"Set in the mid-1960's on an estate in northern Spain, The Holy Innocents focuses on a family of peasants who must contend with the whims of the landowners. Paco (Alfredo Landa) and Regula are a devoted middle-aged couple who hope for advancement for their children. Their younger daughter suffers from a mysterious affliction that causes her to emit an occasional bloodcurdling scream; their son, who dares to be mildly insolent to the bosses, must do his military service soon; and their older daughter must serve as a maid for the wife of the foreman of the estate. To make matters worse, Regula's eccentric brother Azarias (Francisco Rabal) loses his job and comes to live with them. It is Azarias, with his unseemly toilet habits, his wordless bond with his afflicted niece and pet goshawk - he, the most 'innocent' of them all, who will exact revenge on the callous landowners. ".

Like everything else, the secret of a good wine is in the timing: the timing of the grape-picking, the fermentation, the breathing. And the timing is just right in Autumn Tale, a luminous story set in the winemaking country of France; director Eric Rohmer, in his late 70s when the film was made, clearly waited until this particular bottle had reached the proper maturity. At the center of the film is the friendship between two gracefully middle-aged women: Vineyard owner Magali (Beatrice Romand, star of the previous Rohmer gems Claire's Knee and Le Beau Mariage), blunt and compact, is currently unattached. Isabelle (Marie Rivière, from Summer), willowy and slightly ditzy, is married-and would like to see Magali happily wed. A matchmaking scheme via the personal ads leads to a gentle, amusing, yet increasingly profound romantic confusion. At first glance, the film may seem like sun-dappled simplicity itself, but stick around for the final moments at the very tail of the end credits, and you'll appreciate the wise mingling of longing, satisfaction, and regret that have been percolating through the movie all along. Rohmer likes to make films in groups (the "Six Moral Tales" launched him onto the international film stage in the 1960s), and Autumn Tale rounds off a set devoted to the four seasons. The other films in the quartet are worthy enough, and Rohmer has the kind of adornment-free clarity that many great artists develop after a lifetime's worth of craft, but Autumn Tale is the best of the bunch: a warm, quiet masterpiece. -Robert Horton.

Although the confectionary does make an appearance at the end of the film, Turkish Delight, as a title, may be interpreted in a number of ways. This violent tale of love is told in flashback from the perspective of bohemian artist Eric Vonk (Rutger Hauer, collaborating for the first time with director Paul Verhoeven). When the film opens on a brutal attack and then a succession of one-night stands, it seems that the guy's a complete jerk. Then a sudden lurch backwards two years reveals the motivations for both his dreams and behavior, as well as the subject of the photos he spends his time pining for. He meets Olga (a fantastic Monique van de Ven) as the result of a car accident. But their tempestuous relationship is shaken by many peculiar events: a surreal wedding ceremony, unveiling a statue to the Queen and the death of Olga's father. The real problem is Olga herself, however, which leads to a shock ending many have compared to Love Story. Somewhat dated now, and made long before his move to Hollywood, Turkish Delight is nonetheless unmistakably a product of the now-familiar Verhoeven style. The film's language and images still have the power to shock or offend, and we certainly get to see far too much of Hauer's private parts, even though some amazing visuals (mirrored candles, inspired beach art, and a nightmarish red Chinese restaurant) are some compensation. -Paul Tonks.

One of the first, and most successful, French export comedies, Cousin Cousine garnered a Best Actress Oscar nomination for Marie-Christine Barrault, an international audience for director Jean- Charles Tacchella, and a substantial, surprising haul at American box offices in late 1975 and early '76. Retrospectively, it's not difficult to understand why: Barrault and costar Victor Lanoux prove themselves to be adept, protean comic actors, and Tacchella's breezy pacing makes the witty, gag-laden script crackle with frenetic verve. Barrault and Lanoux play cousins (by marriage only; it isn't quite that French) drawn together when their respective partners are caught philandering. Their initial friendship quickly blossoms into something altogether more scandalous. The narrative, framed by weddings, funerals, and other family get-togethers, feels surprisingly modern in its choice of milieu; indeed, recent comedies such as Four Weddings and a Funeral and My Best Friend's Wedding owe a substantial debt to the whimsical tone of Cousin Cousine. More Hollywood than Cannes, it's perhaps unsurprising that Tacchella's comedy was recently remade into Cousins (1989), an intermittently amusing Ted Danson vehicle with occasional resemblances to its vastly superior predecessor. -Miles Bethany.