Paris, 1959. Les autos Americains, le pinball, les cafes … et les cinephiles who exploded out of the French film magazine Cahiers du Cinema, eager to grasp the chance to turn themselves into directors. No film in this movement would have such impact as Jean-Luc Godard’s A bout de souffle (Breathless).

A few names: Jean-Paul Belmondo, Jean Seberg, Raoul Coutard, Suzanne Shiffman, Pierre Rissient. The rules are simple - throw away everything you think you know about cinema, and reinvent it by shooting on the streets, cramming in as many quotes as possible, making it up as you go along, substituting the dead hand of a staid professionalism with enthusiasm and aphorisms. A few more names hovering around the edges: Truffaut, Chabrol, Rivette, Varda, Demy, Resnais. Even more names of the pioneers who showed them the path: Rossellini, Melville, Cocteau, Bresson. You’ll find them all packed into Richard Linklater’s irrepressible love letter to a moment in film history where suddenly anything now seemed possible.