Somebody on Twitter described this as "every Assayas movie rolled into one"; he meant it as a compliment. To me it feels almost lazy, hitting exactly the ambivalent notes you'd expect from Assayas' take on post-'68 student activism. Everybody means well, everybody gets distracted—whether by romance, professional ambition or just the groovy deep cuts from Olivier's record collection. (When Kevin Ayers' "Decadence" started up, I immediately thought "that's it, movie's over, this will now play over the end credits," and was right.) Impeccably made, as ever, but shapeless and flat, with none of the delirious highs that distinguish Cold Water (at one end of the spectrum) and Carlos (at the other). In fact it's all a bit like Carlos' draggy final part, with perhaps a bit too much fidelity paid to real-life events. For a memoir, it feels oddly impersonal. Don't mind me, though, I liked Regular Lovers even less.