Otie Wheeler’s review published on Letterboxd:
All the stars.
The kind of movie that, even on a third viewing, makes you ashamed of the last 100 movies you watched, the last 100 days you lived (or rather, didn't), your humdrum existence a pathetic placeholder for what should be called living. A film where not being loved is a kind of dying, where loving without loving is a way of killing.
Transcend life in art and art in life. Jean Cocteau is dead, forever and never. Believe in a love that comes quickly, burns fast but lasts forever. Emotions accumulate, they pile up and never heal (predicting late Carax) but in the end there's the smile of speed, poetry of face; the sound of ange de la moto driving away as cinema pushes forward.