The Flight of the Red Balloon (Hsiao-hsien Hou, 2007). Taking its inspiration from the acclaimed 1956 short film by Albert Lamorisse, Hou’s feature is ravishing in its sedate patience. It captures the little struggles in a normal life–the squabbles with a tenant neighbor, the jockeying with family members over needs and expectations, the juggling of responsibilities that comes with being a single parent–with a watchful, concerned eye. He structures scenes so that they play out without an edit. The camera slowly tilts or pans, taking it all in like a languid, quizzical animal. Occasionally, a strangely resolute and ubiquitous red balloon drifts into sight. The film has a lulling quality, but any time it threatens to become too slow Juliette Binoche jolts it to life with a performance that’s as broad-ranging and unique as anything I’ve seen from her.

The 400 Blows (Francois Truffaut, 1959). Truffaut’s first feature film is one of the key entries from the dawn of the French New Wave. Even putting historical significance aside, the film is vivid, darkly amusing and exciting in a way characteristic of great art. Jean-Pierre Léaud plays a schoolboy named Antoine–a part he would reprise for Truffaut in four other films in the decades to come–who continually clashes with authority figures bent on challenging his natural instinct for freedom. In Truffaut’s evaluation, childhood is a sort of prison and the only sane reaction is to plot escape from teachers, parents, police, everyone who spends their energy making sure the bars stay in place. The film is naturalistic and empathetic, perfectly conveying the urgency that the lead character feels as he bolts through the world, running for his life, or, more accurately, a life worth living.

I’ve Loved You So Long (Philippe Claudel, 2008). For most of its running time, Philippe Claudel’s directorial debut is an intricately effective character study that examines the difficult process of rebuilding a fractured life. As a woman coming home from prison after serving several years for a crime too awful and tragic for her family members to consider, much less mention, Kristin Scott Thomas acts with an aching, internalized intensity. She moves through her now unfamiliar life as if she’s afraid that any wrong move will leave her, or someone else, irretrievably shattered. The details of the event that led to her incarceration are largely unmentioned until the end of the film when the story comes out in a torrent, and the work suffers for it. There is a faulty logic at play in the story, which was seemingly built to make certain that the closing credits accompany a swell of sympathy for Scott Thomas’s character. It’s entirely unnecessary. The obviously heavy burden of her emotional wounds was already devastating enough.

The Story of Adele H. (Francois Truffaut, 1975). Isabelle Adjani, winner of more César Awards for Best Actress (okay, César de la meilleure actrice) than anyone else, received her first Academy Award nomination for this film. It’s not hard to understand why given that the role is filled with the sorts of things that are irresistible to Oscar voters. It’s a period piece, it’s imbued with heavy drama and forlorn romanticism, and it’s got a touch of madness about it. The real beauty of Adjani’s performance, though, is that she doesn’t push it, delivering work that is more notable for it’s restraint that its ringing high notes. As Victor Hugo’s daughter, whose obsession affection for a British soldier compels her to follow him around the world, Adjani plays the increasing unbalance of her character without guile. That lets the innocence and the lost quality of the character come through. As good as she is, the film doesn’t quite work. Truffaut’s craftsmanship and emotional purity is in full evidence, but it can’t rescue the material. If anything, it contributes to the film’s undoing as his devotion to portraying the title character’s single-minded descent into madness results in something that grows redundant.

Tequila Sunrise (Robert Towne, 1988). There’s only one Oscar in the world that has the title Chinatown carved into its base, and it belongs to Robert Towne. For his second outing as a director, Towne tried his hand at another sun-baked, southern California film noir, this time adopting a modern setting. There are moments when the screenplay displays his unique adeptness with such a story, putting multiple moving parts into play and having them come together in intriguing, inspired ways. What he’s missing are central performances that add resonance to the work. As a woman unwillingly drawn into the midst of the machinations, Michelle Pfeiffer is predictably excellent, and there are a couple of strong supporting performances from J.T. Walsh and Raul Julia (as an aside, how odd to watch this film and realize that both of them are gone, and have been for several years). Unfortunately, it’s the two most important roles–the two principals facing off against one another–where the film is most wanting. Kurt Russell never gets a handle on his duplicitous cop, and Mel Gibson is completely incapable of playing the inner conflict that his character is going through, which further undercuts an already faulty ending.