Poetic Film Review: Contempt (Le Mépris, 1963)

In Rome's twilight, where shadows play,
A tale of love and art, in disarray,
Paul Javal's words, a playwright's might,
Falls prey to greed, and a producer's blight.

Camille, fair and alluring, a gem,
Tempted by Jerry Prokosch's lecherous whim,
Their marriage frays, like a torn thread,
As the lines of art and commerce are bled.

The camera pans, a sweeping sight,
Cinemascope's grandeur, a spectacle's light,
But beneath the surface, a film within a film,
A meta-commentary, on the state of art's whim.

Godard's style, a subtle, nuanced guide,
A departure from the raw, avant-garde's pride,
The jump cuts gone, the long takes reign,
A visual feast, that whispers, rather than proclaims.

Bardot's beauty, a siren's call,
A sex symbol's icon, that enthralls,
But in Contempt's depths, a soundtrack's toll,
A melody that overwhelms, and makes the plot grow old.

Camille's Theme, a piece of music's might,
A crutch that's used, to ease the cinematic fight,
But in its excess, it drowns the sound,
A melodrama that's manufactured, without a doubt.

A film of contrasts, of style and art,
A commercial success, that's torn apart,
By Godard's own hand, a work that's not his own,
A venture experimental, that's lost its tone.

Yet, in its flaws, it holds a strange allure,
A glimpse into the past, of art and commerce's allure,
A film that's polarizing, like a work of art,
Contempt's essence, a reflection of the human heart.

(Note: The review in its original form can be read here.)

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