Pristine French modernism here, the flâneur passed through the lens of post-war paranoia. Left me tittering like a fool throughout, though it's suffused too with a profound loneliness as this bumbling character careers his way through a Paris with little to offer the unobtrusive. Jacket notes say it's a deep injustice that Bove has slid into a kind of obscurity; on the basis of this—and the urge it gives me to go out and fine more—I can only agree.