He has no grasp of rhythm, variation, dynamics, shape. He knows one kind of scene, a crescendo whose climax must be bolstered by loud dissonant strings, which then cuts to the next scene. This happens over and over again for 2 hours. This director, who thinks himself above the prose of cinema, which he doesn’t understand and cannot use, aims for poetry and achieves doggerel. Having ignored the history of cinema, he thinks shot/reverse-shots, which he hates, can only be…

The film is truly beyond all hope when the only justification for its existence, the only sensible thing that can be said about its raison d'être, consists of an approximation of its place and relative value in the work of a so-called auteur: the makeshift patch-up job done by this new type of viewer (the intellectual petty bourgeoisie, executives, etc.) on what is already — in the ponderous mouth of the critic, the press attaché eager to attach himself to…