Marc (Jean-Pierre Léaud), the car-obsessed protagonist of Jerzy Skolimowski’s 1967 film Le Départ, is eager to take part in his first motor rally in a few days, though there is one slight snag yet to be overcome: He doesn’t have a car. More to the point, he registered for the race as a Porsche driver, so unless he shows up in a Porsche, he won’t be allowed to participate. Lacking the funds necessary to rent one, he intends to “borrow” his boss’s vehicle (which entails hot-wiring it and sneaking it out of a garage in the dead of night), but upon discovering that his boss (Paul Roland) intends to go away for the weekend in said vehicle, he’s forced to come up with a new plan of action, legal or illegal — mostly the latter.
“From the moment that Albert Serra asked me to act in this film, and that I was in a position where I was being filmed with three cameras in one particular location, I became trapped within an experience that almost simultaneously was the experience of my own death,” Jean-Pierre Léaud said of Serra’s The Death of Louis XIV (2016). “It illustrates the quote from Jean Cocteau: ‘Cinema is the only art that can capture death at work.'”
“I don’t want the viewer to ever be comfortably seated in front of the film with a story that engages them from the start in a very traditional way and which then sticks to a very exact path — apparently exact, anyway — for an hour and a half, two hours, three hours,” Jacques Rivette said in a 1972 interview. “I’d rather, on the contrary, create a sort of perpetually unstable equilibrium which is constantly being adjusted, first in one direction and then another, so that, rather than being comfortably seated in an armchair, the viewer is sitting on top of a pile of chairs balanced on top of one another, and they’re wondering whether the chairs will collapse.”
“We’re like everyone else now — we’re not registered. They’ve burned the records. We’re just ordinary women now.”
In 1958, Italy passed the Merlin Law, which shut down the country’s brothels. Two years later, Antonio Pietrangeli’s film Adua and Her Friends was released, offering a look at the effects of this legislation on four prostitutes. Although the characters and their story are fictional, the challenges they face as they try to start a new life are, no doubt, not unlike those experienced by many of their real world counterparts.
“My intent was to film not raw, unvarnished events but rather the account of them as given by one of the characters,” Éric Rohmer wrote in the companion book to his Six Moral Tales series. “The story, the selection and arrangement of the facts, as well as the way they were learned, happened to relate very clearly and specifically to the person relating them, independently of any pressures I might exert on that person. One of the reasons these tales are called ‘moral’ is that they are effectively stripped of physical action: everything takes place in the narrator’s mind. The same story, told by someone else, would be quite different, or might well not have been told at all.” His 1963 film The Bakery Girl of Monceau, the first entry in the series, exemplifies this approach in a compact twenty-three minutes.
Upon going to bed one evening, Squire Allworthy (George Devine), a gentleman in eighteenth-century England, finds a surprise waiting for him there: a baby. Neither his sister, Bridget (Rachel Kempson), nor his housekeeper, Mrs. Wilkins (Angela Baddeley), knows where it came from, but they decide that the parents must be a young woman named Jenny Jones (Joyce Redman) and Partridge the barber (Jack MacGowran). Squire Allworthy sends Jenny away to save her from shame and declares that he intends to raise the baby himself; thus begins the life of Tom Jones, “of whom the opinion of all was that he was born to be hanged.”
The 1968 anthology film Spirits of the Dead is based on the work of Edgar Allan Poe, but a viewer who neglects to read the on-screen text might be forgiven for failing to recognize the third and final segment as a Poe adaptation. Unlike the first two episodes — “Metzengerstein” (directed by Roger Vadim and starring Jane Fonda and Peter Fonda) and “William Wilson” (directed by Louis Malle and starring Alain Delon and Brigitte Bardot), both period pieces — “Toby Dammit” is set firmly in the late 1960s. Moreover, the credits of at least one edition of the film describe it as “liberally adapted” from Poe’s 1841 short story “Never Bet the Devil Your Head,” a rather obscure tale to begin with. While the Poe connection may not be obvious, another authorial hand is much more in evidence: “Toby Dammit” is unmistakably the work of director Federico Fellini.
“Well, what shall we hang: the holly, or each other?”
It’s a question that might arise at any dysfunctional family’s Christmas gathering, if not aloud then at least in the minds of the participants. But when that Christmas is in the year 1183 and that dysfunctional family happens to be royal, as is the case in Anthony Harvey’s 1968 film The Lion in Winter, it takes on a potentially literal meaning.
Immanuel Rath (Emil Jannings), a professor of English and literature, is a stuffy, stern man, the type who makes all of his students write the word “the” two hundred times because one of their classmates pronounces it incorrectly. When he learns that some of the young men in his class have been frequenting a cabaret called The Blue Angel to see singer Lola Lola (Marlene Dietrich), he becomes determined to put a stop to it. As such, he visits the club one night on a kind of moral crusade — only to find himself falling for Lola. His fascination with her quickly sends his life into a downward spiral.
Iris in on the French Riviera: A woman (Jeanne Moreau) with platinum blonde hair walks along a promenade that overlooks the water, a purse in one hand and a cigarette in the other. Her pace as she approaches the camera, though fairly brisk, is no match for that of the camera itself. It pulls back ever farther, ceaselessly, racing away from her so that she becomes an increasingly minuscule figure in the distance. After a moment, a piano begins to play — dramatic, impassioned, suffused with romantic longing. It’s the sort of score one expects to hear in a Jacques Demy film (right down to the fact that it was composed by his frequent collaborator Michel Legrand), yet the Demy film that follows this opening — 1963’s Bay of Angels — isn’t quite what the music might suggest.