There is an argument to be made that style can overcome substance. Or, in Jean-Pierre Melville's case, that the style BECOMES the substance. Melville wowed me with his 1970 caper flick, Le Cercle Rouge. I've been cruising for a stylish French noir fix ever since.
And wouldn't you know it? The Criterion Channel has Melville's 1967 lone-assassin film, Le Samourai, just sitting there, waiting for me to enjoy.
I. What Is It?
This is the story of Jef (Alain Delon), a contract killer who is driven into a corner by both the law, and the men who pay him.II. Everything is Cool
This movie oozes cool. Everything about it is cool. The suits are cool. The cars are cool. Paris in the 60s is cool. The wonderful swanky night clubs and cruddy greyed-out apartments are cool. Alain Delon is fucking cool. And all of it is shot with Henri Decae's wonderfully cool photography. You could press pause randomly, every few minutes or so and just be in awe at how gorgeous this movie looks. Decae and Melville was a partnership for the ages.
You know what's not cool? Dialogue, man. There isn't a character in this film that utters a word more than they need to, especially not when a searing sideways glance will suffice. Our man, Jef, keeps most of his proclamations in the single-syllables, as all too-cool assassin types should. Melville keeps everything action driven, and allows his audience to SEE the plot unfolding. He very rarely tells us anything. Sometimes that is frustrating, but it absorbs the viewer into the world of the film in ways that providing clean-cut answers and long-winded exposition never can.
There isn't a lot of music in this film, but, when it does pop up, Francois de Roubaix's score is simple, and haunting. It only ever pipes in when it serves the action of the scene, and never a second before. Roubaix's score is iconic, in part, because it chooses its moments and calls its shots.
Melville proves that you can tell a simple story, and by loading it up with pizzazz and verve, and ignoring the audience's desire for explanation and answers, you can craft a vicious, short thing that is both intellectually challenging and incredibly stylish. Most of the characters in this movie don't even have names: they are whatever their trade is: the detective is named Le Commissaire, and the piano player, in the credits, is simply "Le Pianiste." And guess what? That's fine. These people are symbols, floating around in a Cool Stew. This isn't realism. For the most part, Melville offers you action, and leaves it to be interpreted however you see fit. That can be a burden for some viewers. For me, though, films like this are fun to pick at and extrapolate from.
Melville's fingerprints are all over modern cinema, too, even if you've never seen one of his films, your favorite movie-maker undoubtedly has, and has stolen from him.
And, at 101 minutes, the film hardly overstays its welcome. Could there be a leaner cut of this thing? Sure, but then we'd miss all the COOL FUCKING SHOTS, guys: the long, sauntering game of cat and mouse between Jef and the police on the streets of Paris; the ritualistic way that Jef straightens his hat EVERY SINGLE TIME HE PUTS IT ON; the long-form, expertly crafted tableau shots of Jef laying in bed, smoking, in his dingy apartment. We'd miss all of that.
It's one thing to tell a nasty story about terrible people doing terrible things. Anyone can do that. To do it with the care, and craft that Melville does, takes real genius.
It's a gangster flick. It's also a philosophical one.
That's fucking cool.
If you are a fan of crime films, the assassin sub-genre, or just want to see how film evolved and became what it is today, give Melville a whirl. Le Samourai is a quick, nasty, stylish little piece of neo-noir. You know what's not cool? Dialogue, man. There isn't a character in this film that utters a word more than they need to, especially not when a searing sideways glance will suffice. Our man, Jef, keeps most of his proclamations in the single-syllables, as all too-cool assassin types should. Melville keeps everything action driven, and allows his audience to SEE the plot unfolding. He very rarely tells us anything. Sometimes that is frustrating, but it absorbs the viewer into the world of the film in ways that providing clean-cut answers and long-winded exposition never can.
There isn't a lot of music in this film, but, when it does pop up, Francois de Roubaix's score is simple, and haunting. It only ever pipes in when it serves the action of the scene, and never a second before. Roubaix's score is iconic, in part, because it chooses its moments and calls its shots.
Melville proves that you can tell a simple story, and by loading it up with pizzazz and verve, and ignoring the audience's desire for explanation and answers, you can craft a vicious, short thing that is both intellectually challenging and incredibly stylish. Most of the characters in this movie don't even have names: they are whatever their trade is: the detective is named Le Commissaire, and the piano player, in the credits, is simply "Le Pianiste." And guess what? That's fine. These people are symbols, floating around in a Cool Stew. This isn't realism. For the most part, Melville offers you action, and leaves it to be interpreted however you see fit. That can be a burden for some viewers. For me, though, films like this are fun to pick at and extrapolate from.
Melville's fingerprints are all over modern cinema, too, even if you've never seen one of his films, your favorite movie-maker undoubtedly has, and has stolen from him.
And, at 101 minutes, the film hardly overstays its welcome. Could there be a leaner cut of this thing? Sure, but then we'd miss all the COOL FUCKING SHOTS, guys: the long, sauntering game of cat and mouse between Jef and the police on the streets of Paris; the ritualistic way that Jef straightens his hat EVERY SINGLE TIME HE PUTS IT ON; the long-form, expertly crafted tableau shots of Jef laying in bed, smoking, in his dingy apartment. We'd miss all of that.
It's one thing to tell a nasty story about terrible people doing terrible things. Anyone can do that. To do it with the care, and craft that Melville does, takes real genius.
It's a gangster flick. It's also a philosophical one.
That's fucking cool.
III. The Policeman as Hunter
In both this film and Le Cercle Rouge (1970), Melville casts his detectives as superior hunters. They move through labyrinthine police departments with cool confidence and purpose. They work traps with precision, and are never far behind their quarry. While Melville does seem preoccupied with how damn cool his criminals are, he doesn't give the police short shrift, either.
Our heroes may be steps ahead, but the police are tenacious.
Francois Perier plays Le Commissaire, the nameless police detective who doesn't buy Jef's bullshit from moment one, and hunts his prey with patience. He is charming when he needs to be, but ice-cold when he knows he needs to lean on someone.
Sometimes Cool Criminal movies treat their police badly: Melville never falls into that trap. That's nice.
Our heroes may be steps ahead, but the police are tenacious.
Francois Perier plays Le Commissaire, the nameless police detective who doesn't buy Jef's bullshit from moment one, and hunts his prey with patience. He is charming when he needs to be, but ice-cold when he knows he needs to lean on someone.
Sometimes Cool Criminal movies treat their police badly: Melville never falls into that trap. That's nice.
IV. Should You See It?
For those keeping score, I think I prefer Le Samourai to Le Cercle Rouge if only because it is shorter and a bit less opaque. If, somehow, you are pressured to make a choice, I'd go with Le Samourai.
Miscellany
- The opening epigraph, "There is no greater solitude than that of the samurai unless it is that of the tiger in the jungle... Perhaps..." is credited to "Bushido: the Book of the Samurai." This is bullshit. Melville made that shit up. I love it.- Jef's bird is a bullfinch. Specifically, it is a female bullfinch. Melville wanted Jef's apartment to be all grey. Male bullfinches have a splash of orange on their chests. Female bullfinches are all grey.
- Originally, the film ends with Jef being shot by the police with a cool grin on his face. Melville, upon learning that Delon had died with a grin on his face in another of his previous movies, furiously reshot the ending, doing away with the grin.
Comments
Post a Comment