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A man lies on the bed in his shabby, absurdly spartan apartment, smoking listlessly, as the intermittent rush of cars outside, and the incessant chirping of a small bird within are the only noises disturbing the silence. After a while, he gets up, places an undeniably out-of-style, but still incredibly debonair trenchcoat and fedora upon himself, stopping to adjust it perfectly in a mirror before he walks out, exiting to descent down the building's stairs to the rain-soaked streets of a grey, mid-century Paris. Outside, a gendarme patrols amongst the parked vehicles, the man watching him warily, before pulling a ridiculously outsized chain of keys from his pocket, and covertly steals one of the cars, as a strangely carnival-like piece of music begins playing on the soundtrack, as if it's serving to transport us into his world, one that appears to be identical to our own on the surface, but is still an undeniably different reality of its own. Who is this mysterious man in question? His name is Jef Costello, and he serves as the "hero" of Jean-Pierre Melville's Le Samourai, a film whose sleek aesthetics and tale of a lone, elite criminal have made it one of those most iconic and influential works of modern crime cinema, but one that still stands apart as a surreal, stylish classic in its own right.


It's a film as sparse and cold as the lifestyle of its titular "samourai" Jef, played in a career-defining turn from Alain Delon, as a Parisian hitman who lives in about as much solitude as a human being possibly can, with nothing to keep him company in his grotesquely underfurnished apartment besides his impeccable retro fashion sense, the ever-present chirping of his pet bird flitting about in its cage, and the occasional outside visit to his lover (and professional alibi) Jane, the only hint of companionship or human warmth in his life. Of course, that's the way he likes things, as it keeps unnecessary entanglements from complicating his line of work, that is, until he accidentally crosses paths with a beautiful pianist in the process of completing an "assignment", a complication that leads to Jef finding himself in the crosshairs of both the police and his murderous employers, even though both of them prove unable to meet the mettle of this modern samurai in the end.


It's a simple plot, granted, but the story is definitely not the star here, and to be honest, there are times where if feels like even Delon isn't the star of the film; rather, the real stand-out here is Melville's style, which somehow feels both incredibly minimal and undeniably vivid at the same time, with its emphasis on long, dialogue-free stretches of near-total silence, camerawork that mixes groundbreaking, guerilla-style handheld work during chase scenes with more subtly active cinematography during calmer moments, and its sleek, stylish, modernistic production design that's often stark and monochrome to the point of slight unreality, as Melville takes the world as we know it and alters it as he sees fit, in order to tailor it to the film as perfectly as Costello's 40's-style trenchcoat.


Speaking of whom, Delon is no slouch here either, as the unshakably calm, placid professionalism of Jef's demeanor is as cold as the constant, icy-blue stare of his eyes from underneath his ever-present hat, and his underlying, personal code of conduct shines through his characterization despite his lack of dialogue here, as he's a man who's defined by actions rather than words, as is almost everyone else in the film for that matter, as characters often operate in complete, no-nonsense silence, and Melville trusts us not to get antsy with a lack of chatter, rather, letting us just observe events and luxriate in his rich sense of aesthetics as we do so, as, while we observe Jef and watch one master at work, we're doing the same for Melville himself. The entire film has this fascinating sense of solitude about it, as, since Jef never talks unnecessarily, we never learn all that much concrete about his personal ethos, rather, Melville leaves that up to our interpretation, giving us just enough clues to hint at a deeper sense of fatalism beneath the facade of the cold-blooded hitman, as Jef lives by a cryptic, but undeniable code of honor, and, at the end of the film, dies with the honor of a true samurai, but not without leaving an indelible mark on the people around him, much like the one Le Samourai has left behind on generations of filmmakers ever since.

A man lies on the bed in his shabby, absurdly spartan apartment, smoking listlessly, as the intermittent rush of cars outside, and the incessant chirping of a small bird within are the only noises disturbing the silence. After a while, he gets up, places an undeniably out-of-style, but still incredibly debonair trenchcoat and fedora upon himself, stopping to adjust it perfectly in a mirror before he walks out, exiting to descent down the building's stairs to the rain-soaked streets of a grey, mid-century Paris. Outside, a gendarme patrols amongst the parked vehicles, the man watching him warily, before pulling a ridiculously outsized chain of keys from his pocket, and covertly steals one of the cars, as a strangely carnival-like piece of music begins playing on the soundtrack, as if it's serving to transport us into his world, one that appears to be identical to our own on the surface, but is still an undeniably different reality of its own. Who is this mysterious man in question? His name is Jef Costello, and he serves as the "hero" of Jean-Pierre Melville's Le Samourai, a film whose sleek aesthetics and tale of a lone, elite criminal have made it one of those most iconic and influential works of modern crime cinema, but one that still stands apart as a surreal, stylish classic in its own right.


It's a film as sparse and cold as the lifestyle of its titular "samourai" Jef, played in a career-defining turn from Alain Delon, as a Parisian hitman who lives in about as much solitude as a human being possibly can, with nothing to keep him company in his grotesquely underfurnished apartment besides his impeccable retro fashion sense, the ever-present chirping of his pet bird flitting about in its cage, and the occasional outside visit to his lover (and professional alibi) Jane, the only hint of companionship or human warmth in his life. Of course, that's the way he likes things, as it keeps unnecessary entanglements from complicating his line of work, that is, until he accidentally crosses paths with a beautiful pianist in the process of completing an "assignment", a complication that leads to Jef finding himself in the crosshairs of both the police and his murderous employers, even though both of them prove unable to meet the mettle of this modern samurai in the end.


It's a simple plot, granted, but the story is definitely not the star here, and to be honest, there are times where if feels like even Delon isn't the star of the film; rather, the real stand-out here is Melville's style, which somehow feels both incredibly minimal and undeniably vivid at the same time, with its emphasis on long, dialogue-free stretches of near-total silence, camerawork that mixes groundbreaking, guerilla-style handheld work during chase scenes with more subtly active cinematography during calmer moments, and its sleek, stylish, modernistic production design that's often stark and monochrome to the point of slight unreality, as Melville takes the world as we know it and alters it as he sees fit, in order to tailor it to the film as perfectly as Costello's 40's-style trenchcoat.


Speaking of whom, Delon is no slouch here either, as the unshakably calm, placid professionalism of Jef's demeanor is as cold as the constant, icy-blue stare of his eyes from underneath his ever-present hat, and his underlying, personal code of conduct shines through his characterization despite his lack of dialogue here, as he's a man who's defined by actions rather than words, as is almost everyone else in the film for that matter, as characters often operate in complete, no-nonsense silence, and Melville trusts us not to get antsy with a lack of chatter, rather, letting us just observe events and luxriate in his rich sense of aesthetics as we do so, as, while we observe Jef and watch one master at work, we're doing the same for Melville himself. The entire film has this fascinating sense of solitude about it, as, since Jef never talks unnecessarily, we never learn all that much concrete about his personal ethos, rather, Melville leaves that up to our interpretation, giving us just enough clues to hint at a deeper sense of fatalism beneath the facade of the cold-blooded hitman, as Jef lives by a cryptic, but undeniable code of honor, and, at the end of the film, dies with the honor of a true samurai, but not without leaving an indelible mark on the people around him, much like the one Le Samourai has left behind on generations of filmmakers ever since.