There was something about the sexually agape, porcelainized tabula rasa of Catherine Deneuve in her stardom's infancy that fed the dream lives of filmmakers fat with rose-petal mousse. Bloated and reeling, Roger Vadim saw Sadean excess and Jacques Demy saw pastel lollipops, while Luis Buñuel and Roman Polanski both saw behind their star's dewy placidness an overgrown wilderness of pathology.... More >>>