Charlie Kohler is a piano player in a bar. The waitress Lena is in love with him. One of Charlie's brother, Chico, a crook, takes refuge in the bar because he is chased by two gangsters, ... See full summary »
Abel Davis is a criminal, hunted in Italy. The police are closing in, so he and his pal Raymond arrange to flee back to France with Abel's wife, Thérèse, and their two young sons. Abel and ... See full summary »
Life's a rotten business, says Jean, a deserter who arrives at night in Le Havre, looking to leave the country. He lucks into civilian clothes, a little bit of money, a passport, and a dog, and he also meets Nelly, a 17-year-old who's grown up too fast. She's the object of lust of men: including a boyfriend Maurice, her putative protector Zabel, and Lucien, a local hood. Jean falls for her, faces down Lucien, and gives her courage to stand on her own feet. A ship is leaving for Venezuela; can at least one of them be on it, or is that just a dream? Written by
What could be simpler than a tree?
A tree. But when I paint one, it sets everyone on edge. It's because there's someone or something hidden behind that tree. I can't help painting what's hidden behind things. To me a swimmer is already a drowned man.
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Was there ever a better example of Poetic Realism (no, but one just as good, Le Jour Se Leve, from the same stable)than this, crafted exquisitely by the onlie begetters of the genre, Jacques Prevert - Marcel Carne. All the ingredients are present and accounted for; low-key lighting, atmos - perm any two from drizzle, sleet, cobbles, out-of-season resorts - and two doomed lovers who come together for one Mayfly moment in the sun before it all ends in tears to the distant sound of hammers striking firing pins and the heady, pungent aroma of cordite. Did anyone, with the possible exception of Bogie, do bruised tough better than Jean Gabin and pre-Audrey Hepburn were there ever so expressive eyes as Michele Morgan brought to the party. The Prevert-Carne team were on top of their game in this one which still holds up sixty years on. Purists may quibble that 'brumes' translates as mist rather than shadows but without a shadow of a doubt this is classic fare.
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