Give Michael Mann this much credit: his testosterone-soaked ode to the days of Dillinger gives good tommy-gun. As long as Public Enemies dances to the rat-tat-tat rhythm of automatic weapon fire (cranked up to ear-splitting levels on the soundtrack, so you feel every sickening thwack of bullets hitting flesh), it commands your attention. Whenever the movie slows to a human pulse, however, Mann loses track of the beat entirely.
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