Pickpocket (1959)
Robert Bresson occupies a singular position in the French cinema canon, a director so committed to his own aesthetic principles that his films feel less like conventional narratives and more like philosophical arguments made in moving images. By the time Pickpocket arrived in 1959, Bresson had already established himself as a rigorous, uncompromising voice with pictures like Diary of a Country Priest (1951) and A Man Escaped (1956). Those films had convinced a devoted critical following, including the young writers at Cahiers du Cinéma, that Bresson was operating on a different plane entirely. Pickpocket was his fifth feature and, for many theorists and critics, the purest distillation of what would become known as his "models" approach: the deliberate use of non-professional performers, stripped of theatrical expression, as vessels for something closer to spiritual meaning than dramatic performance. The film sits comfortably alongside the work being produced across French cinema at the close of the decade, though it predates the full flowering of the Nouvelle Vague by a year or two and feels rather separate from it in temperament. Where Godard and Truffaut were fizzing with cinematic energy and self-reference, Bresson was moving in the opposite direction, stripping everything away. The loose inspiration drawn from Dostoevsky's Crime and Punishment, a young man rationalising transgression through a kind of intellectual arrogance, gives the film its moral framework, though Bresson transplants the idea into the grubby, everyday world of Paris street theft rather than anything so dramatically loaded as murder. It is worth noting for context that Letter from Siberia (1957), reviewed elsewhere on this site, gives a useful sense of just how varied and formally experimental French and European cinema was becoming around this same period.
The production was modest in scale, handled by Lux Compagnie Cinématographique de France, and shot in crisp black-and-white by Léonce-Henri Burel, who had a long collaborative history with Bresson. The pickpocketing sequences, which function almost as set pieces within an otherwise quiet film, required genuinely painstaking choreography and drew on the technical expertise of real practitioners to achieve their fluid, almost balletic quality. Running to just 75 minutes, the film is lean by design rather than accident. There is no padding because Bresson had little patience for anything he considered extraneous. The cast reflects his habitual working method: Martin LaSalle, an Uruguayan actor with no significant prior screen credits, plays the protagonist Michel with an impassivity that is either mesmerising or maddening depending on your tolerance for Bresson's methods. Marika Green, as Jeanne, the neighbour who provides the film's faint warmth, was similarly inexperienced on screen. Jean Pélégri and Dolly Scal fill out the small ensemble, while Pierre Leymarie appears as Michel's friend Jacques. None of them are asked to "act" in any conventional sense. For audiences accustomed to the kind of crime drama that trades on charisma and tension, such as the films covered in Macca's reviews of Phone Booth (2002), the contrast in approach could hardly be more pronounced. Whether Bresson's methods produce illumination or alienation tends to be the central question the film poses to each individual viewer.
Pickpocket (1959), directed by Robert Bresson, is a minimalist, morally austere drama that follows a young Parisian drifter who descends into the meticulous craft of theft. The premise is undeniably intriguing: a character study of a man rationalising crime as art, skill, and ultimately, existential necessity. Bresson's signature style (non-professional actors, elliptical editing, sparse dialogue, and an almost documentary-like detachment) creates a unique, hypnotic rhythm. For admirers of his work, this is essential viewing: a precise, philosophical exploration of guilt, grace, and the quiet desperation of a life lived on the margins.
But for viewers expecting a traditional narrative or emotional payoff, Pickpocket can feel like an exercise in restraint taken too far. The film builds slowly, almost glacially, with repetitive sequences of pickpocketing choreographed with clinical precision. While clearly intentional (meant to immerse us in the protagonist's obsessive routine) the pacing can test patience, and the much-discussed finale, though thematically resonant for some, arrives with little dramatic catharsis. If you're looking for tension, character development, or a satisfying arc, you may find yourself admiring the craft more than feeling the story.
That's not to say the film is without merit. The theft sequences are masterfully staged, the black-and-white cinematography is starkly beautiful, and the central performance, while deliberately flat, carries a certain haunted authenticity. Bresson's refusal to sensationalise or sentimentalise is admirable. But admiration isn't the same as engagement, and for many modern viewers (like me), Pickpocket's emotional distance can feel like a barrier rather than a virtue.
Pickpocket is an interesting, historically significant film that showcases Bresson's distinctive vision, but it's also a challenging, often unrewarding watch for those not already attuned to his austere style. If you're a cinephile or a student of French New Wave-adjacent cinema, it's worth experiencing. But if you're expecting the compelling character drama or narrative momentum? You'll likely leave respectful, but underwhelmed.
Pickpocket remains one of those films that generates more confident critical consensus than it does genuine popular affection, a polished but unremarkable description that would fit many a canonised title if we were being honest about it. Its reputation is not dishonest, exactly, but it does require a certain willingness to meet the film on its own quiet terms. Whether that feels like the appropriate price of admission or an unreasonable demand is, as the review above makes clear, a matter of temperament as much as taste. What is fair to say is that Bresson's methods went on to influence a generation of filmmakers, from Paul Schrader to the Dardenne brothers, which means that even viewers who find Pickpocket cold and remote are watching something that has, in a very practical sense, shaped the cinema that came after it. That is a kind of significance worth acknowledging, even if the film itself leaves you checking your pockets on the way out rather than carrying anything warmer home.
Rating: ★★½ | Year: 1959 | Watched: 2026-05-27
Trailer
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