It would make sense that the first film in a trilogy whose priceless gift is none other than a rotating perspective would suffer the most as a standalone (which, initially, is all it can be taken as). I got more out of the plight of an escaped, outmoded revolutionary once I found out more about the seemingly cardboard cop bent on trapping him. I reacted to this one by calling it, initially, "unnecessary"; Now that I see the necessity, I wonder if it would work better for me? (Somehow I doubt it. This one works better as a keystone, setting up the third one.) If On the Run was edited together with After Life, the result - however overlong - would likely improve the experience.

Ironically, the most beneficial from being a near standalone, it's overlaps seem to add little to After Life, but its whimsical premise - a lawyer goes to outrageous lengths to cover up, initially, a minor health problem, but finds himself embroiled in a battle of suspicions with his wife after weaving a web of lies fit for Larry David - and the devilish, almost cheerful distraaction of this picture (from the urgent and gloomy character studies of On the Run and After Life) makes it so enjoyable, you almost wish it didn't require as much heavy baggage primed for "by comparison" observations.

Shifts gears from latter-day National Lampoon parody (or, bad parody, we'll say) to occasionally funny sequences like the Mime Robot Fight; Mostly, we indulge in the excess: Gross-out one-liners, gratuitious sex, and overcolored locals etched in such caricature, they're almost curiosity pieces (Big e.g. - Vinnie Jones' Soccer Hooligans). The horny Greek guy in the train tunnels verges on pretty creative slapstick. An ideal "I'll watch this until my wife gets back" movie (although its scant running time isn't quite scant enough, despite her ninety minute version of ten minutes).

The story I've been relaying abou the scratched film and the studio's anger upon realization of said scratch is horseshit. I have no idea where I heard it or why I chose to repeat it so many dang times but - know this - I may have made it up. Probably the most atmospheric of Altman's great pictures (3 Women has a different quality, one I don't think I'd feel comfortable calling atmospheric, exactly), its location is even more important to the story its telling than the one in Nashville (and that's saying something! I think!) The town's exterior, in browned-out sunsets, exists in a state of mud and chill, never seeming the least bit natural or beautiful as the warm, bright interiors; This much is certain, though: The whole thing looks more lived-in than nearly anything I can think of, setting an invisible benchmark on so many levels, I still find it hard to put into words how strongly I feel about McCabe & Mrs. Miller. This is an astonishing film.

I care more about the characters in this film than I do about most of the people I actually know. Which is a major tribute to Linklater's ability to transport the genius of Rohmer and to beat him at his own game, in my opinion. The characters are even so hip as to completely contradict things they said in Before Sunrise (Celine forgets - seemingly - the story she told on the train, in  Sunrise, about seeing a ghost, when she announces that she doesn't believe in spirit in Sunset). Or, is this film the hippest goddamned thing made in the last two years because, if it really is made to appease fans of the first film (as I confidently fantasize it does), it succeeds in creating suspense in a story whose ending we already know (because, fellow Before-film Fanboys, we saw them together in bed, referring to Before Sunrise in Waking Life). Imagine this simple (practically extinct) concept: Sincerity. Who'd a-thunk it?

Somehow, despite how it contains the most payoffs and miraculously makes Pascal's and Agnes's relationship seem remarkably complex, After Life also betrays the original film by exposing how much less compelling a politically outdated lammist can be when an angry cop can no longer supply his wife with morphine. I'm being serious, though: The catharsis gives After Life the definite edge over On the Run, even on a storytelling level: An honest ending beats one rife with metaphor. It's a let down that neither film really works on its own, but it's also a testament to the symbiotic nature of both films, itself a better comment on the needy humanity Belvaux sees through his lens.

I don't have a whole heck of a lot more to say about it upon this, my third viewing; I really liked what Summer had to say about it (I dragged her to the theater this time to see it) (paraphrasing): "It pinpoints that exact moment when you start to crush on someone and then move through the mutually awkward stages of falling for each other". Sidenote: Met up with this guy, whom I hadn't seen since the 2003 PFF. Not only was he kind enough to return Songs from the Second Floor and Pulse - - he actually indulged my presence for the time it took to consume a meal.

Pure Cinema: "Cinema-pur." This French genre was developed during the 1920s de-emphasizing conventional story lines and narratives. The focus was not even on representational forms of film but rather on rhythm and form. Henri Chomette originally used the term to divide this cinematic perspective off from standard forms of cinema. Pure cinema was directly influenced by German absolutism.

The lion's share of its problem is that Mutual Appreciation veers from decoding the strange language of romantic reciprocation to center on a character we have only a passing interest in. Other problems include: Claire's Knee syndrome (one tiny, pointless thing becomes the focus of the last third of the film), Faces syndrome (dear god stop improvising, please, because you're boring the holy fuck out of me) and Funny Ha Ha syndrome (as in, it's the same movie, only longer and less entertaining). The Bumblebees, on the other hand: Rock.

First act, despite blatant exposition crutch, stylizes an onslaught of playful wit the likes of which rings like some lost, forgotten play about faded Hollywood Babylon. Richard Dreyfuss and Veronica Cartwright parlay one-liners before Bob Hoskins and Jessica Harper enter, hilariously; About the time Cartwright ODs, however, the film takes what feels like one of the most horribly out-of-character nose dives in cinema history, turning into a psychological tutorial of the silent director, who now plies his craft in the great medium of early porn. Repetitious and, to use a word I try to shy away from, just plain old fucking *boring*. Before the crappy final two acts, Hoskins and counterpart leave to dispose of Cartwright's corpse. They plan to bury her in a couples' plot which is just about to be filled. This would have been a much more interesting way to chuck off the last hour of Byrum's film.

Effectively a balancing act, drawing a sharper historical context than his (in my opinion) failed connection between love life and Sherman's March (in film of same name) and arching with strong resolve to scrape the untouchable personal epiphanies reached in his most dazzling film, Time Indefinite. Bright Leaves comes off light and entertaining, McElwee's filmmaking reflecting his maturity as much as his voice on the soundtrack, the historical notes on his distant, beaten tobacco magnate relative are not only married to his past (and effectively disproved with as much doubt and leeway as you're willing to grant) this time around, but they flirt with being the work of great fiction besides. This is the South I like: Strong roots, compassionate, pleasant, eyes to the past and the future. This is the Ross I like: Turns the camera on his son saying things like (paraphrasing) "I shot this - it has nothing to do with the film, but I like it and I like how it makes me feel to play with the camera".