Noble sucker Plot: Maitre Charles Dunant is a little lawyer. He fundamentally protects only the innocent, and always-always-always-always-always-always-always-always-wins trials. However, even on the old woman there is a rut and in the sun there are spots and in general in the family not without a freak. No sooner had his next ward read out the acquittal than this nasty scumbag Frederick took and, figuratively speaking, spat the valiant master in a bag under his left eye with the bitter phrase “And why did you take that I am innocent?”, sowing no less bitter doubts in the soul of the valiant master. And the old master thought - and really, why did I become so trusting?! Eh, piercing blue eyes over the years have become murky gray, intuition has dulled - did I mistake myself and "smeared" the murderer of my parents from the guillotine to the sweet heart of every honest Frenchman?!! The end of the plot.
I have not read the novel by Gilles Perrault, so I will hang all the script flaws on Alain “the sad eyes of an unfed kitten.” Delona, for it was he who declared himself proud of the fabulous painters from the bay and adapted Perrault’s prose into an unpretentious chamber performance, in order to finally prove to the whole honest world that he was not only a former favorite of European housewives, but also a talent driven by talent and talent. However, born to crawl (like a stubborn hedgehog bird) - if it flies, it is low-low.
There is an expression, a wonderful expression - "to suck out of a finger." And so Delon sucked and sucked and sucked and sucked -- his finger is already blue, and he sucks and sucks all the time -- his hand is stiffening, he's about to have to amputate, and he continues to suck and suck enthusiastically and selflessly. A noble sucker, in short. And after all, he sucked 90 minutes of screen time almost one-on-one with a certain Manuel Blanc, selected specifically so that Delon could not only outplay him, but also look on his background in his 58 years as a straight hot macho from the cover of the Sunday issue of Playgirl.
Director Jacques Dere once shot good action films with Belmondo and acceptable crime fiction with the same Delon – in short, the mega-talent never differed, but until the “sad blue eyes of an unfed kitten” did not imagine themselves a screenwriter, Dere’s films could be watched and sometimes not without pleasure.
3 out of 10
p.s.
After a week, I don’t even remember how the “business” ended.