Akerman's quiet love song to Paris surprises. Who would have thought that 90 minutes (almost) of tender moments, quiet pauses, and unhurried walks could be so riveting? The film does not so much move as breathe you into its trance. The eternal love triangle, played out here against the backdrop of a velvety Paris night, holds not through any real suspense but through the resonance of its unnamed predecessors: a gesture can speak because it calls up an entire film, or novel, or painting. Akerman motions, and then drops each gesture undeveloped to allow her audience to weave their own stories through the weft of the narrative. The ending, thus, leaves one unsatisfied but engaged as the process extends beyond the final credits (I have found myself mentally replaying it several times). For 90 minutes, you don't watch a film--you help create it.
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