Godard is a name that is often thrown around in high-brow cinema discussions; after a while, it begins to lose its meaning. Sure, Jean-Luc Godard is a director who embodies the French New Wave -- a 1950s/'60s movement that threw conventions to the wind -- but we have moved on from that and evolved into our shaky-cam, post-2000 spectacle. With the current trend of style over substance, it's easy to forget that, while he practically created a brand new style of jump cuts and discontinuity, Godard built his films with foundations of contemplative takes on life and love, which his nonsensical stylistics danced around. Pierrot le fou is a reminder of Godard's wit and charm.

Part road movie, part musical, and part gangster movie, Pierrot le fou serves a double purpose -- as both a reflection on the entrapment of middle age and a love letter to his wife and star of the film, Anna Karina. Ferdinand (played by Godard stand-in Jean-Paul Belmondo) is unhappy in his corporate life and marriage, so he takes off with his old lover Marianne (Karina). The two partake in some zany, romance-fueled adventures -- knocking over a gas station and searching for Marianne's brother, a gun runner -- like an intellectual, Laurel and Hardy version of Natural Born Killers.

It is Belmondo and Karina's chemistry that makes Godard's words (and musical numbers) hit as hard as they do. Through Ferdinand's intellectual pursuits and Marianne's emotions, the film profoundly explores the idea of true, eternal love that often clashes with the harsh, banal realities of life. While exciting at first, relationships fizzle and the emphasis on the partner gives way to selfishness, as Ferdinand and Marianne eventually discover, again. But the fact that these two have already been lovers and take up with each other again gives the impression that Godard believes in an everlasting love, but that it cannot be practically realized.

A testament to this sentiment is offered as Ferdinand sits in bed and Marianne scuttles about the apartment -- a simple scene of two comfortable lovers in the morning. Just then, Marianne breaks into song and Godard's camera goes to work, sweeping in and out of room as the characters pop into frame. It's whimsical, but Marianne is foreshadowing the waning interest in the relationship, which most can relate to. It is in moments like this when Godard feels new and exciting again; when the style and substance meet in a pleasant discord that makes us giggle to ourselves because we understand the happiness in life's sadness.

Although Godard professed that all you need to make a movie is "a girl and a gun," he is at his best when he's introspective and freewheeling in his patented style. Bursting into song, talking to the audience, and quick jump cuts is the stuff of modern-day Hollywood, but Godard puts more weight behind his work. Early in the film, there is a scene in a car with Ferdinand and Marianne talking about the Vietnam War. As the car sways from side to side and faux street lights pass over the characters, the theatrics of the scenes and the absurdity of the driving effects disappear into the background as Marianne talks about what it means when they hear that 115 guerillas were killed in a conflict. She goes on about not knowing their names, their interests, their humanity -- a sentiment we can all relate to today as we hear news reports of casualties from our own War.

Although it's easy to point the finger (possible the middle one) at Godard and his Cahiers du Cinema cronies for giving directors the courage to break the rules and indirectly influencing a generation of MTV directors without an attention span, it's just as easy to forget that Godard achieved his legendary status because he earned it. Works such as Contempt and Breathless might warrant more serious study and understanding, but Pierrot le fou allows us to get lost within Godard's world, revel in his style and contemplate his intellectual ramblings.