Who's more foolish? The fou, or the fou who pays $11 to see Pierrot Le Fou?

There is a lot of keeping up to do in New York. In terms of fashion and money, which we've discussed, readers, but also in terms of Kultur. I can name, like, five painters, and none from the 20th century. And that just does not cut it here. Neither does my taste in movies, which goes:

a) action
b) Dan Ackroyd comedy
c) anti-establishment documentary.

So in the interest of not being such a philistine vis-a-vis my friends (some of whom are from Arkansas, ffs), I went to a Godard film last weekend. Fuuuuck. What overworn French masculinist fantasy. What self-indulgent 1960s experimentation. Breaking all the boundaries of cinema, except the necessity of a misogynist plot line. (But that's just me, right? And has nothing to do with the fact that he married three women of the same name.)

There's a girl. A brunette! And she's kooky. And game for anything. And not your wife. And coquettish. And she embroils you in hijinx. And she's capricious, but not so much that she won't promise "ne jamais te quitter," although she will double-cross you in the end, as is your fantasy, because then you get to kill her, and have her apologize to you in her dying breath.

Spoiler alert, btw. Including for those of you who have not yet watched the most recent James Bond film.