Henri-Georges Clouzot is generally considered cinema's master of misanthropy, with 'Le Corbeau', 'Les Diaboliques' and 'The wages of fear' standing as damning testaments to all that is mean and ugly in human nature.
'L'assassin habite au 21' may surprise fans of his work with its light, parodic tone. The assassin is M. Durand, an unseen serial killer who always leaves his calling card at the scene of the crime. Durand is not just elusive, but seems to be able to be in all places at all times. Political pressure is put on the police to get to the bottom of the case, with Inspecteur Wenceslas 'Wens' Vorobechik, a dandy living in an unexpectedly plush, Astaire and Rogers-type house, complete with maid, and live-in lover, the brash Mila Milou, a slappy Jeanette MacDonald-wannabe desperate for a job.
A tip-off leads Wens to a boarding house, peopled by a rare band of eccentrics (an elderly unpublished authoress, a disgraced abortionist, a magician, an artisan, the landlady, and a bizarre butler who does animal impressions). Wens disguises himself as a pastor to try and uncover the murderer, but every time he thinks he's caught the murderer, another homicide takes place.
From the very first shot, a spookily creaking door overemphasised by the music and shut be an indifferent barman, we know we're closer to the comic-fantasy crime world of Carne's 'Drole de drame' than any of Clouzot's later, bleakly inexorable classics. The pantomime aspect of the plot, with its suave killer, eccentric suspects, foppish investigator, is emphasised by the references to theatre throughout - Mila's singing; Wens' disguise; the soirees at 21; the magician's elaborate room and show (framing an excellent murder); and the final concert that provides background for the climax. Fun is also to be had in the bickering between the central lovers, and the spineless buck-passing within the police force.
This last gives a clue to the film's true worth. 'L'assassin' was produced during the Nazi Occupation of France, a difficult time for Clouzot, whose next film, the savagely satiric 'Le Corbeau', was denounced by the Resistance as pro-Nazi. It might seem jarring to see comically buffoonish policemen, when we know outside the cinemas the Gestapo are out collecting fodder for concentration camps, but Clouzot manages to smuggle in darker truths. The opening murder, where the drunken lottery-winner is relentlessly stalked and finally stabbed, is shot, unedited, from the point of view of the killer, and so may be the first slasher sequence in movies; but a film where the camera has been the authority, the equivalent of the third person narrator in a novel, and the point of view has been usurped by a faceless, undefeatable killer, randomly slaughtering in a familiar environment, has obvious resonance in a France under the terror of the Nazis.
Ditto the plot resolution. The narrative, albeit comically, utilises the old-fashioned puzzle format (e.g. Agatha Christie), where crime is concentrated in an artificial setting, is rooted out by a clever detective, restoring order. In Clouzot's film, it's not just a fact that every one's a suspect: every suspect is a killer. Again, in a France where good bourgeoises were informing daily on their neighbours, Clouzot's film or solution isn't very far-fetched. The 'singular' assassin of the title looked at this way is not a deception, but a finger pointed at the whole of France, just as 'Le Corbeau' would a year later.
'L'assassin habite au 21' may surprise fans of his work with its light, parodic tone. The assassin is M. Durand, an unseen serial killer who always leaves his calling card at the scene of the crime. Durand is not just elusive, but seems to be able to be in all places at all times. Political pressure is put on the police to get to the bottom of the case, with Inspecteur Wenceslas 'Wens' Vorobechik, a dandy living in an unexpectedly plush, Astaire and Rogers-type house, complete with maid, and live-in lover, the brash Mila Milou, a slappy Jeanette MacDonald-wannabe desperate for a job.
A tip-off leads Wens to a boarding house, peopled by a rare band of eccentrics (an elderly unpublished authoress, a disgraced abortionist, a magician, an artisan, the landlady, and a bizarre butler who does animal impressions). Wens disguises himself as a pastor to try and uncover the murderer, but every time he thinks he's caught the murderer, another homicide takes place.
From the very first shot, a spookily creaking door overemphasised by the music and shut be an indifferent barman, we know we're closer to the comic-fantasy crime world of Carne's 'Drole de drame' than any of Clouzot's later, bleakly inexorable classics. The pantomime aspect of the plot, with its suave killer, eccentric suspects, foppish investigator, is emphasised by the references to theatre throughout - Mila's singing; Wens' disguise; the soirees at 21; the magician's elaborate room and show (framing an excellent murder); and the final concert that provides background for the climax. Fun is also to be had in the bickering between the central lovers, and the spineless buck-passing within the police force.
This last gives a clue to the film's true worth. 'L'assassin' was produced during the Nazi Occupation of France, a difficult time for Clouzot, whose next film, the savagely satiric 'Le Corbeau', was denounced by the Resistance as pro-Nazi. It might seem jarring to see comically buffoonish policemen, when we know outside the cinemas the Gestapo are out collecting fodder for concentration camps, but Clouzot manages to smuggle in darker truths. The opening murder, where the drunken lottery-winner is relentlessly stalked and finally stabbed, is shot, unedited, from the point of view of the killer, and so may be the first slasher sequence in movies; but a film where the camera has been the authority, the equivalent of the third person narrator in a novel, and the point of view has been usurped by a faceless, undefeatable killer, randomly slaughtering in a familiar environment, has obvious resonance in a France under the terror of the Nazis.
Ditto the plot resolution. The narrative, albeit comically, utilises the old-fashioned puzzle format (e.g. Agatha Christie), where crime is concentrated in an artificial setting, is rooted out by a clever detective, restoring order. In Clouzot's film, it's not just a fact that every one's a suspect: every suspect is a killer. Again, in a France where good bourgeoises were informing daily on their neighbours, Clouzot's film or solution isn't very far-fetched. The 'singular' assassin of the title looked at this way is not a deception, but a finger pointed at the whole of France, just as 'Le Corbeau' would a year later.