Three by Jacques Demy: Lola, The Umbrellas of Cherbourg, and Bay of Angels. All three are good (in radically different styles), and they’re all at least partly about how impermanent relationships can be, but Bay of Angels is the one that knocked me on my ass. It’s about the few days a pair of compulsive gamblers spend watching their fortunes go up and down (and then back up and back down) in the casinos on the Riviera. A bottle blond Jeanne Moreau plays the woman, and I’ve never seen her better. She’s just this delicious picture of almost carcinogenic heedlessness; two or three times a spin of the roulette wheel is all-important to her, and her eyes reflect the results in underplayed but intense layers of desperation or relief. It has a Dostoevsky feel—it’s just that good.