It feels like cheating to premiere a movie about Jean-Luc Godard and the French New Wave at Cannes to a room full of critics who would love nothing more than to be the characters depicted on screen. For a certain kind of cinephile, this is like watching Avengers Endgame, only in black and white and in French.

The freewheeling fun and impeccable recreation of a romanticized time period carry the film. This feels accurate to the subject matter. Godard's films are breezy and slight by design, so why not do the same for the tribute? You won't learn anything new here but, as with all Richard Linklater films, the hangout is so much fun you probably won't care, either.

The madness is intoxicating. Even as Godard comes off as a Film Bro Prime, the kind of obnoxious jerk many a YouTuber has modeled themselves after, it's hard not to go with the sheer bullheaded energy he puts off. There is no script, no plan, only a vague longing for eternity. Something will be born out of the madness, but what? It's hard to say, and based off New Wave, I doubt Godard knew either.

Luckily for him, his cast is so ridiculously talented and attractive that it's good films don't come on celluloid anymore. They'd probably light the emulsion on fire the moment light touches it. Zoey Deutch in particular will make you believe in the power of old-school movie stars once again.

The film is a film within a film, which is probably how Godard would have liked it. This is a production that winks and nods and tips its hat at the audience, daring them to catch the references at every turn. Famous and slightly less famous people get moments in the spotlight with their names in marquees beneath their faces.

Godard, Varda, Rossellini, Truffaut, and Rohmer are all recognizable imitations of the real thing. It's hard to say how accurate their depictions are, and I don't think the film cares one way or another. All we need to know is how cool they were, even if they weren't. Linklater shoots this ragtag group of film nerds the way Michael Bay shoots cars. It's loving, yet almost objectifying because it matters more what they represent than who they are.

Yet it's hard to blame Linklater for his effusiveness. After all, it's rarely you can easily pinpoint a singular moment in time and say "this changed everything". But for a brief, glorious moment in France, that's exactly what happened. 70 years later, we're still basking in the afterglow as if it were a distant sun.

Despite the excessive love for the minutiae of filmmaking and trivia, Linklater succeeds in crafting a film that works for everyone. He's an immensely talented director who understands the feel of the moment better than almost anyone. In Linklater's hands, even moments of boredom at a cafe becomes riveting. We arrive in scenes just late enough to insinuate a whole conversation we've just missed. We leave equally early, and let our imaginations fill in the rest.

If Godard claimed that all the needed to make a film was a girl and a gun, I'd argue Linklater could manage with just either one. He'd find something interesting in things just existing. Slacking about, as it were, and it would still be fascinating.