Le Méprisi is as tedious a piece as ever could be musteredii out of the dreary field of "psycho-explorations in Euro-cuckitude". If you drill in Texas you sometimes get oil, if you dig in Rhodesia you get diamonds even, on occasion ; but if you film in France what you get's reliably three day old precum dribble, with little ants and things stickied into it.
The "hero" (unconvincingly brought to
life copacetic decay by some anodyne fixture of French cinema whose names eludes my disinterest) wears a hat in the tub to "be like James Dean Dean Martin" (somehow conveniently forgetting that character's touch of faggoty, while indisputably presentiii, is nevertheless very different from the infantile absurdity expressed by the inbred, overcrowded byproducts of that regrettable chicken battery farm formerly known as Europe) while never once interrupting the deluge of female POV oozing out of that dumb cunt's ever-dribbling noise pore.
It's a sickening display, outright painful to watchiv ; not once does he yell at her, or put her on her knees, not once does she receive the well earned "shut up!", not once does he break her stupid frame or re-allign the flow of ideals towards anything like sanity. None of that ; the neglected idiot just ferments on and of herself, tirelessly, endlessly, rather reproducing the cvasi-infantile mental world of Adriana. Such a waste of otherwise marginally acceptable girly flesh has not been seen since... well, it's ubiquitous, of course, except in my house. It's also a sickening display.
Outside of its outright offensive parts the film's just plain terrible ; the "oh, just like Nazis, but with checkbook instead of Mauser" line for instance's so very forced as to send the whole character tumbling down bottomless pits of irrecoverable ridicule. There's really nothing here, except for the hole where French people could've been. It's exactly like the crater left behind a popped pimple : "where skin could've been", yet self-evidently wasn't being, for reasons to do with its inadequacy and, ultimately, failure.
All that said, had a real director been in charge of this abortion, the premise could've readily been rescued -- provided Francesca got it on their first encounter. There, among the "ruins" of the deserted set, while walking to meet the driver, standing, eventually reaching for a wall, nice fat rod spreading her cunt briefly, harshly, skirt to the side. The pert assistant refunding quietly down her thighs while Camille's invited to her rapev would have made the whole damned thing work, and work well at that ; with a more hunchback, outright scary Lang, with a much more forceful hero and a much more amused antagonist, with some actual life in it this film could've, in turn, lived. That it doesn't is entirely upon Godard and the rest of the cucks involved, because the girls were there, and ready ; the walls were there, and willing. They had no rods, and no balls to work the rods if they had them, back in 1963.
And so it stood, and so it stands. And so it shall be remembered.———
- 1963, by Jean-Luc Godard, with, principally, Brigitte Bardot's (largely unremarkable) butt. [↩]
- From musty, a superlatively offensive form of oozing. [↩]
- Have you seen that idiocy with a "magical" (because young) Jerry Lewis playing the eromenos / housewife ? Blergh. [↩]
- But do you like my ankles ? But do you like my thighs ? But do you like my 'breasts' ? And how about the nipples ? Do you like the nipples more than the breasts or the breasts more than the nipples ?
And, salting the bleeding wound, once the enumeration's "complete" (to some decerebrated standard of completeness perfectly in line with an unschooled twelve year old's superficiality), the conclusion falls with all the heft of belly fat : "then you love me completely".
Nuts, just simply nuts, there she wanders about "their house", among ladders and cans of paint, doing jack shit besides interrupting him while he's trying to write. Wouldn't you expect the dumb bitch strip that dress off and get to painting ?.I very well fucking would so expect ; and there'd better be big fat welts on that rump of hers, because she's nowhere near, nowhere even remotely near where she's so well behaved as to not need daily warm-ups multiple times a day. [↩]
- Camille's, not Francesca's. [↩]