Directed by Dick Richards and Jerry Jameson
Written by William Goldman
Starring:
- Burt Reynolds as Nick Escalante
- Karen Young as Holly
- Peter MacNicol as Cyrus Kinnick
- Howard Hesseman as Pinchus Zion
- Neill Barry as Danny DeMarco
- Diana Scarwid as Cassie
- Joseph Mascolo as Baby
Rating: 
I am far from deeming this supposed fabric of neo-noir clichés as successful. Even less can I regard it as intelligent enough to convincingly pose as such. But if we’re just talking about mood and all the incorporeal trappings of it, then I must admit that this bumpy production, courtesy of Burt Reynolds’ movie star caprices, is a towering feat of character melancholy and all the doleful manifestations that come with it – rendered with as much heart as hate to reveal itself as a noir myth as sincere as it is insincere caught up in the humdrum of 1980s glitz and hustle. Thus, both its honesty and falsehoods shaping the actions and inactions of this meandering yarn set in the blinding glare of Las Vegas, thrills as much as it underwhelms by being similarly indecisive as its lead character and his vague aims.
Burt Reynolds plays that odd role in which he embodies a low-key variation of his hard-edged persona as a laid-back, deadpan bodyguard who fantasizes about moving to Venice, Italy – Sin City gets him way too many headaches. Rather than a mind-numbing hangover, the long nights at the casino, ass-kicking ridiculous mafiosos and guarding a faint-hearted rich boy (competently played by Peter MacNicol), this actually feels like a restless night of soul-searching dialogue and bittersweet letdowns. And I gotta say that the limited action throughout the course of events, the aimless pace adopted by the plot and the sinuous steps taken by the characters end up being a rich source of poignancy that adds a tremendous amount of ineffable beauty to the film. The humble nocturnal colloquy between MacNicol and Reynolds proves crucial to the narrative destination of their characters, and the brief yet vital casting of a superb Karen Young as the main character’s close friend and protégé proves instrumental in imparting all the humane traits and ethical potential to the Hollywood stereotype of the redeemable fallen hero, i.e. Reynolds in this role.
Even though I despair to admit that I feel the film cheats by wrapping everything up in the most far-fetched fashion imaginable (just for the sake of populism), everything that precedes that gimmicky closure is a bold, world-weary look at shattered dreams and lost souls wandering through the most seemingly alive and resplendent of places. Despite its contradictions, Heat, chaotically directed by Dick Richards—when not feuding with Reynolds, and by Jerry Jameson when he was—achieves a thrillingly passionate melancholy. It strikes an unexpectedly exploitative tone while veering off course at will: more drama than sensational violence, more conversational than conventional sleaze, yet highly effective in many respects.
