I heard many good things about In Praise of Love- and a few very bad things- so I proceeded with the same caution with most of director Jean-Luc Godard's later films. I thought that, at best, it could call as the grand 21st century precursor to Notre Musique, his latest film, which is one of his best in many years. But watching In Praise of Love is, in some ways, even more frustrating than his bad films because it's one of his better films as a director of scenery and compositions, of attaining that "Paris" mood with his lens. He also has some points here and there that are worth listening too. Unfortunately, a lot of them are also full of hot air, and practically border on being the senile rantings of a man past his prime- ironically a film that is meant to be all about memory, what it means to remember one's country, one's personal history, one's culture, and, if luck should have it, one's possible love. There's also an underlying bitterness to the proceedings too, and even when I heard and saw the sparks of poetry that made me remember seeing the films of his prime in the 1960s, there's also a good deal here that had me raising eyebrows.Maybe that was bound to be my reaction to it, anyway. After all, I'm not just another person walking this Earth, I'm a stupid American without a history who watched Hollywood movies that are, in reality, controlled by the government. At least, that's what Godard would say. And, as well, that because we're the United States of America, we don't really have a country anyway, unlike Mexico or Brazil or whatever. Why doesn't he just use his mouth-piece actors and call me "fatty fatty fat-fat" and get it over with? Ironically as well, this is a filmmaker who once said "there's no use having sharp images when you have fuzzy ideas." Well, a good deal of the ideas are fuzzy here. Though on the reverse side there are a few that are pretty sharp. Like when the character Edgar, the main link in the story who's in part one (the black and white filmed section) an auditioning filmmaker for his project and in part two (digital) doing research two years before, talks to a woman about thinking of something, but thinking of something else. It's much simpler an idea than a lot of the other semantics Godard floats around, and it's actually a good little speech. I also thought the old men (wait, is 'old' right according to Godard, or child, can't say) discussing their own pasts, and what it means for them, or what it doesn't mean. That it's still there for them, their own horrors and occasional joys, are enough.But what becomes all the more frustrating are the ideas that don't hold any water, or seem a little patched together from scraps of notes from Godard's ramblings out on the streets of Paris and, of course, by his long-loved beach scenery. What am I to make of the whole concept of there being no adults, or there being adults? Or the blank pages in the books (nothingness I guess, that memory of what's written is no more, I had no idea really). Or the not-too-subtle attacks on Spielberg? How do we know what Godard is saying to is really true anyway, because of the veneer and sometimes appeal of the documentary form? And what confounds me more is how at times, when the usual tactic of Godard's to do the overlapping conversations- this time in different languages in spurts- didn't bother me as much, as I found that to be an interesting way for Edgar to go about hearing things and experiencing people's words and memories for his 'project'. Unlike past Godard entries, particularly King Lear and Nouvelle Vague (1990), the poetry, if it is as such, in Godard's essay-form of film-making holds some water here, and there are a few passages that come along that are striking, that do connect with the splendid street photography and other set-ups.Nevertheless, it's still hard for me to recommend the picture, unless you're already a Godard fan and will check it out either way of what I say, because of the sense deep down of a cranky deconstructivism in Godard's messages, and unlike his best satires and experimental work doesn't have the balls to call on both sides (Week End had that best). So, France has a "real" memory and American doesn't? Why, because Shakespeare wrote half his plays there? I'm not against people who want to put some criticism to Americans *thoughtfully*, but when done in such a blunt, repetitive tactic, it becomes less like philosophy and socio-political discourse than it becomes more like name-calling and shallow, chronic dissatisfaction with any system outside of his own, albeit with some reservations there too. In Praise of Love is not one of Godard's worst, but it stops and goes in how it really connects, and at the end I wondered- aside from getting the shots of Paris and the countryside with his great DP, and the small bits of inspiration- why the hell Godard is still even making films anyway.

Edgar is a director trying to pull together a project around the subject of love. While drawing it up the author meets a young woman he once knew very well and he spends time with her again while jumping through the various funding and organisational hoops. In the second part of the film we skip backwards two years to the point where the author originally met the woman. At this point in his life he is representing Hollywood and is in the process of purchasing the rights to the story of the girl's grandparents, who ere in the resistance during the majority of World War II.There's one thing to be said for Godard and that's that you can be fairly confident he isn't going to be directing the next Harry Potter film as this 2001 movie shows he is as difficult and rewarding as he could be. The first half of the film is in black and white, while the second is in blistering digital colour. If my plot summary suggests a total cohesion then forget it – the suggested connection with a romance is more from my summary than the actual film. Instead what we have is free flowing dialogue that covers issues around America, art, love, age, humanity and so on – it is difficult to get into but it is worth trying. The dialogue is rather pretentious and too 'deep' to be natural or realistic but it still engages the brain in a way that kept me interested even if I struggled to get into narrative or characters, or to really agree with much of what was being said. I say it is worth trying but I would suggest that this makes it a weak film by the standards of more linear films and should be seen as more of an experience than a story or 'normal' film.Matching this, the direction is both hypnotic and off-putting. Shots are framed in very arty ways with the characters in shadow, out of focus, out of shot etc for much of the film; the b&w section is crisp and feels older than it is, while the colour section is startling in its intensity. Again all this has the dual effect of coming across as rather pretentious and overly arty but then also being interesting enough and imaginative enough to keep you watching. Of course many audiences will be put off, and rightly so because not even once does this film take a step towards the audience to help us out – instead it pitches its tent and simply says that we can take it or leave it. In my own 'difficult' style, I managed to do both and found the film as frustrating and alienating as I did interesting and involving. The cast are hard to judge because they are rather stilted and cold throughout, but none of them really give anything that could be described as a poor performance.Overall this is a strange film and one that is worth a try and worth sticking at for what it does well. However this is not as simple as it should have been and the film does very little to help the audience keep involved and interested. Visually it is true art-house stuff but yet is also great to look at – starkly beautiful or weirdly colourful; meanwhile the dialogue is unnatural and pretentious but yet still interesting and thoughtful. A strange mix but one that is worth a try.

This is a visually impressive, stunning exploration of many themes which would not ordinarily seem to be amenable to film. If you're not much of a thinker, I'm not sure how I might convince you to see this film... but it *is* worth seeing. There is humour and intelligence and a deep subtlety to this film. Godard possesses and portrays more ideas and original explorations of broad themes than (m)any other contemporary film makers.Paris, the Breton coast, globalisation, love, memory, humanity, war, the State, history and memory both individual and collective... universality, showing moments of love, moments in history, in time... they are all here in stunning form.A wonderfully deep, evocative film which can take a while to 'digest' intellectually, as the subject matter is so diverse and 'big'... but in a good way! In fact something as simplistic as the opposition of bad/good has no place in this film or to do with it. This is a marvellous film which is, admittedly, challenging.If you don't want to think or be challenged - either don't watch this film, or watch it and enjoy the beautiful music and wonderful visual qualities (and remember that it's still better than MTV).

I have seen countless French films. And I will continue to watch Gallic productions but this filmed train wreck has me matching the reviews shown in the critics section. This production is awful and that is stating it mildly. The cinema going public will be forever in the debt of director Jean-Luc Godard. He, along with Trauffaut and others created the groundbreaking French New Wave film movement in the early 1960s starting with ‘Breathless', which is still evident in movies of today. But now he is just a desiccated old man riding on his fading legend, having his own little private in-joke that slaps our heads for being such ignorant rubes, especially Americans for buying other people's memories because we as a nation do not have any. Godard might be irate that Hollywood has taken over the world's cineplexes. But what is the competition? This mish-mash artifice and criticism of art in its different forms just wanders in and out of scenes with various characters that can never be identified or truly identified with unless they have a sourpuss personality. There are pointless pontifications that have no connection to anything resembling a storyline with a historical fact cited to give it some kind of legitimacy. And what was Jean-Luc saying by placing numerous scenes near and by water? Was he saying that mankind was drowning in its own moral morass or was Godard confessing that he had no possible clue how to show this impenetrable story, so he substituted by having the audience ponder the gentle ebb and sometimes clashing waves as a reflection into our own souls. Amazingly, there is one item that does stand out in a positive fashion: the black-and-white cinematography in the first half of the movie. The night and early morning shots with their black recesses, sharpened figures and darkened foreground remind me of Brassaï photographs of the ‘City of Light' before the Second World War. The ambiance evokes that warm feeling toward Paris as Woody Allen does about New York City in ‘Manhatten'. But in the end, cynicism wins out and so Godard uses the writer as a substitute to sum up his viewpoint in an existentialist manner that could have been written by Albert Camus. Jean-Luc should have been more honest like the movie director-character in that other debacle about why the French film industry is in decline, ‘Irma Vep'. `F*** the audience. They will see what I want them to see.' ‘In Praise Of Love' is a perfect example of that edict.