Should we take the opening shot as a strange frame??? I guess we have to. Anyway two women are behind a closing umbrella, they walk upstairs to the talent agency and we go with them...and then they are never to be seen again. Okay, how come not INSIDE the place, at the piano, or even outside with the SOUND of the piano, then track inside and over, a la Hitchcock??? So I guess Clouzot is already telling us in a not very subliminal manner that we are following a segment of postwar society: especially how he then uses a Citizen Kane=like song cut up into about five pieces to show the lady singing traveling from the talent agency all the way to her first roses and applause of her Vaudeville debut.
After that we are relentless observers of more or less small disgusting details of a defeated country getting off its war torn tattered knees. And nobody ever handled small disgust better than Clouzot. In fact, too bad he never tried Sartre's Nausea. Almost everything we see after the first few minutes makes us ever so slightly queasy. ....okay, okay I'm grossly overstating that, let's just settle for a general feel of a lot of the film. Look carefully, in fact, and you will even see one of the cops picking his nose. And in how many films has anyone ever done that. Then there is a very loud nose blowing bit in front of the photographer lesbian by the main cop, and notice that she does not, literally, blink an eye or raise an eyebrow.
The point of all this is an almost feverish immersion in contiguity, seemingly, until you can smell practically every scene as well as see and feel it.
As for the other aspects of the movie, others here have covered them in a lot more detail than I. But forget about the mystery here: this is the ultimate McGuffin. Clouzot is about as interested in the real killer as those two women coming in out of the rain in the first few seconds of the film and are never seen again. From beginning to end all he wanted to do was follow a bunch of people around, not even particularly interesting ones at that, and say, here look at this woman's twitch, that man's hitching of his pants in all their insignificance, years and years before Tina Turner was singing we don't need another hero. \
Even the forced levity of the ending is bleakly done in a dilapidated part of Paris, and rather chilly bare walled apartment. With only the couples love for each other to see them through, as if to say there must be two or three million like you throughout the city, working your fingers off by the day for a little love at night.
From this it was just a short step to Wages of Fear and the ultimate in despair.
They don't even know how to make films like this anymore in the U.S. For that matter, they didn't even know how to very much in France then, much less now. The relentless detail of gesture makes even the neorealists of Italy look like bad psychologists. Which I guess makes Clouzot a kind of Rosselini on speed.
Very enjoyable nonsense, this movie. The only flaw, seems to me, and as was pointed out by another viewer, the lead woman is somehow not quite right. Everybody else in the film is just about perfectly cast.
After that we are relentless observers of more or less small disgusting details of a defeated country getting off its war torn tattered knees. And nobody ever handled small disgust better than Clouzot. In fact, too bad he never tried Sartre's Nausea. Almost everything we see after the first few minutes makes us ever so slightly queasy. ....okay, okay I'm grossly overstating that, let's just settle for a general feel of a lot of the film. Look carefully, in fact, and you will even see one of the cops picking his nose. And in how many films has anyone ever done that. Then there is a very loud nose blowing bit in front of the photographer lesbian by the main cop, and notice that she does not, literally, blink an eye or raise an eyebrow.
The point of all this is an almost feverish immersion in contiguity, seemingly, until you can smell practically every scene as well as see and feel it.
As for the other aspects of the movie, others here have covered them in a lot more detail than I. But forget about the mystery here: this is the ultimate McGuffin. Clouzot is about as interested in the real killer as those two women coming in out of the rain in the first few seconds of the film and are never seen again. From beginning to end all he wanted to do was follow a bunch of people around, not even particularly interesting ones at that, and say, here look at this woman's twitch, that man's hitching of his pants in all their insignificance, years and years before Tina Turner was singing we don't need another hero. \
Even the forced levity of the ending is bleakly done in a dilapidated part of Paris, and rather chilly bare walled apartment. With only the couples love for each other to see them through, as if to say there must be two or three million like you throughout the city, working your fingers off by the day for a little love at night.
From this it was just a short step to Wages of Fear and the ultimate in despair.
They don't even know how to make films like this anymore in the U.S. For that matter, they didn't even know how to very much in France then, much less now. The relentless detail of gesture makes even the neorealists of Italy look like bad psychologists. Which I guess makes Clouzot a kind of Rosselini on speed.
Very enjoyable nonsense, this movie. The only flaw, seems to me, and as was pointed out by another viewer, the lead woman is somehow not quite right. Everybody else in the film is just about perfectly cast.