Last night was the fifth time I've seen Godard's Pierrot le fou (1965), and again a revelation. Ce temps: A melancholic(?) young man more or less admits to an old love that he would be happier living in a novel while writing one, and she does what she can to help him. To the point of leaving him. Happily.
The woman is more than a muse, more than his construction. Or at least the auteur attempts to make her so. All of which was on my mind while walking towards last night's sunset at Spanish Banks; the two in the picture coming ashore, their voices carrying, in love with the water and how warm it is, oblivious to the dying of the light.
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