Michael Mann is one of those filmmakers.