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Matisse's La Porte de la Casbah is the basis, multiplied in a studio to give the citadel that's also the pure mental landscape of fateful romanticism. The Arab quarter in colonial Algiers, a snarl of winding passageways and sheltering rooftops and a hideout fit for "a prince of plunder," Jean Gabin instantly iconic as the soulful Parisian bandit. The police can't touch him in his lair, the local inspector (Lucas Gridoux) is an amiable sort biding his time: "I've written the date of his arrest on the wall of my room where the sun shines." Underworld shenanigans are part of the exotic luster, the betrayed protégé (Gilbert Gil) returns with pistol in hand to confront the informant (Fernand Charpin) while a raucous mechanical piano pierces the terse silence. (Suavity is all: With diamond loupe strapped to eye, a fence chastises a ruffian for his slang, "you talk like a baker.") In walks the slumming socialite (Mireille Balin), mistress of the champagne tycoon, "a walking ice palace," just the bait for luring the homesick protagonist into the open. "A vision out of the Arabian Nights!" A late gangster or an early noir, either way a bedrock foundation for the cinematic antihero served by Julien Duvivier with a fluency that bespeaks long studies of Hollywood (along with a hint of Lang's M.) "Charming... and frightening," sighs the lady perfumed like the Paris metro, enough inspiration for Pépé to serenade his kingdom from the terrace. The gypsy girlfriend (Line Noro) who will not be discarded, a chansom for lost youth not quite in sync with the gramophone, the tragic dream of a ocean liner seen through the bars of an iron gate. "They don't respect the appeal of your sorrow. Shakespearean style is out of fashion nowadays." The nod to Scarface is returned in To Have and Have Not, and there's Casablanca and The Third Man and Melville's abstruse recomposition in Bob le Flambeur. With Gabriel Gabrio, Marcel Dalio, Saturnin Fabre, Charles Granval, and Gaston Modot. In black and white.
--- Fernando F. Croce |