Classic and Contemporary Poetry: Explained

David Lehman’s "French Movie" operates within the surreal logic of cinematic fatalism, unfolding as a dreamlike narrative that mirrors the existential themes often found in classic French cinema. Written in free verse, the poem eschews a conventional rhyme scheme, instead employing a fluid, unbroken stream of thought that mimics both the urgency of the speaker’s predicament and the continuous motion of the film’s imagined setting. The structure itself—a single, breathless sentence—contributes to the sense of inevitability, as if the poem is rushing toward its conclusion just as the speaker hurtles toward his fate.

From the opening line, "was in a French movie and had only nine hours to live," the reader is thrust into a scenario that is both immediate and ambiguous. The speaker does not question this knowledge—he simply accepts it. There is no exposition, no clear cause for his impending death. The film-like setting suggests an arbitrary, almost absurdist inevitability, a hallmark of existentialist cinema where fate often plays an unrelenting role. The omission of a subject at the beginning ("was in a French movie") further removes agency from the speaker, as though he is merely a character in a predetermined script.

The poem proceeds to list what isn’t the cause of death: "not because I planned to take my life / or swallowed a lethal but slow-working / potion meant for a juror / in a mob-related murder trial." This passage plays with film noir and crime-thriller tropes, referencing assassination, mistaken identity, and political intrigue. Each scenario is plausible within the realm of a suspenseful French film, yet none apply. The absence of a tangible reason for the speaker’s foreknowledge heightens the poem’s eerie fatalism—he knows he will die, and that knowledge is all that matters.

The sense of inevitability becomes more unsettling when the speaker describes how others seem to share in his knowledge: "and when I walked in the street / and looked in the eyes of the woman / walking toward me I knew that / she knew it, too." This silent recognition between strangers evokes a kind of tragic intimacy, as if fate is an unspoken contract between them. The woman’s role is never explained, yet she assumes a central place in the speaker’s final hours, becoming his companion in a ritual of movement and contemplation.

The poem’s repeated references to walking—"walking, searching, going into a bookstore in Rome, / smoking a Gitane, and walking, / walking in London, taking the train / to Oxford from Paddington or Cambridge / from Liverpool Street and walking / along the river and across the bridges"—evoke the drifting, philosophical journeys that define European art films. The act of walking becomes a form of resistance against time, a way to fill the unchangeable hours. The locations, spanning Rome and London, suggest both cosmopolitan adventure and rootlessness, reinforcing the existentialist theme of wandering through an indifferent world.

The closing lines complete the cinematic structure: "until my nine hours / were up and the black-and-white movie / ended with the single word FIN / in big white letters on a bare black screen." The abruptness of "FIN" recalls the stark, declarative endings of classic French films, where resolution is often withheld. The film’s conclusion is inevitable, but its meaning remains ambiguous. Has the speaker truly lived in those nine hours? Has he changed, or was this final journey merely a preordained sequence of images?

"French Movie" masterfully captures the aesthetic and existential essence of European cinema—particularly the fatalism of directors like Jean-Pierre Melville or François Truffaut. It is a poem about inevitability, about surrendering to the flow of time, yet also about the possibility of fleeting, profound connection. The structure, an uninterrupted stream of thought, mirrors the inescapable passage of time, while the emphasis on walking suggests a final, defiant assertion of existence. Lehman’s poem does not offer explanations or closure, only the stark finality of "FIN"—a conclusion as enigmatic and haunting as the life it encapsulates.

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