Douce

Any serious French film buff is always going to have to seek this one out if only because it marked the first outing of Jean Aurenche and Pierre Bost, who went on to write all the great French films that WEREN'T written by Jacques Prevert, Charles Spaak or Henri Jeanson. They were also the two writers who got up Truffaut's nose the worst and he singled them out for special condemnation in his infamous essay in Cahiers. It's the old story, of course. If Truffaut could have written even one line half as good as these two cats he'd be well on the way to earning Amateur status. The fact is that next to these two Truffaut is illiterate. Put it this way, they're still showing 'Douce' sixty years after it was made. Will time be so good to The Four Hundred Yawns. In your dreams, Francois.

Douce is our old friend the costume drama and the fluid camera of Autant-Lara leads us gracefully into the story via the misleading (nice touch) Christmas-card setting which provides the external trappings for our main set, the well-appointed gaff of Madame de Bonafe, a gift of a role for Marguerite Moreno, who lives here with her son, Engelbert (so THAT's where Gerry Dorsey found it), who left a leg behind in one of those minor wars the French were wont to engage in, and has eyes for Irene (Madeleine Robinson) who is governess to his daughter, Douce (Odette Joyeux). Douce in turn is that way about Fabien (Roger Pigaut), a servant to Madame Bonafe (yes, it DOES sound a little like La Ronde, you got a problem with that) and stripe me pink if Fabien and Irene aren't getting it on in the servant's quarters. With basic elements such as these style is everything and Bost and Aurenche have supplied a stylish script to which Autant-Lara has added a touch of spin so that the whole thing gleams like burnished brass. Eat your heart out, Truffaut. 9/10