I like to think that I’m into film noir, but I seem to be continually tripped up when watching the major players. I just caught Out Of The Past, a film I’ve been holding onto for fear that I’ll run out of quality noir over time, and I wasn’t impressed. As my mind wandered in and out of the film, I tried to figure out why I’ve been so underwhelmed. I think I may be partial to the less classy representations of the form, like Detour, Gun Crazy, Jeopardy and D.O.A. I like how stripped down these movies are, with a straight-forward plot and condensed running time that allows all the anxiety and panic of facing inescapable doom to shine. Out Of The Past was so concerned with its labyrinthine schemes that there was barely any time for Mitchum and Greer to sizzle, let alone get me to care about their plight.

“He heard Frieda saying, “You started it when you heard her screaming downstairs and you jumped out of bed. I told you to stay in this room but you didn’t hear me. You hadda go down there to see what was happening to her. And then it’s Prince Valiant riding to the rescue.”

“Make it Moon Mullins. It was more along that line.”"

- From Black Friday by David Goodis.

I’ve seen my fair share of film noir, and I’ve grown accustomed to all manner of lust, passion, perversion and betrayal. It’s come to the point that the only thing that could blindside me is love.

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.