This was a week made for movie going -- especially if you're not a winter resident, in which case you can hold off because the classics will come round again, unless somebody blows up the Harvard-Central-Brattle complex.

Jules & Jim. Directed by Francois Truffaut. Jeanne Moreau plays that type of modern woman Strindberg first adored. She captures for life two best friends, marrying one and seducing the other. Yet needing more than what wartime Bohemia or reclusive bourgeois stability can give her, she cannot be held. Harvard Square Fri. 4:15, 7:50.

400 Blows. Another Truffaut, this one made in a more autobiographical vein. It tells the story of an adolescent dreamer making the best of a crummy life. His parents don't have time for him, they are busy fighting. His mother, dyed cheap blonde, is overworked; fatigue has robbed her of her patience and made her shrewish. His home is cramped and dreary with dirt. His school teachers are rigidly middle class, authoritarian and intolerant; his classmates tell on his prankster efforts to escape ennui. Harvard Square Sat. 3:30, 6:35, 9:35.

Roomservice. Marx brothers. As funny as a snake with armpits. Harvard Square Sat. 2:15, 5:15, 8:15.

Seventh Seal. Another Bergman ripe with stock Bergmanesque soul soundings, brow beatings and breast poundings -- God, death, life and love -- as he wonders whether the world has meaning. Harvard Square Sun. 2:30, 6, 9:30.

Rules of the Game. Renoir -- maybe the best movie ever made. Harvard Square Sun. 4:10, 7:30.

Bonnie and Clyde. It made a bloody splash when it came out, but all its blood must be old hat by now. Faye Dunaway talks tough, Warren Beatty thinks with a soft brain, C.W. Moss steals the show. Orson Welles 4:15, 8:15.

Performance. With Mick Jagger. An overdone display of far out paraphernalia; it is packed with easy plays for sensationalism, but they are old. And except for Jagger in a Batman black skin suit, it is boring. Orson Welles 6:15, 10:15.

Passion of Anna. Better Bergman -- in color. Again he hammers it home: another search for meaning meets up with absurdity at the end, four more lives are lived as lies. Anna deludes herself with a memory of a once happy marriage; Andreas, the humanitarian, is incapable of communicating with anybody; Elis, the photographer, has catalogued every twisted emotion registered on the human face; his wife is locked in insomnia. Intermittently Bergman breaks the narrative as the actors digress on the parts they play -- the work of the artist carries its own stamp of absurdity. Brattle 6:15, 9:45.