That Contempt

THAT ALL-TOO-FAMILIAR TUGGING back and forth between tenderness and growing disdain. Every couple knows about the squabblings that drag on unresolved and directionless, advancing, retreating and looping through various versions of the same arguments and accusations, until resolution is distant and contempt, deep. When taking place in the home, the endeavor is usually stalled or dulled by domestic distractions such as table-setting, bathing, taking a phone call or dressing; motions that break the dispute but not the conflict.

In Godard's Les Mépris, husband and wife Paul and Camille play out just that: a relentless, almost real-time squabble choreographed around a mid-century apartment. The emotional tug-of-war is devoid of melodrama and yet intensity surges stoically within the still-unfinished home. They go about tiresome and tireless in the confined space, and then go off to see a movie. How mundanely seductive. How seductively mundane!

Outside of the apartment, Les Mépris takes place on breathtaking locations in Rome and Capri. The film brims with style, but equally notable is the brilliance beneath its beauty. I have yet to discover the countless references and symbolisms, some proving more apparent than others: a brunette Bardot is Anna Karina, a film-can-hurling Prokosch, a discus thrower. Am I missing something? Yes, plenty.

Hardly the most cerebral of Nouvelle Vague fanatics, I tend to watch even the most dissectible films, not with my head, but with my heart. That said, consider me infatuated with Les Mépris' stunning cinematography, stylish score, pleated skirts fanning out from tiny waists, Casa Malaparte, dramatic cat eyes, and some deliciously quotable Fritz Lang quotes. "The gods have not created man. Man has created gods."

But Mr. Lang, surely the gods have created Brigitte Bardot. If that derrière isn't perfection, then I don't know what is.

Le mépris (English: Contempt), 1963. Directed by Jean-Luc Godard.

That Profundity and Brooding

"ONE CANNOT DISTINGUISH THE THOUGHT FROM THE WORDS THAT EXPRESS IT." My greatest challenge with using a third language late in my 20's is being able to think consistently in the language. 28 years of living in Manila has influenced my thoughts to be in English or Tagalog, leaving me now with the burden of translating words in my head when I should think in Spanish from the start.

Of course, there's the lack of confidence too, which serves as the biggest impediment of all. Am I saying things right? Do I sound funny?

This morning, still frustrated over Sunny's last grooming appointment gone in shambles, I called a new groomer I found online, to inquire about their transport services to my part of town. It was by far my most successful phone conversations in Spanish yet, employing inquiry, exchange, setting of expectations and making agreements. Best of all, I had memorized my phone number, after two months of having had to pause and read it out of my phone. Not the most impressive achievement, but one of the most useful ones for any new kid in town.

Perhaps my head was in the right place for once. Or perhaps, Sunny has grown way too stinky for me to bother overthinking grammar and speech.

Task well done, if only I hadn't completely forgotten to schedule for Kitty too. So much for having one's head in the right place.

Vivre sa vie : film en douze tableaux, 1962. Directed by Jean-Luc Godard.