I am sure all of my brightless praise of Le Samourai — a film that, in retrospect, I should have watched a decade or so ago — has all been said before, time and time again. The gorgeous, minimalist direction (I need to watch more Melville, clearly, and have added Le Cercle Rouge to my watchlist); the impassive and perfect performance of Alain Delon (and, in obviously a much smaller but equally delightful role, Nathalie Delon); the perfect-no-notes-copied-many-times-but-improved-never ending.

It is rare when a noir succeeds both at the visceral, tangible level and at the spiritual level. And even then: great noirs leave you asking questions about the world: you finish Chinatown or The Parallax View with an understanding of the events you've witnessed but a deep gnawing doubt about the world around you. Le Samourai inverts that: you understand the world, and you understand not just your place and Jef's place in it, but you sit there and wonder: who is this man? What did he want from the world, and what did he know that we don't?

★★★★★