He is doomed. He is an icon out of his time. He is a hired killer, yet he is a last emblem of honour in a shabby world of compromise. He is a man who believes in tiny adjustments to the perfect shadow cast by the brim of his hat, who exults in the flatness with which he can utter a line, and who aspires to the last lovely funeral of brushes on a drummer's cymbal.
excerpt from
Death in White Gloves(on Le Samourai - 1967)
David Thomson
2005
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