The film-school intellects can drool all they want about the important (imagined) meaning of this film, but it's just that: intellectual drool. This film is creatively bankrupt, and some mistake it's endless self-indulgent wanking as substance. Yeah. <br /><br />Obviously Godard wasn't a Stones fan. Too bad, because this could have been great. He's capturing the birth of this timeless song and he chooses instead to cover the music with some guy reading out of a True Detective mag or some such crap. <br /><br />Then there's the endless shots of what looks like 60's librarians spray-painting words on people's cars. And then there's the seemingly neverending "interview" where the actress was brilliantly instructed to answer only yes or no to all the really deep and intellectual questions. There's some dude in a purple suit is reading more crap from a book, which goes on for, oh, only about 20 minutes. And black panthers or something in a junkyard.<br /><br />It almost sounds intriguing? Well, it's not.<br /><br />But for unwashed film-school hipsters who don't care squat about the lost opportunities of having full access to the Stones bringing Sympathy for the Devil into the world and would rather hear some English guy reading instead whilst gazing at the covers of nudie mag's, this film's a real winner!<br /><br />More accurately...maybe Godard just blows.