His face is arresting, a long, narrow brow over almond eyes lit by youth and restless ambition, high cheekbones and a cool jazz man's trimmed mustache.
The rail-thin Thomassin, all angles and scars and wounded bravado behind his scruffy mustache, and Beaugrand, a tall, pale beauty who hunches her shoulders and bows her head and peers out from beneath her brow through a floppy lock of hair, energetically tangle and trade etched phrases and aggressive silences in fluid long takes that seem composed of a series of sculptural tableaux.