'Le Mepris': women, statues, gods.
When the eye lifts up to the sky all it sees is blue. If the color blue comes increasingly to prevail as Jean-Luc Godard's Le Mepris (Contempt) nears its end, it is as the sign of the defeat and self-defeat of the idea of the hero. It is the blue in the eyes of the divine mask at the start of Fritz Lang's film-within-the-film, a version of The Odyssey. As its protagonist's jealousy drives his wife to another man--to provoke him and/or escape him--the blue of his depression deepens to match the ascendancy of Poseidon, owner as it were of the waters above the heavens, enemy of the Odysseus with whom Paul parallels himself. For Paul (Michel Piccoli), his wife (Brigitte Bardot) is as inscrutable as the statues of the gods in the putative Fritz Lang film. But that inscrutability is less indicative of divinity than of her objectification: the naked backside she displays at the film's beginning anticipates the pornography of the Roman art coffee table book she and Paul both flick through. The producer Prokosh lambaste Lang's film, and art itself becomes prostitution as Paul works for Prokosh and Godard himself provides the nude shots his producer demanded. Lang quotes Brecht's poem on his Hollywood experience of hopefully joining the vendors of lies. Godard's own film is deeply Brechtian in its acting, morality, and color-coding: white backgrounds turn the blocks of primary color (red, blue, yellow) into quotations; Bardot's discarded wraps (red or yellow--blue being her sober everyday suit) fly across the screen like splashes of paint. The Brechtian contradiction between Delerue's sweepingly romantic music and Bardot's derriere is also the gulf between body and soul--feminine and masculine--that tears both Paul and the work apart. "Der arme b.b." is also feminized as poor Brigitte Bardot, the Brecht quotation recalling her remark to Paul that it did not matter whether or not she was lying. She and Paul whirl down in a vicious circle: she says she loves him one moment, "I no longer love you" the next, to gauge his closeness to her. True love would know whether or not the lover is lying. But Paul is far away, lost in his thoughts, self-alienated both by working for Prokosh and by choosing an intellectual inferior as his wife: a typist, she can easily become a haunting mere body, objectified as pornographic beauty. Camille may be contemptuous of Paul, but there are hints that the feeling is mutual. Paul says, "Show women cinema and they show their behinds," exactly as Bardot has done for Godard and his backers. Contempt for her is also self-contempt, as the obsession with the behind obscures the face that might reveal the truth, the person. At the end, after Camille's death, the screen's empty blue shouts the absence of the statue of her that might have loomed against its background, like those of Lang's gods. A female statue does indeed figure prominently in the couple's apartment--Paul taps it and says it sounds different in different places--but it is modern, metallic, clothed, undivine. There is no naked pagan goddess in the film's pantheon. The only goddess to figure in the Lang Odyssey is Athene, a mere bodiless head. The existence of the wisdom she embodies is parodied in Prokosh's borrowed maxim "the wise man does not exploit the impotence of others," an instruction he ignores. His identification with the death-dealing gods collapses when he himself dies. Poseidon, Penelope, and Odysseus may have modern equivalents in Godard's work, but there is none of Athene. Woman's image is split between the Athene who has no modern equivalent and the Aphrodite who is never shown: a gulf separates mind and body, body and soul. In Le Mepris separation, like the contempt itself, is not "alienation" but primal, mythical, inexplicable. If the split between heaven and earth corresponds to the latter's desacralization, art's fall into prostitution, the resultant emptiness fills the sky with the resonance of myth in the final shot.
Variations on Separating: colors and (Brechtian, Grecian) elements
Godard and Moravia
While making Le Mepris, Jean-Luc Godard described the Moravia novel on which it was based, Il Disprezzo, as "a nice, vulgar one for a train journey. Full of classical, old-fashioned sentiments in spite of the modernity of the situations" (Narboni and Milne 200). One might thus expect Godard to recast the text as radically as Bertolucci does The Conformist, a revision of Moravia also abrim with outre' mimetic rivalry with the phantom of "the master," who in this case is Godard himself. What Godard means by "the modernity of the situations" remains unclear, and may mean the breakdown of male,' female communication, or such "daring" images as that of the naked female protagonist outstretched on the beach (Godard is perforce less daring than Moravia and lays her on her front). Godard ignores Moravia's self-inscription in the modernist tradition of the unreliable first-person narrator, and his contempt is to some extent justified by the contrast between his own position as founder of cinematic modernism and Moravia's at the fag end of a literary one that had, as Adorno might have put it, "aged." For all that, though, he proceeds to declare, "I have stuck to the main theme, simply altering a few details, on the principle that something filmed is automatically different from something written, and therefore original" (Narboni and Milne 200). In Marsha Kinder's words, "Godard rejects Moravia's device of the first-person ironic point of view" (Kinder 110)(1); there is no unremitting male voiceover (the few voiceovers are in fact distributed between the male and female leads). Instead, one has "an omniscient perspective that focuses on external events" and "is clearly closer to Homer's than to Moravia's" (Kinder 110). If Moravia is "classical," this point of view is of course even more so.
Godard's other primary changes to the novel involve presenting the Odyssey screenplay, and hence its German director, at the very outset rather than mid-way through the story (Camille, his version of Emilia, can thus be suspended throughout between Prokosch and the fatherly Fritz Lang, in a sense occupying the place of Molteni, rebaptized Paul) and melting multiple dialogues into the tour-de-force of the half-hour middle scene in Paul and Camille's unfinished apartment. Cinematic allusions crowd densely round Godard's beginning, and Raoul Coutard's lens staring at the invisibly recording camera inaugurates the self-reference. Perhaps the most enigmatic self-reference involves the quotation of Andre Bazin's statement that cinema presents a world conforming to our desires(2), an assertion the subsequent work may seem to ironize as comprehensively as the film theory that took Godard as its leading light did the ecstatic ontology of Bazin's phenomenological realism. But the relationship between Bazin's remark and Godard's work may be more than ironic, because, consciously or not, it reiterates a central theme of Moravia's closing pages, one the novel's English translation emphasizes through its title of A Ghost at Noon. By raising the question of desire's fulfillment, Godard's beginning in fact rhymes with Moravia's end, which places the first person narrator, Riccardo Molteni, vis-a-vis an image of his wife in a boat. Previously recalcitrant, she is now yielding, saying the words he had yearned to hear all along. The image then vanishes. When Molteni learns of her death in a car accident (Godard's vengeful fantasy about film producers has Prokosch killed too) we suspect a possible supernaturalism, but Moravia himself cannily seconds our resistance to any easily transcendental, sentimental resolution:
(...) when I compared the time at which she had
appeared with the time at which she had died, I
discovered that they did not correspond. Emilia had
been still alive at the moment when I thought I had
seen her sitting in the stern of the boat; but she was,
in all probability, already dead during the time of my
unconsciousness on the little beach at the far end of
the Red Grotto. So, in death as in life, there was no
true conformity. And I should never know whether
she had been a ghost or a hallucination, or a dream,
or perhaps some other illusion. (Moravia 222)
This passage goes beyond the expressionism of Rheingold, for whom Homer's monsters simply externalize Odysseus' reluctance to return to Penelope, becoming genuinely modern, though with a different modernity than Godard's: not epic Brechtian modernity, but one of epistemological undecidability. Remembering Emilia's nakedness on the beach, one may deem it the modernity of Persona--the Bergman whose earlier "modern situations" ("Swedish sexual daring") finally issue in textual modernity. And yet, although Godard and Godardians may proclaim Moravia's outdatedness, his novel is fascinatingly prescient of the French director's own political evolution. Molteni's comments on his own post-war politicization could be a self-criticism by the late sixties Godard, though one Godard never formulated, as if the Brechtian rejection of inferiority and psychologism (which echoes the rejection of psychology he attributes to Lang, but which Moravia gives to Molteni) entailed refusal of possible self-knowledge:
In fact, during those difficult days, I came very gradually to feel that
my irritation and my intolerance of poverty were turning into a revolt
against injustice, and not only against the injustice which struck at me
personally, but the injustice from which so many others like me
suffered. (...) I also noticed in myself, at that same period, a growing
sympathy for those political parties which proclaimed their struggle
against the evils and infamies of the society to which, in the end, I had
attributed the troubles that beset me - a society which, as I thought, in
reference to myself, allowed its best sons to languish and protected its
worst ones. Usually, and in simpler, less cultivated people, this process
occurs without their knowing it, in the dark depths of consciousness where,
by a mysterious kind of alchemy, egoism is transmuted into altruism, hatred
into love, fear into courage; but to me, accustomed as I was to observing
and studying myself, the whole thing was clear and visible, as though I
were watching it happen in someone else; and yet I was aware the
whole time that I was being swayed by material, subjective factors,
that I was transforming purely personal motives into universal
reasons. (Moravia 21)
Moravia's world is as much one of overdetermined division--a division that causes hysteria in his narrator--as is Godard's. Head against heart, intellectual against working class, art versus life, speech versus silence, language versus image, masculine against feminine, modern against ancient: the oppositions interlock endlessly, so that to ascribe determining force to any single one (as do most critics, focusing on "the twilight of the gods") is to mystify the film by treating only one level of its preoccupations. Molteni describes his development as occurring "as though I were watching it happen in someone else." Similarly, Godard alienates himself into the figure of Paul, the distorted reflection whose mirroring status is suggested nevertheless by his cinephilia and sporting of Godard's own trademark hat. After all, are not both Paul and Godard himself in danger of "selling out," so that the usual Godardian fixation upon the general health of cinema also includes the production conditions of this particular film?
Everything One Color
At one point in the long, virtuoso circling dialogue in the apartment Paul shares with Camille, he stands in blue before a blue chair, and she in red before a red divan. The opening scene passes various color filters before Bardot's bare body and concludes with Paul's avowal that he loves her "totally, tenderly, tragically." Is there a relationship between these two textual moments? If there is, it may well lie in the way the purity of a single color indicates a totality of separation: one is completely one thing, set apart from all others, and so it is appropriate that the colors identified with Paul and Camille at this moment in their apartment are opposed ones, their separation emphasized by the intervening white of the walls; it is appropriate also that the three colors that most interest that acerbic social critic, Godard, should be those of the French flag. Indeed, the extent of the opposition of blue and red is marked by the need for white to hold them apart. Thus when Shakespeare describes Macbeth's imagined reddening of the ocean he responds to our sense of one color becoming its opposite and writes "making the green one red" rather than "making the blue one red" (green and red are obscurely compatible, being "terrestrial" colors seen together, whereas in nature blue and red seldom are). Although at this stage of the film Camille is steeped in red, earlier on she has worn blue, just as she has "worn" a succession of colors in the opening scene. During that opening scene blue occurs as she asks Paul if he loves her face, and as he says "yes" the blue darkens it to near-invisibility. At its end he says he loves her "totally, tenderly, tragically." Are these three words just a litterateur's daintily alliterative self-indulgence (the alliteration is also present in Godard's French), or is there more to it than that? Blue is emblematic of Poseidon, the foe of the Odysseus with whom Paul aligns himself. Paul's self-alignment with the color is one both with Camille and with the force of his own destruction. Blue will also be the tragic color of the self-destructive Pierrot le fou (again, a fictional character of Godard's fashioning is aligned with a preexistent fictional character, Pierrot--perhaps, among other things, to render him "more real" by contrast--while the name Camille here recalls "La Dame aux Camelias", for whom color was of particular significance).
In the opening the sliding camera seeks to encompass the totality of Bardot's body (to give producer Joe Levine everything he asked for, even as the filters withheld it), while Georges Delerue's music breathes tenderness and tragedy. All and nothing enjoy a clandestine relationship, even identity. For Godard, giving Levine all he wanted meant in fact giving him nothing: questions of nudity, paganism, divinity, and "naked truth" (Bardot-as-personification standing for La Verite, as women so often have done, and as she herself had for Clouzot) swirl through the film. Later Paul will respond to Camille's enquiry, "what makes you think I don't love you," with the word "everything." To say "everything" is to forgo the effort of specification Camille seeks here, as she had at the film's outset, when enumerating her body parts--from toe to top--and asking Paul if he loved them. Surveying the totality is godlike, and so humans' aspiration to such vision is impossible, leaves them with nothing, with nothingness in fact, a sequence allegorized in that key early camera movement that slides on a long rightward diagonal down and away from the blue sky to the deeper blue of the sea. The opening sequence, ending on blue, is a microcosm of the film, which also concludes with blue. At its very outset Godard's second color film proclaims its status as, among other things, a Farbenlehre, and an essay on the impossibility of total possession (even a color does not invest its wearer entirely--unless, of course, like Pierrot, one paints one's face too, a totality of immersion that may be the sign of death--and this is one overdetermined cause of the film's interest in neck-up shots). Since the Greek statues of the gods were originally colored (our belief in their whiteness being false), Godard's interest in the relationship between white and color mirrors that in modernity and myth. In his film's desacralized world it may be impossible to have Lang's desired opening "in which the gods discuss the fate of men," but Paul's opening dialogue with Camille fittingly prefaces a film which will plunge individuals into the single blocks of unadulterated color that signify their total inaccessibility to one another. For Lucja Demby, the chill pervading the film embraces even Godard's reds (Godard himself, perhaps with Prokosch's car in mind, identified the film's red with death). Demby describes the colors of Prokosch's villa as "cold, pure and lurid, with no admixture of other hues" (Demby 25)(3). One color's refusal to admit any other becomes a form of cold, the colors' absolute separation homologous with contempt, icy white separating them. Similarly, ostensible dialogues are really monologues; their repetitious self-enclosure matches the colors' continual tautologous self-identity.
When Camille is doubled by Francesca Vanini near the film's end, each sporting a yellow bathrobe, the doubling may well prefigure death, as it does so often in legend and myth. And yet, for all that, the film's last moments suggest a utopia in which opposites fuse within blue, as they have earlier revolved around Camille, the bearer of various colors, in a sense the source of the world's color per se. At the end, sea and sky fuse in blue, virtually indistinguishable, with no downward movement, merely a long unblinking stare. The moment's unattainability for Paul and Camille is marked by its placement beyond her death, and blue itself becomes death as the color has the last word, FIN, the word that follows the diegetic word "silenzio". In this utopia color does not separate, as it always separated Camille, whether with Paul or after, wearing a blue suit over against the red of Prokosch's car and sweater. The final blue is mourning for her, who began and ended the film in that color, and hence for the world (the film), all of whose colors begin with her. As blue supervenes, we enter the world of Dante's Ulysses, whose final words describe the sea closing over him: "Infin che il mar fu spore noi richiuso"--words spoken to Rheingold by Moravia's Molteni. (Moravia 187) He and Emilia, Moravia's equivalent of Camille, have long inhabited that depth:
At lunch we scarcely spoke. Silence seemed to
penetrate inside the villa together with the strong light
of noon; the sky and sea that filled the big windows
dazzled us and gave us a feeling of remoteness, as
though all this blueness were a substantial thing, like
a depth of water, and we two were sitting at the
bottom of the sea, separated by luminous, fluctuating
liquid and unable to speak. (Moravia 180)
Whether consciously or not, Godard's "silenzio" takes these words from Moravia's nineteenth chapter as the epitaph for the relationship he mourns. The return to the sea is one to Western culture's Mediterranean womb--and the philosophy of Thales. Godard's color separation is also a radical separation of (Grecian and Brechtian) elements. In the words of Andreas Kilb, "the most extreme abstraction of the visible is the sea; that is why, as the film's ens realissimum, it merits the camera's last look. Things emerge from the pure element and in the end are submerged in them again" (Kilb 186-187).
"Poor B.B." was Brecht's Villonesque self-description in his ballad of the same title. After the Prokosch party has sampled the talents of a stage singer, Lang recites Brecht's short free verse poem about Hollywood as a marketplace of lies where he too joins the hopeful vendors. The combination of indictment and self-criticism ruefully matches Godard's own position, emblematic of cinema's perennial creative-destructive embrace of commerce, as he supplies the nude scene required by his producer, albeit, like an East European filmmaker outwitting censors, in such a way as to make it his own scene instead, as he was at pains to stress during interviews. B.B. as Bertolt Brecht is present as the theorist of the dramatic quotation of gestures, a theory appropriately applied most fully in the scene that refers to him: no constant realistic background, the stage singer's voice is switched off and on to accommodate the dialogue in the auditorium. (Here Godard resembles Paul rather than the Homer Lang evokes, who believed in reality; the scene is firmly anti-realistic.) Brecht's Hollywood situation of course parallels that of Lang, his compatriot and contemporary and fellow exile from National Socialism. And yet National Socialism is alive and well in the dictatorship of producers addicted to spectacle, in the booming banalities of Prokosch, the self-proclaimed God and man of wisdom. If God's absence does indeed help, as Holderlin's verse proclaims, it is the absence of such a God-man as Prokosch. Thus Godard's mourning of cinema's death at his hands concludes nevertheless in its utopian afterlife, as Lang (who says he could do without a producer) continues shooting after his death. If the death of Prokosch liberates cinema, Camille's may be the sacrifice that rejuvenates it.(4) "You should always finish what you have begun," Lang remarks. And if "death is not a solution," as he also says, perhaps it is also not the end.
Although Paul, a Godardian cinephile, refers repeatedly both to Lang's American films and American cinema in general, Lang counters praise of Rancho Notorious by declaring his own preference for M. The exchange nuances Godard's auterism by reversing the usual Cahiers preference for Lang's American phase, suggesting, perhaps unwittingly, that its adoration may even ratify the forces alienating Lang and so be an orthodoxy in need of revision. After all, the film-within-the-film would resemble Die Nibelungen more than Man Hunt. For the French viewer, meanwhile, B.B. must also, even preeminently, be Brigitte Bardot, and if Godard is selling her body, then so is she. Each is exploring the inner folds of the experience of prostitution.(5) Bardot's willingness to work with Godard gets the film off the ground, while her readiness to strip permits him to probe prostitution more incisively than in the early eighties narrative films built around it: whoring is a cause of anguish, not the grubby given it would later become. Godard described Bardot as "un bloc" (Marie 31), a phrase echoed in Alain Bergala's reference to her "sublime inertia" (5). It may be piquant to imagine Le Mepris as ostensibly first projected by Godard, with either Cocteau (another modern resuscitator of myth) or Robert Aldrich as a more ambiguous director figure, and Kim Novak the similarly inert San Francisco Bay sea goddess of Vertigo--or with Loren and Mastroianni, as proposed by Carlo Ponti. It may also be piquant to imagine Bardot as Novak's double in transformation, for when a wig makes a brunette of the blonde Godard is surely reprising L'Avventura to remind us of her true nature as the Anna she represents--in his case, Anna Karina (Raoul Coutard termed the film a million-dollar love-letter to her)--though the wig also signifies the stereotypically dark Italian. And yet Bardot's absent presence is not just "vegetable," as Godard also describes her, but the inertia of gods, or demigods: the stars who exist outside narrative, in the world of fragments that is the Lang Odyssey. Her opacity is that of Godard's own impossible "ghost at noon," the image of reconciliation of ancient and modern, Homeric epic and the epic theatre of Brecht. As with Moravia's Emilia, native majesty aggrandizes her.
For all its interest in Brecht, Le Mepris stands closer to classical drama. The greater "normality" than Godard's other films noted by Carlo Ponti in fact resides in its classicism, with even its splatter of opening quotations and Godardian shaggy-dog stories (those of Ramakrishna's disciple, or Martin's ass) thematically reiterating the idea of the commercialization of the sacred. That classicism naturally suits a work over which the gods extend spectral hands, Fritz Lang being the last mortal in touch with them. The submission to a father-figure is deeply un-Romantic, and Lang's voice has great authority when it contraverts the "theories" of Paul and Prokosch and declares Ulysses no modern neurotic. The stately tracking shots exude classical grandeur and balance, while the long shots maintain an impassive divine remoteness from mortals' doings. Replacing the representation of death with writing is also classicizing: the last words of Camille's farewell letter fill the screen to blot out the immediacy of her car-crash, placing death offstage, as in a classical drama. Paradoxically, although in many respects so much more modern than Moravia, Godard's camera movements, vision of Lang as wise Indian chief, and omniscient point-of-view seem to suggest that the Homeric vision may still be accessible, something Moravia denies. One may indeed share Molteni's shock at the assumption that "not to be in agreement with Rheingold meant agreement with Battista" (Moravia 182), but his own suggestion of an interpretation that is "neither spectacular nor psychological" (one might say, neither "cinematic" nor"literary") founders on its own imprecision: Homer becomes truly non-existent in the present, and the only rendition of past texts is their helpless recital (thus Molteni recites Dante's Canto on Odysseus to Rheingold). Molteni's helplessness undercuts protestation of the possibility of a middle mode of interpretation: Godard consciously reinstates binarism and places the Molteni figure (Paul) on the wrong side of the great divide, even though his own simultaneous identification both with Paul and Lang--and diegetic status as Lang's assistant--complicates matters in the work's unconscious.(6) Its very possession of such an unconscious romanticizes the Classicism, though the work's Romanticism is as invisible as the music of Delerue, its fulsome representative, which is itself always cut off, rendered a fragment. And so, despite Kinder's words, quoted earlier, on the closeness to Homer's of Godard's perspective--also despite my own words above--the film-within-the-film proposes the impossibility of the Homeric world: no more than a string of stray shots of statues, it is the simple naming of characters that forbids them to act. Lang's Classical film is that manifestly Romantic object, the collocation of fragments, and yet, dialectically, that fragment is the Classical for us: only its mutilated forms inhabit our mental museums. (It is Rilke's torso of Apollo that tells us we must change our lives.) Perhaps for Godard, the ideal world would be the epic represented by Homer, individuality emergent from myth, tapping it while escaping its control(7). However, because, as Adorno noted when writing of Stravinsky, "the greater the modernity, the greater the regression" (Adorno 147), the commitment to modernity means that the pull of the myth that preceded the epic is irresistable. As it supervenes irrational enmity descends. For, as Lucja Demby stresses, the ascription of Camille's contempt to Paul's apparent effort to pair her with Prokosch is not convincing (Demby 26). Camille's own inability to explain it shows the individual's envelopment by a fog of unmanaged, preindividualized feeling. The colors engulf the characters in the same way.
(1) Apart from Moravia and Homer, there is of course a third source for Godard's film, Viaggio in Italia, where Catherine's museum visits generate tracking shots past statues that anticipate Godard's. Indeed, Le Mepris might be read as amplifying the moment at which she tells her husband that she despises him. The Capri setting is another shared element, while an aristocrat's description of the Neapolitans as "shipwrecked" may have led Godard to describe his characters as such in interviews. Jacques Aumont also notes the resemblances between the storylines of the two films (Aumont 220.). The fact that Viaggio in Italia is running in a cinema is thus more than mere hommage. It also measures the depth of Godard's despair over cinema's current incapacity for such a work.
(2) The quotation's attribution to Bazin, may however be false. Jonathan Rosenbaum has argued that the probable source is the following passage from "Sur un art ignore" by Michel Mourlut (Cahiers du cinema 98 (1959), 34): "Since cinema is a gaze which is substituted for our own in order to give us a world that corresponds to our desires, it settles on faces, on radiant or bruised but always beautiful bodies, on this glory or devastation (sic) which testifies to the same primordial nobility, on this chosen race that we recognize as our own, the ultimate projection of life towards God." (Rosenbaum 19)
(3) The fine description of the use of the colours in Deux ou trois choses que je sais d'elle given by Edward Branigan (20-31) is to a large extent applicable to Le Mepris also, though its formalism requires augmentation by consideration of their effects.
(4) See Marie, 30-31: "Le Mepris est une ceremonie funebre qui consacre la mort du cinema classique, un culte liturgique en l'honneur d'un art qui disparait. Camille et Prokosch en seront les victimes expiatoires afin de permettre a l'acte sacre de la creation de se prolonger."
(5) Although the film would be a financial success for Godard, with A bout de souffle the only previous Godard film to sell more tickets, fewer people saw it than was usual for a Bardot film, and its run was shorter than the average for her films (Marie 25).
(6) See Colin MacCabe's view that Godard's film is consciously binary (for MacCabe, opposing "European classicism to an American modernity") but also "renders all such oppositions dubious" (MacCabe 55). The "place" where such oppositions meet is, of course, the unconscious.
(7) See Horkheimer and Adorno's description of Homer at the beginning of their Odysseus chapter, 42.
Works Cited and Consulted
Adorno, T.W. Philosophie der neuen Musik. Frankfurt am Main: Ullstein, 1974 (1948).
Aumont, Jacques. "The fall of the gods: Jean-Luc Godard's Le Mepris (1963)." French Film: Texts and Contexts. Ed. Susan Hayward and Ginette Vincendeau. London and New York: Routledge, 1990. 217-229.
Bergala, Alain. "Nul mieux que Godard..." Cahiers du cinema 329 (1981): 4-6.
Branigan, Edward. "The Articulation of Colour in a Filmic System. Deux ou trots choses que je sais d'elle." Wide Angle 1.3 (1976): 20-31.
Demby, Lucja. "Skad sie bierze pogarda? (O "Pogardzie" J.L. Godarda)." Iluzjon: kwartalnik filmowy 2 (50) (1993): 24-29.
Guarner, Jose Luis. "Le Mepris." The Films of Jean-Luc Godard. Ed. Ian Cameron. London: Studio Vista, 1967. 54-60.
Holderlin, Friedrich. Werke und Briefe, Ed. Friedrich Beissner and Jochen Schmidt. Frankfurt am Main: Insel, 1969.
Horkheimer, Max and T.W. Adorno. Dialektik der Aufklarung: Philosophische Fragmente. Frankfurt am Main: Fischer, 1986 (1944).
Kehr, Dave. "Contempt." Film Comment 33.5 (1997): 18-24.
Kilb, Andreas. "Abschied vom Mythos: Uber Le Mepris von Jean-Luc Godard (1963) und uber den Wandel in der Filmkritik." Die Macht der Filmkritik. Positionen und Kontroversen, Ed. Norbert Grob and Karl Prumm. Munich: edition text + kritik, 1990. 184-192.
Kinder, Marsha. "A Thrice-Told Tale: Godard's Le Mepris (1963)." Modern European Filmmakers and the Art of Adaptation. Ed. Andrew Horton and Joan Magretta. New York: Ungar, 1981. 100- 114.
MacCabe, Colin. "Le Mepris/Il Disprezzo/Contempt. " Sight and Sound, Incorporating Monthly Film Bulletin VI.9 (1996): 54-55.
Marie, Michel. "Un monde qui s'accorde anos desirs." Revue Belge du cinema 16 (1986): 25-36
Moravia, Alberto. A Ghost at Noon. Trans. Angus Davidson. London: Secker, 1955.
Narboni, Jean and Tom Milne, Eds. Godard on Godard. New York: Viking, 1972.
Rosenbaum, Jonathan. "Trailer for Godard's Histoire(s) Du Cinema. " Vertigo 7 (autumn (1997): 13-20.
Simon, Yves. "Le Mepris. Jean-Luc Godard." Cahiers du cinema Hors serie 1993: 75.
Vimenet, Pascal. Le Mepris - Jean-Luc Godard. Paris: Hatier, 1991.
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|Date:||Mar 22, 1998|
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