The Seven Ages of Woman

Love and the Frenchwoman (Auerbach; Kingsley International) is a plaster-of-Paris whale (2 hr. 23 min.) of a picture from the French Old Wave--artificial but amusing. In form, the film is a cinemanthology of seven short subjects, each written by a famous French novelist or scenarist, each directed by a different man, each played by different actors, and intended altogether to dramatize the seven ages of woman. In effect, it is the usual shallow but intelligent French discussion, toujours gai and sometimes icily ironic, of what makes the world go round.

Childhood observes a bumbling pair of parents who hilariously attempt to tell a little girl where babies come from. "From cabbages." Daddy says nervously--never imagining what will happen when his daughter finds a cabbage in the street.

Adolescence presents Annie Sinigalia as a girl who kisses all the boys and afterward, wonderingly and reminiscently, practices on her mirror. Virginity finds a nice young boy and girl immobilized with modesty as they try to make love for the first time. "Tomorrow morning, maybe?" she asks shyly at the fade. "It's a shame to waste the room." Marriage (written and directed by Rene Clair) is a pert disquisition on honeymoon hysterics.

Divorce investigates with wry delight how feelings are ground small in the legal machinery. A lawyer has the best line: "But you have to have grounds for divorce! Drugs, drink, television . . ." The Single Woman (written by Marcel Ayme) describes with sly wit a major calamity in the career of a professional polygamist: he falls in love.

Adultery is the cleverest of the seven episodes--a cynical little satire on a well-known Gallic institution: the menage `a trois. While dining out one day, a young bachelor (played by Jean-Paul Belmondo, the post-existentialist punk in Breathless, who proves roguishly engaging in romantic comedy) gives a neglected wife (Dany Robin) the old let's-do-it look. She looks right back. Wearing his horns jauntily, the husband invites the bachelor home for lunch. "My wife hates money," he murmurs casually, "so she spends it as fast as she can. By the way, when do you intend to marry her?'' The bachelor gulps, glances at his watch. "Too bad,'' he splutters as he dashes off, "but my time is up on the parking meter." The husband, all forgiveness, tenderly embraces an apparently contrite wife, but before they can enjoy their reconciliation, the poor chap has to take a phone call--from his mistress.

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