LE MÉPRIS (Contempt) directed by Jean-Luc Godard (France 1963)
“Film is strange – show women a camera and they show their behinds”.
This observation by Paul Laval (Michel Piccoli) may be flawed as a universal law of cinema but clearly has an element of truth in the circles Jean-Luc Godard moved in during the sixties.
To prove the point, the archetype auteur begins the movie with Brigitte Bardot as Camille stretched out languorously on a bed, stark naked, running through an inventory of her body parts to check that Paul, her husband, admires them all – feet, ankles,knees, thighs, buttocks, breasts, nipples, shoulders, arms, and face (mouth,eyes,nose & ears).
She could have saved him and us a lot of time by asking the last question first – “Do you love me totally?”
After having given his unconditional approval of her anatomy, he assures her that his love is absolute: “I love you totally, tenderly, tragically”.
This scene was tagged on at the end when the producers complained that audiences needed to see more unclad shots of Bardot – suggesting that she wasn’t chosen purely for her acting ability!
The Fast Show did a great spoof version of this exchange, exposing it as a turgid example of art house nonsense.
You’d think that Camille would have been satisfied with the depth of devotion and patience her husband exhibits but, instead, the film is built around their slowly disintegrating marriage.
Her respect turns to contempt because she despises the fact that he takes on a commercial screenwriting job rather than dedicating himself to serious writing. This is a harsh judgement considering his motives are to keep her basking in the materialistic luxury to which she has become accustomed.
The other two roles in this multi-lingual production are Jack Palance as the brash American film producer Jeremy Prokosch and Austrian director Fritz Lang (as himself).
These two stubborn characters are at loggerheads over a film version of Homer’s The Odyssey. This conflict serves to labour still further the theme of art versus entertainment.
The quote in the voiced opening credits tells us that Godard aims to illustrate the wisdom of film critic André Bazin’s theory that “Cinema substitutes the real world for one that accords with our desires.”
The dialogue may be dire (“Get in your Alfa, Romeo”) but it looks a treat throughout with exotic locations, chic designer clothes and fancy apartments.
Based on the Italian novel Il Disprezzo by Alberto Moravia, it is set in Rome and Capri and lavishly shot in glossy cinemascope by Raoul Coutard. This superficial veneer is partially undermined by Georges Delerue’s ‘haunting’ score which is used so relentlessly that the soundtrack seems stuck in a neverending loop.
It’s possible that you will agree with Sight & Sound film critic Colin MacCabe that this movie is “the greatest work of art produced in post war Europe” and that it therefore merits its place in the BFI list of the greatest films ever made.
Alternatively, you might share my view that it is an irritatingly self conscious movie which merely confirms that Jean Luc-Godard’s pretentiousness knows no bounds.
Although the film is very interesting and done in a very clever way, I particularly disliked the acting of BB. It is also interesting to note that among the loops of this film, the most subtle one is to see that Paul Laval (Michel Piccoli) turns into Ulysses himself, his project becoming a film within a film within a film.