It’s good that we’re now able to see the film as originally intended, if only to recognize its thoroughly contemptible cultural sensibilities.
A haunting certified copy of one man’s disintegrating life—blinding in its fragmented treatment of artificial self-representation.
In the crawlspace between the mockumentary and the documentary, there exists a group of movies that can tentatively be described as “false cinema.”
In a word: balls.
Agnès Varda’s film is as insistently wry as it is haunting.