Even God has His police: A very brief review of Godard’s “Week-End”

Seen as one of the influential predecessors to the New French Extremity movement — one whose transgressions unknowingly changed the face of contemporary cinema — Godard’s 1967 film is a sociopolitical rambling whose specialty is reveling in road rage, as demonstrated through episodic collisions with the rural working class, hippies, and historical figures. It’s cleverly shot, edited, and written in ways that I can’t begin to describe. Not only does it maintain relevance in its scathing criticism of the bourgeoisie, but it perfectly captures a large fragment of society’s struggle to constantly readjust to the transitional nature of collective quarantine.

It can also be seen as a film that presents how the trappings of privileged parts of society have affected them mentally, emotionally, and psychologically while in isolation, and how their interactions with the working class which they have stepped over has shown them that the outside world can no longer comply with their deceivingly picture perfect lifestyles in a way that the upper echelons of society have laid out for them, be it from birth or affluent lineage, or more importantly, their relationship with the working class as a whole.

Jesus Christ is a communist, and that could only mean one thing: that the hands of the rest of the world are as tired as the bitterness with which the upper class feeds from. That industrial and corporately-driven divisions should have every right to crash and burn as every small and independent business running under their control.

It’s only one step in dismantling the burdens of class as a construct overseeing the perils of the humanity which they have created, and have every right to suffer under for the transcendence of their corruption over society at large. About time they get fucked over, regardless of how long that may take. If this film is reflective of the rich’s own impatience brewing over (through material things they’ve laboured us to reproduce and an embarrassing plethora of third world problems), then it is our reality whose cup runneth over.