C. took one look at the above photo and said, "Yeah, the guy probably changed his name from 'du cul'"--or, loosely translated, all things ass. Probably not a bad name for a line of work that involves violating the formidable French sense of discretion, but probably better left in its adulterated form, implying the subtely of a mind that understands the need to hide behind a moniker.

Aside from Rififi and Samouraï, I know nothing of the French version of American film noir. Both films seem so impossibly stylish to someone who grew up in a town resembling Poisonville of Dashiell Hammett's Red Harvest. The American city is the missing character in these two Paris capers. One has a hard time believing in desperation-driven crime in a setting of such physical beauty. Magali Noel's jaw-dropping number in the first film is maybe the physical embodiment of whatever spirit drives criminal Paris. But still there's little sense of claustrophobia or decay.

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