In Court Bertrand Cantat thinks he is performing in a movie of his own making, with the Trintignants as his supporting players. He is going for the minimal sentence, pleading regret, and is about as convincingly as Fats Waller’s mugging, or Edith Piaf’s lack of it. He is closer to Ronald Reagan as a domestic rat in The Killers (1954). As though accepting an Oscar, he lists the thanks in advance for awarding him with forgiveness, with special mention for Marie’s mother (who’s published a book wishing him canned for cat food). Only J.L. Trintignant’s name is omitted. Why tempt the second-best assassin in movie history?
Maybe I, as Trintignant, should send Delon a gun. He is still around, unloved by the gods for going on and on while conspicuously going off.
POEMS and MiettesA Quiet Pipe and other poems