posted by Charles H. Russo on Oct 23
On Monday, I came across an exhibition of film noir props at Les Passages in Boulogne-Billancourt. I didn’t have my camera, but inspired by the exhibit and the Writers Island prompt “the stranger,” I went home and wrote this poem. Armed with my camera, today I returned to the exhibition, where a security guard stopped me at the first photo. I smiled and apologised and the minute his back was turned, sneaked a few more photos. The one above is of a French police station, complete with two baguettes and bottles of beer for the fictional officers’ lunch. At far left you can see the edge of a vintage movie camera.
The stranger
looked at him and smiled
and he was lost.
Around the world
they went
with the force of a tidal wave
collecting memories and adventures
often taking them out
to polish and admire
like a bright and shiny diamond
sparkling and dazzling
in the midday sun.
So who could predict this moment:
her heart pounding in fear
and his eyes filled with menace?
Where did he get that gun,
aimed wildly in the air,
thick with threats?
A tragic ending
to a love affair
that began with such promise.
Was it the drink
that left him angry and uncertain
and her cold and distant?
Was it the jealousy
he couldn’t hide
when another’s eyes met hers?
Was it the thought
of her beauty embraced
by another man’s passion?
Was it the sleepless nights
when dreams were elusive
and delusions rampant?
Pushing reason aside,
paranoia toughened its grip
and he began to lose control.
He hired a private detective
to dig for the dirt he imagined
lurking beneath the surface.
Despite weeks of surveillance,
nothing could be found
to stain her character.
He paid a second detective
who assured him he was wasting
his time and money.
Still he couldn’t rest,
certain she must be up to something
with someone.
Like a suffocating blanket of humidity,
accusations hovered unspoken
between them
and spoiled the love
they’d given wholeheartedly
until trust gave way to suspicion.
So he drew the revolver
and aimed at her heart;
his was already destroyed.
Then he held her close
and smoothed her hair once more
as their blood merged in a pool on the floor.
I had to go upstairs and lean over the railing to get this photo, due to the frowning security guard. Spilling out of one side of the car are bundles of banknotes - the now defunct French francs - as though bankrobbers didn’t get far before being captured by police.
In addition to old typewriters, telephones, pipes, newspapers and other film props (see photo above), the exhibition features a variety of movie posters. This one shows a young Juliette Binoche in the heroine-in-peril role.
parisparfait.typepad.com
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