I haven't been a part of the blogoverse for long, but it seems to me that it almost isn't enough simply to have a blog anymore. One must have a project. Well, I can get with that.
But first, before I outline just what it is that I'm about, I have to talk about the film I just watched tonight: Rififi. Holy sh*t, what a film. In an uncharacteristic [for me] move, I did nothing save read the back of the Criterion collection DVD case before settling in. I knew, sorta, that this flick was a biggie in the realm of film noir, but that was pretty much it. Now, two hours later, I'm trying to tease out the knots in my gut.
Damn.
Everyone has seen at least one, if not one hundred, of the "one last job" flicks in the heist genre. The crew is assembled; experts recruited. The plan is drafted. Supplies are laid in. The dry run is practiced, and practiced again, and timed. The heist begins: on time, or early, or late. The clock ticks. The hitch crops up [Doesn't it always? Hello, old trope.]. It is resolved; the audience is permitted to breathe again. The job is successful; the team gets away scot free. Or does it? Distrust. Dissention. Betrayal [insert woman in homosocial universe here]. Bittersweet ending: Crime does not pay, just like the Hayes Code established waaay back in the thirties. Roll credits.
Lather rinse repeat. Right?
Usually. Okay, now imagine seeing the blueprint. Uncovering via x-ray the original lost masterpiece lurking under the familiar banal painting. To call Rififi workmanlike does it a disservice unless you return to the original meaning of the word, to the guild. This is craft. It is French, of course, because the requisite, time-eating precision of that labor-striking nation is essential for ratcheting up suspense. And, man, does it ever.
At the center of the scheme, of the plan, is the weary, already-dead visage and wracking catarrh of Jean Servais, who plays Tony le Stephanois, the Ur-old con in for one final score. The one whose luck may have just run out. Again, there is something very French about his bone-weariness, although perhaps only a German compound noun of many syllables could capture its every aspect. His mug looks like a map of the Old World. Where the existential despair at the root of noir originated. And where it was later recognized, named, and embraced as paisan.
Enough waxing. You realize, of course, that I have yet to mention the central sequence, for which piece de resistance was surely coined. Get this: The heist takes place in absolute silence. No dialogue. Only a heartstopping brush with a piano key. The surreptitious thud of a muffled mallet. The muted click of a disabled alarm bell. That's it. For 33 minutes.
I'm spent. My 99 treatises will have to wait.