In the final minutes of “After Hours” (1985), two thieves, after having finished a dishonest night’s work, engage in some impromptu art criticism. Whilst stowing a life-size plaster effigy lifted from an artist’s studio into the back of their van, the first of our anti-heroes makes an observation: “Art sure is ugly, man.” To which his compadre responds: “That’s how much you know, man. The uglier the art, the more it’s worth.”

At which point, the two men confuse the actor George Segal for the sculptor of the same name, and a conversation ensues regarding the cultural hegemony of the “Tonight Show” host at the time, Johnny Carson. This back-and-forth is made all the more absurd because of its players, the stoner comedians Cheech and Chong. Not only are they actors who we don’t expect to see in a film by Martin Scorsese, neither do we expect them to have opinions on contemporary art that are more cogent than not.

Where does “After Hours,” which will be undergoing a revival at the IFC Center beginning this Wednesday, fit in the Scorsese pantheon? The director signed on to the film shortly after Paramount Pictures pulled the plug on “The Last Temptation of Christ” — the film would be made later under the auspices of Universal Studios — and did so, from all reports, to maintain a sense of professional equanimity. Mr. Scorsese’s goal in taking a project was to to avoid getting “hysterical and try to kill people.” 

Working from a script by a Columbia University film student, Joseph Minion, Mr. Scorsese filmed on a tight schedule and with a relatively modest budget. He tinkered with the story by poaching from literary precedent (most notably, Franz Kafka’s “Before the Law”), amplifying Alfred Hitchcock’s signature “wrong man” motif, and milking the conceit that New York City is its own kind of small town. Coincidences bounce across the plot like a superball, ultimately creating their own kind of karmic connectivity. 

“After Hours” is tight in its machinations and loose-limbed in its particulars. Paul Hackett (Griffin Dunne, who also served as one of the film’s producers) is a 30-ish everyman, an office worker of fairly straightlaced mien. We first encounter him training a junior employee in data entry. Within minutes we intuit that Paul is modest in station and not particularly ambitious. He shambles home after work, gets restless watching television, and then steps out to a local diner for a burger. Paul brings along a book: Henry Miller’s “Tropic of Cancer.”

The restaurant is close to empty — Mr. Scorsese’s Manhattan is almost supernaturally under-tenanted — but a young woman seated nearby starts talking to Paul about literature. Marcy Franklin (Rosanna Arquette) is simultaneously brazen and circumspect, and oddly ambivalent in her conversational tics. Paul has a hard time reading her; the audience does as well. He is, though, taken by her quirkiness and, of course, her beauty. He gets Marcy’s telephone number.

Upon returning home, Paul, ever restless, gives Marcy a ring under the flimsy pretext of buying a bagel-with-a-schmear paperweight crafted by her “sculptress” roommate. He secures her invitation and hails a cab outside his East 91st Street apartment. The ride downtown is worthy of the Keystone Kops and Paul’s last $20 bill flies out the window. Confronting a cabbie with empty pockets is no way to start the evening.

From there, things only go to places the anxiety-ridden had better not contemplate, let alone experience. Suicide, hearbreak, bad coffee, an MTA price increase, rain and more rain, a Mister Softee truck redolent of sensual desire, and an angry mob out for justice — our hero both encounters and generates a kaleidoscopic array of ill will. Imagine Buster Keaton on a fool’s mission albeit within the distorted confines of a noir as imagined by Luis Bunuel. 

Mr. Dunne is terrific throughout as a man caught between his own initiative and circumstances that beggar the cruelest of fates. A B-movie perennial, Dick Miller, is sharp in a cameo as a low-rent restaurateur, but all the players are on-the-money, especially Ms. Arquette, Teri Garr, Catherine O’Hara, and Verna Bloom. As for Mr. Scorsese: This bleak, black comedy is solid enough to make one wonder if he isn’t at his best as a hired gun. “After Hours” is worth revisiting.