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I just watched The Barefoot Contessa. Not the cooking show, mind you. The film. And it did not star Ina Garten. There’s a 1954 film called “The Barefoot Contessa”, you ask? Why yes, apparently there is. It stars Ava Gardner and Humphrey Bogart. I didn’t watch it in its entirety, having stumbled upon it in its half-over state while looking for a little light viewing to which I might shovel down three microwave pretzels and a complement of yellow mustard.
My tired and cranky observations:
1) In the scene where Count Vincenzo first lays eyes on Maria, she is dancing in the country with a group of peasants, wearing a bra that rendered her pleasant and non-threatening b cups into the shape of Russian martini glasses. Those things could poke an eye out. Of an elephant. Why on Earth, in a time that was supposed to be more demure, was that woman wearing a bra that could make worldly old moi blush like a Japanese school girl?
2) Ava Gardner, although gorgeous, didn’t seem to me to possess the sort of magnetism that might say, break up the marriage of Frank Sinatra. She seemed a bit stiff and lifeless and not unlike a woman you might expect to find glaring at you in a library.
3) *SPOILER ALERT* Why on Earth didn’t Vincenzo tell Maria about his *ahem* lack of an appendage before the wedding? How could he possibly be so cruel? And then he dares to shoot her and her lover that she was only sleeping with so she could get pregnant and make him the happiest man in the world because the whole focus of his life and his attentions was to pass on his family lineage? Seems to me that a memberless man might be willing to give his spouse a little leeway in that area, especially since she went into it blindly, and look the other way at the occasional roll in the hay provided that she was a good wife to him.
The movie begs the question—is true marital bliss possible, or does a fatal flaw always exist, destined to throw a wrench into even the most finely tuned love engines? Is it possible that marriage is about overcoming the fatal flaw, or flaws as it were, and fashioning true grace out of broken machinery? One person’s trash is another person’s treasure?
Perhaps human perfection is not part of the equation at all, and it only exists in our brains. I think we would all do well to find a better half with their feet on the ground and the right size wrench. Instead of searching for a Count, why not be someone to be counted on. And keep those pointy nipples in check.
