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The centenary of the birth of Max Ophuls has not been marked with quite the cascade of affection that his fans were hoping for. No fireworks glimmering over the East River, no white-tie dances in aid of the Distressed Cameramen's Association, no panoramic survey of his work. In Paris, of course, there have been several tributes, led by a retrospective at the Cinematheque Francaise, but should you wish to pay your respects in this city, you must sneak down into the dungeon of Kim's or trek up to the Video Room and scrabble for old rental copies of "Madame de . . ." or "La Ronde." This state of affairs may be regrettable, even dishonorable, and yet something about the lack ...