CLOSE UP AND PERSONAL

The legendary Deneuve, between takes.

The French icon’s film diaries project the very qualities that made their author an international figure of fascination: They are elegant, suffused with sensual beauty and intriguingly remote. The actress proves an impressive writer, waxing lyrically on her time in Vietnam filming the acclaimed Indochine, describing the exotic landscapes, energetic people and the oppressive heat with the observational acumen of a born novelist. Deneuve is surprisingly engaged in the technical process of filmmaking, keenly aware of the myriad variables that contribute to the success or failure of a scene, and she is not shy about making suggestions to her directors. She is particularly good on the subject of directors: very sympathetic to Roman Polanski, admiring of Régis Wargnier and riveting on the idiosyncrasies of surrealist director Luis Buñuel (whose Belle de Jour made Deneuve a world-wide star), her observations affectionate and full of fascinating insights into his work habits. The consistency of Deneuve’s tone is remarkable; the earliest diaries included date from the production of the 1968 romantic comedy The April Fools, and the 25-year-old Deneuve’s perspicacity is in full flower. But while she is amusingly critical (she reveals a low opinion of America) and tetchy (she hates air conditioning and frequently complains of sleepiness and sore throats), there is something fundamentally reserved about Deneuve that chafes a bit: This ravishing, talented woman bore the children of Marcello Mastroianni and Roger Vadim, was a critical part of more than a few shocking, boundary-bursting films, and she survived Lars von Trier and Björk—but the emotional tone of her record remains cool and measured, excluding the passionate messiness that must have marked such a life. Whether this indicates dignity or an ungenerous reticence is the reader’s call. Also disappointing is the relatively small pool of films reflected in the collection—her recollections of the filming of such classics as Belle de Jour, Repulsion and The Umbrellas of Cherbourg are sorely missed.

An exquisite but bittersweet madeleine of a memoir, sublime in the tasting but ultimately unsatisfying.