Parky at the Pictures (In Cinemas 12/3/2015)

The coincidences are striking. But we shall have to wait until May before we can assess how Mulligan copes with a role that slipped tantalisingly out of Christie's grasp. In the meantime, however, there is a chance to enjoy Schlesinger's handsome which not only boasts sumptuous Metrocolor cinematography by Nicolas Roeg, but also a laudably faithful scenario by Frederic Raphael, who had also earned an Oscar for Darling and arrived at this exquisite period piece fresh from landing another nomination for his script for Stanley Donen's shamefully underrated comedy of modern marital manners, Two for the Road (1967), which had starred Albert Finney and Audrey Hepburn, who had appeared in Fred Zinnemann's The Nun's Story (1959) alongside Peter Finch, who was cast as William Boldwood after the part was declined by Christie's Darling co-star, Dirk Bogarde.

Having saved hard while working as a shepherd near the Wessex village of Weatherbury, Gabriel Oak (Alan Bates) buys his own flock and makes an offer of marriage to Bathsheba Everdine (Julie Christie), who has arrived in the area with her aunt, Mrs Hurst (Alison Leggatt), to take over the running of her late uncles farm. She turns down Gabriel's proposal, as she is determined to stand on her own two feet. However, Bathsheba hires Gabriel as her shepherd when an inexperienced dog drives his sheep over a cliff and he fails to find alternative employment in Casterbridge.

Despite his gratitude, Gabriel refuses to be subservient and criticises Bathsheba when she teases farmer William Boldwood by sending him a Valentine message. She fires him, only for her sheep to be stricken with bloat and offers Gabriel his job back after he saves the majority of her flock. Boldwood misinterprets the playful nature of Bathsheba's entreaty to marry her and requests her hand. However, she has become infatuated with Francis Troy (Terence Stamp), a dashing sergeant in the Dragoon Guard who thrills Bathsheba with his displays of swordsmanship.

Much to Boldwood's chagrin, Bathsheba plights her troth to Troy. But she quickly discovers that he is a reckless gambler, who discarded maidservant Fanny Robin (Prunella Ransome) on their wedding day because she accidentally went to the wrong church. Shortly after their union, Bathsheba and Troy encounter the heavily pregnant Fanny on her way to the workhouse in Casterbridge. Stricken with remorse, Troy gives her money. But she dies in childbirth and her coffin is returned to Weatherbury. In her husband's absence, Bathsheba opens the casket to discover a stillborn child with its mother.

Troy is overcome by the sight of the pair and attempts to drown himself off the coast after informing Bathsheba that he had never once loved her. But he is rescued from the strong current and returns to the village on Christmas Eve, having heard that Bathsheba has agreed to marry Boldwood when she is officially declared a widow. Distraught at being humiliated in front of his party guests, Boldwood shoots Troy, but is spared hanging because of his mental state. Bathsheba has Troy buried with Fanny and prevents Gabriel from leaving for a fresh start in California by consenting to become his wife because she has finally realised how much she needs his quiet strength.

There's no question that the critics were out to take Christie down a peg or two following her meteoric rise to the top and the largely hostile reviews did much to damage Far From the Madding Crowd's box-office prospects. But Schlesinger (who had clashed with Finch and tormented Stamp during the shoot) confessed to being disappointed with the way the picture turned out and cast it from his mind as he turned his attention to the adaptation of James Leo Herlihy's novel, Midnight Cowboy, which would win him an Academy Award in 1970.

Yet there is much to admire here, from Nicolas Roeg's appreciation of the light and colours of the changing seasons to Richard Macdonald's thoughtful production design and Richard Rodney Bennett's rustic score. The acting is also admirable. Rather like Kate Winslet in Jude (1997), Christie is simply too contemporary to be a convincing period performer, but she catches the spirit of women's liberation that was beginning to stir in the mid-1960s and rekindles a tangible spark with old flame Terence Stamp. He struts to fine effect as the uniformed scoundrel, but is somewhat overshadowed by the more imposing Finch and the infinitely more sympathetic Bates. He exudes a peasant dignity that prevents Gabriel from becoming a melancholic milksop, while Finch subverts the brooding intensity of Victorian machismo to hint at Boldwood's psychological fragility.

Despite striving to reproduce the rural rhythms of the 1870s, Schlesinger's is a touch too languid in places and editor Malcolm Cooke might have picked up a little of the slack. Raphael's script also removes much of the socio-political subtext. But this remains one of the best Hardy translations to the big screen and Vinterberg and his cast will have their work cut out to surpass it.

Two French films are showing exclusively at the Ciné Lumière in London this week. But, while Jeanne Herry's debut, Elle L'Adore, has been lauded by domestic critics and proved a considerable box-office success, it is nowhere near as amusing as Guillaume Gallienne's similar succès d'estime, Me, Myself and Mum, which went on release in the UK at the back end of last year. Julien Neel's adaptation of his own comic-book series, Lou!, may also suit Gallic more than Britannic tastes, as it shares the ultra-stylised aesthetic that made Michel Gondry's Mood Indigo (2013) such hard work, while lacking the innocent charm of Mona Achache's The Hedgehog and Laurent Tirard's Petit Nicholas (both 2009), which respectively drew on characters created by Muriel Barbery and (taking a break from his Asterix the Gaul duties) René Goscinny and Jean-Jacques Sempé.

Herry is exceedingly fortunate to have the ever-wonderful Sandrine Kiberlain as her star, as few do deadpan better and this is a comic role that demands to be played with all the gravitas of a drama in order to prevent its numerous farcical contrivances from collapsing in on themselves. Kiberlain is a divorced mother of two who works at a beauty parlour where she has a reputation for gilding her anecdotes. Despite being in her late thirties, she has an adolescent crush on pop singer Laurent Lafitte and not only collects all of his recordings and memorabilia, but also attends so many concerts that she has become friends with his assistant, Benjamin Lavernhe.

She seems a natural choice, therefore, when Lafitte gets into an argument with his wife and accidentally kills her with a blow to the head. Knowing the scandal would damage his reputation, Lafitte decides against calling the emergency services. He even decides against trusting Lavernhe and longtime cleaning lady Muriel Mayette-Holtz and turns up instead on Kiberlain's doorstep in the middle of the night with a proposition he knows she won't refuse. He tells her that he needs someone he can trust to drive his car across the border into Switzerland, where his sister, Sophie Gourdin, will take care of everything.

Only too pleased to help her hero, Kiberlain readily agrees and even promises not to look in the boot. However, a missing persons report is filed and the intervention of a border patrol leads to detective inspector Pascal Demolon becoming convinced that Kiberlain has something to hide. But such is Kiberlain's skill at convoluting any tale that he quickly becomes confused, although his concentration is not helped by the fact that his partner (and sexually voracious girlfriend) Olivia Côte is flirting with fellow copper Sébastien Knafo.

Eventually, Demolon's need to keep Côte away from temptation allows Lafitte to slip through his hands after Kiberlain starts to resists her idol's shameless efforts to frame her as the crazed fan who murdered his wife out of jealousy. But, while the pieces in Herry and Gaëlle Macé's screenplay slot together neatly enough, this increasingly feels like a romp that can't resist adding one more embellishment to an already teetering narrative edifice. Without Kiberlain (who received a César nomination for her efforts), this would come crashing down, as her utter conviction in her cockeyed character ensures this remains highly enjoyable even as it becomes more ridiculously improbable.

Nevertheless, the Demolon/Côte subplot soon outstays its welcome, even though their impossible co-dependency is supposed to mirror that of Kiberlain and Lafitte. But, while Herry, as the daughter of singer Julien Clerc and the actress Miou-Miou, clearly has insights into fan eccentricity, her satire lacks bite, while she struggles to generate any suspense as it is clear that Kiberlain goes her way with the assurance of a sleepwalker (her expressions and timing during the interrogation sequence are exemplary). Lafitte also has a couple of nice moments, when he realises during a phone conversation that Gourdin has no idea what he is talking about and when he looks in the mirror to discover his first grey hair. But, even in an age of empty celebrity, his character rings hollow from the outset and, as a consequence, this hokey amorality tale winds up feeling as bleak as one of production designer Loic Chavanon's amusingly sterile interiors.

Julien Neel has created six books about Lou, an independent 12 year-old who lives with her single mother, Emma, on the top floor of an apartment block. He has also sanctioned a 52-episode animated spin-off series for French television, but clearly decided to adopt a hand-on approach with the big-screen version, which sees him make his directorial debut. Neel also co-wrote the screenplay with Mark Syrigas, but he owes his greatest debts to production designer Sylvie Olivé and cinematographer Pierre Milon, as, without his lighting of her kitschy sets stuffed to the rafters with brightly coloured bric-a-brac, this would be just another winsome kidpic of interest solely to its tweenage demographic.

When not scribbling in her diary, blonde adolescent Lola Lasseron wishes her writer mother, Ludovine Sagnier, would get off the sofa and stop moping about her life. When she is on form, they have fun scouring flea markets for jumble and bring it back to their cramped apartment, which looks out across their high-rise neighbourhood. Lasseron particularly enjoys the view from her bedroom window, as she can see dishy Joshua Maze, who not only has a trendy haircut, but who also carries around a guitar.

Despite hiding behind her huge glasses, Sagnier has also noticed a newcomer who seems to be a musician. But, while she flirts timidly with Kyan Khojandi, Lasseron is busy falling out with best friend Eden Hoch, who isn't impressed by Maze and wishes Lasseron would stop banging on about him. These spats are part and parcel of the pairs friendship, which is occasionally enlivened by their interaction with classmates like Lily Taieb, a Goth who is convinced that the FBI has placed her under surveillance. But Lasseron's attention is inevitably drawn back towards her little grey cat and Sagnier, whose efforts to write a science-fiction book only further dismay her own grouchy mother, Nathalie Baye, who is a neatness freak who detests the clutter in the apartment and wishes Sagnier would find a nice man and settle down before it's too late.

Much more might have been made of the contrast between Baye and Sagnier's approaches to motherhood (as would almost certainly have been the case in a Dutch, German or Scandinavian kidpic, which can never resist inserting a little socio-political realism). But Neel evidently regards his creation as the pre-teen equivalent of Amélie Poulain and flits between inconsequentially cutesy incidents like a sweet wrapper on the breeze. As a result, there is no narrative thread for the characters to hold on to and it comes as no surprise that the action should culminate in a dance number.

Lasseron makes a spirited heroine (although Hoch and Taieb are canny scene-stealers) and her rapport with Sagnier is charmingly natural. But the acting honours go to Baye, whose inability to understand either her daughter or her granddaughter is infinitely more interesting than the Japanimated extracts from Sagnier's silly novel, which would seem to appeal more to grown-up kids rather than young girls. Similar digressions like the video series enacted by Barbie dolls, the pizzeria staffed by moustachioed Chinese men and the effects-laden laser game feel tossed in rather than thought out. Indeed, one is left wishing that Syrigas had been able to exert a greater influence over Neel and rein in some of his flights of fancy in order to devote a little time to plot and character development. But, by their very nature, bubble-gum movies quickly lose their flavour and no matter how many candy-coloured snippets Neel keeps adding to his concoction, it's impossible to disguise its growing blandness.

The term slow cinema is usually applied to fictional films. But Michael Glawogger, Wang Bing and Philip Gröning have all shown how long takes can be used in the documentary format and Farida Pacha ably joins their ranks with My Name Is Salt. Opening with a line from Albert Camus's essay, `The Myth of Sisyphus' - `The struggle towards the heights is enough to fill a man's heart' - the action centres on a bleak expanse of saline desert in the Indian state of Gujarat. Each year between April and September, the Gulf of Kutch retreats and exposes sands rich in salt deposits and 40,000 people swap their villages for the Little Rann of Kutch in order to mine crystals whose size and whiteness are crucial to their value.

Sanabhai Pagi arrives in the desolate 5000 km2 wilderness with his wife Devuben, as well as their 11 year-old son, eight year-old daughter and an ageing relative. While Devuben goes in search of firewood, Sanabhai unloads their vehicle and starts constructing the hut that will be their home for the next few months. Their nearest neighbour is a kilometre away and, even though Sanabhai has a phone, they communicate by bouncing sunlight off mirrors. Drinking water is delivered by tanker each week, while the children cycle off to the local school each morning after helping their parents with the salt harvest.

Each year represents a major risk, as Sanabhai takes out a sizeable loan with a salt merchant in the town in order to purchase the diesel he needs to operate the pump that he uses to extract the brine from 70ft below the sandy surface. This apparatus is too heavy to transport and Sanabhai buries it in a pit to protect it from the monsoon waters that transform the desert into a sea. The drone of its engine determines the rhythm of the day, along with the noises made by the family's feet, as they trample the ground to prevent the salt from congealing in the glare of the scorching sun. Once the evaporation process has ended, they use wooden rakes to form the salt into large crystals, which Sanabhai constantly has to monitor to prevent them from being swamped by rising water levels.

Maintaining a discreet distance and shooting in long takes, Pacha and cinematographer Lutz Konermann capture the excruciating process in minute detail. They make no attempt to tell a story or make a case for the family being exploited by heartless capitalists. Instead, they record techniques and traditions that have been passed down the generations, while also noting quaint details like the paper flowers that the children plant outside the shack to cheer it up. Ultimately, it turns out to be a poor season, as the merchant is unhappy with the size and purity of the crystals. But, even though he can barely make a living, Sanabhai accepts his fate and hopes that things will be better next year.

Deftly edited by Katharina Fieldler and scored with tinkly delicacy by Marcel Vlad, this is a meticulously composed study of a remarkable locale and the tortuous trade it sustains. Florian Eidenbenz does a superb job of mixing Sanjeev Gupta and Ramesh Birajdar's ambient sound, which provides a hypnotic accompaniment to the methodical repetitiousness required to produce the small mounds left for collection beside the railway track before the heavens open and the cycle begins all over again.