Zazie dans le métro (1960)

Browse any account of the French New Wave's beginnings and you're sure to encounter some variation on the idea that these filmmakers were reacting against "a certain tendency of French Cinema" which inordinately favored prestigious literary adaptations commonly referred to as "The Cinema of Quality". They counteracted this "tendency" towards "quality" by making highly personal cinema which flouted all of the accepted rules of both filmmaking and screenwriting.

At roughly the same time, Raymond Queneau was in the process of flouting all of French Literature's established conventions via his colloquially written novel, Zazie dans le métro. The confluence of these two contrarian movements was inevitable. Regardless of whether or not you consider Louis Malle to be an official member of the Nouvelle Vague, the sheer energy of the Zazie film is undeniably New Wave. From start to finish, Malle was able to expertly match all of Queneau's clever verbal wit, with equally inventive visual wit. Moreso than even the cartoonish satires of Frank Tashlin and The Marx Brothers, this film was absolute cinematic anarchy. Zazie was punk before there was a word for it. Vive Zazie!

The Soft Skin (1964)

At the time of its release, The Soft Skin was viewed as bit of a letdown after the stylized sensation of Truffaut's Jules and Jim which had preceded it. Audiences at Cannes even booed it. I guess that's understandable. There's no freeze-frames or voiceover here. It's just a very simple story told extremely clearly. What makes The Soft Skin stand out all these years later, is how astoundingly personal it was to François Truffaut's life at the time.

Though based on an incident he had read about in the paper, it can be assumed that what really attracted Truffaut to the story was the fact that the director himself had been unfaithful to his wife Madeline Morgenstern. Within a year of the film's release Morgenstern and Truffaut were divorced. This was primarily due to numerous affairs François had engaged in over the course of their marriage. The most recent one had been with Francoise Dorleac who just so happened to have played the mistress in The Soft Skin.

Viewed through this lens the film becomes something altogether different. It's a confession. To get biblical with this, the film is an act of contrition. But should that matter? In order to really understand this work you have to know the intimate bedroom goings-on of its maker. Isn't that the stuff of the tabloids? Shouldn't a film be able to be understood and appreciated on its own terms and independent of external knowledge?

Part of me wants to say yes. We have no business involving ourselves in the private details of a filmmaker's life. But then there's the fact that this film's protagonist is a literary scholar who makes a living by using intimate details to illuminate the works of Balzac. It's almost as though Truffaut is begging us to look deeper, to really examine him and his life. He wants to be caught. He wants to be found out. Perhaps the whole thing was made so that he could show his wife and come clean?

Weekend (1967)

Corinne and Roland (Mireille Darc and Jean Yanne) set out on a quiet drive to the countryside. What they find is death, mangled cars, cannibalism and revolution.

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I honestly cannot watch modern Godard. I've tried. God help me I've tried. The visuals are still "perfect" and the ideas are as intriguing as ever, but there is little joy to be found. While his 1960s output never shied away from "serious" subject matter, there were always fun and human moments to break things up a bit: The Madison in Band of Outsiders, "Ploom ploom tra-la-la" in Pierrot Le Fou, "As Tears Go By" in Made in U.S.A., etc. These are the moments that mark the difference between first-rate cinema and the angry rantings of an old man who needs a hug. The latest Godard I can really stomach is 1967's Weekend, which you really have to admire for its commitment to unbridled cynicism and provocation. Everything I've attempted to watch beyond that is a beautifully-shot emotional flat-line. No heartbeat. I guess it makes sense that he ended the film with this title card:

Breathless (1960)

After stealing a car and killing a cop, Michel (Jean-Paul Belmondo) needs to lay-low. And lay he does, with the beautiful American newspaper girl Patricia (Jean Seberg), but can she be trusted?

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Watching a Jean-Luc Godard film can be a challenge. Expressing how he was feeling  that day on set ALWAYS trumps plot. And as the 1960s progressed (war, riots, divorce) Godard's feelings and films became gradually more morose. This is why I recommend his first film, Breathless. The sheer energy of it is astounding. You can tell that Godard had a lot on his mind and was aching to get it all out at once. By the end of this cinematic tornado of staccato jump-cuts and free-wheeling camera moves, you feel as though you've run a marathon. You find yourself literally...breathless.