Jean-Luc Godard’s ‘Contempt’
Film Forum, June 30-July 15

When the French filmmaker Jean Luc-Godard died last year at the age of 91, the encomiums came in fast and furious. Directors Clair Denis, Edgar Wright, and Martin Scorcese, as well as President Macron, chimed in, extolling Godard’s iconoclasm and influence. What few of these tributes touched upon was whether Godard’s impact on cinema was, in any way, beneficent.

Speaking ill of the dead, particularly in the immediate aftermath, is bad form. Yet that’s not to say criticality should be put to rest. Godard began his career as a film critic, being one of the cadre of cineastes at Cahiers du Cinéma, the seminal magazine that was the breeding ground for the French New Wave. Unafraid of ruffling feathers, he took on his colleague André Bazin and castigated the “formalistic and overly artful films” of Orson Welles. 

The irony, of course, is that Godard turned out to be as arty as they come. Admittedly, he applied his knowledge of cinema differently than Welles, Vittorio de Sica, William Wyler, or anyone else who raised his ire. “Breathless” (1960), Godard’s debut as a filmmaker, still excites with its blatant disregard for niceties like continuity and momentum. Yet Godard’s cinematic savvy was increasingly tainted — not too strong a word, I think — by theory, politics, and, to a distressing degree, loathing. There are few things as dispiriting as an artist out of love with his medium.

Film Forum is hosting a two-week revival of “Contempt” (1963), Godard’s foray into mainstream movie making and the priciest picture of his career. The funds were provided by Carlo Ponti and Joseph E. Levine, producers, respectively, of “Dr. Zhivago” and “Hercules.” Actually, Levine produced less pulpy fare — stuff like “The Graduate,” “The Producers,” and “The Lion in Winter” — but the Steve Reeves film bears mentioning in that it’s the subject of a passing insult in “Contempt.” Given Godard’s head-butting with Levine, the title of the film is fitting.

How big a deal was this film for Godard? It was based on “A Ghost at Noon,” a best-selling novel by Albert Moravia, and stars Brigitte Bardot at her most voluptuous and Jack Palance at his most intimidating. The male lead is Michel Piccoli, who had already been featured in films by Jean Renoir, Luis Bunuel, and Rene Clair. Among the supporting members of the cast is Godard’s hero, Fritz Lang, the director of seminal films such as “Metropolis,” “M,” and “Rancho Notorious.” Is Lang on record about what he thought of Godard’s abilities? He’s certainly bemused playing a version of himself in “Contempt.”

The movie begins with a voiceover by Godard in which, after reading through the credits, he quotes his old bete noire Bazin: “The cinema substitutes through our gaze a world more in harmony with our desires.” After which Godard informs us that “Contempt” is “a story of that world.” It’s not pretty. Jeremy Prokosh (Palance) is producing a version of “The Odyssey” with Lang directing. After seeing the rushes, Prokosh has a meltdown, scattering reels of film around the projection room. Given the nature of the footage — basically, static shots of what looks like statuary cadged from a third-rate Greek restaurant — we can’t blame him for the tantrum.

Prakash wants to hire Paul Javal (Piccoli), a former writer of mystery novels, to overhaul the movie’s screenplay. Javal’s wife Camille (Ms. Bardot) comes along for the ride and bears the brunt of the producer’s attention. When Javal agrees to Prakash’s offer, he and the missus engage in some contentious back and forth about traveling to the film set in Capri. At this point, “Contempt” shifts: What was a cynical take on the entertainment industry becomes a cynical take on marriage. In an extended scene, Camille and Javal engage in a circuitous conversation about opportunity, class, and the fickle nature of love. It’s some kind of feat, this maundering portion of the film, but, boy, does it upset the balance of “Contempt.” 

Then again, Godard was, as the blurb accompanying “Contempt” tells us, a “wild man.” Still, he didn’t prove all that wild when the producers insisted on having more cheesecake in the picture. That would be Ms. Bardot, you know: What a woman. Godardians insist that the resulting scene, in which we watch a nude Camille quizzing Javal about the splendor of her physical attributes, is a devastating critique of crass commercialism. 

Maybe, but there are better ways of sticking it to the man than parading one’s spite at the expense of cinematic integrity. That, and Ms. Bardot being lovely, thwarts Godard’s machinations. Should one be in the mood for watching an artist gnaw at the hand that feeds him to mixed effect, “Contempt” is likely to prove diverting.