Meanwhile, two separate rows. From there, those who have always made a fuss with French cinema, who – if Bolognese teenagers – went to the Lumière on the evenings when Truffaut was screened, not in those in which Fassbinder was shown (I have always been for the Kraut, I know that you wanted to know).
From here, those who À bout de souffle they would never have seen it if, in the glittering eighties, the Americans hadn’t done it again, and hadn’t put Richard Gere, the most incomprehensible sex symbol of our youth (also: the only heterosexual sex symbol of that time ).
As soon as the news of the death of Jean-Luc Godard arrived, one of the ten times a week in which to sigh “Now the twentieth century is really over”, the first message was sent to me by a wise person who predicted a day of revolt against the cinematic patriarch. A bet on the stupidity of instagrammatic militancy never impoverishes, and in fact.
It was an afternoon of wonders, in which we did not miss anything. Anna Karina handmaid of the patriarchate. The mouse films produced by that immense ego. And also the accusations, to the inadequate females, of not being emancipated: you will also put the gates of vibrant indignation against sexism, but you wear the fringe just like the muses of Godard, you comb your hair like them, and now how do we put it?
The beauty of Instagram is that it is a race of chasms of gaps, and therefore the tapines were not able to defend themselves by evoking the pre-existence of that aesthetic: to call Louise Brooks to your defense, you must know that it exists; to say “so Vadim”, you have to know who seven years before directed the Bardot fringe without gugling, you have to know that with Godard then he had the headband, and the wig, and then who is responsible for his fringe, will not be responsible for himself itself, do we want to insinuate that women know how to decide for themselves or say yes or no to a director, even those who actually got bangs because they saw it at the cinema or – anathema – in a fashion magazine?
While the most unfit militants that the history of philosophical debate has ever known (yes, including the eras in which women were relegated to the kitchen: even the illiterate were equipped with the best dialectic, on the other hand they were forced to procure it to emancipate themselves from a ‘true inferiority, they weren’t comfortable looking for the most photogenic cause), while those linked articles in which wankers of Dams from all over the world explained to us that Godard did not want to empathize with female characters (who proposes the 41 bis for the use of the empathy category in any debate, that or that has my vote), while the ridicule was mounting like meringue, I thought back to Belmondo and Seberg, to that scene in which he tells her that if he doesn’t smile he strangles her..
To listen to the opinion of 2022, “Come on, give me a nice smile” is worse than booing you in the street, which in turn is much worse than raping you, so today’s Belmondo is at least an apologist for patriarchy. Then if you consider that he really puts his hands on her neck and counts, and at 7 he tells her that she is so cowardly that she will smile, we have everything. Manipulation, sexism, bullying, violence, threats, perhaps even abusive. Luckily they forgot the scene in which he asks her why she never wears a bra, otherwise it was nothing more than an indignant afternoon, we had to talk about Godard as what in Newspeak is called an “abuser”.CopyAMP code
When Godard’s films were in the present, the interpretation was the opposite: if you were staging a male chauvinist, it was to convey a critique of male chauvinism. Then came what I like to call “Nicole Kidman Syndrome”, from the time I wrote in a women’s magazine that Kidman in her latest film could not move her face due to cosmetic surgery, and furious readers sent letters to the newspaper in which roughly said: what do you put it on the cover to do if you then criticize it? But a cover isn’t advertising space, or at least it shouldn’t: it’s a way of saying “there’s something to tell about this chick.” And a film shouldn’t be an apologue or a condemnation of behavior: it should primarily be a story I tell you.
The other evening I was talking to an actress, who made me notice with genuine bewilderment that no one was interested in the Venice festival anymore: “They only talk about the queen’s death.” It is indeed shocking that there is an economy of attention for which, in the face of the breakthrough of a major event, we put aside the minor one. Would we be talking about Letta’s eco-friendly van if Godard wasn’t dead? Di Calenda who organizes the virtual debate with Meloni by himself, if Totti hadn’t said that his wife bought him the Rolexes? Of Godard’s films, if we weren’t mesmerized by the obtuse militancy that reminds us that the director had dared to criticize Jane Fonda, with all that his aerobics videotapes did for us?
The corrections was released on September 1, 2001. A few years ago, in a story, Jonathan Franzen’s wife described her husband, two weeks after the novel’s release, ousted as any festival by any dead queen, watching images on TV and mutter: sooner or later they will stop talking about those fucking towers and come back to talk about my novel. If only to say that I’m a lousy patriarch framing Bardot’s ass: it’s still attention.