The lift doors open with a satisfying ping. They could be curtains parting at the start of a drawing-room comedy, or the opening scene in some blustery drama about the artist and his muse. Out step Noah Baumbach and Greta Gerwig. They are newly woken, freshly laundered and they idle for a moment in the hotel lobby. I'm sitting on a couch; the best seat in the house. Later, perhaps, there will be jittery discourse, blundering misunderstandings and a casual redemption at the breakfast buffet. In the case of Baumbach, it's hard to tell where the films end and the film-maker begins.
Or to put it another way: Baumbach makes movies that are just a shuffle-step