Around The World in 24 Frames 09.11.09: Contempt

Posted by Len Archibald on 09.11.2009

The conclusion of my retrospective of the French New Wave: Godard in COLOR!

Good Friday, all! I've had a crappy, crappy week (and it was SHORT!) so I'm happy to be here doing what I love to do: writing and discussing movies.

The Toronto Film Festival is upon us. Since becoming a permanent resident and cubicle android I have not been able to attend. It shakes me to the core that the film festival I've always considered the most important in the world because it takes place in my backyard has not been in my life-experience for the past few years. I will return. I must. It only makes sense, or I don't love movies. I truly mean that.

The Rant

I remember that day too well.

I used to work for Rogers Video, in the communications section where people could pay their cable, internet and wireless bills. I would also help with booking installation appointments and assisting customers with activating their cell phones. On the odd occasion, I would travel to the video side and help "batch" videos or check out customers who wanted to rent a movie. The people I worked with were too cool for words, and the management always made it an unwritten point to hire "hip" guys and "hot" girls (oh, boy – I just started a lawsuit.) But in all honesty, I was a 22 year old searching for his place in the world and Rogers was by far and away the best company I could have ever worked for at that time. Hell, I would go so far to say that Rogers was the best company I ever worked for, period.

I woke up, did what I had to do and made my way to work that day. The store was located on the corner of Kennedy and Vodden in Brampton, across the street from TWO Tim Horton's: one inside a convenience store/gas station hybrid, the other in a mini drive-thru only hut of a building. Yeah, we're Canadian, and Tim Horton's coffee and breakfast pastries is our drug of choice. I stopped at the gas station and got a cup of apple cinnamon tea and made my way into work at around 9:00am. The store didn't open until 10am.

I worked in the back of the store where there was a counter from where I would stand for eight hours at a time 5-6 days a week. At the end of the counter, there was a television with a digital cable box attached. We were encouraged to display this in order to sell customers on the perks of digital cable. We were told to have it on the news at all times (usually Cable Plus 24), but it was usually on MuchMusic, EdgeTV, BET or MuchLoud. We were rebellious employees.

Eddie, the manager at the time (and one of the coolest guys I've ever worked for) was inside already, drinking his Tim Horton's coffee and chomping down on an apple fritter. He was a big wrestling fan like me and we would always discuss certain things we'd find out on the net (I was an avid reader of 411, even back then.) I turned on the television, while we talked about the "InVasion" storyline that was quickly fizzling out in the WWF(E). The television was on Cable Plus 24. We both did a double take at what we witnessed.

The North Tower was already smoking, a big gaping hole in the building. At first, we both thought we were watching a movie, or a trailer for one. Then we heard the newscaster's voice. We realized that we were watching a feed from NBC. Apparently, a plane crashed into the World Trade Center. Wow. That sucked. We didn't know what was going on. Both myself and Eddie surmised that either the pilot didn't have a clue what he was doing or the equipment was faulty. It was a tragedy, but at first glance, seemed like something that was more accidental in nature.

The second plane hit at 9:03am. Silence. Eddie let out a "WTF?" I responded in kind. We were supposed to be counting the money in the safe and getting our tills in order. We were supposed to be marking up the receipts to give to the bank for our daily deposit. I was supposed to be doing an inventory count of all our new cable boxes and old turned in modems to be refurbished. But we were glued to the television. Instinct takes a hold of a human being during certain moments – almost a psychic connection with the unexplainable nature of the cosmos. I glanced at Eddie, who shot a look back to me. We didn't say anything, but we both knew: this was no accident.

I honestly don't remember much more of that day. I think in my eight hour shift, I only handled all of three or four customers on my side. Eddie must've dealt with maybe five or six on the video side. But everyone came in to watch that TV. People who originally intended to set up internet or rent a movie gravitated to the images on the screen. The horror (and, eventual heroics) of United 93. The Pentagon. The uncovered plans that the White House was a "target". The collapse of the towers. Humans fleeing in Manhattan from ash and what seemed to be sand, but was nothing more than the remnants of concrete. People who were customers were no longer customers. They were people. Crying people. Scared people. Terrified people. More calls were made to families that day. Commentary on what could be happening was extensive. Theories. The fears of the start of another war. Perhaps on a worldwide scale.

I'm Canadian. But even I knew that under the worst circumstances, you don't screw with the U.S.A. Even if we made fun of them and snickered at the stereotypes of rednecks and ghetto hooligans and put our noses up at the fact that we didn't have to pay to see our doctors, we knew that they're our neighbors. If anyone dared attack them, they attacked us. The people I was with, customers, co-workers and onlookers weren't only scared, but pissed. I was pissed. We were pissed. I was not aware of the magnitude of the situation at the time, but I was certain of the level of fortitude, determination, courage, heart and character that the American people were possible of displaying in this time.

When my time at work was over, I rushed home to be with my parents. My sisters were already inside. We watched CNN basically the rest of the night. I didn't work the next day. I watched the news from around four in the morning until my body forced me to sleep. I couldn't help it. I felt a connection to the tragedy. I felt like I needed to do something. I felt like I could help. I couldn't. I was powerless. It made what the police, firefighters, EMT's and other public workers did those first few days all the more poignant and heroic.

It's been eight years today since I walked into work and turned that TV on. There isn't a day that goes by that I don't replay those first few hours in my head and everything – all my initial emotions of paralyzing shock, sadness, anger and confusion rush inside of me. It was the worst possible thing that could have happened. Thank God that there are people on this planet with the inner-strength and resolve to make the best out of it, and even if they needed to – die to display it. They are better human beings than I could ever be. I am crippled with shame when I think about how much guts it takes to walk into a situation I'm not sure I could walk into. And they did.

They did. And I will never forget that. Even if they never helped me personally, they helped someone. I can't forget that. I can't. I won't. I never will.[/end rant]

********************

I love movies. They represent escapism, art, intellect and spirituality. Some are nothing more than popcorn flicks, designed to ease the burden of "real-life" for a couple of hours. Some bring important issues to the forefront that challenges how we perceive our surroundings. The most important thing for me – if one is a serious film-goer – is to constantly expand and discover new movies. This includes experiencing stories told outside of North America.

Yes, I know: "I don't like to read while I watch movies". Well, neither do I, but I won't use that to prevent me from finding a great story within the screen. It is important, as human beings to discover other cultures and expand our perceptions of those different from us and how they see the world. There are reasons that Bergman, Kurosawa, Fellini, Ozu and Truffaut are important in the movie world – They are just great at what they do.

I intend to highlight a new film every week that is considered "foreign-language"; now that definition is simple, yet broad and complex. For example, if you need subtitles to understand the events of the plot, I will discuss it. If it is a film from a primarily English-speaking nation, but is *NOT* in English (i.e. Leolo or Atanarjuat: The Fast Runner from Canada), I will discuss. If it is a film from outside the U.S. and it *is* in English, I will not discuss (sorry, Brits & Aussies) – for now. My goal is to shed light on some of these gems, and help quell the insatiable appetites for those who can't live without seeing a new movie. Enjoy!

Le Mepris: Contempt (1963)
France
Dir: Jean-Luc Godard
Runtime: 103 min



The great paradox of Jean-Luc Godard's sixth feature-length film, Le Mepris (Contempt) arrives right from the opening shot: We are shown a camera crew taking a camera along a dolly for a long tracking shot, which gives the audience a slight indication of what's to come. It's no secret to film enthusiasts that only Akira Kurosawa was more fond of the tracking shot than Jean-Luc Godard, so to show how it's done – only to use it later in a nice and subtle nod to the film's self-referential nature.

This is the genius and madness of Contempt, Godard's examination and parallel foray into commercial filmmaking. The film cheerfully goes back and forth between conventional and unconventional filmmaking without reason or logic that is perfectly logical, while showing off all the tricks of the trade. The film is so dazzling that by the final frame, the audience wonders just how much Godard really gave away.



Contempt is the story of Paul Javal (Michel Piccoli), a novelist and playwright who has been commissioned to re-write a film adaptation of "The Odyssey" that legendary German filmmaker Fritz Lang (playing himself) is directing. He has been hired by larger-than-life producer, Jeremy Prokosch (Jack Palance) because he knows he "needs the money" and "heard he has a beautiful wife". What is Prokosch alluding to? Jack Palance, who is nothing short of a force of nature in his role, perfectly plays a man who borders between narcissism and madness. He carries a small book of quotes, and uses them to hammer home a point of his self-imposed other-worldly greatness. A great moment sees him sitting in a screening room explaining how he understands the Greek Gods. I've seen Jack Palance in some great roles, but I'd be hard pressed to find one that is greater.

The wife that Prokosch speaks of, Camille (the stunning Brigitte Bardot) – is a force of nature herself; in fact it is widely regarded by most film theorists that Brigitte Bardot's character, lovingly lit and shot by cinematographer Raoul Coutard, represents the beautiful nature that man is incapable of understanding, much less co-existing with. The second scene of Contempt has her nude in a dimly lit bedroom, lying on her stomach asking her husband playfully if he likes her body. The scene is grossly ironic as Godard sweeps the camera over her body, almost in a still life pose, her perfectly shaped bottom exposed for the world to see. There is no doubt that she was gorgeous, perhaps one of the most stunning examples of beauty in film, but it is here that she showed off her acting chops. Godard and producer Carlo Ponti clashed on casting: Godard wanted Kim Novak and Frank Sinatra, Ponti wanted Sophia Loren and Marcello Mastroianni. They both agreed that Bardot might bring in extra box office because of her sensual frame – she bought more than that. The opening scene was shot and added on last, after Godard felt he had finished the picture. Even in rebellion, he was able to make the scene fit and work within the confines of the film – without that opening, the story of Paul and Camille would have made no sense.



Camille and Paul meet with Prokosch, who is vulgar, self-absorbed and feels he is God's gift to women. He makes not-so subtle advances at Camille, who refuses, but notices Paul's indifference to it all. Finally, Prokosch invites them for a drink at his villa. He insists for Camille to go with him in his red, ultra hip Alfa Romero. She wants to go with her husband. The vehicle is too small to fit them all in. Paul figures he will catch up via taxi while allowing his wife to go with the producer. He arrives to the villa thirty minutes late, where he (and we) notices a very dramatic shift in Camille's demeanor towards her husband.

Camille wants her husband to be a man of conviction. She feels that Paul abandoned her to allow Prokosch to make advances on her to help further his career. Everyone, even the audience knows that Paul is re-writing the screenplay for a quick paycheck. Prokosch happily states that "Whenever I hear the word ‘culture,' I bring out my checkbook." Lang recants with, "Some years ago - some horrible years ago - the Nazis used to take out a pistol instead of a checkbook." There are a few moments that refer to Lang's past with the German film industry; his fleeing from Nazism when Joseph Goebbels offered him the keys to the kingdom if he made a propaganda movie; him calling Prokosch "a dictator". There's a subtle, hidden meaning behind that. You would think Fritz Lang, from his past, would probably be able to justifiably point out someone that fits that mold.



Fritz Lang's casting was at first, strange to me. Here is perhaps the greatest German filmmaker of all time, a man who was at the helm of some of cinema's greatest works, and now he's an actor? I wasn't sure at first if it would work, but then I understood the purpose of his existence in the film. If you are involved at all in the film industry, there are three main conflicting interests at work: the producer, who wants to make sure he receives a return on his investment; the writer, who wants to be sure his words come to life and inspires the audience; and the director – who exists to take those words and turn them into his interpretation of a visual medium – at the same time, compromising with the producer. Lang wants to make a romantic, nostalgic version of Homer's Odyssey, but his hands are tied by a producer who wants nudity and action.

One of the great threads in Contempt is how Godard intercuts the plot of The Odyssey with his own. Paul is Odysseus, Camille is Penelope and Prokosch is Odysseus' rival, Poseidon. This gives the film weight and heightens the sense of tragedy which is unfolding in Paul and Camille's lives. What is even more delightful to observe and take note of, is the self-awareness of the characters. In a great scene, taking place on Capri, Paul describes his life to Fritz Lang as being parallel to that of The Odyssey itself. Godard knew he was making a "movie within a movie" and reveled in the self-reflexive style, using the story to study the many paradoxes that come with it.



There is a near thirty minute scene in Contempt that is a direct descendant of his first, Breathless. Paul meanders through his flat with Camille as they argue and reconcile, only to argue and reconcile again. They take phone calls, baths, mock each other – hit each other (a smack Paul gives to Camille is so sudden and violent that it shook me for the rest of the film) and play with each other like children. It reminded me of the two penultimate scenes in Breathless where Michel (Jean-Paul Belmondo) and Patricia (Jean Seberg) discuss their relationship – the first when it's apparent they will disintegrate, and the second where it finally does. Godard took the best parts of those scenes, combined them, added some dazzling tracking shots and a startling color palette that explains to the audience that even though this is a "conventional" film, it is at the same time anything but. The scene ends with Paul and Camille in a taxi on the way to meet up with Prokosch and Lang to scout an actress who may be willing to do a nude scene. The couple has "reconciled", but nothing has changed.

I've mentioned Raoul Coutard many times over the past few weeks, and I must give the acclaimed director of photography praise again – as he shoots this in glorious CinemaScope color, using natural light as often as he can to give the film a real, yet glossy, polished look. This was a precursor to the natural lighting techniques used by cinematographers such as László Kovács (Easy Rider and Five Easy Pieces), Conrad Hall (Cool Hand Luke) and Vittorio Storaro (The Conformist) who pushed the boundaries of how color could look when using the natural hues of the sun to illuminate scenery. The scenes on the island of Capri are glorious to gaze at with lush green forestry, blue waters and the different grays of the rocks. Contempt ends on a simple, yet painfully beautiful note - a simple ocean-line view of the sea, and I don't know if I've ever seen an afternoon shot look so clear and magnificent. He and Godard were master collaborators at the observation of characters: there are very few close-ups in Contempt, and it lends to the mystery and lack of attachment the characters have to each other.



Contempt was based on an Alberto Moravia novel that Godard dismissed as "nice, vulgar one for a train journey", but was kept faithful by the French auteur in telling the simple story. The film was produced by Ponti and by Joseph E. Levine — two of the most powerful men in movies at that time. What I always found funny about Contempt is that Godard obviously shows his distaste for commercialized filmmaking, using Jack Palance as a vehicle of the stereotypical Hollywood mogul; crass, oversexed, vain and thinks the box office is the ultimate meaning of success – and I'm not quite sure the producers were aware of it. As great of a role as it is for Palance, there is no doubt he is playing an A-1 douche-bag, while Fritz Lang supplies the compromise, understanding and wisdom of an artist, spouting off gems such as, "The gods have not created man. Man has created gods." Godard originally wanted his wife, Anna Karina (Nana from My Life to Live) to play Camille, but was refused. Bardot wears a wig that bears an uncanny resemblance to Karina's shiny black helmet of hair; Godard was able to break every rule within the confinement of the studio system he hated.


Do you see the inside joke?

This is a satire, a tragic one – that deconstructs the filmmaking process to its core: creativity going to bed with capitalism. The sweeping film score, provided by Georges Delerue, hammers home the fact that this is a film within a film – evoking moods of melancholy and an epic scope, so much that it almost mocks scores created for that exact purpose.

But I must give ultimate on-screen credit to its main couple, Michel Piccoli and Brigitte Bardot as Paul and Camille, who is able to play a true-to-life modern couple that bickers, teases, abuses, playfully taunts, argues and reconciles. Bardot was never known for her acting range, appearing in the controversial (for more aesthetic reasons) ...And God Created Woman, lighter comedy fare such as Une Parisienne (1957) and other films where she basically wore as little clothing as possible. But with Le Mepris, Godard caught lightening in a bottle and it is hard to keep attention away from her.




Do you see a resemblance?

Jean-Luc Godard and Francois Truffaut were undeniably, the leaders of the French New wave. While Truffaut may have stake in the creation and perfection of the "Dramedy", Godard may have created the stereotype of overly ambitious, existential and self-indulgent French film. When film-goers talk about a movie being "Frenchy artsy-fartsy" (and believe me, I've heard the term on more than one occasion), they are making a subconscious referral to Godard. He was the most difficult filmmaker of this genre to crack or pin down because he truly did everything in his power to make films that weren't easily accessible by the lowest-common denominator. Even so, he had his minions of followers. Roger Ebert tells a great story about how, when he was part of a film group in the 60's, people lined up to see Weekend (1967) as if it was the biggest event in history. We have our filmmakers like that today: How many people treated Quentin Tarantino's Inglorious Basterds or will treat James Cameron's Avatar the same way?

But Godard and Truffaut were not the only filmmakers from Cahiers du Cinéma. The French New Wave was considered to be at its height from 1959-1967, but popular films from this sub-genre were released as late as 1973. Other New Wave, and its associated group of filmmakers known as "The Left Bank" consisted of talents such as Claude Chabrol, Jacques Rivette, Éric Rohmer, Henri Colpi, Jacques Demy, Chris Marker, Alain Resnais and Agnès Varda. Their influence can be seen in the 60's and 70's films of Martin Scorsese, Francis Ford Coppola, Bob Rafleson, Robert Altman, Arthur Penn, Mike Nichols and Hal Ashby. Cinematographers such as László Kovács, Conrad L. Hall, and Gordon Willis emerged using techniques perfected from this group of films. Michel Gondry used New Wave techniques while filming Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind. Films from Wes Anderson, The Coen Brothers, Paul Thomas Anderson, and Richard Linkletter are imprinted with French Wave influence. Quentin Tarantino's production company, "A Band Apart" is a play on words of the Godard film, Bande à part - he even dedicated Reservoir Dogs to his muse. The French New Wave sparked The New Wave of German films, where filmmakers such as Werner Herzog, Wim Wenders and Rainer Werner Fassbinder and brought a more serious, artful tone to their country's movies.

If there is anything I wish to evoke while giving readers this column is the love of all things cinema – that includes the more "difficult" films. The French New Wave isn't for everyone. For some, the films are boring or mundane or lose steam. I can understand that. But I feel the need to give credit to those who lent a piece of history to how movies are made today and who gave serious credibility to filmmakers who strived to do more than have actors stand in front of a camera and recite dialogue like a recorded play. It is what inspires me to watch movies, write about movies, write my own and create my own films. I hope you've enjoyed this little trek down the film-strips of France. We'll be back here soon enough.

Trailer for Contempt


{Film Passport Stamped}

Coming Attractions: Part one of a retrospective look at the films of my favorite surreal anarchist, Luis Buñuel – perhaps the most famous (and most influential) short film ever made. Wait...How do you write a column about a short film? Stop by next week to find out!

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