Godard is a classic example of pretentiousness. This is from my review of Le Mepris on one of my blogs:
Cinematically Joean-Luc Godard’s Le Mépris (Contempt) is beguiling: the elegant camera of Raoul Coutard; the stunning use of primary colors, reds, blues, and yellows; and the mise-en-scene in each of the major locations, a studio lot, an apartment; and the windy paths and a geometric home on the glorious isle of Capri – each partner’s isolation symbolically played out on the terrazzo roof-top… But Godard’s conceit is overblown. The husband is no Odysseus, and the loss of his Penelope, would have happened if not then later…
Fritz Lang sprouts poetry and philosophy that is profoundly irrelevant… 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.
Astounding Debuts about 3 years ago
Another two off the cuff:
Force of Evil (1948) – Abraham Polonsky
Yellow Earth (1984) – Chen Kagai
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Pretentiousness almost 3 years ago
Godard is a classic example of pretentiousness. This is from my review of Le Mepris on one of my blogs:
Cinematically Joean-Luc Godard’s Le Mépris (Contempt) is beguiling: the elegant camera of Raoul Coutard; the stunning use of primary colors, reds, blues, and yellows; and the mise-en-scene in each of the major locations, a studio lot, an apartment; and the windy paths and a geometric home on the glorious isle of Capri – each partner’s isolation symbolically played out on the terrazzo roof-top… But Godard’s conceit is overblown. The husband is no Odysseus, and the loss of his Penelope, would have happened if not then later…
Fritz Lang sprouts poetry and philosophy that is profoundly irrelevant… 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.
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