Shoot the Piano Player

Francois Truffaut's 1960 Shoot the Piano Player is truly wonderful. The film inserts a degree of humanistic levity into the portrayal of rather heavy matters, without triteness or laughs - simply an honest, loving approach. Charles Azvenour is absolutely amazing, and the interior monologue is delicate and natural; how does Truffaut achieve this? The camera's constant self-consciousness, the constant presence of a milieu of references, and the persistent breath of a fresh breeze - really, how does he do it? I'm not even a particular fan of the director's work, yet there's truly something marvelous about this film's combined levity, movement and strength. Gush, gush, gush. 

As Sasha remarked, "They all end in the woods, in or near a cabin, but it works!" This is one of the effects, I believe, of a trope done well, of something familiar multiplied and enriched through some deeper exploration and conscious enjoyment or appreciation thereof. Why do they all end in the woods? I'm sure the greater response would have to do with the realization of true isolation as the result of being the outsider, the murderer, the petty thief; but maybe it's simply because there's something stunning about a woman's body rolling down a barren, snow-covered hill, or a man rapped in blankets aching for intimacy and warmth, or futilely moving figures against a pure  white backdrop. This film is so great because it refuses to give the easy or the typical difficult response.