the first time i saw a movie at the cinématèque française I thought: only the french, only the french would house a cinema inside a palace
i was one of the insatiables. the ones youd always find sitting closest to the screen. why do we sit so close ? maybe it was because we wanted to receive the images first. when they were still new, still fresh. before they cleared the hurdles of the rows behind us. before theyd been relayed back from row to row, spectator to spectator; until worn out, secondhand, the size of a postage stamp, it returned to the projectionist’s cabin.
maybe, too, the screen was really a screen. It screened us .. from the world
i entered this world on the champs-elysees, 1959. la trottoir du champs-elysees. and do you know what my very first words were ? newyork herald tribune ! newyork herald tribune !
a revolution isnt a gala dinner. it cannot be created like a book, a drawing or a tapestry. it cannot unfold with such elegance, tranquility and delicacy. or such sweetness, affability. courtesy, restraint and generosity. a revolution is an uprising, a violent act by which one class overthrows another
we accept you, one of us ! one of us !
it makes films like crimes, and directors like criminals
there’s no such thing as love. there are only proofs of love
ah oui, je suis saoule, et tu es belle. et demain matin, je serais sobre, mais toi, tu sera toujours belle
a latenight odyssey of outrageous romantics, mindgames, insanely hot french people in a ridiculously quaint apartment. college students with the perpetual cigarette, their heads filled with naught but philosophy and rock and roll, thriving on films and the nouvelle vague. the dreamers was a step away from the political unrest in paris late 1960s, a step closer to the ubiquitous fantasy of the young and restless. i would watch this again and again, because its just one of those you have to rewatch to understand it better