As long as it's not de Gaulling.

I want to make out with all of you.

French kissing, of course.

What do the French call all other kinds of kissing? Freedom kissing?

What do the French call all other kinds of kissing?

Bother that; I want to know what the French call French kissing. (Tangentially, I once asked my grandmother what Greeks say when they want to say "It's Greek to me;" turns out the answer is "By me it's Chinese.")

French Kissing was really invented in Belgium.

I had to laugh at the queue description, but I don't think I'm that bad about it. My queue is kind of schizy, though. I'm thinking it would be less revealing about me and more "Who the fuck were we chasing?" I'd see the Black Dahlia...pretend you're surprised. Yeah, I've always wondered if it was, say, French kissing and English kissing.

Given that the same verb is used for kissing and fucking, do you think they bothered with what's in the middle?

Sacre bleu, I hope so. The middle is some of my favorite stuff.

The Flick Filosopher has a rather negative review of Black Dahlia that is well-written in her usual clever way. (Read her review of Memento for more clever reviewing.) I like the end:

I could see that he might have the right moves, that he had a spark of something classy and classic in this De Palma disaster, too, but he just wasn’t man enough yet to finagle the disaster around to his own benefit. This Hartnett kid, he let himself play the victim, walked right into a slaughterhouse of bad, seduced by the De Palma name, maybe, did okay for a bit before the knives came out at the laugh riot of the ending -- where the shouting ramps up even more and De Palma goes nuts -- and he got chewed up and spit out...

He stared at me like the white light coming out of a projector with the tail end of celluloid on the reel flapping around.

“Okay, look: you know that dead Dahlia girl?” I said.

“Sure,” he said.

“You get how it’s supposed to be sad that she was so desperate for fame and fortune that she’d do anything?” I said.

“Sure,” he said. And then the paparazzi bulb flashed over his head. “Oh.”

I waived my fee. He seemed like a nice kid. But I made him buy me another popcorn on the way out.

Bob le Flambeur is very enjoyable. Le Samourai is colder and more severe, but beautiful in its way and a fascinating late noir.

I've seen both of these, and found Le Samourai to be visually interesting, and an historical document on Asian influences in western film, but ultimately it's a big pile of stylish nonsense. Pretty nonsense, but.

(If you want hot Alain Delon, where he actually speaks more than 3 lines of dialogue, go see Purple Noon -- in French, it was called Plein Soleil, but I am pretty sure that neither of those words is "purple" -- it is an early adaptation of i The Talented Mr. Ripley, of all things, adapted to a very French worldview.)

Bob le Flambeur is a little less ridiculously in love with itself, and it's got a sense of play (and a great sense of postwar Paris), and has the enthusiasm of amateurism on its side.