Suddenly, Last Summer (Joseph L. Mankiewicz, 1959). Tennessee Williams is such a bold, distinctive writer that watching a film adaptation of one of his works sometimes consists largely of gauging how effectively the various actors wrestle with his challenging words and emotions. As a stalwart young doctor who gets drawn into the tangled affairs of a wealthy New Orleans family, Montgomery Clift is solid enough, although, at this relatively late point in his troubled career, he’d lost whatever lightness of touch he once had. Elizabeth Taylor strains beautifully as the fragile, damaged girl whose state of mind the plot hinges upon. She gives it a mighty try, but the investing the most florid emotions with a real depth of feeling seems beyond her at this stage. But then there’s Katherine Hepburn, fierce and imperious as a Big Easy grand doyenne, bringing her peerless, erudite diction to bear on the luscious dialogue like a blacksmith striking a glowing red hunk of metal. I long for some dedicated movie-viewing in the alternative universe in which Hepburn paced out the end of her career by hopscotching through all of the elder authority figures in Williams’ plays, even if gender swaps of characters were required to accommodate her. Like a few of his actors, Mankiewicz has his own struggles with the material, prospering when it’s at its most direct and compact, but unable to strike the right tone of feverish horror as the last act’s revelations come spinning out.

Let Joy Reign Supreme (Bertrand Tavernier, 1975). There was an interesting little band of French directors in the nineteen-seventies who took great joy in aiming their art at the unkind excesses of the aristocratic ruling class. Tavernier’s contribution to this cinematic cause is in the form of a bleakly comic grind through different corners of the Pontcallec conspiracy in 18th-century France. As with any such story, the tangles of political intrigue can become dizzying, a situation compounded by Tavernier’s occasional disinterest in trying to clarify matters. He’s more interest in exposing the casual duplicity of the ruling class and the way they marinate themselves in pure decadence until it seems their very souls are rotting away. The lucidity of the film may waver, but its passion is always strikingly clear.

Cover Girl (Charles Vidor, 1944). Like a lot of musical of the era, Cover Girl is less interested in being a satisfying whole, and instead aspires to little more than being an assemblage of satisfying parts. Rita Hayworth, in the full bloom of her stardom, plays a singer in a vaudevillian sort of club who becomes a sensation when she’s selected to grace the cover of a major magazine’s grand anniversary issue. This sets off a predictable series of romantic troubles with her boyfriend, who also happens to be the club owner. He’s played by Gene Kelly, and many of the film’s finest showcase scenes belong to him, including a dance sequence that shows off his astounding, athletic dancing and some pretty nifty trick photography. Most of the film clanks along like the piece of recycled studio machinery it is, but there’s at least the always-welcome presence of Eve Arden in a supporting role, lobbing acerbic lines with the relaxed assurance of a professional dart player.

Love in the Afternoon (Éric Rohmer, 1972). The last film in Rohmer’s “Six Moral Tales” series, Love in the Afternoon follows a successful lawyer with a wife and infant daughter he adores. But he also acknowledges an attraction to other women that doesn’t necessarily abate just because he’s found emotional contentment. When the ex-girlfriend of an old friend slips back into his life, he develops a relationship with her that brings the natural temptation to stray from his marriage from theory to potential reality. Rohmer examines the emotional complexity of the situation with great care, never letting the film descend into any sort of exploitation. Nor does it go off in typical, expected directions. Rohmer is occasionally playful in the structure of his storytelling, such as a sequence in which the main character, played with aplomb by Bernard Verley, slips into unfussy fantasy to approach a multitude of women on the street. Even when playing with the boundaries of his fiction, Rohmer always adheres to sound emotional truths. Unlike some of his contemporaries, Rohmer consistently uses technique to illuminate his characters rather than deliberate obscure his points in an effort to impose greater artistry on the final work.

11 Harrowhouse (Aram Avakian, 1974). In many respects, this film is like any number of British caper films from around the same era in that it’s clever, aridly serious and a bit dull. What makes it distinctive is the writing credit earned by star Charles Grodin. His voice is unmistakable, especially in the narration, which comments on the action with Grodin’s trademark deadpan hostility. There are even moments that approach the sort of joyfully contemptuous mocking that was the lifeblood of Mystery Science Theater 3000. Grodin plays a put-upon dealer of fine gems who is drawn into a scheme to commit a major theft from a major diamond depository in London. Gordin’s perpetual state of unease gives the film a flinty tension it would otherwise lack. John Gielgud and James Mason turn up in supporting roles, both emanating master thespian professionalism, but not much else.