I'll try to be brief, as usual in my posts on the board. I've always suspected Mrs Varda's work to be part of the Demy mystique not only in kinship. Part of is, certainly, in a way ironic people would expect: there's so much sadness and gloom (Demy's touch) underlying the simple joy in life it can only pass in the work's blood by language (usually faked for the circumstance and made to cheat on everyone, Varda's touch for instance).
Take actors for example: they are known for having motors like greed, or jealousy. Movie world asks for this, and this is public's demand, so there's no way it can possibly end. This is timeless as cinema is- and the current devout to this transmission of aloofness, and also feverish love, so Mr Simon Cinéma's childish, ever-cheating, ever- awesome Michel Piccoli is never to die, an ever jealous, ever sentimental, born to play this metaphor man who is Cinema as a whole, is essentially language, not picture.
There's something more sordid about this film either- not even its "in- your-face" approach (somehow (curiously, Varda's hypocritical touch) a five year old could see this film and enjoy it- why not, this is playful too) and past the "greatest movie moments and quotes" is his belief in nostalgia. It's shocking when you think this was thought of as a tribute essentially. It plays with your nerves and brains, even though it gives you a feeling of "you were never there, but WE were. Nay, you just sat there but you were NEVER there" (and this is missing a whole lot of the film's initial purposes, as well as the movie-crazy audiences in the first place). So this film is a lack of respect and a sh!thole, playing for what it has never invented, and only playing with the minds of the movie-crazy-audiences mentalities it should respect in the first place. Don't be fooled, brethren.
Take actors for example: they are known for having motors like greed, or jealousy. Movie world asks for this, and this is public's demand, so there's no way it can possibly end. This is timeless as cinema is- and the current devout to this transmission of aloofness, and also feverish love, so Mr Simon Cinéma's childish, ever-cheating, ever- awesome Michel Piccoli is never to die, an ever jealous, ever sentimental, born to play this metaphor man who is Cinema as a whole, is essentially language, not picture.
There's something more sordid about this film either- not even its "in- your-face" approach (somehow (curiously, Varda's hypocritical touch) a five year old could see this film and enjoy it- why not, this is playful too) and past the "greatest movie moments and quotes" is his belief in nostalgia. It's shocking when you think this was thought of as a tribute essentially. It plays with your nerves and brains, even though it gives you a feeling of "you were never there, but WE were. Nay, you just sat there but you were NEVER there" (and this is missing a whole lot of the film's initial purposes, as well as the movie-crazy audiences in the first place). So this film is a lack of respect and a sh!thole, playing for what it has never invented, and only playing with the minds of the movie-crazy-audiences mentalities it should respect in the first place. Don't be fooled, brethren.