Agnès is, as always, a sweetheart through and through - inviting you in with a disarming charm offensive, never forgetting her pets (her cat, her dead goats, her Ulysses), frank about her age but never succumbing to self-pity - and makes mindful metacriticism a gas instead of just a wet fart. Images of the past have become no less blurred than images of the present, a sea of... [title] And, as always, fuck Godard.
Despite being a seemingly surface level documentary about public art, it manages to penetrate into the deeper level of minds whose paths they cross as they journey through France with their photo pasting project. Immensely enjoyable and as often sweet as it is sad.
Bad editing, terrible utilization of a terrible music. Varda continues to capitalize on the spectator's willingness and tenderness, but that Jr is someone very unnerving in his pose as a popular social space artist. And his narcissism overcomes any possible tenderness. Godard stays out of this team play, hélàs pour nous.