The landscape is snowy and nondescript, the locale an indistinct somewhere. Think Fargo shot by, I don’t know, Ingmar Bergman. Someone muses that the crows cluttering the tree branches are just hanging around, waiting for people to die. A sane director would tick that off as “foreshadowing” and then get on with things. Sam Raimi, being a little crazy, doesn’t let it go.
At precisely the halfway point of Heat, Michael Mann’s 171-minute epic of a crime drama, cop Vincent Hanna (Al Pacino) tucks in behind criminal mastermind Neil McCauley (Robert De Niro) on the highway, pulls him over with flashing lights, and asks him if he wants to go get a cup of coffee.