Jean-Pierre Léaud spends nearly four hours talking, smoking and catastrophically overanalysing his love life, and somehow I never wanted him to stop.
Alexandre drifts between two women in The Mother and the Whore, treating honesty like a weapon. He's exhausting, magnetic and the kind of man you'd cross a café to avoid. Bernadette Lafont and Françoise Lebrun do the real work, giving the film its nerve and its heartbreak. Alexandre just keeps talking about himself.
Jean Eustache shoots it all in grainy black-and-white, turning a cramped Paris flat into a confession booth nobody asked to enter. The conversations loop, but that's rather the point: this is what it feels like to be stuck in a room with someone who mistakes talking for change.
Alexandre gets to be free. The women are left cleaning up after him. It's gorgeous, exhausting post-'68 wreckage, and I'm already plotting a rewatch — ideally on the big screen, with a small ashtray.