Il generale della Rovere (1959)

When the Nazi prison commander is telling you you're the scum of the Earth, and everyone's agreeing with him, you've got to wonder just how scummy you really are.

And Emmanuele Bardone (Vittorio de Sica) is pretty scummy. I mean, even the Nazis think he's a spineless dick. Because what's worse - and possibly more dangerous - than explicit malice? Deception. Bardone is a con artist; he exploits the vulnerable. He tells the weeping mothers who come into the Nazi administrative office in Rome that, if they just shell out fifty or a hundred thousand lira (to him), they can get news of their imprisoned sons. While some of the money lines the pockets of corrupt German officials, most of it is just gambled away by Bardone himself.

What's even worse about this already unsavory mess is that Bardone really, sincerely, authentically believes he's a good guy. He doesn't see it as springboarding from one evil (Nazism) to another (his own selfishness) - he sees himself as a guy just trying to get by, as a man who is far too kind to tell the sobbing, weeping families the sordid, unhappy truths of their loved ones: that they're in prison, in a concentration camp, dead.

This painfully self-deluded confession Bardone sweats out in one of Il generale della Rovere's (General Della Rovere) early scenes, when he's outed as a con artist by the crafty Colonel Mueller (Hannes Messemer). Mueller, who is also pretty evil but at least abides by some internal code of honor, decides to use Bardone as a mole. Before being sent to a prison in northern Italy, a sort of way station for Italian political prisoners meant for the concentration camp, Bardone is equipped with a new name - General della Rovere - and a new identity: he is now a legendary resistance fighter. Mueller hopes that Bardone will be able to extract some juicy info from the other, nobly suffering political prisoners, who instinctively trust "General della Rovere" and seek to protect their hero. Bardone is happy to get the perks of being everyone's favorite partisan leader and eager to get out this jail ASAP.

But this is a mess. A frightening, hairy, ugly mess - and Bardone is right in the middle of it. This film - which is not as tight as Roberto Rossellini's masterpiece, Roma, città aperta, but is as gut-wrenching (if not more so!) - is a doozy. If this was 1970s Italian cinema, Bardone would have been played by Giancarlo Giannini and this would have been directed Lina Wertmuller - the whole thing would have been a pitch black comedy in the style of Pasqualino Settebellezze. Indeed, Bardone shares much of Pasqualino's (and other seedy Giancarlo Giannini characters') most notable characteristics: cowardice, vanity, a tendency to stand in bureaucratic lobbies and promise salvation.

But Rossellini - and de Sica - are much more earnest and much less cynical than Wertmuller - who, in cinematic terms, is their descendant. After all, Rossellini and de Sica come from the generation that lived the war. Roma, città aperta was made just months after Rome, actually, was opened up to the world - thanks to the Allied forces liberating it from Nazi occupation. We think that Rossellini and de Sica and the audience of that era just wouldn't have been ready for the shocking, provocative, mind-blowing razor wire satire that Wertmuller would provide their children and grandchildren. The wartime generation needed to believe that Bardone - even scummy, vulnerable, stupid Bardone - would have had an eleventh hour conversion and grow a spine. They needed to see the heroism and nobility of the other prisoners. (Compare these prisoners to Pasqualino's cohort - at least these guys have a code!)

This is not a perfect movie. Roma, città aperta and Pasqualino Settebellezze are, from a technical and artistic standpoint, better films - they're sharper, cleaner, smoother. In this film, we still see the rough edges: Vittoro de Sica's so-so moments of acting, the awkward side swipes, the clunky music. But the story is strong, and it propels the viewer forward, and it makes you care in a deep, intestinal way. Make no mistake: Bardone is an anti-hero, but you care about him - big time. He's conned himself into an impossible corner, and he's miserable, complex, ambiguous and deeply flawed, deeply human. You can't help but feel awful, riding the lows with him. Vittorio de Sica - who, tangentially, was a marvel to see, if only because of how much his son resembles him! - was, in many instances, really beautiful. Not just looks-wise (though he also was that; gosh, that shock of white hair… those eyes!), but also for sheer intensity: the sweat when he's under pressure, the despair when Mueller drags his face through the figurative shit and he has to come to terms with the reality and the horror of Nazi-occupied Italy. Overall, it was a real tour de force. Highly recommended.

La dolce vita (1960)

A typical scene from Fellini's classic. The drunk guy in the back is named... Paparazzo.

Hedonism - especially drinking and partying - has been explored in a number of ways. From the tragic wallowing of Devdas, to the bittersweet romanticism of Naina, to the awful hyperrealism of Aberdeen - whatever you think of the demon drink, you can probably find a film that suits your fancy. But if you want a film that sucks all the fun and glamour out of partying and makes you seriously consider taking monastic vows, watch La Dolce Vita (The Sweet Life).

Like Rashomon, La Dolce Vita is one of those Perfect Films. Directed by the most famous (especially among trendy Anglo-American intellectuals) Italian director, Federico Fellini, it follows the surreal life of a tabloid journalist, Marcello (Marcello Mastroianni), as he navigates the glitterati of 1950s Rome. On the surface of things, Marcello really is living the "sweet life" - he schmoozes with rich and beautiful stars, he is beautiful himself, he is out every night in the top-end, trendy nightclubs and restaurants of Via Veneto. Even better, Marcello enjoys a position of relative privilege, since he is there to expose this world and generally he can pretend to remain untouched, unsoiled and "above" its debauchery. Marcello is cool as a cucumber, in all senses of the word: he is neither fawning fan nor judgmental outsider. Instead, he easily slips in and out of a variety of situations - the film follows him through nightclubs, prostitute's homes, decaying palaces, and, of course, into the Trevi fountain - as an agreeable, unassuming participant. Marcello's private, gnawing frustration at the superficiality of the "sweet life" is only revealed in his attachment to his bourgeois intellectual friend, Steiner (Alain Cuny), and his stubbornly co-dependent relationship with his Good Italian Girl, Emma (Yvonne Furneaux). Marcello's despair can only be seen in the beading sweat on his forehead. But the tension between what Marcello wants - something more, something deeper and more satisfying - and what he has - access to glamour, material wealth - is never resolved. In fact, the climax of the film leads to Marcello's spiraling decline and things end on a particularly bleak note.


A frazzled, despairing Marcello, at the end of his tether.

Like many classics, the film is powerful on a number of levels: a commentary on celebrity culture, on the Italian - and especially Roman - obsession with la bella figura (i.e. the philosophy where aesthetics are all-important), the boredom of parties, and on materialism versus true happiness. Poor Marcello never quite finds the joy he's looking for - mostly because he keeps searching for it down the wrong paths. When the most promising path - a dedication to bourgeois intellectualism; the Steiner route - turns out to have the most horrific end, he despairs. Things fall apart, and no amount of artificial sweeteners - drinking, partying, glamour - can ease his truly sour life.

Oh God, that was a horrible pun. Sorry about that!

Anyway, moving on: We'll talk about the bella figura philosophy, since we reckon most of our readers are non-Italians and hence might be unfamiliar with this important cultural concept. La bella figura is an Italian phrase which literally means, "the beautiful figure" or "beautiful image". It has all sorts of connotations in everyday Italian mentality. Whereas "Did you look good?" would sound pretty weird in English if you asked your friend this after a job interview, it's a pretty standard thing in Italian: "Hai fatto bella figura?" It doesn't just mean were your clothes in order and your shoes shined, it means did you project the right image, the correct overall aesthetic: enthusiastic, interested, well-put-together, whatever. In the previously PPCCed Come Te Nessuno Mai, one of the sweetest scenes occurs when protagonist Silvio gets punched in the face by a long-time friend whose girlfriend he's kissed. We then see Silvio in his apartment building's elevator, staring in the mirror and sobbing, "Che figura di merda! Che figura di merda! Che figura di merda!" (Literally, "What a shit figure!")

For better or worse, then, Italian culture valorizes aesthetics. While that may make it sound superficial, we at the PPCC are keen promoters of aesthetics. We like beautiful things. We get enthusiastic about beautiful things. We don't think there's anything wrong with that. Quite the opposite - we think beauty (and the sublime) are highly valuable facets of the human experience! And Italian culture is just very aware of that - this is the culture that produced and embraced the Rennaissance, humanist art, the Sistine Chapel, Donatello's David, Gucci, Prada, our beloved Giancarlo Giannini (see blog banner)!


Anita Eckberg has a brief but enduringly famous role as an air-headed visiting Swedish celeb.

However, as with all things, a life based purely on la bella figura is not going to give you everything you need - and, in particular, it won't give you much spiritual satisfaction. La Dolce Vita's Marcello is acutely aware of this. Even as he adjusts his hair and smooths down his (no doubt brand-name) suit, he suffers from the vacuousness around him. He wants more - but he's just not sure what. Domestic comfort and intellectual pursuits aren't the answer - the desperately needy Emma and the surprise of Steiner make sure of that. Religion isn't the answer either - Fellini constantly paints Roman Catholicism in a cynical, post-Christian way. For example, the opening scene is of a helicopter flying over Rome carrying an enormous statue of Jesus Christ with arms outspread. In the helicopter are Marcello and his photographer, Paparazzo (his name is the origin of the term paparazzi; Walter Santesso), and, after flying over a rooftop pool where scantily-clad women are lounging, they pull the helicopter around to exchange phone numbers. Later in the film, Marcello covers a story about two children in the countryside who claim to have seen the Madonna. It's clearly a scam, and the camera lingers on the infirm elderly people who have come to wait in the pouring rain for the children to speak again. Even just little details - such as the crooked, disorienting staircase inside Saint Peter's that Marcello has to climb as he chases after his latest scoop - emphasize this alienation. The Church won't help you, bro!


The iconic first scene, as helicopters fly over ancient Roman ruins with a huge Jesus in tow.

And so he's left with his "sweet life" of parties, drinking and superficial "fun". Fellini does an excellent job of undermining any tawdry glamour that lifestyle might have by always including at least one bored, exasperated sober person in the party scenes. This person is both a conscience and a realist; by seeing this person (and it's usually an unimportant character, like a waiter or the guy who owns the house in the end) and their reactions, we see just how pitifully grasping the sweet lifers are. And even worse, they'll be waking up with wicked hangovers tomorrow morning! Marcello begins the film as this sober, disparaging outsider, but slowly slides into becoming a sweet lifer himself - in the end becoming a drunken source of ridicule and pity.

The performances are all top-notch. Marcello Mastroianni was one of the few Roman actors who spoke with barely a regional accent. Instead, his "RP Italian", coupled with his conservative-yet-stylish suits and his blandly handsome face perfectly establish his neutrality as the hero. We read somewhere that Fellini picked Mastroianni for that very reason - he wanted someone who was bland but agreeable, a face that was pretty but not particularly memorable. And Mastroianni is great - he projects the bubbling undercurrent of anxiety and despair in a meltdown-free way. (And we haven't even touched on his excellent portrayal of the ironically impotent Latin lover stereotype!) Everyone else in the film has brief roles - Anita Eckberg is wonderful and iconic as the scarily empty-headed celebrity, Alain Cuny as Steiner is fantastically creepy, Walter Santesso's Paparazzo has a smarmy, cocky, Roman-issimo air, and Yvonne Furneaux as the doomed Emma projects vulnerability and imbalance wonderfully. Anouk Aimée has a small but critical role as Marcello's incredibly posh on-off lover, Maddalena, and she was glamorous and tragic.

The film is long - around three hours - and its episodic nature might alienate some viewers who prefer linear narratives. It's also a total downer, like watching nihilism purified on film, and - as happens, most of the rare comedy is culturally-specific (they satirize Roman-ism a lot). But it is both an important work and a very, very well-made piece of art, so we definitely recommend it.