This illuminated surface of events, this present tense, this staring at
screens we have been doing to escape the flatness of these deadpan
days. This calling movie dreams, this calling memories Rome. The
colors in Contempt come from a world with more minutes in each
hour, but a real world, a world almost remembered in this long
celebration of a cult without dreams and without mercy. O record
stores and union halls, O leaded-glass nostalgia for an artisanal form
of this catastrophe. O recollected thickness of that one newspaper
Franco calls “the daily of my life,” O le cleft chin de Jack Palance, O
world where Coca-Cola has not lost its true flavor.