Among the many singularities of Pasolini’s films, the proportions of his narrative structure have to be the strangest. Here we, like the young Jason who grows before our eyes, get a six-minute introductory lecture from the hero's foster centaur which tells us what to look out for in the obscurities that follow: all is sacred, nature is never natural, myth and ritual are a living reality, this is a story of deeds, not thoughts.

Risks are everywhere. Crossing the road, cycling, not handling food properly, leaving a car boot unlocked, grain pits, night-time darkness – they all bring risks. Thankfully, government agency The Central Office of Information helped make us aware of the hazards. This two-DVD set – the sixth in the BFI’s collection of COI films – is mind-boggling company. Dealing with the multifarious risks seen here would leave no time to get into danger. You’d have to live in a bubble.

Days of Heaven made Terrence Malick’s legend. Released four years after his relatively conventional lovers-on-the-run debut Badlands (1974), it gave a similar story transcendental themes and images of painterly gorgeousness. Then he directed nothing else for 20 years. Choosing not to engage with interviews or celebrity, like Pynchon and Salinger he vanished into mystery and silence. Relative productivity since means this Malick-approved new print is issued in the wake of his fifth film, The Tree of Life.

When Jean Renoir returned to France at the end of 1953 after 13 years of exile, he felt as if he were beginning his career from scratch. His Hollywood films were not highly regarded, and neither The River (1951) nor The Golden Coach (1953), shot in India and Italy respectively, were successful enough to redeem his international standing among reviewers or at the box office. The critical consensus declared that he was an artist in decline. There were exceptions, of course, one of the most important being Cahiers du Cinéma, the magazine founded in 1951.

It is all in black and white, and undoubtedly very beautiful. Delphine Seyrig, the flighty, baffled siren at its heart, is undoubtedly very beautiful. The setting, which could be Versailles or a château in the Loire (it was in fact filmed at palaces in Bavaria), is undoubtedly very beautiful. The 1950s society mannequins, men in black tie, women in Coco Chanel, who're mysteriously occupying a central European spa hotel are undoubtedly very beautiful. It was undoubtedly directed, in 1961, by the then more or less unknown Alain Resnais and scripted by the better-known Alain Robbe-Grillet (author of Le Voyeur, 1955, and La Jalousie, 1957). Beauty agreed, it must be admitted that Last Year in Marienbad also remains as impenetrable on its rerelease as it was 50 years ago.

It is all in black and white, and undoubtedly very beautiful. Delphine Seyrig, the flighty, baffled siren at its heart, is undoubtedly very beautiful. The setting, which could be Versailles or a château in the Loire (it was in fact filmed at palaces in Bavaria), is undoubtedly very beautiful. The 1950s society mannequins, men in black tie, women in Coco Chanel, who're mysteriously occupying a central European spa hotel are undoubtedly very beautiful. It was undoubtedly directed, in 1961, by the then more or less unknown Alain Resnais and scripted by the better-known Alain Robbe-Grillet (author of Le Voyeur, 1955, and La Jalousie, 1957). Beauty agreed, it must be admitted that Last Year in Marienbad also remains as impenetrable on its rerelease as it was 50 years ago.

Of all the curdled classics made during the neo-noir wave of the Seventies and early Eighties - including Klute, The Long Goodbye, Mean Streets, Chinatown, The Conversation, Night Moves, Farewell My Lovely, Taxi Driver, American Gigolo and The Postman Always Rings Twice - Ivan Passer’s Cutter’s Way is the most neglected.

Bill Morrison’s film, mostly edited together from archive material, serves as an elegy to Britain's recent industrial past. The older footage has been handsomely restored, and often it’s only the clothes that give a sense of period. It focuses on the Durham coalfields, where the last mine closed in the early 1990s. There’s little left to show for it – the film is framed by aerial sequences where we search in vain for any trace of the industry. Collieries have been replaced by retail parks, artificial ski slopes and football stadia.

The credits unfold against a backdrop of a tall, exotic plant, down whose length the camera slowly pans. The African Queen, in glorious Technicolor, based on a novel by CS Forrester, directed by John Huston, shot by Jack Cardiff, starring two of the great names of the cinematic age. Katharine Hepburn, the female face of the screwball comedy, and Humphrey Bogart, the hardbitten star of Casablanca and The Maltese Falcon. If you’re reading carefully, you’ll note that the credit for continuity goes to Angela Allen. Sixty years later, I sit in a cinema in Soho with Angela Allen and watch The African Queen.

For a while in the 1990s, the NASDAQ of polar exploration knocked Scott off his plinth and installed Shackleton as Britain’s favourite Antarctic hero. To a modern sensibility, survival seemed a more laudable pursuit than sacrifice. Better a live donkey, as Shackleton phlegmatically put it when turning home 90 miles from the South Pole, than a dead lion. For decades Scott has been comprehensively, even vindictively rubbished by the revisionist historian Roland Huntford.