A girl’s knee becomes “a sexual grail,” as Stanley Kauffmann called it, for a French diplomat named Jerome (Jean-Claude Brialy): He eccentrically longs to caress it. What he actually does, however, in executing this act is objectify the girl while thinking he is doing her a good turn.

Claire’s Knee (1970) is an Eric Rohmer film adapted from one of his stories which he identifies as “moral tales,” and, decisively, since it has to do with objectification it is a moral tale. And what is the good turn Jerome sees himself as doing? While fondling Claire’s knee, he tries to persuade her to give up her handsome but straying boyfriend, although this is not because Jerome wants Claire for himself. The diplomat is spoken for. However, he is also mistaken in thinking he has succeeded in his persuasion. The girl, unlike Jerome, wants the relationship to work. Indeed, in the end it doesn’t matter what the objectifier wants.

The picture is lovely-looking and pleasingly thoughtful, but it’s also Rohmer and thus very talky. A hundred and five minutes is very long for a garrulous film; tedium keeps fighting the artist’s noble purpose, notwithstanding I am prompted to cheer such a purpose. And—oh, well—I have no desire to discourage anyone from seeing Claire’s Knee. (In French with English subtitles)

Frank Perry, who made some interesting films, directed decades ago the somewhat trite naturalistic Western, Doc (1971). Stacy Keach is soberingly good as Doc Holliday. Faye Dunaway is now icy, now likable as the good-looking prostitute whom Holliday loves. Both Doc and his friend Wyatt Earp (Harris Yulin) interact, coldly and violently, with a family of male troublemakers, who possesses what may be called a physical authority as great as that of the lawmen/good guys. Earp, even so, is not genuinely good.

This leads me to indicate that Doc, written by Pete Hamill, is about the tension between the weakening of morality (Earp represents this) and the rebuilding, or renewal, of something good and necessary, such as a town.

Virtues in Perry’s film are that it is hard-nosed and suitably, winningly set-designed. Supporting roles are striking (Ike Clanton, Virgil Earp) and usually nicely acted. In addition, though it has a thin ending, the film is never boring.

Antonio Pietrangeli‘s The Magnificent Cuckold (1964) is a worthy film. In it, as imdb.com puts it, “Andrea Artust begins to have doubts about the loyalty of his beautiful wife. When doubt becomes an obsession, his behavior becomes completely crazy . . .”

Scripted from a play, the piece is not as fresh as it surely was in ’64. Though seriocomic, it greatly resembles Chabrol’s non-comic L’Enfer. What makes it work, however, are the flawless performances of Ugo Tognazzi (Andrea) and Claudia Cardinale (his wife, Maria Grazia) as well as its bright worldliness.

That Andrea himself is an adulterer has much to do with his reactions to everything, including, of course, his suspicions about Maria Grazia. It matters little that she doesn’t quite track, because Cardinale makes her believable and the chemistry between her and Tognazzi is just shy of outstanding. It is a powerfully watchable movie.

(In Italian with English subtitles)

A handsome, well-dressed fortune hunter, Ricardo, conducts an affair with the married Fritzi but, worse, weds the wealthy, fatally ill Valerie for her money—this in the course of the narrative of The Big Bluff, a 1955 film noir. As often occurs in life, Ricardo begins as a rogue and ends as a devil.

It is the task of storytellers Mindret Lord and Fred Freilberg to make the Ricardo-weds-Valerie concept convincing, and they do. Partly this is because an appetite for romance is everywhere. Ricardo romances Fritzi, Valerie’s good friend Marsha (Eva Miller) romances Valerie’s doctor; hence Valerie’s eagerness for involvement with the rogue simply comports with the rest of what is going on.

John Bromfield, not unsubtle, is successful as Ricardo, while Martha Vickers and Rosemary Bowe are okay as Valerie and Fritzi, respectively. The characters are good-looking enough, moreover, that they seem to have walked over from Le Amiche. W. Lee Wilder did the interesting direction.

Available on internetarchive.org

Love Story (1970) moves fluidly and isn’t dated, but it pays so much attention to the two young lovers, Jenny (Ali MacGraw) and Oliver (Ryan O’Neal), and not much to the other characters, that it gets a bit stifling.  Neither lover is all that interesting, especially since Jenny is incessantly cynical and smirky with hardly a trace of amatory tenderness.

MacGraw, who was better in Goodbye Columbus, can’t really handle her.  She’s superficial—smug when she should be more than that.  O’Neal is passable, neither strong nor weak.

Erich Segal’s novel may have value, but the movie doesn’t.

Cover of Love Story