Michael Mann
Nemico Pubblico

The shaky camera rustles through the orchards to capture the scene. One man runs, panting with a machine gun in hand. He shoots desperately, glancing back without stopping, his torso twisted and feet continuously pounding on the countryside. The weight of the weapon, however, pushes the barrel downwards, so the other doesn't even try to dodge them. The bullets. They meekly bury themselves with a dull sound. With icy calm, he takes aim and lets him run a little further: the first shot is a miss. The second one brings down the carcass. Of a bandit, one of the many robbers wreaking havoc during those post-depression years in the American Midwest. The chief prosecutor found his best bloodhound in agent Purvis. The prey to be hunted is already free, restless, and goes by the name of John Dillinger.

In "Public Enemies," Michael Mann in some ways revisits the structure of "The Heat" in that, just as he did with De Niro and Al Pacino, he puts the spotlight on the two protagonists, Depp and Bale, defocusing and relegating (except for Cotillard) the rest of the talented cast to supporting roles. It’s a film devoid of epicness that seeks to be lean and dry: a historical account, not greatly romanticized, focused on the violent hunt for Dillinger. The deliberately disorderly editing of scenes during the most intense and raw phases manages to convey a good dose of adrenaline with the only soundtrack being the sharp noise of automatic weapons firing. The lack of plot twists is evident, and the film's overall bland pace confirms that the director's intent is not an action movie, but to evoke the myth of a romantic outlaw. Intriguing, egotistical, and in some ways childish, robbing banks (considered evil) and burning debtors' books. He wanted it all, to enjoy life to the fullest in designer coats, at trendy restaurants, to gain public approval, and to live in the illusion of one last big heist. He clings to this hope even as he becomes progressively marginalized and isolated by the police first, and then the mafia, which deprives him of necessary support. In that mocking grin of a superman, a celebrity, Depp dives headfirst with a valuable performance, while Bale is a bit stuck in a cold, icy character that suppresses any feelings of anger, sweetness, and happiness with a clamped jaw. A melancholy and sad dark-haired Venus, an excellent Cotillard, capable of fully conveying the irrational love for Dillinger. She knows well it can't last forever, but she allows herself to be mistaken.

In this context, the purely aesthetic way in which the film is presented, and consequently the role of Spinotti as director of photography, is extremely important. Slow motion comes to mind, where John enters like a superstar into the newborn and deserted "Dillinger Section" in Chicago, with sunglasses as his only defense. Light plays on his face as he scans the articles collected and meticulously attached to the wall by Purvis & Co. He relishes in this research work as he smirks and irreverently mocks his hunters, walking away with a slow pace. The same look when, with a more prominent grain given to the film to evoke the feel of bygone times, he's arrested and transported to the penitentiary facility of the moment. The crowd, in what seems like a runway, cheers him on, and it feels like we're inside a historical vintage film as we see the shadows of reaching hands approaching the windows. The angle of the shots during the endless night shootout near Little Bohemia. Here, Spinotti relies on digital to immerse us in an inferno of broken glass and gunfire with continuous scene changes (attackers and desperate defenders) until the escape amid flying bark in the woods. And yet again, to conclude, a slow motion with red flowers that inexorably bloom from dots on the white shirt in the dramatic and theatrical finale, complete with betrayal.

3 and a half.