Jean-Luc Godard’s Masculin Feminin is
typically characterized by citing its line about the “children of Marx and
Coca-Cola,” which in tandem with one of its main characters being a budding pop
star (number six in Japan!) would likely lead one to expect this to be one of the director’s
more colourful films. In fact though, the movie (shot in black and white) is one of Godard’s more melancholy works of the period, with little
exuberance or display of pleasure, not least regarding the central relationship
between the singer Madeline (Chantal Goya) and the bouncing-around-jobs Paul
(Jean-Pierre Leaud), which is more talked about, often in unenthused terms,
than depicted. It contains several acts of sudden and inexplicable violence,
reflecting global conflicts in the background, but these acts fail to move
those who observe them, embodying a pervasive sense of denial and willed
ignorance, feeding into a worryingly drained human fabric (even going to the
cinema is unsatisfying, both because of the unpersuasive narratives, and the technical
flaws of the projection). This culminates in a sense of erasure: the film’s
final stretch spends extended time on another couple, with Paul last seen and
heard expressing his dissatisfaction with his work, before a last scene in
which he’s gone altogether, and Madeline is alone with a horrible choice to
make, almost frozen in indecision (a state likely reflected in the viewer,
given the withholding of much relevant information). But at the same time, of
course, the film teems with possibility: that one could indeed be such a pop
star, or take advantage of the era’s gadgety innovations, or fool the military
into sending round a chauffeured limousine, or spot Brigitte Bardot at a nearby
table, or (in one deadpan moment) step into the shoes of someone else to see,
as per the adage, if that yields any great revelation (it doesn’t).
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