‘Pierrot Le Fou’ is what separates me from those filmies who like to
think that Godard has a point to make. And yes, I’ll be polite and say that it’s
neither the bone-polishing trendsetter ‘Breathless’ was, nor the weird
semi-genius incomprehensibility ‘Alphaville’ was, nor the playfully shocking
social satire ‘Weekend’ was - but ‘Pierrot Le Fou’ fits neatly in-between as a: montage, collection of expository philosophical daydreams, a pompous (and
the other big “P” : pretentious) and maybe deplorable Modernist French
singsong. Of course, since it was made by Jean-Luc Godard, the original
French New Waver (who looks cool in sunglasses) it’s got more steam and
spice than, say, something similar by Fellini or Bergman that might add up to
much more in the “meaningful” category.

         It’s also a film that you can see mirrored in both Hal Hartley’s
‘Amateur’ (the same wildly unnecessary plot that seems to outweigh the
obviously intended point of pointlessness with it’s very existence) and QT’s
‘Pulp Fiction’ (the same dialogue excerpts, disturbance in logic and
mile-a-minute credos rendering themselves in a xerox of hyper-pop culture).
In fact, if you look closely at Godard and Tarantino, their respectable claims
to fame are somewhat akin.

       Observe.

         On one level, I see Tarantino’s reach : the brash contextualizing of
everything: transforming a lifetime of soaked cinematic rays into a nicely
bleached set of even more self-consciously cinematic rays. On another level, I
saw Tarantino spawn exactly what Godard did; namely, a generation of
filmmakers aching to be just like their googly-eyed rip-off artist of a mentor.
Basically, boiling the stew down, they’re two pseudo-hip framemakers whose
hobbies include watching people not unlike themselves fantasize about what
it would be like to be someone else, and living that wet dream out like it were
playacting, mayhem and satisfaction quenched. To Boot : ‘Pierrot Le Fou’
explores the appendages of literature like ‘Pulp Fiction’ explored the shackles
and chains of zigzagging, multi-media “short-attention-span” TV verve. That,
and the effects of entertainment’s vice-like grip on already listless and
impressionable people.

         And on one more level still, with Tarantino safely in our rear view
mirror, I’ve just spied the flamboyantly admirable quality to it : (subjectivity
alert!) the two protagonists know they’re being watched. Pierrot
acknowledges the audience at one point and they talk about the organization
and logic of books : and then live the freedom that affords the writer. But
who’s the writer? It hits close to home in a kind of comforting way. It’s what
I’d envision my life to be : seventy years of celluloid.

         Then, about two-thirds of the way through, the film falls flat on it’s ass
due in part to it’s length, or, lack of longevity as we say in the porno
business. It’s not consistently visually engaging and, when it’s half over, I’m
glad - because I can’t imagine watching it again. To say it’s a movie of
convenience is misleading - and too easy a disposal. Godard has fun (I would
say, at our expense) using the control of imagination as it’s translated to the
written word and applying it to film. He can do whatever logic - or, again,
lack thereof - can afford him. Yeah, and get away with it. Right. [And
imagine my sour face when that sticky-sharp reference to James Joyce
emerges, who we can’t help but wish we weren’t calling to mind at that
moment in time, like picturing one’s mother when masturbating.]

         Finally, onto the bottom lines : Amidst the direct address, the vocal
interludes, the hitched reality, the text changeovers (complete with name
changes), the oddball single-shot profiles, the premature cuts, the cuts that
come out of nowhere, the sound droppage and the musical magician act (like
a rabbit, it reappears and disappears in that order) - - - - - to escape
particulars : some of this works and some of this fails. Sometimes the
aimlessness morphs into boring dribble, sometimes the genius of art-bites and
cultural reference shavings feel like a painting of two people - painted by a
dozen master painters - all at once.

         I wanted to savor some of it, but it gets old real quick. I think we’ll file
it under : “That’s nice, but what in the hell does it all mean?”

        And anyway, what do I know?