I remember watching my first and only Michael Mann film – The Insider. It was in a one-bedroom apartment on Blackhawk and Greenview. Bottles of Mad Dog. Chicago streets. It was cold out, my jacket waited for me on the coat hanger, waited to get cold again on the walk home. But first I had to watch a movie.

One scene in particular remains lodged in my imagination. Russell Crowe at the golf range late at night, bright silvery blue lights, the grass a radioactive green, the sound of golf balls exploding off the club face. Shot after shot, that and the sound of breathing, that and the darkness that swallowed the rest of the night. That.

Great writing christopher sly, once again. Your straightforward words, like Mann’s films, always seem to transcend what they are discussing. They are parables. They are literature.