A few weeks back I was in the mood for a Parisian heist film, so I watched Rififi, the grandaddy of them all. I love seeing pulp and noir filtered through European sensibilities. The rain-slicked streets of Paris seem less frantic, darker than their New York counterparts, with Death taking a leisurely smoke break during its steadfast pursuit.

Death certainly took its sweet time with Jules Dassin, the director of Rififi, who passed away at age 96 at about the same time as I was being introduced to his work. Dassin was an American living in Paris, a victim of the Hollywood blacklist. Considering his name and the ease with which he slipped into French noir it’s not hard to see why so many people, myself included, assumed that he was French himself. During a ceremony honouring his achievements, a French flag was raised behind the podium. “It should have been a moment of triumph but I feel awful. They were honoring my work and I’m an American. It should have been the American flag raised in honor.” Not only had his country disowned him, but forces beyond his control seemed to conspire against allowing him to claim his own birthright.

I don’t feel as if I’m knowledgeable or gifted enough to offer up a decent obituary. I’m not even going to try. I’m just glad that, even in the time of his death, this man without a home was still able to reach out and touch people around the world, like the spidery slivers of shadow in a Parisian alleyway.