When you think of film noir what comes to mind? A femme fatale whose virtue is as thin as the paint on her face? A hard-bitten private dick spouting Mickey Spillanguage while packing a gat? Carefully staged Venetian blinds? Lights and shadows? Lang and Curtiz?
I think of that anklet. You know the one. The one that reads “Phyllis.” The one that gets Neff hot and bothered and into trouble.
I think of a bed, blood and a pockmarked face full of buckshot.
I think of a long-haired lady with a pouty mouth and rapier wit.
I think of naked light bulbs in a claustrophobic casino.
I think of a distracting mole on the face of a living corpse.
I think of a bird that doesn’t fly.
I think of a striped blouse that mimics prison-wear
I think of ashtray patterns on a silk dressing gown.
I think of a dancer who doesn’t dance with a singer who rarely sings.
But mostly, like Neff, I think of that anklet.
This post is for Ferdy On Films' and The Self-Styled Siren's For The Love of Film (Noir) fund-raising blogathon to preserve the film Sound of Fury. CLICK HERE here for more info and for links to other blogathon participants. CLICK HERE to give a donation to the Film Noir Foundation.
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