THE NIGHT OF: Tense, Gloomy, Without Even a Glimmer of Hope

You know how it is, because somewhere deep in your heart you realize how comfortable a position you still occupy. You are young, so you can still charm the elders, and your small transgressions continue to go unpunished—usually dismissed with a smile or a wave of the hand, or at most a mild verbal rebuke. No responsibilities, curious about the world and undiscovered boundaries, full of energy and hormones raging through your body. It is therefore no surprise that as soon as the opportunity arises—and your buddy bails at the crucial moment—you do not hesitate to swipe your father’s car, which also happens to be the family’s main source of income. Nor do you think that you really have no idea how to drive a taxi, which quickly leads to more problems. But these too seem trivial compared to the goal of arriving as soon as possible—at that legendary party where you will finally savor life to the fullest. The Night Of.

But even that fails you, because suddenly a beautiful stranger blocks your path, and you begin to play her game without much resistance, since it is something new, exciting, and so pleasurable. Sex, drugs, and rock ’n’ roll literally fill your evening, and you do not worry—because why should you? Both the night and the girl are laughing with you—equally alluring and, more importantly, eager for your company. Only at dawn does it finally occur to your still-sensory-overloaded mind that something is wrong. At the sight of blood and the terrifyingly lifeless eyes of the girl whose name you do not even remember, you panic. You run, committing more mistakes along the way, silently counting on being forgiven once again. Not this time…

Moving near the edge at night
Dust is dancing in the space

The Night Of—the unexpected hit of HBO lineup—had already been generating buzz for some time. When James Gandolfini, who played one of the key roles in the series, suddenly died, the project’s fate became uncertain. The departure of Robert De Niro—who had been slated to replace him but had to bow out due to other commitments—did not help matters. In the end, we see John Turturro in action, who more than once steals the show using… his feet. Other screen and stage personalities must measure themselves against this little creators’ fetish—which nonetheless brings a subtle, charming humor to the whole—both veteran actors (Bill Camp, Paul Sparks, Michael Kenneth Williams) and fresh faces, actors then unseasoned and thereby believable (freelance Riz Ahmed and Skins-alumna Sofia Black-D’Elia).

They all, however, must acknowledge the primacy of the dense and profoundly gloomy atmosphere, treading bravely among the shadows of the depicted world—sometimes stripped almost entirely of hope or even occasional glimmers of sunlight. There is no room for them here, for this is not a bedtime tale with a happy ending and a moral. It is a bitter story of unfulfilled love, as if belted from a filmic but more psychedelic medium, Julee Cruise’s song The World Spins.

A dog and bird are far away
The sun comes up and down each day

In reality, it is the American television adaptation of a British production from years ago, which carried a far less romantic but more fitting title, Criminal Justice (starring, among others, Ben Whishaw, Pete Postlethwaite, and Eddie Marsan). Yet this particular remake should not surprise or annoy, since it was created in cooperation with the BBC and under the vigilant eye of the original’s father, Peter Moffat (unrelated to Doctor Who creator Steven Moffat), who here not only again lent his pen but also served as producer and could easily oversee the efforts of two other legendary writers: Richard Price (The Wire, The Color of Money) and Steven Zaillian (Schindler’s List, Moneyball). Thus, there is no need to worry about outstanding, meaty dialogue.

Obvious narrative differences result mainly—but not exclusively—from the two nations’ distinct legal and law enforcement frameworks, as well as different cultural habits. Yet the latter are increasingly blurring in Western civilization, which is clearly visible in The Night Of, where the protagonist is a Muslim. Additionally, in the United States, the original five-episode material was expanded into eight episodes—meaning that, somewhat contrary to similar practices, the relatively dynamic, brisk action was abandoned in favor of building tension, developing drama, and deepening characterizations (and it must be said, the outcome is excellent). Besides that and some differently weighted emphases, it is an almost literal replica of the UK story—a young man accused of a murder he cannot remember.

Light and shadow change the walls
Halley’s comet’s come and gone

In this tale of Nasir Khan, there is intrigue only piecemeal. While the premise and even the first episode can be ended with one’s blood pressure spiking at the edge of the seat, as events unfold the creators begin to get somewhat scattered, and the series impresses primarily through decent acting and an unwavering atmosphere of uncertainty about that night’s events. The script is solid, but at times clichés creep in. It focuses too strongly on Turturro’s aforementioned feet, who—like the imprisoned “Naz”—undergoes various stages of transformation. Meanwhile, other threads, such as the general community hate directed at Arabs, are treated superficially, portrayed as too peripheral, and ultimately do not play a major role. The same applies to the unnecessary touches of mysticism—mystic elements that are in no way expanded (the mysterious, Final Destination-style gravedigger).

Worse still is that both our protagonist, his entire family, and in fact all his fellow countrymen are presented here as remarkably passive. He has large doe eyes and seems, at first, as lost as Bambi after losing his mother, but beyond that he somewhat irritates with his stony expression. For most of the time, Naz appears too detached from the entire situation, accepting everything with a poker face. It also makes little sense that he then begins to act tough in the somewhat TV-polished prison community where he quickly sinks, questioning nothing. Nor is there any visible desire in him to recall the key hours drowned in alcohol and numbed by drugs; nor is he afraid to delve into the depths of that abyss, which might show him his true self. Paradoxically, however, this serves to maintain the audience’s uncertainty.

The investigation around Nasir himself also leaves something to be desired. It is not so much the initial ignorance of certain pieces of the puzzle or the resort to typical procedural tropes that is jarring, but above all the behavior of law enforcement representatives in light of ever-emerging new evidence and suspicions. For any exploration of religious issues, one might as well forget about it—they serve only to enrich the background, at best. It is also a pity that attention often focuses on consequences rather than causes, somewhat sabotaging the psychology of several key characters. From a production standpoint, one also does not find divine spark here. The technical realm, however, defends itself with its already imposed minimalist opening credits, pervasive grittiness, and the brutal powerlessness in the air in the face of an alleged crime and impending punishment.

The things I touch are made of stone
Falling through this night alone

Yet even neglecting Naz’s internal struggle—returning in cheap flashbacks, ostensibly as memories—cannot kill the overall sense of the law’s and justice’s futility in its current form; the pointlessness of a single existence, crushed in the blink of an eye by so many different forces of modern civilization. A life dying before our eyes amid courthouse hallways, barred rooms, closed-door machinations, and ever-present animosity and unending suspicion. It is astonishing, at the same time, how difficult it is to tear oneself away from observing a present in which one would not voluntarily choose to participate—and yet one must live there. Here, in the grips of night, it is clear that nothing is easy—even a seemingly simple outing into the city.

The characters, meanwhile, are a cross-section of every shade of gray—there are no purely good or purely bad; everyone stands to gain and to lose, each with their own agenda, their own problems, and something on their conscience. The final conclusion and explanation—which actually explains nothing, and merely multiplies doubts—constitutes a kind of stalemate; it does not particularly revise anything about their existence, if at all. For in the end they do not desire to change their habits and the status quo. Even if they disagree with it, even if they are full of regret and feel oppressed by years of experience, they are already too deeply embedded in the system. Somewhat masochistically, they remain prisoners of their own dreams—not necessarily dreams of a better world, but simply of a more humane one, whatever that may mean if it still holds any value. Not coincidentally, perhaps the friendliest character in all this mire is a recidivist with the most unpleasant face. He and that damn cat—oases of calm. And that knock-knock thought, haunting the back of one’s mind, comforting during the darkest hours: next time, just stay home.

Love
Don’t go away
Come back this way
Come back and stay
Forever and ever

Ultimately, a seemingly innocent young man receives a true crash course in life. It should benefit him, but who knows if a single fool’s error has not already made him a criminal. Maybe Naz will never awaken from this peculiar drug-fueled trance and longing for a lost paradise. Maybe he will return to Freddy’s or become a regular at darkened dens and a permanent passenger in police cars. And maybe at one of the precincts he will cross paths with Turturro again—though in entirely different circumstances, in another role, under new conditions.

But equally well, this dramatic adventure might free him from the shackles of an eternal dream of power and a bright future filled with rainbow colors and a pot of gold at the end. It is just a pity that his mother will never look at him the same way again, full of care and warmth. And he will likely never again experience as intense, as powerful, and, after all, in some way as pure a feeling as that memorable night when he sat somewhere on the city’s waterfront with the girl whose name he no longer remembers…

Please stay