An analysis of Godard’s post-1968 work. Originally posted on the PopMatters website, May 13, 2011…
If it seems odd to accuse the critical establishment of neglecting or rejecting the films of Jean-Luc Godard, a figure whose stature within the contemporary cultural canon does indeed persist undiminished—the status of his rakish debut Breathless (1960) as perennial classic still uncontested, his name as a result emblazoned permanently in the annals of cinematic history—consider that this legacy, however firmly ensconced in the popular imagination or film-school curricula worldwide, extends only to those films produced within his first decade as a filmmaker. Godard’s career, contrary to what film history suggests, now spans a little more than five decades. And it has not yet concluded: Film Socialisme, a film few have seen and fewer still care about has, like so many of the films Godard has labored to produce across the last several decades, yet to even receive a proper North American release, nor is it likely to anytime in the near future. Of course, this new work’s very existence has helped illicit, if not the siren call of distributors, the usual sighs and chortles from Godard’s vocal dissidents—those influential mainstream critics for whom the arrival of a new Godard think-piece heralds an opportunity for nostalgia, for riffing romantically on their longing for “the old Godard”, rather than for going to the trouble of engaging with the present.
The latest wave of critics issuing sweeping dismissals and unfair sniping, occasioned both by the presentation of Film Socialisme at Cannes last May and by his having recently been given an honorary Academy Award for lifetime achievement (which he naturally declined to accept), approaches the ‘issue’ of Godard’s stubborn persistence in continuing to produce new, ever more challenging work in precisely the same manner critics have approached Godard’s work for nearly half a century: basing their evaluations, as Jim Emerson observes in an analysis of five decades’ worth of Godard press coverage in the New York Times, “on assumptions that Godard means to communicate something but is either too damned perverse or inept to do so”, his detractors betray their frustration—incited by confusion but masked by cultivated distaste—in poses as predictable as they are misguided. The pervading sentiment, seemingly Read the rest of this entry »
Another review of this massive biography on the life of famed French New Wave director Jean-Luc Godard — this time by Salon senior writer Stephanie Zacharek from The New York Times, July 13, 2008…
A Girl and a Gun
Richard Brody’s Everything Is Cinema: The Working Life of Jean-Luc Godard is a story of transformation, a painstaking account of a lifelong artistic journey. Now we know how one of the greatest of all filmmakers — the man who so radically changed cinema in 1959 with his debut feature, Breathless — became an intolerable gasbag. That probably wasn’t Brody’s aim in writing this exhaustive, and sometimes exhausting, critical biography. As Brody, a film critic and editor at The New Yorker, makes clear in the preface, he still believes in Godard’s relevance, claiming that the resolutely not-retired filmmaker, who has lived in Rolle, Switzerland, for the past 30 years, continues to work “at an extraordinarily high level of artistic achievement.”
This book review by Andrew Hultkrans comes from the Artforum website, May 30, 2008…
His Life to Live
In the October 1950 issue of La Gazette du cinema, a young Jean-Luc Godard, writing pseudonymously, penned a sentence that serves, for biographer Richard Brody, as a skeleton key to the legendary director’s often-inscrutable inner workings: “At the cinema, we do not think, we are thought.” Brody, a film critic and editor at the New Yorker, uses this key throughout his rigorous yet readable biographical study, as dauntingly massive as it is helpfully clarifying, to unlock the intensely personal and political influences that shaped the work of an artist as pivotal to the evolution of his chosen medium as Picasso and Bob Dylan were to theirs. Like Picasso, Godard is an artist of many phases, each with enough revolutionary singularity to have sustained the reputation of any other director; like Dylan, he was a meteoric phenomenon of the 1960s who suffered a motorcycle accident and retreated to domestic isolation in the ’70s, then slowly returned to cultural prominence in the intervening years.
For those who have seen only a fraction of the films, out of order, without any supplementary reading or cultural context, Everything Is Cinema is a revelatory, satisfying feast. What lingers is the realization that Godard, the ultimate auteur, whose oblique cinematic experiments pushed the medium forward and seemed aggressively, at times perversely, sui generis, is far more a receiver and a conductor than a generator — a deeply, often Read the rest of this entry »
An essay from the Criterion website about this Truffaut film short (the sequel to his first film The 400 Blows). Written by Kent Jones, April 28, 2003…
On January 19, 1950, the seventeen- (going on eighteen-) year-old François Truffaut attended a 4 P.M. screening at the Cinémathèque française. He met a girl named Liliane Litvin. Truffaut was so smitten that he quit his job in the suburbs and moved back to Paris. According to his biographers Serge Toubiana and Antoine de Baecque, Liliane was an unconventionally beautiful young woman, so beautiful that Truffaut had to compete for her attention with his pals Jean Gruault (his future screenwriting partner) and Jean-Luc Godard. Liliane’s trio of suitors each individually tried to win her affection by spiking their conversation with literary references, but she promised herself to no man. Undeterred, Truffaut eventually installed himself in a hotel across the street from the Litvins’ apartment.
Toubiana and de Baecque reckon that it was with an eye to impressing Liliane that Truffaut began his dazzling rise to fame in the world of the Parisian intelligentsia. After winning an “eloquence competition” at the Club du Faubourg, he secured a plum job at Elle magazine (one of his assignments was a visit to the set of Bresson’s Diary of a Country Priest). He was already a Read the rest of this entry »
A review of this French New Wave classic by Jean-Luc Godard, by John Boonstra, June 19, 2003 — taken from The Hartford Advocate…
It’s timely to catch the freshly restored print of Jean-Luc Godard’s A Woman Is a Woman hot on the heels of the recent Down with Love. What Love attempted and never quite achieved, Godard nails – a full 42 years before Hollywood would try to poke fun at itself in the same vein.
This was Godard’s third feature film. He was 30 years old; he’d been a film critic for the influential journal Cahiers du Cinema. He’d just married the Danish actress and model Anna Karina, 10 years his junior. Her exceptional beauty and the remarkable resume she acquired working for Godard (until their 1967 divorce) and other New Wave directors cinched her reputation as the thinking-man’s sex kitten of French cinema. The sheer playfulness Read the rest of this entry »
From yesterday’s issue of The Guardian comes news that acclaimed French New Wave director Claude Chabrol has passed away at the age of 80. May he rest in peace…
The world of French cinema is in mourning for one of its greatest and most prolific directors, Claude Chabrol, who died today aged 80.
One of the founding fathers of the New Wave of French film, Chabrol was best known for his masterful suspense thrillers, subversive female roles and stinging critiques of the bourgeoisie. His first work, Le Beau Serge, was released in 1958 and he made more than 80 films, his last – a murder mystery starring Gérard Depardieu Read the rest of this entry »
This review of Godard’s 1966 caper Made in U.S.A., starring his beautiful then-wife Anna Karina, comes from Flavor Wire, Jan. 8, 2009, and was written by Jason Jude Chan…
Fact Bleeds Into Fiction in Godard’s Made in U.S.A.
Early in Jean Luc Godard’s tensile girl-and-gun caper, Made in U.S.A., Anna Karina — the Gallic auteur’s early-career muse and ex-spouse — declares: “Now fiction overtakes reality.” But this said-and-done partition by a director who was only beginning to brazenly hoist his political banderoles is analogous to questing for El Dorado: it is nowhere to be found.
For Godard, it represents a depth charge in what he perceived to be the Sargasso Sea of film narrative, one more in a string of assassinate-cinema salvos that counts Masculin Feminine, Two or Three Things I know About Her, and La Chinoise as same-minded and culminates with Week-End, his satiric pile-up of misanthropy. With its legion of footnote-necessary references to American film noir and French apparatchiks, Made in U.S.A. comes across as dense, playful and surprisingly poignant — thanks to the almond-eyed Karina’s finest hour and half.
Above all else, the film is Godard’s professional postscript to their conjugal split. Karina is lovelier and more emotive than ever as Paula Nelson, just arrived in the France-tinged “Atlantic City” in search of her possibly dead, politically dissident amour Richard P___ (the allegorical Godard). Whisking in the late Donald Westlake’s noir story The Jugger, Godard spools out the murderous intrigue in his typical, hopscotching syntax. Karina finds herself careening between Raoul Coutard’s exquisitely shot locations, dodging secret policemen and government agents with the j’accuse names Richard Nixon and Robert McNamara.
Dedicated to his American idols, Nicholas Ray and Sam Fuller, the picture remains deeply personal for several other reasons. As Godard put it, “I wanted to oblige a friend [the famed producer Georges de Beauregard], to tackle the Americanization of French life, and to do something with the Ben Barka affair.” An exiled Moroccan leftist leader, Barka was France’s controversial 1965 watchword after his government-executed disappearance and murder. The whitewashing of the conspiracy and Barka’s link to cinema — he was to work on a film about decolonization, Basta!, with would-be filmmaker Georges Figon — gave Godard his carte blanche.
Alas, Godard’s “Atlantic City” is a demimonde populated by his tongue-in-cheek incarnations: a manikin who packs a ready-for-use toothbrush rather than a pistol; a writer named David Goodis (referring to the underworld novelist who François Truffaut sourced for Shoot The Piano Player) working on his would-be masterpiece, The Unfinished Novel; or a childish henchman christened Donald Siegel (Jean-Pierre Léaud looking bored) after the mid-century American doyen of genre pics. The narrative unfurls as a concentrated weft of these cultural references — additional nods are made to figures as disparate as Richard Widmark, Guillaume Apollinaire, and the Japanese filmmaker Kenji Mizoguchi. Musically, there are sounds as disparate as a galloping Schiller number and an enchanting, a capella rendition of Jagger-and-Richards’ “As Tears Go By” by a café patron who just happens to be Marianne Faithfull.
Yes, it’s all a bit much without a collated packet of the who-what-where-when-and-why for each soliloquy, for each insistent gesture. But with a tone that toes that fine line between mawkishness and outright mockery added to all the contextual citations, whence the basic loveliness? The haute and household fashions, the first-edition design of a book jacket, the way a cigarette is lit at so-and-so a distance — Godard’s aesthetic choices are out-and-out gorgeous even when his intellectual pursuits get fogged in translation.
Besides the famed Karina close-ups, Made in U.S.A. claims one of Godard’s wonderful codas: Karina and the journalist Philippe Labro (playing himself) advancing into the interminable green hills and blue overhead of France’s countryside. The two discuss Left-Right politics — “right and left, it’s a completely outdated question. That’s not at all the way to pose the problem” — but Godard chooses to fade out on a question that’s at once arguable and rhetorical: “Then how?” You’ll have to check out his later, didactic works for the answer.
Jason Jude Chan
August 2009 review by Paul Brenner from the AMC Filmcritic website. This recently re-released film (aka 2 Ou 3 Choses Que Je Sais D’Elle) by Godard was one of the last “conventional” (for Godard) movies he made before going off in a more political direction in the late 60s-early 7os…
Jean-Luc Godard’s 2 Or 3 Things I Know About Her features one of the seminal shots in ’60s cinema — a widescreen close-up shooting down into a coffee cup, the coffee swirling around slowly as if the camera has captured the creation of the universe. It is a simple and contemplative shot, made all the more so by Godard’s whispering voice, quoting Baudelaire, intoning, “More than ever I have to look around me to my fellow creatures, my brother.” Here Godard is calling a halt to his Anna Karina era of referential film homages blanketed in the conversations of the young, sipping their coffees in Parisian cafes and arguing philosophy down the heady streets of the city. Godard is looking into that coffee, sipped by Karina and finding that the world of the image is much stronger and more visceral and shouldn’t be wasted, rather it should be shifted to malicious late-stage capitalism and rampant consumerism. 2 or 3 Things I Know About Her marks this shift. From now on, Godard’s films will become film essays and then cine-tracts. 2 or 3 Things I Know About Her is the dividing line.
The inspiration behind Godard’s film was an article about housewives living in newly constructed apartment houses in the suburbs of Paris, who, to make ends meet, prostitute themselves during the day to pay for their apartment and filled with consumer objects of desire. Marina Vlady is Juliette Janson, one of those housewives, and the film details a day in her life as she cleans dishes, shops for dresses, gets her shiny red car washed, and picks up johns on the street. Godard introduces Vlady as Vlady, the actress, and then Vlady as the character of Juliette. This permits Vlady, in a brilliant high-wire performance, to play the character, play herself commenting on the character, and to engage in Brechtian monologues by addressing the camera.
These are the 2 or 3 things were know about Vlady/Juliette. But “Her” is also Godard’s Paris (now being ripped apart by construction crews) and also the killing capitalist system and, perhaps, the planet earth in the cosmos (of the coffee cup). And through it all is Godard’s metaphor of prostitution. Not only is Juliette prostituting herself but we all are, through our jobs, through the barage of images slapped into our brains, through the world’s psychic rape of our souls. We are all Godard’s “Her.”
Godard remarks at one point in 2 Or 3 Things I Know About Her that “living in modern society is like living in a comic strip” and, with the aid of cinematographer Roaul Coutard, he proves it. Shot with a Technicolor palette of primary colors, the images melt our eyes with gleaming red, whites, and blues, the three colors of the French flag but also of the American flag, the country that is the root of all this evil.
Shot at the height of the Vietnam War, Godard abandons his love of American cinema and replaces it with a contempt and disdain for the violence of America’s War, which is the slow-murmured background of the film. Juliette’s husband Robert (Roger Montsoret) listens to short wave radio broadcasts of Lyndon Johnson pronouncements. Juliette’s little boy has a dream about the reunification of North and South Vietnam. Juliette herself rejects a twosome with an American journalist (he wears a t-shirt with an American flag and the phrase “America Über Alles”) because the bedroom is littered with photos of the war maimed.
Godard closes the film with shots of consumer products mounted on a lawn like the Paris high-rises being constructed. Godard states, “I have to start over from here.” And he does. Next stop Weekend and the Dziga Vertov Film Collective.
Extras on the Criterion DVD include a commentary by film critic Adrian martin, archival television footage, an interview with theater director and ex-Godard friend Antoine Bourseiller, a visual essay on the literary references in the film, and the theatrical trailer.
Taken from Phillip Lopate’s 1998 book “Totally, Tenderly, Tragically.” Contempt was the 1963 film by legendary French director Jean-Luc Godard…
Contempt, one of Jean-Luc Godard’s greatest masterpieces, has a stately air that breaks with the filmmaker’s earlier, throwaway, hit-and-run manner, as though he were this time allowing himself to aim for cinematic sublimity. It is both his richest study of human relations, and a film very much about a tortured kind of movie love. The film has inspired passionate praise—Sight & Sound critic Colin McCabe may have gone slightly overboard in dubbing Contempt “the greatest work of art produced in post-war Europe,” but I would say it belongs in the running. It has certainly influenced a generation of filmmakers, including R.W. Fassbinder, Quentin Tarantino and Martin Scorsese (who paid his own homage by quoting from the Godard film’s stark, plangent musical score in Casino, and cosponsoring its re-release). Scorsese has called Contempt “brilliant, romantic and genuinely tragic,” adding that “It’s also one of the greatest films ever made about the actual process of filmmaking.”
In 1963, film buffs were drooling over the improbable news that Godard—renowned for his hit-and-run, art house bricolages such as Breathless and My Life to Live—was shooting a big CinemaScope color movie with Brigitte Bardot and Jack Palance, based on an Alberto Moravia novel, The Ghost at Noon. It sounded almost too good to be true. Then word leaked out that Godard was having problems with his producers, Carlo Ponti and Joseph E. Levine (the distributor of Hercules and other schlock), who were upset that the rough cut was so chaste. Not a single nude scene with B.B.—not even a sexy costume! Godard obliged by adding a prologue of husband and wife (Michel Piccoli and Bardot) in bed, which takes inventory of that sumptuous figure through color filters, while foreshadowing the couple’s fragility: when she asks for reassurance about each part of her body, he reassures her ominously, “I love you totally, tenderly, tragically.”
Beyond that “compromise,” Godard refused to budge, saying: “Hadn’t they ever bothered to see a Godard film?”
Ironically, Contempt itself dealt with a conflict between a European director (Fritz Lang playing himself) and a crude American producer, Jerry Prokosch (performed with animal energy by Palance), over a remake of Homer’s Odyssey. Prokosch hires a French screenwriter, Paul (Michel Piccoli), to rewrite Lang’s script. Paul takes the job partly to buy an apartment for his wife, the lovely Camille (Bardot); but in selling his talents, he loses stature in her eyes. Through a series of partial misunderstandings, Camille also thinks her husband is allowing the powerful, predatory Prokosch to flirt with her—or at least has not sufficiently shielded her from that danger. Piccoli, in the performance that made him a star, registers with every nuance the defensive cockiness of an intellectual-turned-hack who feels himself outmanned.
According to Pascal Aubier, a filmmaker who served as Godard’s assistant on Contempt and many of his other sixties pictures, “It was a very tormented production.” Godard, unused to working on such a large scale, was annoyed at the circus atmosphere generated by the paparazzi who followed Brigitte Bardot to Capri. B.B., then at the height of her celebrity, arrived with her latest boyfriend, actor Sami Frey, which further irritated Godard, who liked to have the full attention of his leading ladies. The filmmaker was also not getting along with his wife (and usual star) Anna Karina, and seemed very lonely on the shoot, remembers Aubier; “but then, that’s not unusual for him. Godard also has a knack for making people around him feel awkward, and then using that to bring out tensions in the script.” He antagonized Jack Palance by refusing to consider the actor’s ideas, giving him only physical instructions: three steps to the left, look up. Palance, miserable, kept phoning his agent in America to get him off the picture. The only one Godard got on well with was Fritz Lang, whom he idolized. But Lang was not feeling well, and had to cut short his participation.
No sign of the shooting problems mars the implacable smoothness of the finished product. Godard famously stated that “a movie should have a beginning, a middle and an end, though not necessarily in that order.” Contempt, however, adheres to the traditional order: it is built like a well-made three-act tragedy. The first part takes place on the deserted back lots of Rome’s Cinecittà studios and at the producer’s house. The second part—the heart of the film—is an extraordinary, lengthy sequence in the couple’s apartment: a tour de force of psychological realism, as the camera tracks the married couple in their casual moves, opening a Coke, sitting on the john, taking a bath in the other’s presence, doing a bit of work, walking away in the middle of a sentence. (This physical casualness is mimicked by a patient, mobile camera that gives the artful impression of operating in real time.) Meanwhile, they circle around their wound: Paul feels that Camille’s love has changed since that morning—grown colder and contemptuous. She is indeed irritated by him, but still loves him. With the devastating force of an Ibsen play, they keep arguing, retreating, making up, picking the scab, until they find themselves in a darker, more intransigently hostile space.
The third part moves to Capri—the dazzling Casa Malaparte, stepped like a Mayan temple by a disciple of Le Corbusier—for a holiday plus some Odyssey location shooting. Capri is an insidious, “no exit” Elysium where luxury, caprice and natural beauty all converge to shatter the marriage and bring about the inevitable tragedy.
Part of Contempt’s special character is that it exists both as a realistic story and a string of iconic metaphors, connecting its historical layers. Palance’s red Alfa Romeo sweeps in like Zeus’ chariot; when he hurls a film can in disgust, he becomes a discus thrower (“At last you have a feeling for Greek culture,” Lang observes dryly); Bardot donning a black wig seems a temporary stand-in for both Penelope and Anna Karina; Piccoli’s character wears a hat in the bathtub to imitate Dean Martin in Some Came Running (though it makes him resemble Godard himself); Piccoli’s bath towel suggests a Roman toga; Lang is a walking emblem of cinema’s golden age and the survival of catastrophe, his anecdotes invoking Dietrich and run-ins with Goebbels; the Casa Malaparte is both temple and prison. Meanwhile, the CinemaScope camera observes all; approaching on a dolly in the opening shot, it tilts down and toward us like a one-eyed Polyphemus. Or is it Lang’s monocle? (“The eye of the gods has been replaced by cinema,” observes Lang.) Primary colors are intentionally used as shorthand for themes. Bardot in her lush yellow robe on the balcony in Capri incarnates all of paradise about to be lost.
What makes Contempt so unique a viewing experience today, even more than in 1963, is the way it stimulates an audience’s intelligence as well as its senses. Complex and dense, it unapologetically accommodates discussions about Homer, Dante, and German Romantic poetry, meditations on the role of the gods in modern life, the creative process, the deployment of CinemaScope ) Lang sneers that it is only good for showing “snakes and funerals,” but the background-hungry, color-saturated beauty of cinematographer Raoul Coutard’s compositions belies this).
It is also a film about language, as English, French, Italian and German speakers fling their words against an interpreter, Francesca (admirably played by Georgia Moll), in a jai alai of idioms which presciently conveys life in the new global economy, while making an acerbic political comment on power relations between the United States and Europe in the Pax America. (More practically, the polyglot sound track was a strategy to prevent the producers from dubbing the film.)
“Godard is the first filmmaker to bristle with the effort of digesting all previous cinema and to make cinema itself his subject,” wrote critic David Thomson. Certainly Contempt is shot through with film buff references, and it gains veracity and authority from Godard’s familiarity with the business of moviemaking. But far from being a
smarty-pants, self-referential piece about films, it moves us because it is essentially the story of a marriage. Godard makes us care about two likable people who love each other but seem determined to throw their chances for happiness away.
Godard is said to have originally wanted Frank Sinatra and Kim Novak for the husband and wife. Some of Novak’s musing, as-you-desire-me quality in Vertigo adheres to Bardot. In her best acting performance, she is utterly convincing as the tentative, demure ex-secretary pulled into a larger world of glamour by her husband. Despite Godard’s claim that he took Bardot as “a package deal,” and that he “did not try to make Bardot into Camille, but Camille into Bardot,” he actually tampered with the B.B. persona in several ways. First he toyed with having her play the entire film in a brunette wig—depriving her of her trademark blondeness—but eventually settled for using the dark wig as a significant prop. More crucial was Godard’s intuition to suppress the sex kitten of And God Created Woman or Mamzelle Striptease, and to draw on a more modest, prudishly French-bourgeois side of Bardot for the character of Camille. In her proper matching blue sweater and headband, she seems a solemn, reticent, provincial type, not entirely at ease with the shock of her beauty.
When she puts on her brunette wig in the apartment scene, she may be trying to get Paul to regard her as more intelligent than he customarily does—to escape the blond bimbo stereotype. (Her foil, Francesca, the dark-haired interpreter, speaks four languages and discusses Hölderlin’s poetry with Lang.) At one point Paul asks Camille, “Why are you looking so pensive?” and she answers, “Believe it or not I’m thinking. Does that surprise you?” The inequalities in their marriage are painfully exposed: he sees himself as the brain and breadwinner, and her as a sexy trophy. Whatever her new-found contemptuous feelings may be, his own condescension seems to have always been close to the surface. “You’re a complete idiot,” he says when they are alone in Prokosch’s house, and later tellingly blurts out, “Why did I marry a stupid twenty-eight-year-old typist?”
On the face of it, her suspicion that Paul had acted as her “pander” by leaving her with his lecherous employer seems patently unjust. Clearly he had told her to get into Prokosch’s two-seat sports car because he did not want to appear foolishly, uxoriously jealous in the producer’s eyes; and we can only assume he is telling the truth when he says his arrival at Prokosch’s house was delayed by a taxi accident. Still, underneath the unfairness of her (implicit) accusation is a legitimate complaint: he would not have acted so cavalierly if he were not also a little bored with her, and willing to take her for granted. Certainly he is not particularly interested in what she has to say about the minutiae of domesticity: the drapes, lunch with her mother. All this he takes in as a tax paid for marrying a beautiful but undereducated younger woman. Her claims to possessing a mind (when she reads aloud from the Fritz Lang interview book in the tub) only irritate him, and he becomes significantly most enraged when she has the audacity to criticize him for filching other men’s ideas (after he proposes going to a movie for screenwriting inspiration).
Camille also says she liked him better when he was writing detective fiction and they were poor, before he fell in with that “film crowd.” His script work does put him in a more self-abasing position, since screenwriting is nothing if not a school for humiliation. We see this in the way Paul, having watched Prokosch carry on like an ass in the projection room, nevertheless pockets the producer’s personal check, after a moment’s hesitation. (It is precisely at this moment in a Hollywood film that the hero would say: Take your check and shove it!) Paul compounds the problem by seeming to blame her for turning hack, saying he is only taking on the job so that they can finish paying for the apartment. It is important to remember that we are not watching the story of an idealistic writer selling out his literary aspirations, since “detective fiction” is not so elevated a genre to begin with, and since Paul’s last screenplay was some junky-sounding movie called Toto Contra Hercules (a dig at Joseph E. Levine), so that, if anything, the chance to adapt Homer for Fritz Lang is a step up.
More important than issues of work compromise is that Camille has come to despise her husband’s presumption that he can analyze her mind. Not only is this unromantic, suggesting she holds no further mystery, but insultingly, reductive. She is outraged at his speculation that she’s making peace for reasons of self-interest—to keep the apartment. As the camera tracks from one to the other, pausing at a lamp in between, Paul guesses aloud that she is angry at him because she’s seen him patting Francesca’s bottom. Here the lamp is important, not only as an inspired bit of cinematic stylization, but as a means of hiding each from the other, if not from the audience. Camille shakes her head in an astonished no at Paul’s misinterpretation, then catches herself. She scornfully accepts his demeaning reading of her as jealous, saying, “Okay, let’s admit that it’s that. Good, now we’re finished, we don’t have to talk about it anymore.”
After he speculates that she no longer loves him because of his dealings with Prokosch, she tells him: “You’re crazy but…you’re intelligent.” “Then it’s true?” he presses, like a prosecutor. “I didn’t say that…I said you were intelligent,” she repeats, as if to link his “craziness” with his intellectual pride, as the thing responsible for his distorted perceptions.
More than anything, the middle section traces the building of a mood. When Paul demands irritably, “ What’s wrong with you? What’s been bothering you all afternoon?” he seems both to want to confront the problem (admirably), and to bully her out of her sullenness (reprehensibly). At first she evades with a characteristically feminine defense: “I’ve got a right to change my mind.” We see what he doesn’t—the experimental, tentative quality of her hostility: she is “trying on” anger and contempt, not knowing exactly where it will go. Her grudge has a tinge of playacting, as though she fully expects to spring back to affection at any moment. She even makes various conciliating moves, assuring him she loves him, but , because of his insecurities, he refuses this comfort. Paul is a man worrying a canker sore. Whenever Camille begins to forgive, to be tender again, he won’t accept it: he keeps asking her why she no longer loves him, until the hypothesis becomes a reality. Paul is more interested in having his worst nightmares confirmed than in rehabilitating the damage.
Perhaps we can understand this Godardian dynamic better by referring to a little-known but key short of his, “Le nouveau monde,” which he shot in 1962 as part of the compilation film ROGOPAG. The protagonist goes to sleep and wakes up to find everything looking the same but subtly different. Pedestrians pop pills nervously, his girlfriend tells him she no longer loves him—just like that. “The New World” has a sci-fi component: while our hero slept, an atomic device was exploded above Paris, which may account for his girlfriend’s spooky, affectless indifference. But the short is also a dry run for Contempt: one day you wake up and love has magically disappeared.
All through the sixties, Godard was fascinated with the beautiful woman who betrays (Jean Seberg in Breathless), withdraws her love (Chantal Goya in Masculin–Féminin), runs away (Anna Karina in Pierrot le Fou) or is faithless (Bardot in Contempt). What makes Contempt an advance over this somewhat misogynistic obsession with the femme fatale is that here, Godard seems perfectly aware how much at fault his male character is for the loss of the woman’s love.
The film’s psychology shows a rich understanding of the mutual complicities inherent in contempt, along with the fact that trying to alter another person’s contemptuous opinion of yourself is like fighting in quicksand: the more you struggle, the farther in you sink. As William Ian Miller wrote in his book The Anatomy of Disgust: “Another’s contempt for or disgust with us will generate shame and humiliation in us if we concur with the judgment of our compatibility, that is, if we feel the contempt is justified, and will guarantee indignation and even vengeful fury if we feel it is unjustified.” Paul responds both ways to his wife’s harsh judgment: 1) he agrees with her, perhaps out of the intellectual’s constant stock of self-hatred, 2) he considers her totally unjust, which leads him to lash out with fury. He even slaps her—further damaging her shaky esteem for him. In any film today, a man slapping a woman would end the scene (spousal abuse, case closed); but in Contempt we have to keep watching the sequence for twenty-five more minutes, as the ramifications of and adjustments to that slap are digested.
In assessing the film, much depends on whether one regards the director’s sympathies as balanced between the couple, or as one-sidedly male. Some women friends of mine, feminists, report that they can only see the male point of view in Contempt: they regard Bardot’s Camille as scarcely a character, only a projection of male desire and mistrust. I see Godard’s viewpoint as more balanced. True, Piccoli’s edgy performance draws a lot of sympathy to Paul; even when he is being an ass, he seems interesting. But Camille also displays striking insights; her efforts to patch things up endear her to us; and her hurt is palpable.
Pascal Aubier told me point-blank: Godard was on Camille’s side.” In that sense, Contempt can be seen as a form of self-criticism: a male artist analyzing the vanities and self-deceptions of the male ego. (And perhaps, too, an apology: what cinematographer Coutard meant when he called the film Godard’s “love letter to his wife,” Anna Karina.)
Still, it can’t be denied that in the end Camille does betray Paul with the vilely virile Jerry Prokosch. It has been Prokosch’s thesis all along that Homer’s Penelope was faithless. Lang, and Godard by extension, reject this theory as anachronistic sensationalism. Godard, you might say, builds the strongest possible case for Camille through the first two acts, but in Act III this Penelope proves faithless.
Bardot’s Camille is a conventionally subservient woman, brought up to defer to her man. “My husband makes the decisions,” she answers Prokosch when he invites her over for a drink. Later she tells Paul, “If you’re happy, I’m happy.” It is her tragedy that, in experiencing a glimpse of independent selfhood—brought about through the mechanism of contempt, which allows her to distance herself from her husband’s domination—she assumes she has no choice but to flee into the arms of another, more powerful man.
Contempt is an ironic retelling of Homer’s Odyssey. At one point Camille wryly summarizes the Greek epic as “the story of that guy who’s always traveling.” But Paul’s restlessness is internal, making him ill at ease everywhere. In modern life, implies Godard, there is no homecoming, we remain chronically homeless, in barely furnished apartments where the red drapes never arrive. Paul’s Odysseus and Camille’s Penelope keep advancing toward and retreating from each other: never arriving at port.
But the film also resembles another Greek tale, OedipusRex. Paul is infantilely enraged at the threatened removal of the nurturing breast, and jealous of a more powerful male figure who must be battled for the woman’s love. The way he keeps pressing to uncover a truth he would be better off leaving alone is Oedipal, too. His insistent demand to know why Camille has stopped loving him (even after she denies this is the case) helps solidify a tentative role-playing on her part into an objective reality (“You’re right, I no longer love you”). Anxious for reassurance, he will nevertheless only accept negative testimony which corroborates his fears, because only the nightmare has the brutal air of truth, and only touching bottom feels real.
Even in Capri, when the game is up, Paul demands one last time: “Why do you have contempt for me?” She answers: “That I’ll never tell you, even if I were dying.” To this he responds, with his old intellectual vanity, that he knows already. By this point, the reason is truly unimportant. She will never tell him, not because it is such a secret, but because she was already moved beyond dissection of emotions to action: she is leaving him.
Godard spoke uncharitably about Alberto Moravia’s The Ghost at Noon, the novel he adapted for Contempt, calling it “a nice, vulgar read for a train journey.” In fact, he took a good deal of the psychology, characters and plot lines from Moravia—a decent storyteller, now neglected, who was once regarded as a major European writer. Perhaps Godard’s ungenerosity toward Moravia reflects an embarrassment at this debt, or a knee-jerk need to apologize to his avant-garde fans.
The exigencies of making a movie with a comparatively large budget and stars, based on a well-known writer’s novel, limited the experimental-collage side of Godard and forced him to focus on getting across a linear narrative. In the process he was “freed” or “obliged” (depending on one’s point of view) to draw more psychologically shaded, complex characters, whose emotional lives rested on overt causalities and motivations, more so than he had ever demonstrated before or since. Godard himself admitted that he considered Paul the first fully developed character he had gotten on film. Godardians regard Contempt as an anomaly, the master’s most “orthodox” movie. The paradox is that it may also be his finest. Pierrot le Fou has more epic expansiveness, Breathless and Masculin–Féminin more cinematic invention, but in Contempt Godard was able to strike his deepest human chords.
If the film records the process of disenchantment, it is also a seductive bouquet of enthrallments: Bardot’s beauty, primary colors, luxury objects, nature. Contempt marked the first time that Godard went beyond the jolie–laide poetry of cities and revealed his romantic, unironic love of landscapes. The cypresses on Prokosch’s estate exquisitely frame Bardot and Piccoli. Capri sits in the Mediterranean like a jewel in a turquoise setting. The last word in the film is Lang’s assistant director (played by Godard himself) calling out “Silence!” to the crew, after which the camera pans to a tranquilly static ocean. The serene classicism of sea and sky refutes the thrashings of men.
French filmmaker Jean-Luc Godard started out in the 1950s writing articles on cinema. Godard wrote this New Wave battle cry for the April 22, 1959, issue of the French journal Arts, on the news of François Truffaut’s The 400 Blows being selected to represent France at the Cannes Film Festival (thanks to the machinations of French culture minister and New Wave champion André Malraux). The year before, Truffaut had been barred from Cannes as a critic because of his Cahiers du cinéma attacks on the festival…
As soon as the screening was over, the lights came up in the tiny auditorium. There was silence for a few moments. Then Philippe Erlanger, representing the Quai d’Orsay, leaned over to André Malraux. “Is this film really to represent France at the Cannes festival?” “Certainly, certainly.” And so the minister for cultural affairs ratified the selection committee’s decision to send to Cannes, as France’s sole official entry, François Truffaut’s first full-length feature, The 400 Blows.
What matters is that for the first time a young film has been officially designated by the powers that be to reveal the true face of the French cinema to the entire world. And what one can say of Truffaut could equally well be said of Alain Resnais, of Claude Chabrol if Les cousins had been chosen to represent France at Cannes, of Georges Franju and Head Against the Wall, of Jean-Pierre Melville and Two Men in Manhattan, of Jean Rouch and Moi, un noir. And the same words apply to other Jeans, their brothers and their masters: Renoir and his Testament du Docteur Cordelier, and Cocteau, of course, had Raoul Lévy at last made up his mind to produce Testament of Orpheus.
The face of the French cinema has changed.
Malraux made no mistake. The author of La monnaie de l’absolu could hardly help recognizing that tiny inner flame, that reflection of intransigence, shining in the eyes of Truffaut’s Antoine as he sports a man’s hat to steal a typewriter in a sleeping Paris; for it is the same as that which glittered twenty years ago on Tchen’s dagger on the first page of La condition humaine.
The director of L’espoir was better placed than anybody to know what this reflection meant: the principal form of talent in the cinema today is to accord more importance to what is in front of the camera than to the camera itself, to answer first of all the question why, in order to then be able to answer the question how. Content, in other words, precedes form and conditions it. If the former is false, the latter will logically be false too: it will be awkward.
In attacking over the last five years in these columns the false technique of Gilles Grangier, Ralph Habib, Yves Allégret, Claude Autant-Lara, Pierre Chenal, Jean Stelli, Jean Delannoy, André Hunebelle, Julien Duvivier, Maurice Labro, Yves Ciampi, Marcel Carné, Michel Boisrond, Raoul André, Louis Daquin, André Berthomieu, Henri Decoin, Jean Laviron, Yves Robert, Edmond Gréville, Robert Darène . . . what we were getting at was simply this: your camera movements are ugly because your subjects are bad, your casts act badly because your dialogue is worthless; in a word, you don’t know how to create cinema because you no longer even know what it is.
And we have more right than anyone to say this. Because if your name is emblazoned like a star’s outside the cinemas on the Champs-Élysées, if people now talk about a Henri Verneuil film or a Christian-Jaque just as they talk about a Griffith, Vigo, or Preminger, it is thanks to us.
To those of us who on this paper, in Cahiers du cinéma, Positif, or Cinéma 59, no matter where, on the back page of Figaro littéraire or France-observateur, in the prose of Lettres françaises and sometimes even the schoolgirl stuff of L’express, those of us who waged, in homage to Louis Delluc, Roger Leenhardt, and André Bazin, the battle for the film auteur.
We won the day in having it acknowledged in principle that a film by Hitchcock, for example, is as important as a book by Aragon. Film auteurs, thanks to us, have finally entered the history of art. But you whom we attack have automatically benefited from this success. And we attack you for your betrayal, because we have opened your eyes and you continue to keep them closed. Each time we see your films we find them so bad, so far aesthetically and morally from what we had hoped, that we are almost ashamed of our love for the cinema.
We cannot forgive you for never having filmed girls as we love them, boys as we see them every day, parents as we despise or admire them, children as they astonish us or leave us indifferent; in other words, things as they are. Today, victory is ours. It is our films that will go to Cannes to show that France is looking good, cinematographically speaking. Next year it will be the same again, you may be sure of that. Fifteen new, courageous, sincere, lucid, beautiful films will once again bar the way to conventional productions. For although we have won a battle, the war is not yet over.