Some films test your patience; this one wears it down. In Praise of Love finds Godard deep in his late style—fragmented, elliptical, forever circling ideas of memory, politics, and love without much interest in clarity. Half the time you’re unsure what he’s saying, the other half you’re wondering if it was worth the detour.
The film splits in two: first, grainy black-and-white, then lurid digital colour. The contrast is jarring, but less profound than it seems—past and present crashing together in theory, though not always in feeling. Godard’s dialogue veers between lecture hall and diary entry, and while there’s an occasional glint of poetry, it often drowns in abstraction.
It isn’t exactly dull, but it is hard work. The rhythms drag, the pacing resists, and the reward feels slimmer than the effort. Every so often there’s an image that lands, but more often In Praise of Love drifts into static.
Some films test your patience; this one wears it down. In Praise of Love finds Godard deep in his late style—fragmented, elliptical, forever circling ideas of memory, politics, and love without much interest in clarity. Half the time you’re unsure what he’s saying, the other half you’re wondering if it was worth the detour.
The film splits in two: first, grainy black-and-white, then lurid digital colour. The contrast is jarring, but less profound than it seems—past and present crashing together in theory, though not always in feeling. Godard’s dialogue veers between lecture hall and diary entry, and while there’s an occasional glint of poetry, it often drowns in abstraction.
It isn’t exactly dull, but it is hard work. The rhythms drag, the pacing resists, and the reward feels slimmer than the effort. Every so often there’s an image that lands, but more often In Praise of Love drifts into static.