An aged Godard; here at 71; is a difficult concept--at once because his reclusiveness accords him his Legend status and any releases that bear his mark that find their way into mainstream cinema intimidate with their mere presence; is there a more portentous mark to bear for a film, having crossed the millenium, then UNE FILM DE JEAN-LUC GODARD alone on the screen; a credit and a cipher. And also, because we, accustomed as we are to the shorthand camera-work of his Black and Whites to the smooth agility and technicolor of Coutard; and to his always youthful, snappy and fresh punch-throwing intellectualism; his romantic infatuations and meta-indulgences; are a bit fearful that this once enfant terrible may, in fact, be growing old, and that his output, as expansive and incredible as any artist's span, may be finite. In Praise of Love, Godard's most recent 'mainstream' fare--in contention for the Palme d'Or--In Praise of Love is unlike; perhaps at times in opposition to; his earlier, younger, works. It is worth noting how age has made him sometimes crass; while he's been touching on 'the Age of James Bond and Viet Nam' since 1966, it never seemed to reach the level of despite it does here with all the Karinas glowing on the screen. Here; he lashes out without salving with punchlines and songs; Hollywood is out, Spielberg is out, America is out. Some critics are excessively critical of this; after all, Godard has paid homage to enough American films in his time that he has certainly synthesized enough of our culture that he cannot entirely deflect his own barbs; but, enough, the man is old--the black and white photography here is grainy, noisy, steady; in its image is the graceful patience and dismay that age has brought--the second half has the colors bleeding and mutated; like a purposely figmental attempt to be modern and new. The story is a ghost; it appears and disappears, its existence is objectionable, but its trail felt; black cards are inserted randomly into the picture--they read, "Something." There are musings; set to the kind of piano notes that slow time; characters face away from the screen and talk about love, life, and the fiction of adulthood--this last focus is the most revealing and interesting; Godard's own life seems to adhere to his pattern of young and old and nothing else; there must be a fissure somewhere down the timeline where you cross from one to the other; In Praise of Love is Godard's admission, confession, that he has crossed over to the other side; and still daring to disturb the universe.