For reasons which I cannot fathom this terminally irritating opus was considered a milestone in post-New Wavelet film-making and even won the Grand Prix at Cannes.
Director Jean Eustache has roped in a couple of chums, Jean-Pierre Léaud and Bernadette Lafont and a former lover named Francoise Lebrun. Léaud was fine as Truffaut's alter-ego but here his character is insufferable. His mystifying success with women is a very poor reflection on those women. Mlle Lebrun cannot act her way out of a paper bag but let us at least be grateful for small mercies in having the sexual charisma of Mlle Lafont to bring some much-needed 'brio' to the proceedings.
Just to sit through this dreary, self-indulgent, pretentious and interminable film, let alone review it, suggests a dedication far beyond the call of cinematic duty. Was it worth the effort? Chacun a son gout!
Director Jean Eustache has roped in a couple of chums, Jean-Pierre Léaud and Bernadette Lafont and a former lover named Francoise Lebrun. Léaud was fine as Truffaut's alter-ego but here his character is insufferable. His mystifying success with women is a very poor reflection on those women. Mlle Lebrun cannot act her way out of a paper bag but let us at least be grateful for small mercies in having the sexual charisma of Mlle Lafont to bring some much-needed 'brio' to the proceedings.
Just to sit through this dreary, self-indulgent, pretentious and interminable film, let alone review it, suggests a dedication far beyond the call of cinematic duty. Was it worth the effort? Chacun a son gout!