Contempt is a motion picture essay on the intricate dynamics of a relationship between men and women. In this case, a married man and woman, but the generalization works nonetheless. Men and women are complex creatures, after all. Directed by the pioneering Jean-Luc Godard, Contempt is more like a poem in some ways and a study in human psychology in others. For those reasons alone, it is worth a film student’s weight in gold. Brigitte Bardot stars as Camille, the wife of struggling playwright Paul Javal (Michel Piccoli), who is in a dilemma as to whether he should take on the job of writing a film script for producer Jeremy Prokosch (Jack Palance) based on the legend of Ulysses, or not. It’s not as simple as it sounds: Godard is intent on depicting the relationship between Camille and Paul as something so ambiguous that the viewer can never quite make up his mind about whether his sympathies should lie with Camille, who could potentially be the victim of Paul’s greed and cunning, or with Paul, who has to shoulder the torrent of cold retorts that Camille showers on him in a studied outpouring of dislike, or as the title of the film goes, contempt.
The film is full of symbolism. Under Godard’s directorial baton, the camera lingers lovingly on Bardot’s naked body in more than just a couple of scenes - an indication, perhaps, of her vulnerability and also - might we say - perfection as a female. Paul seems to push Camille towards accepting Prokosch’s leery advances and yet seems to be in a constant tussle inside his head as to whether he really wants his beautiful wife to be proved adulterous or not. Does he really love his wife? Is he an ambitious player in tinsel town or just an insecure husband? He could be both - or couldn’t he? Godard seems to be saying throughout the film that in the cloudy world of human relationships, nothing can ever be crystal clear. Camille seems to adore her husband at the beginning of the film, even asking for validation: ‘You like all of me? My mouth? My eyes? My nose? And my ears? Paul: Yes, all of you. Camille: Then you love me... totally? Paul: Yes. Totally... tenderly... Tragically.’ And yet, when she begins to feel that she is being made use of in his journey to the top of his career ladder based on one incident at Prokosch’s house, she seems to lose all love and respect for him. She starts constantly uttering that that she hates him and despises him.
This is where, as a thinking viewer, one begins to wonder how that can really be possible: no one stops loving their partner based on one incident. So was that just the culmination of something that had been simmering for a while, or was it an indication of Camille’s childish, obstinate character? Insight would seem to think it is not the latter - Camille seems to mouth pearls of wisdom throughout the movie. When Paul suggests watching a movie, for example, Camille replies ‘Use your own ideas, instead of stealing them from everyone else.’ Definitely not a blonde bimbo, as Paul seems to think. But Camille is not free from blame either: after she has lost complete interest in Paul, she willingly responds to Prokosch’s advances without a shred of guilt.
Fritz Lang appears as himself in the film, as the director of the proposed movie about Ulysses that Paul is contemplating writing the script for. His character is that of a philosophical mentor, in some ways: ‘We must finish what we have started’, when Paul decides not to do the script, and ‘Children should not play with guns’, when he observes that Paul carries one, ostensibly to hurt Camille or Prokosch.
The film seems to move much more rapidly after the first quarter of the film. The scenes between Paul and Camille at their apartment in Rome are an example of Godard’s brilliant understanding of the relationship between men and women: they exchange verbal jabs at one another as if in a boxing ring, yet are simultaneously relaxed as they undress, bathe and dress slowly, all the while moving from one room to another. That indicates a level of comfort that only people who are very used to each other can have, while the sarcastic repartees are a constant reminder that relationships are not as comfortable as one really thinks they are. As the story moves to picturesque Capri, the tension seems to heighten considerably - and yet everything is still not so clear. Godard seems to be intent on conveying the message that relationships are not black and white, but grey.
And that is exactly what the film is. Contempt is not black or white, but a deliberately grey-toned study in human relationships. And it will be remembered for that.
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