But Godard’s conceit is overblown. The husband is no Odysseus, and the loss of his Penelope, would have happened if not then later. It is ironic that the film is set it in Italy. No Italian male would have let his girl get in that sports-car. Paul loses Camille in that instant. Bardot is teasing him by coquettishly slinking around the ‘red’ sport-car, and she thinks there is no way Paul will let her go with Palance. You can see the sense of betrayal in her face, which goes from a smile to incredulity.
The film fails for me in a number of ways. Palance is an imagined American from an America akin to that invented by Kafka in his novel. Lang sprouts poetry and philosophy that is profoundly irrelevant, and the viewer can only share Camille’s contempt for Paul, so there is no tension. The whole thing is drawn out too long and the use of Eisenstein-like cuts to mythic sculptures is vacuous, as is the grandiose Delerue musical motif, which waxes and wanes in a belabored attempt to add the drama that is missing on the screen. And all those cuts to Bardot naked on variously-colored flokati rugs with her pert behind on view are just too Playboyish.
Though Godard does reach some clarity in the final scenes at the gas station and the brilliant cutting from Camille’s letter to Paul writ-large to the tragedy that ensues.
Posts
