Released in 1970, the fifth instalment of the *Six Moral Tales* series, the film centres on Jérôme, a thirty-five-year-old, elegant embassy attaché on the verge of marriage. Whilst on holiday on the shores of Lake Annecy, he meets Laura, a sixteen-year-old schoolgirl, and then Claire, her half-sister. His desire eventually crystallises on an almost trivial part of Claire’s body: her knee.
At the time, the film could be seen as a moral and intellectual exploration of desire, seduction, the forbidden and, above all, the human being’s remarkable ability to construct a sophisticated narrative to justify their impulses. Today, many viewers immediately see something else: a grown man who observes, desires and approaches teenage girls.
And this shift in perspective is fascinating.
To suggest that *Claire’s Knee* would automatically be ‘banned’ today would be an exaggeration. Contemporary cinema continues to depict problematic relationships, morally unsettling desires and characters who cross boundaries. Depicting behaviour is not the same as condoning it.
On the other hand, it becomes much harder to imagine exactly the same film being made in 2026, with the same marketing and, above all, the same critical reception.
Because in the meantime, our vocabulary has changed. We talk more about consent, manipulation, age differences, power imbalances and the objectification of the female body. Whereas part of the 1970s audience might initially have perceived a sophisticated romantic comedy, the contemporary viewer immediately spots an imbalance: Jérôme has the age, the experience, the language and the social status. The young women essentially possess only their youth, upon which his gaze is precisely fixed.
But this is where Rohmer becomes more interesting than his own trial.
For Jérôme is not necessarily a hero whom the film asks us to admire. The very premise of the *Moral Tales* often involves observing men who are extraordinarily gifted at recounting their own behaviour. They speak, reason, theorise, intellectualise and gradually construct a version of themselves in which they can continue to believe themselves to be morally beyond reproach.
Jérôme is perhaps less a model seducer than a virtuoso of bad faith.
This, incidentally, is how Larousse’s *Dictionnaire mondial des films* analyses the character: Jérôme transforms his resentment and desire into reasoning, to the point of preserving his own clear conscience. This ambiguity is essential to understanding the film. Rohmer does not merely film a knee; he films everything a man is capable of constructing intellectually around his desire to touch it.
And that is precisely why condemning the film in hindsight would be almost too easy.
A work of art is not a set of house rules. It is not necessarily intended to present us with exemplary behaviour. Cinema can also create zones of discomfort in which the viewer must decide for themselves what they think of what they are watching.
What has changed profoundly since 1970 is perhaps less what art is permitted to show than the way in which we now demand that it contextualise what it shows.
Our era still has no problem with monstrous, ambiguous or morally questionable characters. But it is far less tolerant of ambiguity when the direction does not clearly indicate where the condemnation lies.
Rohmer, for his part, does not hand out red cards.
He observes.
And this absence of explicit judgement may today be taken as complacency, whereas it was precisely part of his cinematic language: allowing the character to speak long enough for their contradictions to emerge of their own accord.
There has also been a broader shift in the way women are portrayed in cinema. For decades, the female body was photographed, cropped, gazed upon and desired primarily through a male gaze. The very title *Claire’s Knee* almost sums up this fragmentation: Claire momentarily becomes a part of her anatomy. Not her face. Not her thoughts. Her knee.
In 1970, this obsession might have seemed delicate, fetishistic, literary or sensual. In 2026, it may immediately conjure up images of objectification.
Yet both interpretations can coexist.
This is precisely where great works become interesting: when they cease to be comfortable.
It would be absurd to expect a film from 1970 to have anticipated all the moral and social categories of 2026. But it would be just as absurd to ask a viewer in 2026 to watch the film through the eyes of 1970.
A work belongs to its own era. Our perspective belongs to ours.
Between the two lies the history of changing attitudes.
And *Le Genou de Claire* serves as a superb barometer in this respect. What once seemed light-hearted now becomes unsettling. What once seemed romantic can become intrusive. What was once regarded as seduction may now be scrutinised in terms of consent and power.
But we must be careful not to let this necessary evolution turn into artistic impoverishment.
If we demand that fiction depict only perfectly balanced relationships, morally valid desires and irreproachable characters, we may create a more comfortable world, but certainly not more interesting cinema.
The real question raised by *Claire’s Knee* today is therefore not: ‘Should we still be showing this film?’
Of course we should show it.
The question is far more fascinating: why do we no longer view it in the same way?
Because more than half a century has passed between Claire’s knee, filmed by Rohmer in 1970, and our gaze upon it in 2026.
The film hasn’t moved a millimetre. Our perspective, however, has travelled the length and breadth of the world.
