Jean-Luc Godard is a cinematic genius, there is no denying that. He was a major player in one of the most influential movements in the history of film, the French New Wave. His films Breathless, Contempt and Masculin-Féminin are among the greatest ever made. He is a legend to movie-goers and filmmakers alike.
That said, this movie is a dud. In Praise of Love (Éloge de l'Amour) is confusing rather than enigmatic, and boring rather than thoughtful.
I wanted to like this movie, I really did. I wanted to act intelligent and proclaim, `Ce film est excellent!' Mais, I mean, but, it isn't. Watching In Praise of Love is like reading a graduate philosophy textbook that is written in French poetry, with translation in hyroglyphics.
The story, if one can call it that, centers on Edgar, a man confused about his own emotions, who is trying to make a film (or novel, or opera) about relationships. In a flashback that comprises nearly the entire second half of the movie, we come to find out that one of the women Edgar was hoping to cast is in fact a woman he met years earlier when speaking to a couple persecuted during World War II who are in the process of selling their story to Steven Speilberg. (Don't worry, I've seen the movie, and I'm not quite sure myself.)
Several mentions are made of `stupid Americans', and this movie made me feel like the stupidest of all. But Godard is Godard, so rest assured, his strange vignettes are just as haunting and aesthetically beautiful as they are perplexing.
That said, this movie is a dud. In Praise of Love (Éloge de l'Amour) is confusing rather than enigmatic, and boring rather than thoughtful.
I wanted to like this movie, I really did. I wanted to act intelligent and proclaim, `Ce film est excellent!' Mais, I mean, but, it isn't. Watching In Praise of Love is like reading a graduate philosophy textbook that is written in French poetry, with translation in hyroglyphics.
The story, if one can call it that, centers on Edgar, a man confused about his own emotions, who is trying to make a film (or novel, or opera) about relationships. In a flashback that comprises nearly the entire second half of the movie, we come to find out that one of the women Edgar was hoping to cast is in fact a woman he met years earlier when speaking to a couple persecuted during World War II who are in the process of selling their story to Steven Speilberg. (Don't worry, I've seen the movie, and I'm not quite sure myself.)
Several mentions are made of `stupid Americans', and this movie made me feel like the stupidest of all. But Godard is Godard, so rest assured, his strange vignettes are just as haunting and aesthetically beautiful as they are perplexing.