Michael Mann Director's Chair: "The Last of the Mohicans" (1992)

Although "The Last of the Mohicans," Michael Mann's passionate, picturesque frontier saga, may appear at first glance as one of the director's most unique and graceful works, (not to mention his most unabashedly romantic) the career-long ethos of mortality and the thin dividing line between men in conflict fits right in with his greatest works from "Heat" to "Public Enemies". 
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In the case of the latter, Johnny Depp plays notorious outlaw and bank-robber John Dillinger, a man who, over the course of the film, becomes increasingly isolated in an ongoing war between the burgeoning federal law enforcement and crime rackets looking to dodge headlines rather than create them. 
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Once can draw easy comparisons to the similarly conflcited landscape of the French and Indian War in "The Last of the Mohicans," in which Hawkeye (Daniel Day-Lewis) finds himself secluded from (and in disagreement) with the French, the Sioux and the ignorant British allies. Both Mann's Dillinger and Hawkeye are men fighting for their survival - for their women - in a world which no longer needs them. 
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Of course, similarities ensue even further in regards to the pesky moral world of journalism in "The Insider" or the line between cops-and-robbers in "Heat," but to protract any additional big-picture, grandiose summations would take away from the splendor that is "The Last of the Mohicans". 
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Stunningly photographed in the Blue Ridge Mountains of North Carolina, Mann's lush-yet-formidable landscapes set the stage for what is, in this viewer's eyes, one of the greatest historical romances ever put on the screen. 
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Yet just simply labeling the film an historical romance almost seems to undercut what a lean, nourishing piece of filmmaking it is - passionate but not soggy, rousing but not contrived. Even when Hawkeye shouts his love from beneath a rushing waterfall, ("I will find you, no matter how long it takes, no matter how far!") the scene comes off as earnest, not affected.
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Of course, with all of the sweeping 18th century vistas and equally undulating emotions, it's easy to overlook the film's cast, headlined by Day-Lewis at his most charming and Madeleine Stowe at her most alluring. (And one can't simply overlook the incomparable Wes Studi as the cold-blooded Magua, one of the most delightfully wicked villains of recent memory.)
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So many indelible compositions spring to mind, but I distinctly remember the nobility adjoining the formal surrender of the fort to the French army and the wide-angle shot tracking the puffs of gun-powder along the tree-line during a Sioux ambush. But above all, I remember, or rather can't possibly forget, the haggard pursuit of Uncas, Hawkeye and Chingachgook as they race through the Blue Ridge Mountains, each, quite interestingly, seeking their own aim. 
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It's during this final-reel climax that the film's unforgettable score (achieved by Randy Edelman and Trevor Jones) makes its most primal, forceful impact, forever emblazoning its melodies on the sides of those sweeping hills, dusted with fog to conceal what lies below.
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Over the years, I've had the pleasure of seeing "The Last of the Mohicans" in many different places and in many different forms. I've seen it as a child on a letterboxed VHS tape, I've seen it spontaneously on the television, seen an original print projected on the big-screen not even a year ago, I've watched it on DVD, on Blu-ray. Whatever the time, whatever the place or format, it is a film that, through its beauty, its passion and its grandeur, has simply never failed to overwhelm me.