“What kind of man are you?”

The cut may have been the single most important innovation in film ever to happen. The legend goes that Georges Méliès, the French director who would go on to create A Trip to the Moon, was shooting a busy Paris street a day in 1897. When shooting, the camera suddenly jammed. Méliès fixed it, and went on shooting. When he returned home that evening, he discovered that the film had skipped over a section of time, the first ever edit in a film.

Whether or not this legend is true is irrelevant, because editing soon became popular everywhere. But the film I’m about to discuss is all about the lack of editing. Jean-Pierre Melville does not like to cut. His film captures the essence of patience. And Le Samouraï is the definitive film of his career. This is a avant-garde incision into the human psychology of a film noir character. Tone, style, and pacing are the elements that define Le Samouraï, and make it such a brilliant film. 

We begin with a quote, credited to an old Bushido code: “There is no solitude greater than the samurai's, unless perhaps it be that of a tiger in the jungle.” That sets the definitive theme that will ring through the story. Nothing ever needs to be rushed. The plot, the characters, and the shots are all drawn out to what they necessitate to, instead of zooming quickly through. If directed by a Hollywood director, the action and story of Le Samouraï could be condensed to probably no more than thirty minutes. But Melville wants us to understand the intransigent details of our main hero.

And what a hero, or anti-hero, he is. Jef Costello, a professional hit man played by Alain Delon, defines cool. From the way he looks, to his honor in his work, to how he goes about his business. Consider the scene where he steals a car. He takes out this large ring of keys, and patiently tries each one. The look on his face never changes. There is no emotion being put into his work; he simply does, not like a robot, but as a man so determined to complete his mission nothing can ever stop him. When told he will need to bring money to a poker game if he loses, his response is coldly, “I never lose.” Also consider how Melville constructs Cotello’s alibi, especially in the character of Jane. We are never told truly of their relationship, how it developed, and how many times she has covered for him before. And it isn’t clear from any of her scenes. It’s possible this is the first time she has had to do this for him.

The kill in the film, which is one of a few, is a tense moment, that leads to the bitter end for the man he is hired to kill, whom we never learn of who he was. But Costello messes up, he is seen by Valérie, the club’s piano player. When the police chief arrests a number of people who fit the killer’s profile. After a surprisingly amusing and thrilling cat and mouse game of dialogue, Valérie is asked straight out: is Costello the killer? She replies with a firm no. This is where Le Samouraï turns from a conventional plot to one that asks more from us that a standard hit man movie. Costello not only must take revenge on those who attempted to kill him in retaliation for almost getting caught, while being hunted by the police, but also must discover the reason of Valérie’s betrayal to the state. Subtly, we begin to understand who Costello is, and his final decision at the end of the film, shows his true sides.

But as interesting as the themes of the film are, the pacing and style are much more compelling. Every shot in this film is precise. Dialogue, is usually sparse, and only spoken when necessary (the first ten minutes contain not a single spoken word). The shot doesn’t quickly edit between moments within the same scene but only when needed to; each shot is usually the establishing and final shot of the sequence. The mise-en-scène of the shot is much more important than cutting. Everything happens in a deliberate pacing, that fits the samurai theme and code that Costello lives by. Color is also an important matter. Everything has been dimmed down to its barest. Costello’s apartment is full of gray, and as lifeless as he acts. Jane’s apartment and her clothes bare an innocent white, as she pretends to be naïve to Costello’s wrong doings. The only colorful character is Valérie, which fuels the attraction to her. And consider the big chase sequence of the film in Paris’ Metro. It doesn’t rush it. Costello moves slowly from subway to subway. Melville let’s his action build without rushing any single movement. And then it explodes as Jef makes the important dash. If Jef had simply been running from the beginning, there would be no tension; there would simply be simple action, which .

Jean-Pierre Melville is sometimes forgotten when discussed with other greats of the French New Wave. Most people know Godard and Traffaut, and others have probably heard of others like Bresson and Rhomer. But Melville is the unremembered genius of the time. His other flicks, including Bob le flambeur and Le cercle rouge, are considered masterpieces by those who saw it. And his most expansive film, Army of Shadows (a tale of the French resistance during WWII based on some of his own experiences), was released in the United States for the first time in 2006 to universal acclaim.

Le Samouraï is a masterpiece. It’s pacing, tone, and style reflect perfectly on the themes of the story. Alan Delon is a cruel emotionless killer, perfectly cast in this role. When it reaches its final climax, Le Samouraï reveals what none of us even expected; we’ve seen everything in the film before. But we’ve never seen it done like this before. That’s what the French New Wave was all about: taking what was expected, and making it unexpected.