Having named the genre, the French can claim a special connection to that loose collection of cinematic tropes we call film noir. But with some notable exceptions -- Henri-Georges Clouzot's "Diabolique," Julien Duvivier's "Panique" and Jacques Becker's "Touchez pas au Grisbi" among them -- much of this tradition remains unknown to American viewers. And though not all such pictures are must-sees, many contain elements that make them at least entertaining and sometimes something much more.
Three years ago, Kino Lorber released a modest but inviting set on Blu-ray of just such description, plainly titled "French Noir Collection" and containing three obscure movies stunningly restored in 2K. A bonus was that each starred a pillar of 20th-century French cinema: Jean Gabin, Lino Ventura or Jeanne Moreau.
Now Kino brings us a follow-up collection -- also on Blu-ray and once again sourced from Studio Canal's vast library -- this time featuring four pictures, three in 4K restorations. And once again, Gabin and Ventura lead the . . . well, lineup. Moreau is sadly absent this round, but Jean-Paul Belmondo heads the cast in the sole 2K entry. (And just to be clear: Whether restored in 2K or 4K, these films gleam in black-and-white, free of blemishes yet still carrying enough grain to feel authentic.)
As in volume one, a typically rumpled Gabin (that face!) opens the set, with "Rhine Virgin" (1953), directed by Gilles Grangier, in which the actor plays a wronged mystery man aboard the barge for which the film is named. Will you be surprised to learn he carries with him a dark secret, or that his estranged wife, as opposed to the radiant daughter of the boat’s skipper, is one doozy of a femme fatale? The movie has its quirks structurally, but the performances and Grangier’s mise-en-scène more than compensate.
In "The Beast Is Loose" (1959), directed by Maurice Labro, Ventura is not only an ex-gangster (no surprise there), but also a former hero of the Resistance. Now, though, he’s a contented family man operating a successful neighborhood bistro called Chez Paul -- until fate comes calling and returns him to a life he’d just as soon forget. Though the gangsters are ruthless (the great Paul Frankeur is especially memorable), the intelligence operatives are even more so. The backdrop is Cold War, and Ventura is expected to recover stolen military plans that no one seems to have. Nearly every scene is gripping, but the way Labro and cinematographer Pierre Petit shoot Ventura’s escape through a World War II bunker above a beach in Normandy is heart-stopping.
Jacques Dupont's "Trapped by Fear" (1960) is the messiest of these films, and were it not for the impossibly magnetic Belmondo (at the beginning of his fame) the effort might well have been forgotten. That Belmondo morphs from appealing photojournalist to unlikable sexual cad while the picture’s ostensible star -- Claude Brasseur as an inadvertent cop killer -- disappears for long stretches does the picture no favors. But the location shots are to be savored, and the performances are good, even if the plot isn’t.
"The Passion of Slow Fire" (1961) is set in Geneva and based on a 1952 novel by Georges Simenon. It's a slow burn that draws one in steadily, thanks largely to Édouard Molinaro's coolly patient direction and Jean Desailly's extraordinarily controlled performance as a married but repressed schoolteacher who may have murdered the beautiful 18-year-old daughter of his wife's girlhood friend. As is always the case with Simenon, psychology trumps everything else, and this movie certainly goes deep and dark. But its visual starkness and reliance on uncomfortable closeups lend it further dimension.
Kino's first French noir set contained no real supplements. The sequel arrives with four full commentaries, one for each film. But don't get too excited. With the exception of the one accompanying "Trapped by Fear" (far from perfect), what's here is of such low quality as to border on worthless. The speakers are often ill-prepared and sometimes glib, demeaning what they should be illuminating.
This set's value, as with its predecessor, lies in its core content: French movies of the old school more interested in character than in making the sorts of political points so important to the ascendant Nouvelle Vague. That these films now look so striking and preserve, as if in time capsules, both Paris and less urban Gallic precincts only increases their worth. Would it be greedy to request Kino Lorber return to the vault yet again?