a review of Leon
Near and By 
the Lando family
    
The empty hallways are softly-lit from above, the skylight panels filmed over with residue of last week’s acid rain.  The beige a tattered coat upon the substandard drywalls.
Feeling like the demolition crew’s about to drop by anytime now. The floor eating up the whispers of cat-like steps.  There is no one around.  Nobody hears anything, nothing ever happens.  The strangest out-of-the-blue is yet to occur on this ordinary, ho-hum day.  The dread feeling of the storm drawing close: when last night you forgot to say your prayers.
    Abode of the poor family next door; its single outstanding feature, saving it from all this drabness - a horror in itself.  A revelation of cruelty and the product of evil inflicted upon the involved and his sinless children.  The bright, ghastly crimson; juice of human existence forming a pool and curdling around the father’s bullet-riddled corpse. The dance
macabre of fools!  For in utter foolishness during the dance he knew not when to look and stop.
    Our hero’s door when once before an iron wall, stands in the distance - a spot of brown
chocolate, of solace and warmth.  What lies inside?  For the longest time it has remained shut, a reluctant opening only when absolutely necessary.  Being at the end of the hall, no 
benefits of the sunlight are gleaned; no beckoning cheer.  In la sombra, all colors seem to run into a banal pool of Sunday-morning gray.  
  
Leon’s apartment
    
At first glance, what seems deceivingly sparse - equipped only with the barest of essentials.  A clutch of rooms, kept free of distractions.  Containing only tools, with no thought set aside for beauty; for in the emptiness of neurosis is he kept secure.  But a second glance held longer grants a few more valuable insights into the character of the man.
    Strange, one must note: garage-sale gizmos that we never really see him use.  A transistor radio, and television  that lay there; occupying space if not for much else.  The ceiling fan lazily revolving, plus a smaller one set up at the window.   The icebox almost anorexic in the lack of a few, meager essentials other than peanut butter, eggs, and  cartons of milk always prominent.  Wraith-like, bone-pale curtains hide when there is nothing really to see.  Bottle of pasta sauce on a small, square, wooden table, accompanied by a trio of straight-backed, cushionless wooden chairs.  Brownish splotches
on the walls - dirt or blood?  Or when Leon settled into this lonesome niche did he even bother to fix up things?  Small, tacked-on lithographs depict nondescript settings - a feeble
attempt against simplicity pushed overboard into drabness.
     Strangely enough, a strained vestige of almost invisible humanity: the bedroom.  A single bed too large for one man, a couple of pillows, the closets sulking in the corner - sounding creaks and complaints, preferring not to be bothered.
   
Somewhere else, we are shown a tall, single bulb lamp almost too shy in shedding light.
Old tick-tock with a glass face shy of a few rag-wipes.  A black, leather la-z-boy lay menacing in the center, Leon’s cradle of elusive peace: his nest of troubled half-born dreams.  Not to be missed: le piece de resistence, the ubiquitous potted plant. 
    The unrequited  love of a heartless, mechanical, (yet) sad-eyed killer for hire.

Leon, our Hero
    
A minimalist of sorts: no jewelry on his sparse frame, hair cropped close to the scalp, the “peasant’s” shirt always buttoned all the way up (hinting at a sense of  extreme orderliness), and trousers with abrupt seams that bespeak the lack of fashion sense, utilitarian  suspenders; and no-nonsense workman’s  brown shoes.  Clothing that lacks ornamentation, but otherwise effectively sending the message clear across:
I mean business.
Always the same shapeless coat to obscure the contours of weapons on his body; strapped and secure - the tools of  the trade in a line of work that provides the least margin for error.
    Intelligent eyes rimmed by dark circles - evidence of the past night’s lack of sleep.  In a life where it is called for that one sleeps with an eye left open.  Not much for conversation, our hero throws a mildly cynical, wet blanket over mostly mindless chit-chat
with the quintessence of Laconic.  And prefers to meditate upon the situation at hand, the 
thoughts of the moment stranded.

    The only vanity a pair of darkened glasses, helping shut-off unnecessary external stimuli.  Keeping his focus upon the prey, or in seeking to find rest in sleep - shutting up
the numbing, intrusive noises.

la demoiselle, Mathilda

    Soft, dark hair left free of perm or curl, and cut short present a fragile, secret innocence.  Pair of faddish, Gap-reject denim shorts with cartoon-print leggings the latest incarnation of a punk kid’s experimentation; homage paid to the 80’s teenybopper female
pop singers.  Wide, brown soulful eyes drown you in virtue of serioso and sorrow.  The requisite cheap article of jewelry, a Renaissance sun set on a choker.  “I don’t care”, scuffed ankle boots to scare the oddities that roam the streets; offset by the gentle lace,
grannyish sweater.  An aim for smarts and sophistication.  Trapped for too long as a child,
can’t wait anymore to be an adult.
 
Segue,
the explicit meaning

    A monkshood withering is our Leon.  Left foot mired in death and darkness, with the right yearning for love and light.  The sun which bestows, our precocious Mathilda.  The unacceptable union of an older man and a child not his own; sets us up for a quick peek, an intimate potrait of the odd couple.  Bringing the house down (literally) in a memorable tragedy, with all its accompanying bells and whistles!
97 August 6 (c) copyright owned by Siddharta Somar 
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