That blurb by Jean-Luc Godard is one of those absurd sentiments implying the artistic and intellectual superiority of the Nouvelle Vogue, a conviction which has snowballed rather effectively down generations of cinephiles who adorn their shelves with Criterion Collection editions of these movies, supplied with the necessary bonus features that illuminate at length why the tedious artefact they just sat through is a philosophical goldmine. Good stuff to recitate if someone happens to ask you why that movie about a donkey is your most treasured cinematic experience.
Because by God, does it blow! An alarmingly wooden set of characters populate this clunky, sorry excuse for a story comprised of dull, rural French vignettes with the titular donkey shoehorned in to fulfill Bresson's vision. The animal, whose actual point is (mercifully) left obscure for me, is in fact the best part of the film, since the sheer apathy it by nature has towards this art project ends up being very relatable.
The humans, on the other hand, do nothing but irritate with their stiffness and godawful, robotic lines. The few developments with cinematic potential are kept firmly off-screen. Kind of like a Jean Rollin film without all the psychedelic fantastique elements. Why didn't Bresson just write a damn book?
Before concluding by calling this film a pretentious heap, let us remind ourselves of 'A Man Escaped', a nice assurance that when backed by a proper, suspensive narrative, Bresson's style was able to yield one of the best prison movies in history. But Balthazar is a pretentious heap, do not bother.
Because by God, does it blow! An alarmingly wooden set of characters populate this clunky, sorry excuse for a story comprised of dull, rural French vignettes with the titular donkey shoehorned in to fulfill Bresson's vision. The animal, whose actual point is (mercifully) left obscure for me, is in fact the best part of the film, since the sheer apathy it by nature has towards this art project ends up being very relatable.
The humans, on the other hand, do nothing but irritate with their stiffness and godawful, robotic lines. The few developments with cinematic potential are kept firmly off-screen. Kind of like a Jean Rollin film without all the psychedelic fantastique elements. Why didn't Bresson just write a damn book?
Before concluding by calling this film a pretentious heap, let us remind ourselves of 'A Man Escaped', a nice assurance that when backed by a proper, suspensive narrative, Bresson's style was able to yield one of the best prison movies in history. But Balthazar is a pretentious heap, do not bother.
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