Patrice Leconte, almost by default, has become one of the most exciting filmmakers of the last decade. His last two pictures to make it to these shores, The Hairdresser's Husband and Ridicule, along with the latest, The Girl on the Bridge, have almost nothing in common in terms of subject matter, or even look. They do, though, share a spiritual bond that is all too rare in cinema: enormous wit.

None of his films (I admit to only seeing his big U.S. hits, and I'm bullish on an eventual run at the Anthology Film Archives or AMMI of Leconte's other work) are not what you would label comedies, at least not today. I hate to sound like Bill Bennet or Joe Lieberman, but to categorize The Girl on the Bridge next to, say, The Klumps is a bit of an insult. So I'll call The Girl on the Bridge a wonderful, imaginative movie that made me laugh a whole lot.

The story? Oh yes, the story. That comes second, as was Leconte's intention. First, the tone. Lush, loving, tongue-in-cheek, we're talking about a black and white picture that dares to follow carnival entertainers through the spas and hotels of Europe. Each shot looks like an out-take dream sequence from 8 ½. The music ranges from modern Turkish pop to Marianne Faithful. The trains that zip through the countryside are modern, the lobby furnishings are expensive, the whimsy is palpable.

We open on Vanessa Paradis, confessing à la (literally!) Godard's Weekend to her sexual past, only, you know, it's funny, not supposed to symbolize the spawn of the Maoist regime. She's depressed, as every doe-eyed Parisian brunette should be, and plans to drown herself in the Seine. And that's where he comes in. A leathery faced man who talks in parables. He does not want to rescue her from death, but does want to save her from a boring one. He's a knife thrower, and not getting any younger. His aim is starting to deteriorate, so he only recruits partners who won't be too upset if they get killed.

Of course, she refuses, but ultimately relents, and they form a partnership as true and as pure and as French as the bickering Belmondo and Karina in Pierrot le Fou. Only, again, without the politics. This is pure sexual tension, perhaps a little sit-com, but winking.

The two soon find that they can talk to one another, even if one is on land and the other is in the middle of the Ocean (with a remorseful runaway groom, natch.) He is her father confessor, she his aggravating lustful charge, in the best Billy Wilder paradigm, (see: The Major and the Minor, One, Two, Three, even some of Some Like It Hot and The Apartment if you want to stretch it.) This is obvious stuff; like all good French cinema it is rooted in classic Hollywood. And did I mention that they both get their rocks off while he mentally fucks her with a knife?

We get some good foreshadowing when he first meets a former partner, and she quivers at the site of his hands. The first knife-throw, with her behind a sheet (very pure, almost Orthodox) shreds the young brunette with both fear and surprise, her eyes watery, her lips quivering and . . . did I mention Marianne Faithful?

Am I getting across what kind of picture this is? I think you are, you say, but it isn't making all that much sense. Well, neither does the movie. It is (scroll up again, please) lush, loving, tongue-in-cheek and marvelous and there's a scene where she tries on different outfits and bounces around like a copy of Vogue come to life. And sensual, but ridiculously so, in a way that every relationship I've ever had is. The lust is ur-lust, wink-wink lust, can-you-believe-this lust? This is a movie for movie-lovers. This is also, I don't mind sharing, a very successful second date movie--so long as you find someone ready to zip around on it's little mind trips. It's probably a good litmus test. Either on the date, or on you.

The Girl on the Bridge is the most life-affirming movie I've seen all year, even though the last few scenes are hokey and visible from a thousand miles away. There's even a Dostoyevsky joke. How many perfect date movies can you say that about?