Much as Thomas Pynchon in Gravity’s Rainbow bears witness to mid-century paranoia by turning imaginary plots into real ones and vice versa, Rivette has a chilling way of both suggesting explanations and dispersing them in this monumental, maddening epic. But the world he constructs around his frightening void is a recognizable one: Paris today.
If Noli me tangere purposefully neglects the conventions of exposition, Spectre is downright reckless... While Noli invites us to witness a melancholy madness that is the hangover of the Sixties, Spectre leaves us no choice but to experience it firsthand. It is the Out we are inside. Yet both films display a radical faith in the viewer, whether by asking us to be patient or to fill in the gaps. For those willing ot go along, the dividends are endless.
No matter the running time, each iteration of Out 1 stands as an extraordinary artifact of post-'68, post-utopian paranoia and despair, the dread becoming more spellbinding whenever Léaud's Colin, driving himself mad to decode cryptic messages about a secret society, is in the frame.