In his clever infomercial about how his films are as terrifyingly important as the other historical objects in the re-mix, Godard wants us to believe the image is history. Or, perhaps, that history graves herself on la PELI.
But history is an oath (that is, a word-act) upon the temporal and the eternal. As unsigned, be-winged avatars of the science fictional, images are at best contrapuntal to history, or more precisely, the inversion of history. In their brute insistence on THIS and NOT THAT, and in the barely noticed echoic reference to the invisible, they can't help but falsify, the poor things. And that is their virtue.
JLG thinks he's making Peguy's amende honorable, that this work somehow satisfies his debt to cinema, cinema's debt to history, purifies cinema from all it did not show. A chain of absurdities. He ain't understood nothing, it seems.
So it's rather convenient that the end of cinema has arrived to seal JLG in his mausoleum, his own private cathedral of erotic misery.
