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Whatever la Belle Époque is, says Jacques Becker, its soul belongs to the golden trollop and the wispy carpenter. The eponymous bouffant is worn like a crown by the lush Parisian demimondaine (Simone Signoret), she floats from one thug to the next until she locks eyes with the ex-con artisan (Serge Reggiani). "Ils savent danser, les charpentiers?" Her current beau (William Sabatier) works for the dandyish crime boss (Claude Dauphin), who serves his henchmen wine and cheese and enjoys backgammon matches with the police inspector. A picturesque gangland at the bistro, a thrill for the swells to drop by to check out the cutthroats, meanwhile the switchblade tussle in the backyard is a serious affair, the loser's corpse is laid across the display window. Signoret in shimmering close-up is just the vision to wake up to following a nap in the grass, afterglow for the couple is a bowl of hot coffee and pastoral sunlight and the growing realization of the fragility of an idyll. Impressionistic canvases and Hollywood gestures comprise the textures: Canotier à Argenteuil right out of the gate, Danse à Bougival for the privileged memory, in between the laconicism of Sternberg's Underworld or Hawks' Barbary Coast. Mystery of romance and mystery of honor, what drives somebody to skip town and what drives him back to face the guillotine. "No, sir. That isn't done. Not among us." Vestiges of French poetic realism, from even earlier the Apache authenticity of Gaston Modot's lingering farewell slouch. Period lyricism and then, suddenly, a most modern evocation of the terror of film-watching—the heroine by the hotel window, silently taking in the spectacle of her beloved's execution. Even sworn enemies François Truffaut and Lindsay Anderson came together in proclaiming it a masterpiece. With Raymond Bussières, Odette Barencey, Dominique Davray. Paul Azaïs, Jean Clarieux, Émile Genevois, and Loleh Bellon. In black and white.
--- Fernando F. Croce |