“The Wild Child” (1970)
Leaving behind the genre concerns of his late 1960s work (the thrillers of “The Bride Wore Black” and “Missisippi Mermaid,” the science-fiction of “Fahrenheit 451“) to return to the theme of childhood, Truffaut’s “The Wild Child” marks his first period piece since “Jules Et Jim” and something of a spiritual follow-up to “The 400 Blows.” The idea of an uncontrollable child had interested Truffaut for some time (he’d tried to obtain the rights to “The Miracle Worker,” about Helen Keller, in the early 1960s but was beaten to the punch by Arthur Penn), and inspired by an article in Le Monde, he developed the story of Victor of Aveyron (Jean-Pierre Cargol), who emerged at the start of the 19th century having seemingly spent his childhood without any human contact. The result is quite remarkable —a quiet, intimate picture quite different from anything the filmmaker had made before. Eschewing most of the techniques he popularized with the coming of the French New Wave, there’s instead a sparse, almost documentary feel to proceedings that seems closer to Bresson than to Godard and a richness to the themes that marks it as the obvious riposte to those who find the director lightweight; it’s a film about the beauty of education, yet also one questioning the cost at which that education might come. Which makes the film sound more punishing than it is, because it’s also filled with beauty and warmth and humor as much as the director’s other films. And he also manages to make it feel personal, in part because, in his first major acting role, he casts himself as Dr. Itard, the doctor who takes in the boy and whose narration (often derived from the real-life inspiration’s notes) relates the story. It’s not an egotistical touch, however. Though his character is compassionate, Truffaut’s film remains a touch skeptical as such, but the casting clearly shows how to dear to his heart the film, one of his very best, must have been.
“Bed and Board” (1970)
The fourth film (including one short) in Truffaut’s Antoine Doinel series (which did the “Boyhood“-esque trick of casting lead actor Jean-Pierre Leaud as Doinel at various stages of his life from youth to to his early thirties), “Bed and Board” continues in the fizzy, frothy vein of “Stolen Kisses,” and is pretty much bursting at the seams with infectious good humor and a very similar joie de vivre, even when the vivre-ing isn’t easy. Here we pick up with Doinel after his marriage to Christine (Claude Jade), whom he’d spent the last film courting in his haphazard shambolic way, and here he goes about marriage in a similar fashion, both clattering around happily as she teaches violin and he has a nonsense job dyeing flowers for a corner shop. Small and big events occur: Christine gets pregnant (a revelation delivered in three simple scenes that are a masterclass in economical, serio-comic storytelling); Antoine accidentally lands a new job; a sinister neighbor turns out to be a TV star; Antoine falls for a Japanese woman (Hiroku Berghauer) and starts an affair; and Christine discovers it. Yet these soap opera antics are delivered with heart, wit and Truffaut’s trademark influences: the apartment block is reminiscent of Hitchcock’s “Rear Window“; the way the chattering neighbors fall silent when the sinister man walks by is straight out of Lubitsch‘s “Ninotchka.” But a great deal of the film’s irrepressible optimism springs from the charm of Doinel himself: he’s so whimsical and so unrepentantly childlike at times that he’s impossible to dislike even when he’s being thoughtlessly cruel to his lovely, sunshine-y wife. The key to Doinel in the films after “The 400 Blows” is always just that: he can be self-centered and petulant but he’s almost entirely without malice, which is perfectly summed up in the scene where he leaves his mistress’ table repeatedly to go complain about her by phone to his estranged wife. There’s so much wit here, but also wisdom, which gives “Bed and Board” some hopeful substance beneath its giddy surface: last time out Doinel was negotiating the pitfalls of youthful passion, but here Truffaut has an equally sweetheart view of the kind of relationship evoked by the image of Antoine and Christine simply reading side by side in bed before lights out —although they’re each reading books pertaining to their secret lust objects, naturally. “Two English Girls” (1971)
Given that “Jules Et Jim” was one of his greatest successes, you can’t blame Truffaut for returning to the author of that film’s source material, Henri-Pierre Roche (who was famously 74 when he started his proper writing career), and adapting the second of his two major novels to the screen. But it’s still surprising that, despite “Two English Girls” also revolving around a love triangle, it feels wildly different from its predecessor while just as essential in the Truffaut canon. As the title might suggest, this time around the story revolves around a young man and his romances with two British women —in this case Claude (Jean-Pierre Leaud, coming up with a creation quite distinct from Antoine Doinel), who falls for the virginal, sickly Muriel Brown (Stacey Tendeter), only for an enforced separation to lead to a relationship with her older sister Ann (Kika Markham). Despite its relationship with “Jules Et Jim,” this film comes across as much more of a companion piece to “The Wild Child,” taking advantage of a period setting and a quieter, more literary feel, thanks in part to the heavy use of narration and letters. “Jules Et Jim” felt like a movie about being in the heart of a love affair, but “Two English Girls” is a more wistful and melancholic piece, looking back long after the fact. Not that it’s lacking in passion —the scene where Claude and Muriel finally sleep together is one of the most memorable and heart-pumping scenes Truffaut ever shot. And for all its melancholy, it’s also very funny in places. Along with “The Wild Child,” “Two English Girls” marks the end of Truffaut’s wild-young-man period but proves that his entrance into middle-age could lead to work just as rewarding as anything that came before. “Day For Night” (1972)
Arguably the greatest ever movie about the making of movies, “Day For Night” is Truffaut’s love/poison pen letter to the medium which dominated his adult life. Appropriately enough, it’s also one of his solid-gold masterpieces. Rich and almost novelistic, the film details the making of a rather dire looking period drama called “Meet Pamela,” a shoot so full of drama and disaster that it would make even Terry Gilliam a little terrified, as the director (played by Truffaut himself) wrestles with problems both minor and major and the cast and crew make out, break up and make up with each other. Loosely structured without being fatty (it’s something of a forerunner to the style that Robert Altman was developing around the same time), it’s closer to a decade-plus worth of anecdotes than a definitive memoir but is all the more enjoyable for it, with an all-star cast (including Jean-Pierre Leaud in a rare and somewhat meta non-Antoine Doinel performance as a young actor, a career-best Jacqueline Bisset, and in a curious cameo, Graham Greene) clearly relishing the chance to send up themselves and their colleagues. Few films have captured the tedium, infighting, soapy drama and low-key panic of actually making a movie better, and even fewer still have displayed the magic and trickery involved in shooting a film even as hacky and mediocre as “Meet Pamela” —Truffaut highlights the artifice of his own technique even as he dwells on that of the movie-within-the-movie. The film’s bafflingly fallen out of favor somewhat in recent years, but it is one of Truffaut’s best and most enjoyable achievements. The score by frequent collaborator Georges Delerue is also a delight, by the way.
Francois Truffaut’s 15 Greatest Films
