A playfully obtuse, plotless procession of obscure cinematic rhymes and games of repetition that tease the viewer and invite one to construct his or her own system of meaning, much like one might draw association between fragments of dreams.
Robert Beavers in a hotel room, at his work desk or stretched out on the bed, while fragments of Duvelor by Michel de Ghelderode play on the soundtrack.
While The Rolling Stones rehearse ‘Sympathy for the Devil’ in the studio, Godard reflects on 1968 society, politics and culture through five different vignettes.
A cinematographic poem in the form of variations around the theme of Robinson, a utopian fable freely inspired by Daniel Defoe’s novel, which speaks above all of solitude: the immense weakness of today’s man in the face of loneliness is no longer that of the hero of the eighteenth century.
“The strength of montage resides in this, that it includes in the creative process the emotions and mind of the spectator. The spectator is compelled to proceed along that selfsame path that the author traveled in creating the image.
“From one flick of the mare’s tail came an unending stream of images out of which was crystallised the milky way.”
David Larcher
“Rather than being our own, the labors of our days are merely a series of things we are made to do by those outside ourselves. We live lives that are even more evanescent than the bubbles floating along the stream – and even more meaningless.
Pourquoi le film se déroule-t-il en Belgique ?
“Watching [his films] brings to mind a comment made by John Ford to a collaborator who was complaining about the miserable weather conditions somewhere in the desert when they were trying to shoot a picture. The guy said, ‘Look, Mr.
“Want de literator is niets menselijks vreemd en de film, als de meest realistische, de meest verwarrende magisch-realistische kunst, heeft een werkelijkheid van de tweede graad geschapen waarover de literator zal schrijven als uit een reeds een eerste maal gepuurde levenssubstantie: ze is leven
…a young lady in her apartment’s kitchen mops the floors, polishes her shoes, dances, cooks, drinks wine, then she duct-tapes the door, opens the gas and blows everything up – humming all along.
“My hatred for the bourgeoisie is not documentable or arguable. It’s just there and that’s it. But it’s not a moralistic condemnation; it is total and unmitigated, but it is based on passion, not on moralism.