"Contempt" is a vile piece of crap.
If Roger Ebert took the time to announce on "Siskel and Ebert" that if those who wished to be considered intellectuals had to promptly take a rotating, high-speed woodworking tool and stick it up their ass for a period of five or more minutes, would you -- wanting desperately to be included in that important group -- do it?
This is, in effect, what Ebert and virtually every other film critic in the United States and the world are asking of you by suggesting that your spend your valuable free time watching Jean-Luc Godard's 1963 film, "Contempt." Just try and find a negative review of this film. There aren't any. Anywhere. The reason is pure elitism. Nobody who wants to be considered a serious film critic will gamble on getting caught in a tryst with the ugly truth: that "Contempt" is a vile piece of crap.
The only reason "Contempt" didn't garner the coveted dynamite is because Godard knows a great ass when he sees one and puts Brigitte Bardot's on full display. Don't think this isn't intentional. As you start to seriously consider pulling out your own fingernails to distract yourself from the ponderous, boring, self-important dialogue of "Contempt," you can count on Godard to pull out Bardot's ass for a couple of nice close-ups. It's like clockwork.
Bardot is Camille, the wife of a failed playwright (Michel Piccoli) who is given a writing assignment by an idiotic movie producer (Jack Palance) intent on forcing his director, Fritz Lang (Fritz Lang), to remake "The Odyssey" with more topless mermaids. Actually, what this film ends up being is endless talking. The whole second act takes place in an apartment where Camille and her husband discuss the condition of their relationship.
Godard is convinced everything he has to say is of groundbreaking importance. He uses music as torture to further drive his "point" home. What's ironic about this film is that it's simplistic crap. It's not hard to understand at all, which is exactly why most film critics are so incredibly proud of themselves for recognizing what a great film it is -- because they can understand it. Real art is rarely that easy and film critics are rarely that smart.
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