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The scent of Film Noir
A fade-in leads the viewer into a private detective agency in a sandstone skyscraper in the pulsating Los Angeles of the 1930s, filmed in foggy black and white tones. The camera eye wanders from a heavy old ceiling fan down to an equally massive and worn desk behind which Philip Marlowe (Humphrey Bogart) reads the Los Angeles Times, dressed in a dark grey suit with a white shirt and dark tie. At first only the quiet monotonous squeaking of the fan can be heard, before footsteps approach the door of the small office. Marlowe's gaze goes to the door, through whose frosted glass window the shadow of a head can be seen. Shortly thereafter a mysterious young lady (Lauren Bacall) enters. She wears a long white coat and a broad-brimmed hat, whereby her face remains covered by shade at first. She remains next to the door in front of a wall, on which the parallel shadows of the window blinds are visible diagonally from top to bottom. When their eyes meet, the initially breath (be) robbing scent of the film Noir unfolds like an explosion
Wildly roaring, the ceiling fan whirls animalistically opulent, slightly sharp, very spicy and at the same time cool notes of the old school through the room, like the olfactory expression of emotional unleashing in the spatial distance of the protagonists. This camera setting lasts about half an hour, pushing the retarding moment to its peak.
Then, finally, the mysterious lady walks through the room and faces Marlowe, who turns his gaze to the window. Just as the glances separate, the notes also begin to differentiate, the thundering whirl to lie down, to withdraw closer to the performers. Marlowe apparently prefers soapy moosy and slightly fresh green nuances, lights a cigarette, which he suffocates again and again in the earth of a potted plant. The young lady smells of minimal sweetish red and at the same time flowery ambergris. In this shot, the camera circles the protagonists for a good two and a half hours, seems to alternately come closer to his and her character, before the evening sun foggles the amber warm and resinous, the mossy-green-soapy nuances almost fougère-like in color (sometimes you think you can also perceive lavender in the veil) and the fan stops rotating. A dipping period of several hours begins.
A classic of the old school, multi-layered, passionate and mysterious, dialogue-heavy, lengthy and somehow only for certain evenings. Demanding old-schoolers require attention, can exert themselves and want to be well dosed.
(With thanks to Stanze, who gave me a bottle of it)