Mostly, I remember the garage. And the gunfire.
I didn't remember that Jean-Pierre Leaud was there, or Bibendum, or a pinball machine. I'd forgotten the nods--to Aldrich, Preminger, Widmark et al. I wouldn't have appreciated the humor of secreting a gun inside a hollowed-out Larousse Gastronomique at the time. All I remembered was that garage and the dragonfly-wing makeup gracing Anna Karina's doe eyes.
Which is why, when I read on GreenCine that some kind soul had put the whole of Godard's elusive 1966 flick Made in U.S.A. on YouTube, I dropped everything for a little more than 88 minutes this afternoon and settled in to watch it for the first time in eleven or twelve years. [Better still, I'd borrowed a projector for the weekend.]
If you read a plot synopsis, Made in U.S.A. [allegedly based on Donald E. Westlake/Richard Stark's The Jugger] sounds like a Technicolor precursor to The Bride Wore Black--only with leftist politics and ludic sound design! But watching it, actually surrendering to it, is akin to having a fever dream.* Imagine that Dorothy is whirled away from Kansas and lands, not in Oz, but in a parallel-universe version of The Big Sleep in which a Bacall/Malone hybrid is our investigator and the moment at which one realizes that no one knows who killed the chauffeur lasts forever.
It's that good.