Anna Karena, the ex-sow of Godard. Her eyes so reminiscent of a silent star. Or just the makeup? Louise Brooks was alas too old and as now in so may wasps too dead. Titles were at lease as important as that silent recurring moment of contemplation. Hiroshima Mon Amour anyone? Short enigmatic speeches repeated without apparent reason being the order of the day. The barrier of the great sadness also known as emptiness. Plenty of ennui in important French films. A gimmick of impossible interest of audience being left out of the joke and having to summon their own ideas of possible impossible forms of importance. The unwashed safe from ridicule in the forest of the unwashed. An impossible context to assault by any save for these that place upon themselves the proper aires. Ah ha! The foggy reflection is recognized in the mirror just beyond. Philosophie!
Past identity the ruse goes on. Mystery not revealed beyond the familiarity of the few with the credits. Only when they play the game do we have the opportunity to catch a glimpse of their unmasked faces. No big in the tit department but adept at the slink she takes what she has got and ignores it on purpose. So what do we have but an audience o voyeurs. Which after all is what M. Godard desires. The camera moves back and forth stopping at the next shot passing the mundane. Waiting, waiting, waiting for something to happen before the big characteristic pan.