Le Samourai
Film Forum
West Village, NYC
3/31/24
Film Forum is at it again with some truly aces programming. I’ve no doubt that the seats of this theater will remain as packed as they were for Sunday night’s showing of Le Samourai, Jean-Pierre Melville’s masterpiece of slick silence, stoicism, and understated aestheticism.
Showing as part of Film Forum’s Alain Delon retrospective, Le Samourai knowingly bathes the audience with the real reason for seeing any Delon film — the simple fact that the man is gorgeous in a way that feels like a genetic glitch, some deeply unfair flaw in the universe’s source code. Cast as a near silent, stone-cold assassin, Le Samourai’s camera works over Delon as though he’s the true work of art: story be damned, trick-shots and interesting techniques be damned, scenery and location be damned.
Just look, eyes wide and tearful, just look at the man!
Being honest for a moment, I’ve tried time and time again to watch this film at home. No less than seven viewings on my laptop, curled up in bed, and each time I’m conked out asleep or staring at something on my phone by the end of the first act.
The mood of the thing is dreary, soundtrack repetitive, dialogue as sparse as can be — only enough said to properly contextualize the actions on screen — and thus it’s a bit of a tough watch when alone.
In the theater, however, it’s gripping, tight, and swift.
Melville makes directorial decisions that no modern-day director with their mind on the money would even think of making. I’m talking long, still shots; exchanges consisting of mere half-lidded glances; promises of human drama that fizzle to literal nothing before the water can boil for the steam; and, in particular, a scene of bumbling police officers bugging the assassin’s house, something that would usually be played for laugh after laugh, with humorous workaday quips. It is shown slow and methodical, again silent as can be, with no hiccups or unexpected turns. The whole purpose of the scene is seemingly the fact that, for the first time now in quite a while, Delon himself is not on screen.
I may not be selling this thing very well. My reading of it, too, may be raising the hackles of my fellow film nerds. Let me say outright and truly, go see this movie! Go see all the Delon films that are playing, especially the one’s directed by Melville. The list is kind of unbelievable, even if they’re bringing back La Piscine, which I remember they simply would not stop screening for months on end a year or two ago.
Delon is one of the greatest actors of all time, a fact that is little mentioned whenever he’s spoken about. In the context of Le Samourai, which is usually praised for the terseness of its style, its commitment to an unadorned approach and rejection of the baroque, Delon shines not only as eye-candy, but also as a performer of great merit. It’s all in the micro-expressions. Though in the immediate, Delon’s assassin seems to be unflappable and unfeeling, there is buried beneath the stern brow, cheek bones, and tight lips a wide-eyed fear as the tension mounts and he finds himself for the first time truly caught between a rock and a harder place. These little suggestions of fear, and one moment of honest breathlessness after a sudden chase, are the actual heart and soul of the film and its story. It’s hidden, but it’s there. And after the glorious shine of Delon’s insane good-looks wears off, the glow of the assassin’s humanity begins to pulse, and the forever moving tragedy of the lone warrior, slain under the failings of his own pledged amorality, settles its weight just as beauty’s rose falls victim to its thorns.
