Elevator to the Gallows

The ambition is bracing, but critical hindsight obscures how exciting Malle’s noir thriller is on its own terms.

A suspenseful, elegant entertainment.

A consummate entertainment rich with the romantic atmosphere of Paris in the 1950s. Coming at a turning point in French cinematic history, it drew upon several major talents - director Louis Malle, star Jeanne Moreau, cinematographer Henri Decaë, musician Miles Davis - and achieved near-legendary results with all of them.

Superb.

Moreau's nocturnal wanderings are made unbearably poignant by an exquisite Miles Davis jazz score that became famous in its own right.

These 1950s French noirs abandon the formality of traditional crime films, the almost ritualistic obedience to formula, and show crazy stuff happening to people who seem to be making up their lives as they go along.

The film's look makes a divine accessory for its music, which Miles Davis composed. There's not even 20 minutes of it in the film, yet it still defines the atmosphere, transforming a crime yarn into a bebop noir.

I could watch Jeanne Moreau wander through the nighttime streets of Paris for hours, with Miles Davis' moody trumpet tones setting the scene. But that's not all: I also get a fantastic, melodramatic noir plot, directed with a finesse you'd expect to find in Hitchcock's best works. And as if that weren’t enough, youthful recklessness and bravado add a third narrative thread that stirs everything up. It's Paris, criminal energy, the idea of true love and passion, and a chain of (un)fortunate events that make this film so captivating. And how elegant can a film possibly be directed? Take note: If a black cat crosses your path from the left while you're committing (or attempting) murder, you might as well stop right there and go straight to the police.