Manafonistas

Oh, no, everybody seems to love these three movies, I remember happy faces, intelligent women retelling the stories, the precious moments of wonder, I remember film critics being stunned, inspired, desperately looking for words to describe all the subtleties. And then, last year, the third film of the series, and Peter Bradshaw (the Guardian, smart guy) went enthusiastic. Again applause everywhere. I can honestly say that these three films belong to the most boring experiences I’ve ever had in a cinema. 1995: Before Sunrise. 2004: Before Sunset. 2013: Before Midnight. The first two: teenager movies disguised as dialogue-obsessed love stories for young and old, the third film revealing the amazing wisdom that reality bites. Saw the first film because I was manipulated by an overenthusiastic film critic with a knack for Paris and Eric Rohmer. Saw the second film because I wanted to be fucked by the woman at my side. Saw the third film because I was invited to a preview for critics knowing that an extreme form of boredom can be a ticket to enlightenment.  A propos Paris: i’m really grateful for a lot of movies of the „Nouvelle Vague“; for teenagers who grew up in the 60s and 70s, they were great lessons to be prepared for the roller coaster called love and desaster. I wanted to sleep with Stephanie Audran, i wanted to stroll through the Paris dreamscapes of Jacques Rivette, share a  boat with Celine and Julie, but already in those early years I saw a film that even surpassed the three Linklater lessons in killing time : „Claires Knee“ by Eric Rohmer.  A pale memory: Jean Louis Trintignant feels obsessed by, well, Claire’s knee. The dialogues were made of wood, any charm was absent, the overall tone was dead serious. I could only imagine two ways to look at this crap again: point a gun to my head, or offer me the best marijuana in town!