Film theorists like to call this type of film an example of "counter-cinema", an attempt by a filmmaker to dislocate the viewer from any pre-conceived ideas of, say, narrative and acting so that he can raise the question of what traditional narrative cinema does to the spectator. In other words, by drawing our attention to the way a film is made he can confound our enjoyment and break the hypnotic effect a traditional film has on us. But who the hell wants that? If I wanted my enjoyment confounded, I'd rent "Flowers in the Attic".
"Le Vent d'est" isn't so much a film as an essay on Communism and the insidious effect American culture has on the individual. It's also possibly the funniest thing I've ever seen. I saw this in an arthouse cinema in the late eighties and for two hours I sat biting my lower lip to prevent myself from laughing out loud. I needn't have bothered, because most of the audience had left within half an hour of the film starting. I wish I could remember it more vividly because I could share with you some of the stuff in it. One scene I do remember, though, is the one where Gian Maria Volonte (the bad guy in the Clint Eastwood spaghetti westerns) throttles some woman while someone else off-screen pelts her on the back of the head with red paint. What does it mean? Who knows? In this case, I'm proud to be a philistine.
The worst thing about this film isn't the acting, the direction, or the dialogue (these are all irrelevant in this film, anyway). No, the worst thing is that Godard is arrogant enough to suggest that the average audience has no critical faculties of its own. Even worse that he feels he has to draw it to our attention.
"Le Vent d'est" isn't so much a film as an essay on Communism and the insidious effect American culture has on the individual. It's also possibly the funniest thing I've ever seen. I saw this in an arthouse cinema in the late eighties and for two hours I sat biting my lower lip to prevent myself from laughing out loud. I needn't have bothered, because most of the audience had left within half an hour of the film starting. I wish I could remember it more vividly because I could share with you some of the stuff in it. One scene I do remember, though, is the one where Gian Maria Volonte (the bad guy in the Clint Eastwood spaghetti westerns) throttles some woman while someone else off-screen pelts her on the back of the head with red paint. What does it mean? Who knows? In this case, I'm proud to be a philistine.
The worst thing about this film isn't the acting, the direction, or the dialogue (these are all irrelevant in this film, anyway). No, the worst thing is that Godard is arrogant enough to suggest that the average audience has no critical faculties of its own. Even worse that he feels he has to draw it to our attention.