There are some things that impress me in the figure of that incorruptible and supreme icon (their eternal, upstart or renewed exegetes affirm without blushing) called Jean-Luc Godard.
One is his courage and his reasons for saying goodbye to this world.
He asked for assisted suicide and I want to think that it was quick and painless in highly civilized Switzerland and a close friend said that this decision was not due to the fact that he was sick, but rather that he felt very tired.
Another is that throughout seven films he showed on the screen the face, the body, the infinite charm, the seductive personality of Anna Karina, one of the most beautiful women in the history of cinema.
He also photographed Jean Seberg better than anyone, with short hair and sunglasses, tastefully making her strolls down the Champs Elysées irresistible to the eyes in
At the end of the escape.
And the film reviews of the young and passionate Godard were not wasted.
But my fascination with his alleged art ends there.
In exchange, he has caused me infinite boredom, irritation, misunderstanding in a filmography that must touch a hundred titles.
And I know of many people who speak reverentially of his work by quoting exclusively
At the End of the Escape.
Well, let them see the rest of his infinite filmography.
They will not.
Among other things, because his cinema was unreleased in commercial theaters, although some distributors claimed a suicidal vocation.
We used to see them or, in my case, we suffered from their boring and pretentious aliens at film festivals, but most of the cinephile, not just the normal audience he despised so much, has it raw to give an opinion about cinema (he called from a long time ago to his films as film essays or poems) of a man who suitably intellectual drooling or inopia, with feigned or real love for modernity and postmodernity, equate to the same creative level as what Picasso meant for painting and James Joyce for literature.
Well okay.
Claiming bullshit doesn't cost money.
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Film director Jean-Luc Godard, father of the 'nouvelle vague', dies at 91
I read in the column of this newspaper titled
Anatomy of Twitter
that one of its users has written: “Godard has died: hard day for the most insufferable people you know”.
I have a soulmate in those networks that I do not know.
They say that many times that medium is a refuge for unpunished barbarians, but with that message I sympathize, it gives me warmth.
And of course, neither do I have anything to say in real life with someone who considers Godard to be the most beautiful, lucid and necessary thing that has happened to cinema, as the man who revolutionized it for the better, who changed everything, who he showed the way of truth to his expendable but also hideous disciples.
It's a matter of taste, say rational and tolerant people.
I am not.
And my crazy imagination and innocuous sadism is clear about the punishment to which I would subject my worst enemies.
tie them to a soft armchair,
They say that France and Macron, so respectful and grateful to their gods, have fired Godard with the honors that correspond to undeniable geniuses.
I only wish the deceased infinite peace.
And of course, I will continue reviewing and giving eternal thanks to many films of French cinema.
To directors who often entertain, fascinate, move and touch my soul such as Jacques Becker, Jean-Pierre Melville, Claude Sautet, Jean Renoir, François Truffaut, Louis Malle, Jacques Tati.
People like that.
There are also his films that faint.
But they were never sermonizers, or prophets, or revolutionaries out of the blue.
They just told stories, the most beautiful job in the world.
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