Plenty has been written about Jean Renoir, by himself and others. Nevertheless a new book on the filmmaker is always received with interest. After all, Renoir was not only a true artist himself but also the son of one; he made some universally beloved movies; he had cinematic careers in both the old world and the new, in Paris and in Hollywood; he became in his later years a popular Los Angelino whose house was a gathering place for Gallic Hollywood, as well as a site of pilgrimage for young cineasts from all over; he had a long life, and was eager and able to talk about it; he remained youthful in spirit to the end, even in spite of declining health. He was a genius and a nice man—a rare enough combination.

Human, all too human, is the aroma emanating from his persona and his oeuvre.

Renoir’s fame rests on relatively few films, of which only two seem to enjoy undisputed favor: La grande Illusion and La Règle du jeu. Connoisseurs may have their own favorites as well; mine are Le Crime de Monsieur Lange and Une Partie de campagne. Most of the rest, fine as some of them are, strike me as debatable, especially the American films, preferred by the cultists from the Cahiers du Cinéma. Everybody, however, is at one in liking the man; the rotund, jolly Frenchman who genuinely fancied actors, relished food, and