Word: breathlessly
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...LIFE TO LIVE. In his fourth film, the first to reach the U.S. since Breathless, French Director Jean-Luc Godard has compiled another dazzling textbook of cinema technique, and has composed a lyric poem of images about a woman who sells her body and saves her soul...
Beneath her black patent-leather opera pumps, the world unreeled at a giddy 100-m.p.h. pace. Her dispatches home, most of them decorated by the Journal with three-column glamour portraits of the author, were breathless with excitement and punctuated largely by exclamation marks: "Rome looked swell in the late twilight!" "Those Italian military uniforms are wonderful!" "I loved Italy, but Greece takes the cake for magnificent beauty!" "The Near East reeks with romance!" "Just think-tomorrow I'll breakfast in Basra, lunch in Bahrein and have my dinner at Sharjah...
...Life to Live. Jean-Luc Godard is the wild man of the new French cinema. After Breathless, the volcanic melodrama that inaugurated his career way back in 1960, he made two movies that even his friends admit are terrible. Then last year he suddenly settled down and made this brilliant film. My Life is a tour de style almost as startling as Breathless but more subtly accomplished, more purely felt. It is also a lyric poem in which the camera assiduously adores a beautiful woman. It is finally the tragic allegory of a soul whose pilgrimage to grace goes spiraling...
...attention of that fur salesman. For another, it tells a story that has been told, and told more excitingly, a hundred times before: the story of the innocent young American girl who goes to wicked old Paris and soon loses her illusions and everything. Jean Seberg as usual (Breathless, Playtime) plays the American in Paris, and as usual she wins the customer's sympathy-she tries so hard...
Rhythm was present only as a sort of prose pulse, often interrupted for long, breathless silences. Harmony was so spare and skeletal that the few familiar chords struck were as pleasantly refreshing as rain on a barn roof. Melody's status slumped so badly that it became only an intermission joke-"Sing me that nice part of the thing we just heard." But most of all, precise composition yielded to aleatory music-the music of chance, in which performers are free to improvise with little control beyond their own musicality. In all the baffling proceedings, Berberian and Roman Flutist...