Pépé le Moko

I was hoping for another 21 Days or Casablanca when I started to watch Pépé le Moko, my expectations leading to disappointment as it began to alternatively unreel.

But as I prepared to watch it a second time in the upcoming days I found myself eagerly anticipating Jean Gabin's (Pépé le Moko) performance, so determined yet carefree, so abounding with robust life.

The police are at their wits' end as to how to catch the infamous Pépé, who pulled off a serious heist two years ago, and found refuge in the labyrinthine Casbah.

They've tried to catch him deep within but have lost 5 officers for their troubles, the resolute Slimane (Lucas Gridoux) still unyielding, even if he's Pépé's friend.

Pépé's an admired celebrity in the Casbah (I am not Pépé le Moko) who's simultaneously loved and feared, his cohorts as loyal as honest zealots, his love interests awestruck and jealous.

The Casbah's a sanctuary for inter/national ne'er-do-wells who abide by the strictest code, 40,000 living in space built for 10, according to no tight design whatsoever.

Pépé's alright but only as long as he never leaves, and one day an ornate beauty comes a quaint and crisply calling.

His partners wonder why he isn't after the diamonds but something else has caught his eye, and he soon finds himself enamoured as they discuss days long gone by.

The film's a multilayered tapestry rich with jocose fused role play, close attention deftly required as it boldly tears and frays.

Far too blunt misgivings are critiqued while the aged lament less sophisticated pastimes, and youth proceeds unaware of danger, having grown tired of callous reprimands.

One character drifts through the eras to find solace in historical reprieve, the moment erupting with resurgent life on l'amour's rapturous melodious breeze.

Travellers seeking intrigue find notorious grand accommodation, even if within their innocent curiosity lies the portent of windswept doom.

Pépé and Slimane craft mature effervescence, as if one can't exist without the other, the absurdity of their friendship reasonably profound, both attuned to forgive not forget.

Pépé knows who's who, the score, and responds as smoothly as the situation contends, his love of gentle free-flowing elegance as sincere as his desire to follow through.

It's a shame he couldn't have invested in stratagems leading to less scandalous arrangements, where his innate charm could have effortlessly flourished upon wave after wave after wave.

But he forgets there are things people won't put up with, heartfelt dissonance animate envy, sacrifice recoiling sans reimbursement, overlooked passionate scars.

The degree of tragedy depends on your viewpoint, Pépé's certainly lost and adrift (I am not Pépé le Moko!), but what outcome would have been preferable to his spirited boundless synchronicities?

Immersed in tell-tale liberality.

Driven to sincerely love.

Intrepidly endearing.

The French Casablanca?