Godard by Godard, a tragicomic portrait of the artist at twilight. Can it really be 26 years old? But then, Godard has always been very young and very old at the same time, and that may be his most endearing strength as an artist. A man haunted by film history, his oeuvre, his magnum opus that he can't quite bring himself to finish (and this one is the main offshoot of his Histoire(s) days). JLG moving inward for once, retreating in face of the weight of the world. Revealing just enough but with the right amount of tongue in cheek so we can never know for sure if he isn't just putting on a good performance for us. The images are incredible, but they have a mix of throwaway and violence that keep us on the edge. Cinema's sad jester knows all too well that he has no place if the realm of moving image is disappearing, so he can only take stock and try to compose its last rites. That's what he was doing in a way or another for most of the 90s, his early career hit sort of a natural end with the intentionally titled Nouvelle Vague in 1990 and everything was on hold while the histoire(s) were composed, among those movies from this time none move me more time than this one, everything since is an often-beautiful postscript. I'm still very glad he is willing to keep to share those with us. Anyway, this revisit was an ideal for his 90-year birthday, if only because for once he kind of is Jean-Luc.
