While Fritz Lang as himself and Michel Piccoli as a promising screenwriter discuss Ulysses, Godard tells with the irony of genius and the severity of beauty of an impossible return, of a borderline crossed forever. C’est la vie, as the fragile muse with the voice and body of Brigitte Bardot often reminds us, convincing everyone but herself.
This is the film that marks my defeat. It is the film that makes me feel the weight of my arms hanging down to my sides even though they are resting on my lap, my legs crossed. Yet still, it’s not discouragement what I feel. And if tears are coming, they are of utter enchantment. As only those who have common sense deceive themselves by thinking that despair and hope are two different emotions. And while I think back to that quote of John Berger that haven’t known for a long time what to do with—‘What remains of our hopes is a long despair which will engender them again’—I turn off the light and madly in love I say to myself, so it will be!