If you're like me, you stay up all night at least 3 times a week watching French gangster films from the mid-50s, trying to identify convertibles (of any origin) manufactured between 1945-1951 and trying to pronounce the word "Bob."
So there's no point dwelling on the obvious: every post-war French filmmaker of any significance secretly craved a Cadillac. No sarcasm or cultural indifference here; even Ansel Adams drove a Cadillac as soon as he could afford it. There's just something transcendental about the plentitude of all that (functionally irrelevant) sheet metal.
I'm starting to think "gangerster-ism" isn't American at all ... that Coppola's stereotypical Godfather probably has more in common with Marseilles than Mustache Pete. That's why I can't wait for ILM to turn PepeLe Peu into "L' Art." Maybe the French Film Aesthetic amounts to not much more than atributing style-consciousness to social outcasts (with lots of chatter accompanying the two-fisted smoking) ... and challenging the rest of the world to join Le Fraternitie in the heady revelry of snobdom.
Oui oui, ya'll.
French films from the 50s and 60s are awesome, don't get me wrong. I can't wait to watch five more tomorrow. But I bet we'd never find Bergman driving a Caddie.
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