A deserted lot on the outskirts of town may seem an odd place to begin a sinister character study, but it is here —alone and in mid-downpour — where door-to-door salesman Franck Poupart (Patrick Dewaere, the apotheosis of Thompson’s durable neurotic crumblers) outlines the day’s events through shadow-boxing. Like all of Thompson’s characters, Franck fights a never-ending battle to suppress the killer inside him. His first call of the day puts him in touch with a wealthy old conniver eager to prostitute her underage niece Mona (Marie Trintignant). If Franck has but one saving grace, it’s his refusal to immediately jump into bed with a 16-year-old. But it’s harder for him to resist her conciliatory offer to kill her auntie in exchange for a share of the loot. What sets this entry apart from the standard big-screen transcription generally afforded the writer’s work? Crucial to Thompson’s style are the voices that explode like steeple bells inside the heads of his protagonists. And it’s a trait that all comers — save Bertrand Tavernier and leading man Philippe Noiret in Coup de Torchon — fail to capture. Thanks to director Alain Corneau and Dewaere, every action, every gesture, every moment of rehearsed spontaneity draws us closer inside Franck’s thought patterns. The feeling is infectious. This is one hell of a picture, one that’s certain to give your brain a boost. (1979) — Scott Marks
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