I cento passi (2000)

The electrifying I cento passi (The hundred steps) tells the true story of Giuseppe "Peppino" Impastato, a Sicilian anti-mafia activist who was killed at the age of 30. Told with passion and clear-eyed convinction, it is an important and beautiful film - hopefully it can act as an antidote to the Hollywood portrayals of Italian criminal organizations which still recklessly glamorize it. As Gomorrah emphasized: the Cosa Nostra, Camorra, 'Ndrangheta, et al., are leeches on the socio-economic growth of southern Italy, and they reign by terror and violence.

The story begins when Peppino (Lorenzo Randazzo) is a young kid, beloved by his family and their friends. At a sunny lunch following a cousin's wedding, Peppino recites a poem, impressing the adults, and is then whisked around the courtyard by his favorite uncle (Pippo Montalbano). Young Peppino has only a vague sense that his family is involved in the mafia, though he's not sure what this means. One day, while he and his uncle are out, they hear a left-wing activist, Andrea Tidona (Stefano Venuti), publicly denouncing the mafia. Shortly thereafter, Peppino's uncle is murdered by - as Tidona explains - "those who want to take his place". Peppino, confused and deeply disturbed, is taken under Tidona's tutelage and begins his re-education.


Brothers Giovanni (Paolo Briguglia) and Peppino (Luigi Lo Cascio) in the famous scene which gives the film its title.


The personal becomes political and back again.

We fast forward fifteen years, and Peppino (Luigi Lo Cascio) is now a young political activist in his small town's Communist Party branch. More and more, he sets his sights on the local mafia leaders, publishing manifestos and organizing demonstrations - even as the older Tidona warns him against stirring the hornet's nest (which Peppino ends up comically calling "Mafiopolis"). The film does a great job in capturing the perfect storm which propels Peppino into his now-legendary position as icon: youthful rebellion, especially against his father (a low-level mafia man), is fueled by 1960s leftist idealism (student protests everywhere!) and channelled into that most righteous of Sicilian political causes: anti-mafia work. Peppino is like any other angry young man, and it's the tragedy (or glory?) of his circumstances (as well as his wild courage) which lead him to eventual immortality. Using a local ham radio station, he gains notoriety and becomes a hero for the small town Sicilian fighting against the Goliath.

Meanwhile, he experiences various pressures - most notably from his father, Luigi (Luigi Maria Burruano), who becomes desperate, even violent, in his attempts to shut Peppino up. Once again, we have that feeling of seeing the personal through a prism of the political: Luigi is much like any other father who feels himself rebelled against, shut out and alienated by his son. His despair is so painful and so authentically private: no one, especially Peppino himself, can see quite how much his father suffers. There's a telling scene early in the film when Peppino is imprisoned with other demonstrators and is there heckled for being a wimpy "son of the mafia" - just in that moment, Luigi comes barrelling in with the policeman to get Peppino released. The son's humiliation before his peers, and his resentment towards his father (who was helping him!), is terribly palpable. This comes into play towards the end again when, following Luigi's death, Peppino is warned that the only thing keeping him from the mafia's hit list was his father. It's a universal tragedy - filial resentment and rebellion, parental sacrifice and self-pity - played out in the most volatile of settings.


Peppino at Radio Aut.


In town.

This schism between the older and younger generations, between the mafia and the anti-mafia, is interestingly textured with the visual of flying. Director Marco Tullio Giordana (who went on to make one of our favorite films, La meglio gioventù) peppers the film with symbols of flight: from the "national anthem of Mafiopolis" and Peppino's childhood favorite (Volaaaare, whoa whoa! Cantaaaaare, whoa oh oh oh!), to a number of scenes where characters look longingly at the nearby airport. Everyone, it seems, wants to escape things - poverty, Gaetano Badalamenti (Tony Sperandeo) and his goons, this "provincialism" (as one northern Italian hippie says) - but everyone is grounded, strangled even, by their circumstances.

Luigi Lo Cascio came crashing onto the Italian movie scene with this role, which he got straight out of Silvio d'Amico Accademia Nazionale d'Arte Drammatica and ended up winning the Donatello for. His wiry energy feels like a coiled spring - every so often, he explodes, and there are moments when you think of him as an otherworldly archetype for Angry Youth. Luigi Maria Burruano and Lucia Sardo are beautiful as Peppino's long-suffering parents - how they deal with the pressure is very different, and equally heart-breaking. Familiar faces - Stefano Venuti, Claudio Gioè, Ninni Bruschetta - were great to see, though their parts were relatively small, and Paolo Briguglia, as Peppino's younger brother, Giovanni, projected great sympathy.

It's interesting to compare this film, which is very serious and earnest, to anti-mafia films like the Neopolitan Mi Manda Picone, which makes its attack using satire and surrealism.


The real Peppino Impastato.

The real life ending: after 24 years, in 2002, the Italian government convincted Gaetano Badalamenti to life imprisonment for the murder of Peppino Impastato.

Il dolce e l'amaro (2007)

Il dolce e l'amaro (The Sweet and the Bitter) is a quick, neat little package of a film, covering a well-worn topic - the Sicilian mafia - with a light, easy touch over well-worn plot tropes - betrayal, redemption, brooding killers and sad-eyed girls next door. It's nothing particularly enlightening, but it does have a freshness of presentation - earnest acting, fun cinematography and charming music - which makes it well worth 90 minutes of your time.

If you ever went beyond the Godfather or any other American films which still glorify and glamorize the mafia, Il dolce e l'amaro will be pretty old hat. Its main theme is the exploitation of the "working" mafioso, and what it means to be in the dregs of the mob. The story follows one underling, Saro Scordia (the wonderful Sicilian actor, Luigi Lo Cascio), from his beginnings as a hired goon to his painful, desperate ascent into a "uomo d'onore" (man of honor, or, protected member of a mafia clan) to his inevitable, tumultuous fall. But expect no Scarface-style roller coaster ride over Himalayan peaks of luxury and hellish AK-47 climaxes. Il dolce e l'amaro treats its subject with a steady realism, and so Saro's spends his good days living in a comfortable, clean Palermo apartment, and his bad days wandering dead-eyed through the flat, north Italian post-industrial landscape. While there are the usual genre staples of violence, drug use and sexuality, they are relatively rare and low-key. The one up-close killing we witness is also done in a highly deglamorized way, concentrating mostly on Saro's panicking horror than any blood, guts and Hollywood badassery.


Fabrizio Gifuni, Luigi Lo Cascio and Donatella Finocchiaro. Gifuni and Lo Cascio were both in the transcendentally glorious La meglio gioventù.

The film also has a nice, vague taste of something Giancarlo Giannini would have made in the 1980s - we're thinking, in particular, of Ternosecco or Mi Manda Picone. That is, this film could easily be grouped into that genre of gritty, slightly surreal southern Italian films which explore the two main issues of the region: poverty and organized crime. Il dolce e l'amaro features one sequence (Saro's brief dip into prison life) which hits many of the same notes and delivers the same punchline as the similar sequence in Giannini's Ternosecco. Indeed, Luigi Lo Cascio has much the same twitchy, wiry energy as Giannini, that same quality of slightly comical viciousness, and that same vibe of being low on the pecking order. Both Giannini and Lo Cascio are pretty adept at playing characters that you both pity and fear. And we at the PPCC just gosh darned love both of them.


Surrounded by the mob.

In fact, this slightly-scary, slightly-pitiful viciousness is wonderfully exploited in this film's recurring use of compositions wherein Saro is put in a physically submissive position: his brief, weird one-night stand with the be-wigged lady, or the scene where his friend, the slimy don's son, Mimmo (Gaetano Bruno), pulls him on the dancefloor for a slowdance. Again and again, we are visibly shown how Saro is an underdog, kept constantly under the heel of his bosses. In a highly interesting turn, then, all the moments where Saro is physically the dominant one - for example, when he abuses his girl-next-door love, Ada (Donatella Finocchiaro), or when he kills a rival mafioso - are the moments when he is at his worst. The film clearly shows that all of Saro's attempts to get out from "underneath", to rise above his oppressors and dominate his fate, are misguided and ultimately flawed. In one poignant moment, Ada asks him (by leaning over him in a physically dominant way), "Is this the life that you wanted?", and he can only cry.

But Saro is clearly the Sicilian Everyman - and he personifies the ambitions young men may develop in a region which still suffers under the weight of poverty and lack of opportunities, where the mafia is the only "way out" from under all these heels. But the irony of trying to use the mafia to get free is probably best captured (yet more ironically, given what we said earlier in this review!) in Al Pacino's despairing lines from The Godfather: Part III: "Every time I try to get out, they pull me back in!" Well said, Al. And well played, Luigi.

La Caccia (2008)

Disclaimer: This is not a proper review, but rather a review of a review, as well as an armchair philosophical meditation on language, culture and the mystique of both Luigi Lo Cascio and the classics.


Themes of this post: Luigi Lo Cascio, language and Italian.

The other day, tired with our paltry selection of gym-suitable music, we decided to better ourselves intellectually and downloaded a bunch of audio interviews, lectures and podcasts. One of these was an MP3 interview with Luigi Lo Cascio regarding his recent prize-winning work on stage: La Caccia (The Hunt), a modern adaptation of Euripides' The Bacchae. La Caccia is essentially a multimedia monologue starring, written and directed by Lo Cascio. The mythological story on which it's based is that of Pentheus, a young king of Thebes, who, after some disagreements with Dionysus, god of wine and madness, is lured into spying on the frenzied Bacchic devotions of Dionysus' screaming female fans. Once Pentheus is inevitably caught, the ladies - including Pentheus' mom and sister - mistake him for a wild animal and tear him limb from limb. Moral of the story: don't mess with Dionysus, fool!


Pentheus getting ripped apart for his troubles.

After listening to the interview, we were properly impressed. First, we were impressed by the play - which sounds fantastic. Postmodern adaptation of Greco-Roman classic? Yes, plz! Second, we were impressed by Lo Cascio - who was smart (gosh, he was moving so fast, we could barely keep up with him!) and articulate in a way that we had forgotten, articulate in a particularly Italian way. This got us thinking about language, and, as S.I. Hayakawa said in his brilliant book, how it affects our thoughts. An important aspect of the theory of general semantics is about revealing that causal loop between what we think, what we say and what we think. Not many people realize that the language we speak can subtly guide and influence our perception of reality. It's not just how we express ourselves, but it's how we express the world to ourselves.

Take a few examples. German is famous for having very long words which express specific emotions - emotions which, in English, would require a couple sentences just to get down to it. Would you feel those emotions if you didn't speak German? Probably, but would you be aware of those feelings? Of course, every language has this - some languages don't have a word for romantic love! others have several different words for it! - and recently we were noticing that our psychological reactions and social cues are different when we speak English versus when we speak Italian. It's like we become a different person, with a different sense of humor! As we've studied Hindi, we've learned with fascination all the various shades of use just for accha. And how do you explain arre to someone? Literally, it's supposed to mean "hey". But surely it's a more Fonz-like "heeeey"? But that's not quite right, either. Italian also has a few words which don't correspond to any English ones: magari, ormai, anzi...


Pentheus being crazy.

Professor Kenneth Bartlett, in his course on Italians Before Italy, mentioned the cultural significance of language in Italy. This doesn't just mean the historical significance of, for example, adopting the Tuscan dialect as the "official" language of Italy, but also the importance of language in everyday mentality. To put it simply, how articulate you are is important. We've always interpreted this as another expression of the bella figura philosophy: you have to sound good - and sounding good can sometimes become more important than the content of what you're saying. American English doesn't have this same stress on everyday eloquence, so when a stylish speaker does pop up, he can have quite an impact (Obama, for example). (And we're referring to a particular type of standard everyday American English, since we assume language might have a stronger role in other English-speaking cultures. For example, it would be interesting to explore language's importance in, for example, the culture of Baptist preaching, or Irish pub storytelling, or standup comedy.)

Of course, sounding good and having great content is doubly intoxicating. But sometimes it can be hard to distinguish the two. After listening to Lo Cascio's interview, we were left bewildered and excited about the play: "That sounds excellent! Gosh, he sounds excellent!" we thought. "But... what did he just say?" Such is the dilemma we often have when listening to Italian philosophical or artistic talk - we get so caught up in the sound of it, we don't think critically. When we're wearing "Italian ears", it just sounds great! So is La Caccia awesome because of the language used to describe it? Or the language used in it? We read (and love) the classics in English - what would they be like in Italian? A tangential example: Shakespeare in Italian loses a lot - he sounds blunt and dull. Is that how Mirza Ghalib sounds in English? So they say.

Anyway, the best thing we can do is use an example. Here's a translation, as faithful as we could make it, of a review of La Caccia by critic Elina Minissale. It will probably sound purple to non-Italian readers, but we think this is actually quite a standard example of the sometimes Baroque, obsessively aesthetic bent Italian can take. Or is this the same sort of adjective-heavy writing style any critic might be accused of using? Are we exoticizing? Hmm.

"It would be simplifying to describe and constrain in these lines The Hunt by Luigi Lo Cascio. Apart from the admirable and essential teamwork which brought this play to the stage (the particularly good supporting actor, Pietro Rosa; art direction Alice Mangano; design by Nicola Console; sound effects and audio by Desideria Rayner; original music by Andrea Rocca; light design Stefano Mazzanti; background score Mauro Forte), apart from the immortal work from which The Hunt springs (The Bacchae by Euripides), the most powerful thing is the passion, culture, brilliant intelligence and scrupulous and enlightened madness which characterizes the character and the man, Luigi Lo Cascio: [describing it] wouldn’t explain why all those people were present on 26 February at the ex-Monastery of the Benedettini in Catania, the completely full theatre and especially why so many young people are interested in this author, actor and intellectual of such charisma.

Thin, somewhat short and dressed in black in the university’s auditorium, he almost seems like he doesn’t want to attract any attention; yet as soon as he appears on stage, he transforms and fills the scene with arrogance and skill: he completely personifies the character, with all his fears and most unmentionable thoughts; Lo Cascio unleashes all the physical and mental energies that a human body can contain.



The spectacle is the man’s mind, his madness. This is a less oppressive portrayal compared to his previous work, In The Lair, adapted from a story by Kafka, yet the same obsessive and anguished themes can be found in The Hunt: ghosts of the soul, fear, doubt, delirium, madness, the predator and prey who are often and willingly confounded, following each other, fighting each other, relying on each other.

The story is notable and summarizing it would debase the psychic anguish of the protagonist and the play itself (rich in surprising desecrations of the tragedy) and, above all, it would omit that small particular which is the key to theatre’s magic: that sense of the play existing, not existing, the play which lets itself be caught, escapes, and plays with the spectator in a vortex of sensations which remain in us even after having left the theatre.

The fundamental, irreversibly tragic point is the capsizing of the character’s condition from butcher to victim: defeated by a powerful and cruel god, the man is transformed and perishes. An exceptional work, an inimitable and superb performance which left its mark as it did In The Lair, from a few years ago. I’ll only criticize one thing, Luigi: a microphone! The magic of theatre, especially Greek theatre, is enclosed in a perfected and much studied acoustic which constantly reminds us how real and vivid the play before us is."

-Elena Minissale, review of La Caccia from Lo Schiaffo (The Slap)

Good, na?! But what does it mean?! We don't know what we like better - the idea of the play, or the reviews of it. All we can say is, Mr. Lo Cascio, per favore, record some of this stuff!

La vita che vorrei (2004)

With enough meta to sink a boat, La vita che vorrei (The life I would want) is a film about a film, where actors play actors who play lovers who eventually fall in love in "real" life too. Life imitating art, which imitates life, is a central theme - with several of the "film's" scenes directly mirroring the "real life" scenes. In one of the most satisfying gimmicks, quick cuts between the 19th century costume drama and the actors' 21st century lives are linked by seamless dialogue. "Wait!" he cries at coffee break on the set, and we cut to him chasing her carriage in the 19th century.

Essentially a study about a relationship and the interaction between life and art, this film avoids making too much obvious commentary about glamor or celebrity. But hey - Italian cinema has fallen pretty low since the La dolce vita days, so Italian actors don't have the burden of fame that the Brad Pitts and Amitabh Bachchans or Marcello Mastroiannis of the world live or lived with. (Hence why you can bump into Nanni Moretti or Luigi Lo Cascio on the streets pretty easily in Rome! Whee!) The film-about-a-film is not entirely free of cliché, though, as these actors, Stefano (Luigi Lo Cascio) and Laura (Sandra Ceccarelli), are your pretty standard "actor" characters: insecure, jealous and vain. Laura, however, still has the bright eyes and warm, open heart of a beginner, while the more experienced Stefano has since built a hard shell of bastardliness around himself. Or maybe it's their personalities. Whatever it is, everyone soon falls for the cute, vulnerable Laura, Stefano included, and things are all great until Stefano's bastardliness ruins everything.


On the set.


And off.

The meta travels in the opposite direction as well: as in, it's not only the "real life" romance between Stefano and Laura which informs their "on screen" relationship, but it's also their acting methods which inform their "real life" behaviors. Laura, who everyone agrees is so warm and friendly and open, believes you really need to feel the character. You can't, and shouldn't, fake it. And, importantly, you should be nice to all the nice people around you. Stefano, who everyone agrees is pretty much a "stronzo", is misanthropic and self-centered. Of course, the real tragedy is when Stefano's chilly insensitivity tries to mix with Laura's "heart on my sleeve" attitude. Woe ensues.

There's a somewhat unexpected humor to this film, especially since the audience naturally sides with Laura and watching Stefano's fall from confident, beloved star to, "Well, we always thought you were a big jerk." is oddly funny. Of course, it's a little painful as well. Sandra Ceccarelli as Laura is wonderfully endearing: she seems both naive and world-weary, both sentimental and cynical. This fits perfectly with Laura's supposed "long, hard road" to becoming a star. Luigi Lo Cascio, who last occupied the special page in our diary we reserve for "Perfect Man/Husband-to-be", thanks to his role as Nicola the Perfect Man in La meglio gioventù, plays his polar opposite in this: Stefano is a frustrating and pitiful Scrooge-like jerk. The trademark intensity, which so defined Lo Cascio's debut in I cento passi, is sadly mostly missing. Oh well, next time. The chemistry between Lo Cascio and Ceccarelli is really intense, though, which made the PPCC yearn for an adoption of Hindi cinematic norms - that is, if a pairing works, sign them on for a kabillion movies together! Apparently Lo Cascio and Ceccarelli have been in another film together: 2001's gloomy Luce dei miei occhi.


Sandra Ceccarelli and Luigi Lo Cascio: wonderful!

Critic Chris Knipp calls this film a "chick flick" and we have to admit some agreement. First, there's the lovely, indulgent costume drama romance which the PPCC cannot resist. Oh, those Verdi chords and smoldering stares and gorgeous costumes! Second, the girl power levels are on high in this film, as it's the inexperienced and naive Laura who demonstrates herself to be a stronger, better person than silly old Stefano. Laura is very clearly in charge, and much of the filmmaking frames the two in such a way as to emphasize her strength and his weaknesses (this is helped by the fact that Lo Cascio is such a physically small person, appearing shorter and slighter than Sandra Ceccarelli).

We definitely recommend this if you like straight-up romance, music by Verdi, strong women, and Luigi Lo Cascio's cute eyebrows skillful acting.

La meglio gioventù (2003)

"Are you happy?"
"Of course!"
"Then the time has come to be generous."
-La meglio gioventù

The epic six-hour Italian film La meglio gioventù (The Best of Youth) is a generous feast for the humanist. There's something Renaissance-esque in its grand, open story which celebrates Man. It's big: covering the lives of the Carati family over a period of several decades. It's complicated: the characters are complex and slippery. It's smart: providing a detailed, fascinating history of modern Italy, with clever commentary on the Left and Right, on regionalism, on industrialization and modernization. And yet - even being all these things - it's still accessible and touching. It feels personal. It feels like you've just eaten a very large, healthy meal. And because it succeeds so well, in so many clever little ways, it inspired us to think big. To think human experience big, life big, enlightenment big. Is it... gasp, an enlightened film?!


Now you can all say, "Mah, si!" ("Yeah, sure!") and wave your hands in your most stereotypically Italian way.

Whatever it is, it's hard to make a compelling film about so many things with so many people (and very hard to review it!), but director Marco Tullio Giordana succeeds - we should laud him enough for that. In terms of our review... well, we guarantee nothing. But we can try! The Boston Globe's review is insightful and concise - it says everything we want to say, especially regarding how it shows that people are more than the history they live in. And our hero, A.O. Scott of the New York Times, also makes some interesting points.

So what can we say? Well, we can say something new - and maybe conveniently advance the PPCC's Secret Buddhist Agenda at the same time - by asking the question again: is this an enlightened film? Suffering, and how we deal with it, are the central truths of Buddhism - which says that, in order to be free of suffering (that is, attain "Enlightenment"), we must practice compassion and non-attachment.

Let's take a look at the characters (who we adore). They're basically divided into two camps: those who can manage their suffering, and those who can't. The film's final message - that everything is beautiful (yes, yet another Italian film about that) - is presented with delicate intelligence. Nothing is sugarcoated. Which leads to the interesting, Buddhist-ish premise: with so much suffering in the world, how can it also be beautiful?

Each character responds in a different way:

1. Nicola (Luigi Lo Cascio), the younger brother. Much like Nanni Moretti's enlightened psychiatrist in The Son's Room, Nicola the psychiatrist is an even-tempered and deeply compassionate man - acting, for most of the film, as its moral core. There's an interesting exchange in the beginning, when a young Nicola sits one of his medical exams, and the professor gives him full marks partly "per simpatia". In Italian, "simpatia" can mean "likability", but it can also mean "sympathy" or "compassion". The professor elaborates: he means "simpatia" in the original Greek sense, the ability to "understand suffering".


Nicola (Luigi Lo Cascio), Perfect Man. He gets it, man. Sigh. We're in love.

2. Matteo (Alessio Boni), the older brother. A choice scene mentions that Matteo "suffers for everything" - and unlike his brother Nicola, his attempts to cope with the dark side of life are erratic, tempestuous and largely ineffective. He is moody and intense, moving through life impulsively and unable to connect with people.


The dark, brooding Matteo (Alessio Boni), who is a heartthrob in his own right too. And reminiscent of a certain Vijay (except without being just an "Angry Young Man' archetype).

3. Giulia (Sonia Bergamasco), Nicola's wife. Giulia is another interestingly "dark" character - and her reasons for choosing a path which leads her eventually to the terrorist Red Brigades (a radical leftwing group responsible for political assassinations and bombings in 1970s Italy) is, like Matteo, initially based on goodness. That is, upset and indignant at all the perceived socioeconomic injustices around her, Giulia just wants to make things right. But, just like Matteo, she chooses the wrong way to do that.


Giulia (Sonia Bergamasco), one of the most complex (and increasingly scary!) characters.

4. And finally Giorgia (Jasmine Trinca), the young mentally ill woman who is both a symbol and a catalyst of these various ways of dealing with suffering and finding that elusive happiness we all seek. Several reviews liken Giorgia to the film's conscience - an interesting idea, considering how all of these characters listen to their conscience, yet this doesn't always guarantee that good will be done or they'll be happy.


Giorgia (Jasmine Trinca), AKA this film's Jiminy Cricket!

"Well, gosh, PPCC!" you might be saying. "If good people who follow their conscience can still end up becoming angry and destructive, what are we to doooo?"

Well, PPCC readers, Siddhartha can probably advise us: be nice to people and don't worry so much about changing the world! Remember, think globally, act locally!

(End of today's moral lesson.)

The character who realizes this most is poor old Nicola, who is patient, humane and, well, nice to everyone. The final scene, when he is finally "liberated" from the pain of the past, is one of the most emotionally epic pay-offs we've seen in a film in... well, gosh, EVER. Let's just say, with the amount of tears shed, they should be naming a river after us sometime soon.


Bella Italia! Nicola and his mom (the wonderful Adriana Asti) on their way to Sicily. Meta: Actor Luigi Lo Cascio is (1) Sicilian and (2) gave up a degree in psychiatry to become an actor.


One of the things we found most touching in this film was its celebration of the next generation as a symbol of hope and forgiveness.

And the best thing about this film: that's just one part of the show! With six hours, you can do a lot more than just present a touching humanist portrait. And indeed this is like a more profound Forrest Gump-for-Italy, going through all the major political, economic and social trends in Italy since the 1960s. It also - wonderfully - is truly pan-Italian. Much like India, Italy is divided along clear regional lines in terms of its culture: a northern Italian, for example, is unlikely to understand the Sicilian dialect, and vice versa. La meglio gioventù makes a visible effort to give equal weight and affection to all of Italy's regions: from Turin to Rome to Sicily to Milan to Naples and on.

We can't recommend this film enough: as a window into the Italian heart and mind, and as a simply moving and soap opera-addictive story. Don't be daunted by the six hours - they won't seem like enough!