Peter Rose Retrospective (Thu., Dec. 5, 7:30 p.m.; Sun., Dec. 8, 7 p.m., $8.50, Prince Music Theater, 1412 Chestnut St., 215-569-9700, www.princemusictheater.org) Peter Rose is one of those people whose art turns up so frequently that it's easy to forget how unusual and distinctive it is. Drawing equally from Stan Brakhage and Spike Jones (the musician, not the filmmaker), Rose is concerned -- not to say obsessed -- with processing the way images, sounds, thoughts, words make their way into our consciousness, and what happens to them once they get there. Although most of the short films that make up the Prince's two programs date from the last two decades, one dates back to 1968; to look at the 13 pieces that comprise both nights is to be struck by the amazing consistency of Rose's concerns, and the wide variety of techniques with which he's explored them.

Reviews of Rose's work tend to overemphasize his use of humor, name-checking everyone from Andy Kaufman to Ernie Kovacs: While Babel (1987) uses a variety of funny voices (some supplied by Rose himself) to illustrate the disassociation of language from the things it's supposed to represent, it's less funny than "funny," which is to say Rose exploits the concept of humor without exactly invoking it. That's not a criticism, exactly; it's just that Rose's work is so busy attacking the cerebrum that it doesn't leave the lower brain much to do except wonder what's for dinner. Some of the pieces, like the audio-only The Gift, a mock children's story whose protagonist is a girl named "The girl without a name," try so hard to be "funny" that they're grating instead, like a dinner guest who doesn't sense that his cherished anecdote isn't going over as well as planned.

The most notable exception, and the retrospective's most satisfying piece, is among its oldest: 1981's the man who could not see far enough. Mixing autobiography, experimental film and daredevil stunts -- the last segment alternates black screens with footage Rose shot while climbing the Golden Gate Bridge, the camera visibly shaking in high winds -- the man who successfully explores the primacy, and the limitations, of seeing from a wide variety of angles. Though the two evenings are curated into the themes "Power" and "Language" -- the first, on Thursday, includes the man who and Babel, while Sunday's program includes The Gift and a special "operatic" version of Babel using two screens -- it's not at all clear Rose recognizes a distinction between the two. The juxtaposition of made-up gobbledygook with Reaganite SDI gibberish in Babel forcefully underlines the extent to which power means never having to explain yourself.

Two By Rohmer: La Collectionneuse and The Lady and the Duke (Tue., Dec. 10 and Wed., Dec. 11, 7:30 p.m., $6, International House, 3701 Chestnut St., 215-895-6542, www.ihousephilly.org) Eric Rohmer's delicate, literary films have probably aged less well than any of his New Wave contemporaries' -- Truffaut's sentimentality or Godard's Marxism might seem a little dated, but their playful aesthetics have not been dulled by age. Rohmer was always a classicist; 35 years after its initial release, La Collectionneuse looks positively Victorian, mod haircuts and lamé miniskirts notwithstanding. Though the subject matter probably flirted with the standards of the time, this story of two men who become concerned about a female friend's promiscuousness now seems as current as a lava lamp or beaded curtains -- Rohmer arguably wants to step past his characters' self-obsession into a more timeless consideration of sexual mores, but he doesn't make the leap.

Drawn from the other end of Rohmer's career, The Lady and the Duke, which enjoyed a brief Philadelphia release earlier this year, seems as fresh as a summer's day. The 80-year-old Rohmer boldly embraces digital technology for this story set during the French Revolution, placing his actors into settings that look less like painted backdrops than actual paintings. Though it's even stagier than La Collectionneuse, The Lady and the Duke turns its theatricality into an asset, both embracing artificiality and giving us plenty to feast our eyes on while the characters stand around talking. Thirty years on, Eric Rohmer has only gotten younger.