Pierre Lachenay is a well-known publisher and lecturer, married with Franca and father of Sabine, around 10. He meets an air hostess, Nicole. They start a love affair, which Pierre is hiding, but he cannot stand staying away from her.
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aka The Fire Without--at least with respect to the unambiguous closure it provides. Unlike Malle's masterpiece, however, Truffaut's pre-bang build-up lacks bite, specificity, and pathos. There's some very nifty, jumpy, up-to-that-minute shot-making on display here, and a lot of wonderfully droop-a-long face-pulling from Jean Desailly's hapless celebrity lit-critic. Damn shame, then, the shallows under the surface.
A very underrated film from Truffaut. Franciose Dorleac is beautiful and just as good here as she was in Polanski's Cul-de-sac. In the end I rank it just below my favorites of Truffaut's. See the Doinel films, Jules and Jim, and Shoot the Piano Player first but don't miss this one.
I didn't understand what's the big deal of this film, today, I think it lost the real meaning. It isn't so strong like it was on 60s. It's beautiful to see, anyway, but it didn't move me. I'm felling ashamed for that.
Truffaut's take on a more serious subject. It feels like kitchen sink drama made by Hitchcock. In general, it doesn't feel Truffaut-ian. Not a bad thing mind you, as a director should always stretch his/her wings. It shows how men and women live on opposite side of the worlds. Men expect others to know what they are trying to say, while women desire straight answers. Not spectacular, but still engaging. 7/10
The autobiographical subtext (Truffaut had recently left his wife for the film's star) gives a fascinating, self-lacerating vibe to this story of a bland, timid adulterer who wouldn't be appealing except for his fame. But subtext is just about all that's fascinating; it's 116 minutes, and most of it lacks the vitality, specificity, and humanity required to make truisms feel true or foolish decisions feel natural.