At only 25, Louis Malle introduced the world to his cinematic vision with Elevator to the Gallows, a hypnotic noir that not only pioneered the French New Wave but also served as a stylistic forerunner to Jean-Luc Godard’s Breathless (1960).
Florence Carala (Jeanne Moreau) and Julien Tavernier (Maurice Ronet), two secret lovers, plan to kill Florence’s husband, Simon Carala (Jean Wall), a wealthy French industrialist who also happens to be Julien’s boss, and make it look like a suicide. After carrying out the plan and killing Simon, Julien steps outside and starts his car but suddenly recalls leaving behind incriminating evidence. Leaving the engine running, he rushes back to the crime scene to dispose of it, only to find himself trapped in an elevator on his way out. Meanwhile, Louis (Georges Poujouly), a petty criminal, and his girlfriend, Veronique (Yori Bertin), who works at the flower shop near where Julien parked, steal his car and take off. As Florence waits for Julien at a café, she notices his vehicle passing by and is startled to see Veronique inside. Assuming that Julien abandoned their plan and has picked up Veronique, whom she mistakes for a prostitute, Florence aimlessly wanders through Paris looking for him. As the night progresses, a series of ill-fated events occur that have unforeseen consequences on all four individuals.
Elevator to the Gallows opens with a tense and passionate phone call between Florence and Julien, revealing their deep love and longing for one another. Additionally, the scene suggests an undercurrent of evil scheming, but the details remain vague, keeping the audience intrigued and the couple’s intentions shrouded in mystery. However, their objectives are laid bare in the following scene, which depicts in detail how Julien executes the murder of Simon Carala while making it out to be a suicide. It is a masterfully executed scene reminiscent of Jean-Pierre Melville’s cinematic approach to heist scenes, renowned for their meticulous attention to detail.
What makes this film fascinating is that Julien executes a nearly flawless murder, even correcting his one mistake—leaving the rope hanging outside Simon’s window. However, despite his precision, an unexpected chain of events, coincidences, and external forces occur that are beyond his control and have unavoidable consequences for him. At its core, the film explores the notion that actions have consequences—every character, flawed in their own way, ultimately faces the fate they deserve. There are no true heroes here, only individuals whose questionable choices lead to their inevitable downfall. The screenplay seamlessly weaves two distinct yet intricately connected storylines—Julien and Florence’s calculated scheme and Veronique and Louis’ reckless adventure. As the narrative unfolds, every piece falls into place, culminating in a conclusion where all characters are confronted with the outcomes of their actions.
More than its plot, which is simple and direct, Elevator to the Gallows is still spoken about and remembered for its technical brilliance, with photography, editing, and music all working together to elevate the film. By opting for on-location shooting—unusual at the time—Malle, with the help of his cinematographer, Henri Decaë, infuses the film with raw, documentary-like realism, while the use of handheld cameras adds urgency, both of which became hallmarks of the French New Wave and later influenced directors like Jean-Luc Godard and François Truffaut.
Additionally, the film is notable for its use of natural lighting, which allows Moreau’s makeup-free face to be lit solely by the city’s streetlights and the lights of the cafés and shops she passes as she walks through the streets of Paris at night. Though controversial in its time, this daring choice heightens the raw emotional depth of her performance and brings out her character’s complex range of emotions—despair, longing, confusion, and alienation—with startling realism. In the editing department, Léonide Azar crafts a deliberate rhythm, using harsh, jarring cuts to unsettle the audience while allowing longer, lingering shots—especially during Florence’s lonely drift through Paris—to create an immersive and hypnotic atmosphere in the film’s noir-inspired world. Finally, the film stands out for Miles Davis’ groundbreaking jazz score, recorded in a single session, which plays a crucial role in mirroring the characters’ inner turmoil.
Jeanne Moreau’s portrayal of Florence is nothing short of mesmerizing. With minimal dialogue, she conveys a wealth of emotion through her expressions, which Malle expertly brings to life on screen. Her restrained yet deeply evocative performance cements her as one of noir’s most compelling femme fatales. I still think about her iconic walking sequence through the streets of Paris days after watching the film.
Elevator to the Gallows movie links: Wikipedia, Letterboxd
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