Sunday, 15 March 2009

a description of film noir that i like very much. it is by Geoffrey O'Brien.

This is the music of his own world, the one he lives in. It has the same air, the same weather, the same floors and walls and cars, the hot evenings, the eyes glimpsed for an instant looking out from someone else’s porch. This is no dream; it’s the very stuff of reality, as real as the thick paper of the book cover against his fingers. As real as the radio report crackling into the room from another outpost of reality. For sure, it’s happening out there, somewhere in the neon wilderness, in the asphalt jungle. A woman screams. The lights go out. A window breaks. There’s a siren, a shot, a dark figure running down the street. The shriek of the saxophone through the nightclub’s swinging doors, a body slumped over a steering wheel in an empty lot, a telephone ringing for someone who can’t answer, the elevator rising ominously toward the penthouse floor. And he’s in the middle of it somehow, he’s on the ledge, just coming through the door, peering through the latticework, crouching silently in the stairwell as the assassin goes by, his knees poised to spring forward. He reads it as another might read a lyric poem – because its images sustain the life in him.

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