Another day spent out and about in the oblique world of Film Noir, taking the occasional picture of course. There's a cast of characters here but they don't really mean much to me. Some are badly written, some badly imagined. You can never tell. Everyone has a story. Everybody wants to get somewhere, maybe even out of this town. They all have weaknesses that will become obvious. Cigarettes and coffee. Desire, passion and money. The good old days. Personal clouds hang overhead. It's a spectacle of dank atmosphere. Tight shoes, neckties and rain. Forever rain.
Hear them whisper their dark and hungry motives out loud in the soundtrack's crackle. All set up to try to do bad things, things that they think will end well for them but they'll soon sleep with those silver fishes. They are as unreal as their monochrome images. Spectres and ghosts breathing, trying to sound sincere as they mouth their fictional lines at the counter in the joint. The audience long to dwell and become lost in this dramatic world, a world before smart phones and distractions.
Real names are for losers and only ever mentioned in the final credits, those blurred up things that nobody bothers to read. The state of the greasy hairdos is no one's business either and the music is as intense as a weighted blanket thrown from a third floor window. It was a cheap and grim production but I'd go again. I'm devoted. Silently we all leave the cinema and embrace the rain.
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