Word: montand
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Dates: during 1960-1969
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...withstanding the cleverness of Gavras' camerawork, the movies real strength lies lies in its acting. Yves Montand, as Graziani, endures insults with rheumy resignation and maintains a respect for his fellow men even when he can no longer stand to be polite to them. Montand's wife, Simone Signoret, as the fading actress, establishes the aura of attractive pathos that has become her trademark. And their daughter, Catherine Allegret, who plays the young girl, is a charming exemplar of wholesome patience and competence...
...Courrèges slacks. In some circles in the U.S. these days, that sort of getup hardly raises an eyebrow. In France, it's something new, and that helps to explain why Antoine is the biggest thing there since Scotch. His records are out selling Charles Aznavour, Yves Montand and Johnny Hallyday combined. Wherever he goes, the kids-the girls, especially - engulf him. At Paris' Olympia Music Hall, it took 35 flics to keep back the girls, who retaliated by littering the stage with their panties. "Never in French show business," marvels Maurice Chevalier, who ought to know...
...Sleeping Car Murder is only the first of the multiple killings in this straightforward French thriller. A sultry perfume saleswoman is strangled in a six-person compartment aboard the Marseille-Paris express, and several of her companions are dead before Police Inspector Yves Montand corners the killer for the traditional wrap-up of clues, motives and revelations...
Murder follows a heavily signposted route, but its cast has esprit to spare. As usual, Simone Signoret leaves a tingle in the air, though she is done in when the plot is only half unraveled. Preternaturally sensitive to the supreme folly of being human, Simone (Mme. Montand in private life) plays a third-rate actress who mocks herself as "an overripe hag out for a good time" with a young student (Jean-Louis Trin-tignant). She feels guilty about nothing until she has to confess that even a woman of distinction must sometimes travel in a crowded second-class compartment...
...dawns, it dies. C'est fini, he cries, with desolate finality. You've Let Yourself Go is an unsparing plaint of conjugal disenchantment. Aznavour has none of the rakish charm of Maurice Chevalier, the ebullient high spirits of Charles Trenet, or the blatant sex appeal of Yves Montand. But he has two qualities that none of them possess with the same intensity-fire and sorrow. He was trained by Edith Piaf, and if one closes one's eyes, one can hear her pain as well as her phrasing in his voice. Aznavour's notes are wounds...