I have seen countless French films. And I will continue to watch Gallic productions but this filmed train wreck has me matching the reviews shown in the critics section. This production is awful and that is stating it mildly.
The cinema going public will be forever in the debt of director Jean-Luc Godard. He, along with Trauffaut and others created the groundbreaking French New Wave film movement in the early 1960s starting with Breathless', which is still evident in movies of today. But now he is just a desiccated old man riding on his fading legend, having his own little private in-joke that slaps our heads for being such ignorant rubes, especially Americans for buying other people's memories because we as a nation do not have any.
Godard might be irate that Hollywood has taken over the world's cineplexes. But what is the competition? This mish-mash artifice and criticism of art in its different forms just wanders in and out of scenes with various characters that can never be identified or truly identified with unless they have a sourpuss personality. There are pointless pontifications that have no connection to anything resembling a storyline with a historical fact cited to give it some kind of legitimacy.
And what was Jean-Luc saying by placing numerous scenes near and by water? Was he saying that mankind was drowning in its own moral morass or was Godard confessing that he had no possible clue how to show this impenetrable story, so he substituted by having the audience ponder the gentle ebb and sometimes clashing waves as a reflection into our own souls.
Amazingly, there is one item that does stand out in a positive fashion: the black-and-white cinematography in the first half of the movie. The night and early morning shots with their black recesses, sharpened figures and darkened foreground remind me of Brassaï photographs of the City of Light' before the Second World War. The ambiance evokes that warm feeling toward Paris as Woody Allen does about New York City in Manhatten'.
But in the end, cynicism wins out and so Godard uses the writer as a substitute to sum up his viewpoint in an existentialist manner that could have been written by Albert Camus. Jean-Luc should have been more honest like the movie director-character in that other debacle about why the French film industry is in decline, Irma Vep'. `F*** the audience. They will see what I want them to see.'
In Praise Of Love' is a perfect example of that edict.
The cinema going public will be forever in the debt of director Jean-Luc Godard. He, along with Trauffaut and others created the groundbreaking French New Wave film movement in the early 1960s starting with Breathless', which is still evident in movies of today. But now he is just a desiccated old man riding on his fading legend, having his own little private in-joke that slaps our heads for being such ignorant rubes, especially Americans for buying other people's memories because we as a nation do not have any.
Godard might be irate that Hollywood has taken over the world's cineplexes. But what is the competition? This mish-mash artifice and criticism of art in its different forms just wanders in and out of scenes with various characters that can never be identified or truly identified with unless they have a sourpuss personality. There are pointless pontifications that have no connection to anything resembling a storyline with a historical fact cited to give it some kind of legitimacy.
And what was Jean-Luc saying by placing numerous scenes near and by water? Was he saying that mankind was drowning in its own moral morass or was Godard confessing that he had no possible clue how to show this impenetrable story, so he substituted by having the audience ponder the gentle ebb and sometimes clashing waves as a reflection into our own souls.
Amazingly, there is one item that does stand out in a positive fashion: the black-and-white cinematography in the first half of the movie. The night and early morning shots with their black recesses, sharpened figures and darkened foreground remind me of Brassaï photographs of the City of Light' before the Second World War. The ambiance evokes that warm feeling toward Paris as Woody Allen does about New York City in Manhatten'.
But in the end, cynicism wins out and so Godard uses the writer as a substitute to sum up his viewpoint in an existentialist manner that could have been written by Albert Camus. Jean-Luc should have been more honest like the movie director-character in that other debacle about why the French film industry is in decline, Irma Vep'. `F*** the audience. They will see what I want them to see.'
In Praise Of Love' is a perfect example of that edict.
