Balafre

The frames click like a pulse - pure film noir with a hint of asphalt. Chains glisten in the shop window, the text mentions a folding knife ‘just in case,’ 150 roses as a cheque for an illusion, and that very phrase about two types of people: those who have a loaded gun and those who dig. The beat smokes like exhaust fumes at the entrance, the jokes are sharp, like a manicure, and tenderness, if it appears at all, is only wrapped in sarcasm.

Everything plays into the big city cowboys: cold calculation, jewellery ‘around the neck of guilt’ and ritual bravado so as not to hear the silence. Here, romance is of the kind that does not bloom but shines; danger is of the kind that smells of varnish and gunpowder. It looks bold, is easy to listen to, and leaves you with that aftertaste of a cinema where the credits are rolling and the story still has you by the throat.