It was sad to learn of Claude Chabrol's death last Sunday. One of that handful of critics-turned-directors who made up the core of the French New Wave (for a related post, click here), he specialized for the most part in sardonic thrillers that skewer the habits and mores of the suburban/provincial bourgeoisie. While he counted Hitchcock and Lang among his influences, his work has a peculiar tone that's like no other filmmaker's. Marked by irony and black humor, it is not to everyone's taste. Chabrol's narratives can tilt toward the absurd, his characterizations toward caricature. Seldom, if ever, are his protagonists' motives pure. Indeed, corruption, betrayal, and guilt are among his movies' key concerns, and murder is usually the central plot element. From early on in his career, Chabrol was accused of cynicism and coldness. Yet, as unlikable or appalling as his characters and their actions often are, his films also display a bemused detachment and stylistic economy that make them consistently compelling.
I've seen only a fraction of his considerable output (maybe twenty films out of a total of fifty or so), and I'm still trying to catch up. Chabrol stayed active right up to his death, and his last film, Inspector Bellamy, will hit U.S. screens before the end of this year. I'll be in line.
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