Veronique Kwak (groaningbitch)

the flick which prompts lawrence tierney's overnight fame as the hard-boiled tough guy. now he incarnates into the 30s gritty bankrobber john dilinger to heaten up the silver screen.

the story starts off with one trivial event which triggers him into robbing a grocery store on his own, a female companion's insistent request on drinking another round of beers as well as the contempting remark from a snobbish waiter who dismisses him as "two-bit chieseler"... it draws the contour of his persona, always motivated by the provocation of overbearing pride which could drive him into anything. in prison, he aquires the skill of conning, then he springs his cellmates to partake in their gang. afterwards he substitutes the boss as the no. 1 man to dominate the whole mob. but eventually his ultraviolent tyranny induces the grudge of his mistress who doublecrosses him to obtain the reward sum.

the role of dilinger is literarily tailored for tierney whose private life rivals with the tumults in the roles he plays. dilinger is an abitrarily spoilt man whose vindictiveness thrives him but also abolishes him. his vengeful angst pushes him forward to wench the world into his palm, and it also antagonizes himself against others due to his keen disaposals of his potential foemen.

this is a flick accelerated by testosterone, featuring some raw bankrobbery scenes in its primitive state, and it's swiftly paced on a man's rising bloom and his flopping doom. and the closure is blended with a sense of absurdity, interwined with the agonic clausphobia to avoid police: great mobster dilinger gets himself caught for attending theater to see a cartoon flick.

one attribute from french new wave cinema is its bona-fide homage to american film noir during the forties meanwhile rejoices its burgeoning postmodernity saturated by the gaudy hues of technicolor. what most cinephiles who are intoxicated by swooning charm of french new wave fail to see is that "le samourai" is a homage to forties "this gun for hire" devoid of americanistic patriotism, immersed in its sheer apolitical aesthetics. thus the social criticism within the forties american noir is lobotomized and continues to be rejuvenated through the stylism of hedonistic sixties and seventies.

alain delon's enigmatic first scene resembles alan ladd's first scene in "this gun for hire". ladd's character in "hire" is raven who is an aloof thug doublecrossed by his employer, who turns out to be a national traitor selling nuclear weapon to japan. raven here is a de-romanticized romantic hero who pledges his devotion to veronica lake, who would eventually just return to the bosom of her policeman boyfriend (unrequited love). but the sixties raven, in the country of amour - france, is an iceberg casanova whose sultry gaze (as well as the shadow of his gorgeous eye-lashes) could emulate lauren bacall of "the big sleep"..in other words, he's quite capable to persuade his witness of murder into forging his faux innocence while he's got a prostitute-girlfriend who's willing to risk jail-sentence to create evidence of absence for him.

(spoiler)
what is neglected or constantly misperceived is the ending where delon shows up in a public jazz-club to finish off his last case of killing, paying the woman who forges his faux-innocence with chilly ingratitude as if his killerly duty is absolutely imperative. the denouement would be, he purposely appears there to be publicly executed by the police almost immediately just like a moth accelerates his doom to be consumed by the fire. the crucial detail is often ignored by the audience: he already empties the bullets of his gun before he goes to pull off his last kill. and he makes all the efforts to escape the subway siege from the policemen just to bid his last farewell to his prostitute-girlfriend. what hides beneath the cool iceberg is a flow of incorrigible passion (so hot and cold in the same time!) gravitated by the existential motor of fate as he consummates his utmost love in the form of death.

"le samourai" would be the most romantic gangster-noir picture which isn't about any power-wrestling feud between men but a microscopic confrontation of one's ultimate doom while perishing within the rosy fragments of romance, which reminds me of a james-dean quote: "live as if you're going to live forever; dream as if you're going to die tomorrow."

the androgynously beautiful alain delon shall be the superb embodiment of noirish romanticism: a feminine-faced man with a hard-boiled masculine ego. how could you help yourself not to love him?!