Man of mode or ‘Music for Pepe le Moko, perhaps’?
The myth, ‘a myth of a man’. My father said,
A singing-gangster-cum actor, strangely unbelievable yet strangely real.
Quite surreal (still in my age; and my epoch) still, Pepe le Moko…
…is an idol of mine. Gabin, an only son of life. And the eternal son of France.
So why are words really not for music? Has the salt dried the notes?
The musty weight of ebonised coffee staining the air.
Eyes seen across another room by other disinterested parties.
In their eyes, looking at the others, mirroring their desires.
A flaming French accent over his character.
The grizzling English weather beat us into the cinema where he lurked.
Relief in this French cinematic Dickensian character, if ever there were one:
A sullen mouth organ bleated away in some dusty corner, of some bar. Somewhere.
A capped man glaring up just showing how to talk without words.
Stating his imminent arrival –‘you should be afraid’.