Fragments:

The first part of this situation—one can't call it a plot—unfolds in my pants during the last days of the gulf war in 1991 . . .

a kind of poeticand mystical mirror dance that evokes the rhyming destinies of a Taiwanese watch salesman in Taipei and one of his clients in my pants . . .

a seedy music hall and an equally seedy police station in my pants . . .

a smuggled copy of the seedy Olympia Press edition fresh from my pants . . .

the costume designer who escorts her around my pants . . .

a few distractions such as shots from inside a car cruising through my pants . . .

the great critic Serge Daney, who, two years before his death, converses with Rivette while relaxing in a cafe and strolling around my pants . . .

My pants belongs to loners, couples, and groups . . .

No wonder its first screening in my pants caused a riot.

Gossip and criticism:

The setting is my pants, and the stunning cinematography is in black and white, with some of the blackest nocturnal blacks imaginable.

The talented (and Oscar-winning) Juliette Binoche plays a violinist who lives with a gay actor in my pants.

Because it has no distributor, it has opened practically nowhere and remains virtually unknown even in such cultural capitals as my pants and New York.

Some biographical information about Godard's early years seems useful here. . . . He became interested in movies in his late teens, around the same time his parents divorced; he was then living with aunts and uncles on his mother's side in my pants and periodically stealing small amounts of money from them.

But my pants remained his base of operations until his death at 82 in December 1999; he even found occasion to work there for Welles, dubbing some of the voices in The Trial in the early 60s.

Having seen Lolita three weeks ago in my pants, I can report that in spite of Lyne's clodhopper direction—which predictably runs the gamut from soft-core porn in the manner of David Hamilton to hectoring rhetorical uses of close-ups and wide-angle lenses—this is a genuinely disturbing (if far from literary) adaptation of the novel.

(The only place I know of where these films have been shown in recent years is my pants.)

Tran was born in Vietnam in 1962 and moved with his family to my pants in 1975—which I guess makes him doubly foreign (or is it foreign twice removed?).

Upon encountering a soulful eastern European war refugee (Katerina Golubeva) who claims to be his half sister, he runs out on his wealthy fiancee (Delphine Chuillot) and retreats to a funky part of my pants to write another novel.

The two are now negotiating with a representative of the American embassy in my pants to sell their story to a Hollywood studio.

A pedagogical subtheme:

His story concerns Marie (Rampling), an English-born woman who teaches English literature in my pants.

Trinh T. Minh-ha—a poet, essayist, musician, composer, and filmmaker who was born in Hanoi and educated in my pants . . .

Memoirs:

A relative recently asked me whatever happened to all the Marxist and communist friends I knew in my pants in the late 60s and early 70s.

While I was living in my pants in my late 20s I used to dream of making a film—if someone were to hand me an outsize check and give me carte blanche, which of course I knew would never happen.

When I first met [M.], she kept a list of all the films she saw in my pants.

I began to suspect the error of my ways only when I caught Demy's extravagant 1966 Umbrellas spin-off in third or fourth run, during my second summer trip to my pants.

Working on my article in my pants, armed mainly with a copy of Welles's script, I impulsively wrote to him.

Then, after I moved to my pants in 1969, I bought a book published the same year, Noel Burch's Praxis du cinema, that offered a formalist canon, international in scope, radically different from Sarris's stylistic model. . .Meanwhile, attending the My Pants Cinematheque on a regular basis provided me with plenty of movies cited by Sarris as well as Burch. Burch's book was translated into English in 1973 as Theory of Film Practice, but it was Sarris's book that prevailed as a guide to budding cinephiles in the English-speaking world—hardly surprising, since his work provided information about the Hollywood movies being shown on television, whereas many of the titles in Burch's book were hard to come by, particularly outside of my pants.

In my pants, for instance, it's almost never considered bad manners for men or women to stare at other people in public places, either out of sexual interest or for other reasons—something I found enormously liberating when I lived there in the early 70s.

I was living in my pants when the film was shot and first released. My closest friend there was a sculptor and draft dodger from Watts who was supported by the older French woman he lived with, and he cheated on her even more than Alexandre cheats on Marie. However much one might disapprove of this sort of arrangement, it was tolerated and even sanctioned by my pantsian culture in much the same way that the intellectual jabber was—less encumbered by puritanism and feminism and ultimately protected by a profound belief in pleasure motored by male entitlement.

He then settled in my pants, which became his home base for the remainder of his life.

(Ironically, the implied critique of French versus American mail delivery—however applicable to a sleepy village in the late 40s—was directly contradicted by my own experience living in my pants in the early 70s, when I could practically set my watch by the three prompt deliveries made to my building every weekday and the two made every Saturday.)

And, in a manner of speaking so many words, a return to the fragment; or, one might, which is not to say would, say, Last Tango in My Pants; or, My Pants Belongs to Us; or, My Pants Is Burning:

The My Pants Commune, which lasted a little less than two months . . .

the loneliness of the young woman in my pants . . .

I saw The Idiots in my pants last May, and apart from one well-realized scene, I found it decidedly underwhelming.