Paintings nicked in Paris
The deputy culture secretary at Paris city hall made two excellent points today as he pondered the theft of five ludicrously valuable paintings from the French capital's Musee d'Art Moderne.
Not only had the theft been "very organised" noted Christophe Girard, it had also revealed what he termed "failings" in the museum's security system.
"There are three [security] people in the museum at all times," he added. "But those three people saw nothing."
Sadly for Girard — not to mention the trio he fingered before the press — the few details that have so far emerged about the break-in suggest the crime was less a hi-tech Hollywood heist than a good, old-fashioned smash-and grab job.
There appear to have been no deft switches (The Thomas Crown Affair), carefully-choreographed swoops from steel wires (Mission Impossible), or provocative, cat-suited slitherings between laser beams (Entrapment).
Rather disappointingly, the lone, masked thief who helped themselves to a Picasso, a Matisse, a Modigliani, a Braques and a Léger seems to have made short work of a padlock, smashed a pane of glass and climbed in through a window.
He (or she) then apparently had enough time to remove the paintings from their frames — instead of just cutting the canvases loose — before disappearing into the Parisian night.
There has, alas, been no word on whether a half-smoked Gauloise and small glass of Ricard were left at the scene to taunt les flics.
All in all, the operation seems to be have been a little more Pink Panther than Ocean's Eleven.
Perhaps, like the rest of us, Girard, the gendarmes and the museum's staff are asking themselves whether Hollywood's seductive visions of modern thefts, with their fetishistic use of technology and tension, haven't blinded us a little to the relentlessly opportunistic and oddly simple nature of most crimes.
The author of the break-in, though, would probably disagree — and might even refer people to a classic of the Tinseltown heist-genre.
Witness Hans Gruber's angry comeback in Die Hard when John McClane's estranged wife touches a raw nerve in the Teutonic tealeaf.
"After all your posturing, all your little speeches, you're nothing but a common thief," she says.
Gruber, sneering as only Alan Rickman can, retorts: "I am an exceptional thief, Mrs McClane."
A sentiment to warm the cockles of any coeur criminel.