Parlez-vous, Francois?

52 years of age is too bloody young for anyone to die, even a wanker like French celluloid splicer Francois Ford Truffaut. Parisian born and bred — French bread — Truffaut was raised — hair-raised — by an emotionally unavailable — which is to say, French — mother, and an adoptive — which is to say, alcoholic — father. His granny shared in much of his child-rearing — and can we all just agree that gents who receive toiletry training from nattering grannies and/or sherry-swilling aunties are doomed from the get-go? Possessing both a first and last name given to mispronunciation, Truffaut fancied himself a dandy of sorts, eschewing — which is to say, bunking off — traditional schooling. He took to the arts like a duck to an insurance advert, beginning his career as the lowest bloke on the totem pole — movie house janitor/film critic — mopping up after unintelligible French, Eye-talian and Swiss curiosities before deciding he could do better — which is to say, no better — on his own. He purchased a GAF® “Talking View Master” camera and was off to the bloody Grand Prix® races. I watched his first feature “The 400 Blows” with a couple mates from the Academy and felt as though I had received 400 Blows to the head, stumoch and lower back, a sensitive area that houses the kidneys or something. ‘Twould be the first of many head-scratchers that Truffaut shot in black & white through plumes of cigarette smoke, which naturally earned him untold honours, while visionaries like M. Night Shymalan and Ronnie Howard go unrecognized. ‘Tis this lawman/cinefile’s opinion that Truffaut’s best work would be in front of the camera, in the role of a UFO-obsessed, papier-mâché volcano constructor in Steven Schpielberg’s “Close Encounters of the Third or Fourth Kind.” Sadly, Truffaut suffered a brain tumor that would lead to his final encounter with a hooded, scythe-wielding gent on this day, October 21, 1984. In addition to his debatable cinema brilliance, Truffaut will long be remembered as the founder of the French "New Wave," a vowel movement which resulted in foppish, now-unlistenable bands like The Human League, Duran Duran and The Cure — assemblages for which there are no known cures, haha — along with solo annoyances like blind scientist Thomas Dolby and horn-rimmed crank Aaron “Elvis” Costello. Happy Anni-hearse-ary™, then, Francois Truffaut.