Twenty-five minutes of applause at the Venice Film Festival marked the start of the popular uprising. The other Middle Eastern drama, entitled ‘La voce di Hind Rajab’, directed by the Tunisian director and screenwriter Kawthar ibn Haniyya, received slightly less last year. Such running times do not even seem possible without a few members of the audience fainting – but who would dare to faint at such a juncture? In ‘Naza’, there are no little girls on screen. The young Palestinians are merely evoked: their loving fathers – members or supporters of Hamas – return home to sleep, the Israelis open fire, and some collateral damage is expected, factored in, even calculated. This takes place, it is worth remembering, after 7 October 2023. Women, children and the elderly died in the massacre on Israeli soil: some were living in kibbutzim, others were dancing at a music festival. Many were kidnapped and tortured; not all of them returned home. The Israeli government and army refused to turn the other cheek. They did everything in their power to track down the perpetrators and punish them.

These are the premises. It should also be noted that Hamas enjoys considerable popular support. Not everyone wears a uniform, nor do they sleep in barracks. In the evening they return home to their wives and children: their dearest loved ones, but also their main source of protection. The observation may seem cynical, but it accurately describes the situation. Hamas supporters sleep at home in the evenings, and it is in their own homes that they are hunted down. Since the directors – both Israeli – are determined to make this act of war seem unacceptable, they show numerous well-lit family interiors in Tel Aviv. These serve to send a shiver down the spine of the viewer, who naturally identifies with them. Meanwhile, the same viewer watches ‘talking heads’ on a dark terrace… Barely lit, they explain military operations. When a militant or a sympathiser needs to be identified, a diagram of the house is drawn, showing the points of attack. And, of course, the collateral damage is calculated: family members, visiting friends, children who are already dreaming of war against their age-old enemy.

Israeli army personnel are listening in on conversations – all mobile phones have been hacked. And they are calculating the number of potential collateral casualties. This does not seem like a particularly serious aggravating factor in times of war. ‘Naza’, which received the Special Jury Prize at the Venice Film Festival (another standing ovation), is presented by the directors as a documentary. However, none of the interviewees are named, for their own safety. Therefore, viewers are asked to accept the film’s content at face value, trusting both the anonymous interviewees and the filmmakers. Well-behaved audiences typically refrain from asking questions; well-behaved audiences applaud.

Ali Asgari, director of the film “Un po’ di luce” – Kami Nour in Persian – in competition at the 83rd Venice Film Festival, arrived in Rome on Tuesday, where he studied for ten years, to present a preview of his latest film at the Greenwich cinema – a film “about life continuing amidst tragedy”, he says. “For a year we were surrounded by numerous tragedies, but I always saw this life, running on a parallel track and continuing, undisturbed. I didn’t want to make a film about the war, about the massacre of young Iranians, but about its effects. Nor did I want to make a dark film: as the title suggests, I wanted to portray a little light that still exists at the end of Iran’s tunnel – the light we are seeking, in the everyday reality of life that carries on.” Ali tells Il Foglio that he came up with the idea for the film in June last year, during the Twelve-Day War, and was struck by how life carried on, against the backdrop of the bombing, followed by the subsequent protests that were brutally suppressed: “I wanted to portray this contrast – war and life continuing side by side, the fragile boundary between despair and the silent forces that keep us anchored to life.” Life lies in the small, everyday gestures, in family ties that waver but do not break, in the plants that take over the rooms and survive as they are passed from house to house, in the clandestine performances without hijabs. Arash has decided to take his own life, but life continues to pursue him; the green leaves of his plants are so large they won’t even fit in his car; he keeps giving them away, and yet he remains unemptied.

“He is haunted by small signs of life and light that never leave him alone,” says the director: flowers, trees, animals: “In the film, I tell the story of a person who wants to die, but it is life itself that keeps seeking him out.” War, on the other hand, is present in Trump’s threats of bombing – “it could strike at any moment”, as is repeated on several occasions – in the tape on the windows used for protection, in the regime’s calls from an unknown number that never stops monitoring you, in the blocked internet, in the seals on a doctor’s surgery who had the audacity to ‘want to save the world’ by treating the ‘rebels’, and in the fear of taking one’s son to hospital for fear that he might be arrested. ‘War gives you strange ideas, you know?’ a friend remarks. ‘Demolishing it costs more than rebuilding it, and if a missile were to hit it, I’d save myself the cost of demolition – after all, Trump has said his strikes will be targeted and won’t hit civilians. Trump would never lie; he’s sure of that.’ While trying to explain to his three brothers the darkness into which he has sunk, Arash always sees a glimmer of light. The ultimate challenge is the moment when he’ll have to tell his mother about his decision, but first Masia takes him to her son’s show; they have to hand in their mobiles because it’s all clandestine. ‘It’s ridiculous,’ comments his youngest sister Mahsa, ‘it’s not as if we were robbing someone.’ On stage, the young man has to say goodbye to his mother before fleeing abroad; she begs him not to leave, then calls out to the audience from the stage: “Can you persuade my son to change his mind?” One member of the audience replies: let him go; there’s nothing he can do here. Arash says nothing. Even at the final family dinner with his mother, everyone will be far too quiet; then the sound of laughter will return, along with hot dishes, music and a Kurdish dance in which bodies draw closer and hands clasp and intertwine, bringing a little light back into the room.

Just one statuette. That is all the ‘foreign-language film’ category is entitled to. Unless, that is, the winners manage to take the prize twice or three times – as happened, for example, a few years ago with Bong Joon Ho’s Parasite, which received the Stella della Mole award in Turin a few days ago. The choice of the film The Stranger came as a surprise.

The selection committee changes, the tastes of the selectors change, and the summer of 2026 has taught us that horror – though director Paolo Strippoli, born in 1993, rejects the label – stands a very good chance. It draws people to the cinema, and the box office benefits. It would be a mistake to look down on it: it will provide the funds to make more films without always having to rely on state funding. This maintains the virtuous cycle between box-office takings and audience tastes.

We are well aware that the phrase ‘makes no concessions to public taste’ has for many years been synonymous with quality. But we are well into the third millennium; to believe that cinema can thrive by catering to the whims of a handful of intellectuals is sheer madness. We are convinced that certain genres—horror, for example—are best enjoyed in a cinema. A cinema full of people jumping with fear is not the same as the sofa at home, with the light on and the remote control at hand to break the tension.

Yesterday, the programme for the Rome Film Festival was announced, running from 13 to 25 October at the Auditorium (one should add ‘Ennio Morricone Music Park’, but nobody ever manages to get that far). It lasts twelve days; the Cannes Film Festival lasts one day less. There is a film competition which we will return to; we need time to examine the titles. The well-known names in the competition are Susanna Nicchiarelli and Kasia Smutniak, as well as Diego Luna, Gustave Kervern and a couple of others.

In the Grand Public section—best approached without the need for prior research—we will see "The Debut" by Jesse Eisenberg: already well on his way to a promising career as a director, here he helms Julianne Moore as a housewife who discovers she is an actress. Then there is "Elsinore" by Simon Stone, a take on Shakespeare that never fails to inspire. Massimiliano Bruno directs one of the funniest and most politically incorrect films of recent years. Death at a Funeral, which becomes A Quiet Family Funeral.

Directed by Paolo Strippoli and co-written by the director and Salvatore De Chirico, "L’Estranea" is an Italian, French and Belgian horror thriller, due for release in cinemas on 8 October via 01 Distribution. The cast features well-known faces from the entertainment world, such as Jasmine Trinca, Romana Maggiora Vergano, Adriano Giannini and Valeria Bruni Tedeschi. It was presented in competition at the latest Venice Film Festival, where – as we report here – Strippoli rejected the ‘horror’ label, although it is nonetheless difficult to pass the film off as the story of a middle-class family celebrating the success of their boutique. Strippoli stages this family drama almost entirely in broad daylight, and anyone familiar with horror literature can imagine how the tension builds.

“We welcome with great joy the selection of the film ‘L’estranea’ to represent Italy in the race for the Oscars.” This was stated in a press release by Paolo Del Brocco, managing director of Rai Cinema, who added that “it is a very significant achievement, coming at the end of a selection process in which numerous films with high-calibre directorial and production credentials took part”. Strippoli, Del Brocco emphasised, “is a young director who has already demonstrated a highly personal and recognisable voice, as well as great freedom in engaging with different narrative styles and forms. ‘L’estranea’ is a bold film, which uses the conventions of genre cinema to explore family ties, fears and the deepest vulnerabilities of the human condition”.

Released on the eve of Ferragosto seventy years ago in Italian cinemas, where it sold almost four and a half million tickets, Camillo Mastrocinque’s film Totò, Peppino e la... malafemmina went on to become an icon. As Filippo Mazzarella wrote (Corriere della Sera, 14 August 2026), the film is not only one of the Neapolitan comedian’s most sensational performances, but certainly the finest of those from his memorable collaboration with Peppino De Filippo. It is one of the masterpieces of 1950s Italian cinema: a film that has transcended its own era to become a true part of the nation’s popular cultural heritage, so much so that even today many of its lines and gags continue to be quoted, imitated and passed down through the generations.

The story is well known. The brothers Antonio and Peppino Caponi (Totò and Peppino), landowners in a small village in Campania who torment their wealthy neighbour Mezzacapa (Mario Castellani) with pranks, discover that their nephew Gianni (Teddy Reno) – the son of the widow Lucia (Vittoria Crispo), who had moved to Milan to study medicine – has fallen in love with Marisa (Dorian Gray), a variety show performer. Giulietta (Luisa Ciampi), the cross-eyed daughter of Gianni’s landlords, is secretly in love with him and, out of jealousy, writes to Lucia exposing the young man’s relationship and claiming that he is neglecting his studies. Convinced that the girl could jeopardise their nephew’s future, Antonio, Peppino and Lucia plan to travel to Milan to find him. After reluctantly seeking advice from the detested Mezzacapa, they travel north and set out in search of Gianni in an attempt to bring him back to Naples and persuade Marisa to end the relationship, even going so far as to offer her a sum of money on condition that she steps aside. However, Lucia ultimately recognises the sincerity of the young couple’s feelings and the girl’s honesty, and eventually accepts their union.

Whilst the film’s success was primarily down to the extraordinary chemistry between Totò and Peppino De Filippo, their virtuosity and their perfect timing, its trump card was, however, the hilarious portrayal of the contrast between north and south, between rural life and urban reality, which in post-war Italy could only be depicted through images by the cinema. Antonio and Peppino “approached Milan, in fact, like explorers catapulted into an unknown universe, unable to grasp its social and linguistic codes: and their sense of disorientation became, for the director Camillo Mastrocinque, a lens through which to observe, with irony, an Italy in the midst of transformation, suspended between tradition and modernity on the eve of the economic boom, when the cities were growing rapidly and the cultural differences between the north and the south were beginning to clash more forcefully” (Mazzarella).

The film captures this historic moment by drawing on the devices of farce and commedia dell’arte. There are countless scenes that have left an indelible mark: from their arrival at Milan Central Station decked out as Cossacks, to their request for information from the ‘ghisa’ (mistaken for a German but then addressed in an improbable Franco-Macaronic dialect: ‘Nòio…volevòn savuàr…l’indiriss…’), right up to the famous sequence of the letter dictated to Peppino, probably one of the most famous moments in the history of Italian comedy (later revisited by Troisi and Benigni in "Non ci resta che piangere"). With its language constantly distorted by the pair’s semi-illiteracy, thrown into disarray by an irresistible game of nonsense made up of open-ended asides, punctuation spoken aloud, exaggerated polite phrases and constant changes of mind, it is a scene that perfectly encapsulates Totò’s linguistic talent, capable of transforming Italian into something unpredictable, but also – as Peppino himself often admitted – a complicity underpinned by a shared desire for improvisation.

As well as the chemistry between Totò and Peppino De Filippo, the article’s strength lies in its account of a historic moment told through the language of farce

Viewed today, the film continues to pulsate with the affection with which it regarded a working-class Italy destined to change rapidly: whilst Antonio and Peppino belonged to an archaic world of family values, patriarchal authority and mistrust of modernity, their journey symbolically represented the meeting of two eras. Even the character of the so-called ‘malafemmina’ revealed an unexpected complexity: by dismantling the image constructed by the two brothers – the result of prejudice and ignorance – she was in fact revealed to be an already modern and independent figure, a victim of provincial moral conventions, pointing the way to a light-hearted refutation of a mindset that was still deeply conservative.

But why, despite its exceptional success at the box office, was the film panned by the critics upon its release? Perhaps precisely because of that success, given that the entire official cultural establishment – and especially the refined culture celebrated by Giovanni Spadolini in his essay Italia di minoranza (1983) – harboured a barely concealed contempt for Antonio De Curtis, a contempt made all the more irksome by the forced acknowledgement of his undeniable talent as an actor. “It is truly painful to note,” as one could read in La Voce Repubblicana on 14 November 1954, “how the humour in certain Italian films is still tied to outdated formulas belonging to the most lowbrow variety theatre.” It is rather striking to learn that this depressing film was none other than Il medico dei pazzi, a gem of Neapolitan farce written by the great Edoardo Scarpetta in 1908 and adapted for the screen by Mario Mattoli.

But perhaps the harshest criticism is to be found in the party newspaper that ought to have been closest to and most attuned to popular tastes: L’Unità. In his review of Totò, Eva e il pennello proibito (15 February 1959), a melancholic Ugo Casiraghi lamented: “The audience are not lucky; let’s be fair, they are forced to swallow productions so shabbily cobbled together, so devoid of spirit and any glimmer of human intellect.” Of course, seven years earlier, the director Steno had produced a film of far greater substance, “Totò a colori”. Yet the refrain remained the same, as relentless as a cleaver: Totò, a great actor who could not find directors capable of showcasing his extraordinary artistic qualities. A claim that did not hold water, considering that he was directed by filmmakers such as Luigi Comencini, Mario Monicelli, Alessandro Blasetti, Luigi Zampa, Vittorio De Sica, Alberto Lattuada and Dino Risi.

The harshest criticism of the film can be found in the party newspaper that ought to have been closest to and most attuned to popular tastes, L’Unità

Following his death (1967), the reappraisal of Totò took on an apologetic tone, as if to make amends for the injustices and humiliations long inflicted upon him in the past. Cultural figures who had previously despised him the most have even gone so far as to regard him as ‘ahead of his time’ compared to Charlie Chaplin and certainly worthy of being placed alongside Buster Keaton. As is often the case, in seeking to atone for one excess, one falls into the opposite extreme. The author of Modern Times, it must be said in no uncertain terms, has been remembered as one of the intellectual leading figures of the twentieth century. His creative genius was incomparable to that of Totò, and his universal language – which transcended all ethnic and cultural boundaries – was able to translate the profound crisis of the ‘short century’ into formidable comic inventions, ranging from the inhumanity of the assembly line to the blind lust for power of Nazi-Fascism. And yet even the ‘prince of laughter’ was representative of a deeply rooted Italy, ‘Catholic’ in a sense not necessarily religious, characterised by vices and virtues which, whilst constituting an obstacle to the process of secularisation, to some extent tempered social conflicts. From "Siamo uomini o caporali" (1955) to Camillo Mastrocinque’s "La banda degli onesti" (1956), not to mention Monicelli’s "Guardie e ladri" (1951), Totò embodies the ‘subject’ who tries to carve out a very modest space in which to live, without ever being taken seriously by those in power, by the ‘corporals’ of the moment.

Following his death, the reappraisal of Totò has taken on an apologetic tone. Those who had once mocked him went on to describe him as ‘ahead of his time’ compared to Charlie Chaplin

Totò’s Italy was undoubtedly ‘backward’, just as the Italy of Giovannino Guareschi, Don Camillo and Peppone was backward. Yet, on closer inspection, there was a liberal streak in the ‘subject’: the clear realisation that it is not laws that shape customs, but customs that shape laws. It is not true that in the characters he portrayed – straddling the line between the petty bourgeoisie and the underclass – ‘there is only fatalism and resignation in the face of the violence and arbitrariness of those in power’ (Dino Cofrancesco, ‘Ascoltare Grillo e rimpiangere Totò’, l’Occidentale, 14 September 2007). Totò pillories those who dispose of others’ lives out of a delusion of omnipotence. In several of his films, such as Fernando Cerchio’s Totò contro Maciste (1962), he – a right-wing man who declares he votes for Achille Lauro – masterfully mocks Mussolini’s tone of voice and rhetorical style as he harangues the crowds from the balcony of Palazzo Venezia. Nevertheless, he could not have been to the liking of the educated and progressive elites, as he remained on the sidelines, neither ‘participating’ nor placing himself at the service of any particular cause.

An attitude that more than one person has described as ‘anarchic’, others as ‘indifferent’, but which reflected a critical view of reality. In this dialectic with the present, in this problematic confrontation with traditional morality and social conventions – embodied, in turn, by the corporal on duty – Totò lays bare his antagonist and reveals what lies behind the various forms of authority. This aspect of Totò’s art and persona represents – and it is no heresy to say so – ‘a point of convergence with what was the quest of neorealist cinema’ (Pasquale Iaccio, ‘Totò: author and experimenter in post-war Italian cinema’, in ‘Drammaturgia’, 9 February 2023). The perspective and narrative techniques may change, but not the substance of the message intended for the viewer. The much-maligned comic cinema of the ‘ham’ Totò is, in fact, no less effective than the works of his contemporary masters of neorealist cinema in denouncing authoritarianism and the distortions of power. The difference is that, unlike the latter, Totò’s works reached a mass audience and found their way to the vast audiences in the country’s suburbs.

His much-maligned comedy films are every bit as effective as the works of the masters of neorealist cinema in their condemnation of authoritarianism

Incidentally, these films enabled Italian producers to compete with the American film industry. It was thanks to two major successes in 1949 (by Dino De Laurentiis with "I pompieri di Viggiù", and by Carlo Ponti with "L’imperatore di Capri" and "Totò cerca casa") that the two young producers left Lux, joining forces to found Ponti-De Laurentiis in 1950. They soon entrusted the production of Totò’s films to a specially created company, Rosa Film, and then, in 1951, took over Humanitas Film, which held a lucrative contract with the actor, thereby securing an almost complete monopoly over his work for several years. In the early 1950s, the proceeds from his films contributed to the development of the entire Italian film industry, making him a sort of goose that laid golden eggs.

The author was born in 1944 and therefore belongs to the generation that grew up on bread and Totò. It was only later that he discovered that, as early as the 1920s, Totò had been described as a ‘one-of-a-kind comedian’ – just as Fascism was establishing itself as the ‘single party’. And that even back then, he was defying the regime’s censorship with one of his jokes: ‘Ah, if only Galivoi would return!’ - Galivoi? - Yes, don’t you know? The formal ‘lei’ form of address had been abolished. The censors decided not to intervene, believing that a touch of magnanimity would foster consensus. Whilst they became more vigilant and strict from 1939 onwards, they were powerless when – after the liberation of Rome – Salomè-Magnani (the people) and Pinocchio-Totò (the Duce) sang a duet on the stage of the Ambra Jovinelli theatre to the tune of ‘Se mi volessi bene veramente’, mocking a toy-like country manipulated by a bunch of foolish puppets.

This was Antonio Griffo Focas Flavio Angelo Ducas Comneno Porphyrogenitus Gagliardi De Curtis of Byzantium. An aristocratic commoner or a commoner of aristocratic stock; if – as Emilio Gentile wrote – one wishes to attach an ‘-ism’ to him, ‘Qoheletism’ would be appropriate, that is, a follower of the biblical sage Qohelet, he who says: ‘Vanity of vanities, all is vanity. Everything depends on fate and chance. The fate of the sons of men and of beasts is one and the same: death’ (E. Gentile, Caporali tanti, uomini pochissimi. La storia secondo Totò, Laterza, 2022).

The result is a feminist rant – “she lost a child, but instead of weeping she wrote a masterpiece; that’s just how men are” – which, if you really cannot resist checking it out for yourself, you will be able to see from next Monday on Sky. This year it is the turn of another William Shakespeare, “Elsinore”. The name of the Danish city where William sets – here we go again – the tragedy Hamlet. Director Simon Stone (born in Basel in 1984 and raised in Australia) has chosen it for his film. Bear in mind that at the age of 15, the future director (now in his early forties) decided to read all of Shakespeare’s works, in chronological order.

“Elsinore” – write those lucky enough to have seen the film at the Toronto Film Festival – is moving and entertaining. Let’s pretend that ‘moving’ is replaced by ‘tragic’, and the combination becomes more interesting. It brings to mind, for example, the veteran Shakespearean actor Albert Finney. In Peter Yates’s film The Stage Manager (1984), he is so out of his mind that – much to the despair of his stage manager Tom Courtenay – he paints his face black in the dressing room, forgetting that that evening he is due to play Hamlet and not the Moor of Venice. Elsinore was screened at the Toronto Film Festival; the Irish actor Andrew Scott played Ian Charleson, who was suffering from AIDS (this was in 1989; the original actor, Daniel Day-Lewis, had stepped down from the role). “I’d rather die playing Hamlet than die of AIDS,” he declares to the few who know his secret. As one critic notes, he is constantly accompanied by the music of Vangelis, which, in our view, might well be a good reason to leave this world.

Andrew Scott’s performance has been universally praised. However, there is a growing suspicion that the rest of the film does not maintain the same level of brilliance. Literature has never been treated with the respect it deserves by the cinema, and ‘Elsinore’ is certainly not going to reverse that trend. All that remains for us to do is rewatch Baz Luhrmann’s Romeo + Juliet. He certainly understood the nuances, the interplay between tragedy and comedy, and possessed boundless talent.

Some of the protagonists are soldiers, others are artists; some believe it is their duty to fight in this war, whilst others are not sure that this is the right way to resolve the conflict: for all of them, there is the constant hum of war in the background; for all of them, there is a war and a life as soldiers that they did not choose; for all of them, there is the fear of having to fight for the rest of their lives. Sean Penn states that the Ukrainian youths’ zest for life is overwhelming; he hopes that Jared Kushner and Ivanka Trump will see this film, and that it will be seen by all those who think that Ukraine does not want peace and that we must stop sending weapons to defend the Ukrainians. Look at the Ukrainians and you’ll understand why we must have hope in humanity, says Sean Penn: “This movement, these young people and their very embrace of what we call hope – or the lack thereof – is itself hope.”

However, there is an antidote: the new series of “Fauda”, in particular—and this cannot be overstated—the seventh and eighth episodes. We are now in the thick of a bitter cultural war: a war of emotions, a war of symbols, a war of images. One might argue that the producers, screenwriters, directors and actors are Israeli. Of course. The creators of Naza are also Israelis of the ‘good Jews’ sort (‘even the Jews say so’). So what? People say: ‘But Fauda is fiction; there’s no real-life Doron’ (though there is Lior Raz, who’s always played him – he’s brilliant). True, technically it is fiction. But the seventh and eighth episodes are faithfully modelled on the horrific footage from 7 October filmed by Hamas marauders to boast about the massacre of Jews and instil the utmost terror in the very guts of the brutalised Zionists. These images represent scenes of unspeakable horror and ferocious sadism, all rigorously documented and reproduced in the new series of Fauda. We see the (documented) images of young Israelis – Jews, but also Arab Israelis – being massacred whilst fleeing from the Hamas murderers. We see the (documented) images – only a pro-Hamas activist like Francesca Albanese could be a denier – of children killed in cold blood, a burst of machine-gun fire to the head and on to the next victim: not a war, but an apocalyptic bloodbath. We see the (documented) images—only the fake pro-Islamist “feminists” of “Non una di meno” could be deniers—of Jewish women, as well as Arab-Israeli women, being raped and sometimes gang-raped by thugs intoxicated by ethnic rape. We see the (documented) images of kibbutzim set alight and reduced to ashes, with Jewish families burnt alive even whilst locked away in bunker rooms in the hope of escaping the exterminating fury of the jihadist fighters. One sees the (documented) images of children and infants abducted and dragged away as hostages into the caves of Gaza – 400 kilometres of tunnels and passageways built whilst the accomplices at UNRWA (an indelible stain on the UN, which persecutes Israel) turned a blind eye in order to curry favour with the Hamas leaders.

Watch “Fauda”. Look at these harrowing images – this is not an advert. Of course, it is an excellent drama, with brilliant plotlines, twists and turns, intense emotions, and extraordinary actors throughout all eleven episodes of this new series. But it is also an excellent document, a powerful weapon in the cultural and symbolic war against the lies of the new Dr Goebbels. Watch it. And I will say it again and again: frame by frame, especially episodes seven and eight.

The director in question is May el-Toukhy, a Danish woman of Egyptian origin: her film “Woman Unknown” tells the story of a waitress on the verge of marrying her employer, a widower. The story is set in Denmark in 1945. The Nazi occupiers have just been driven out. Women found guilty of collaboration were punished. After being beaten, a swastika was painted in red on their backs.

Having lamented the situation – only men, too many men everywhere – the jury president, Maggie Gyllenhaal, remained unyielding and consistent. The Golden Lion went to the only film in competition directed by a woman: Woman Unknown by May el-Toukhy. The scarcity of female characters worthy of awards also earned the film’s actress – the deeply moved and surprised Mathilde Arcel – the Coppa Volpi for Best Actress. This came at the expense of the Rooney sisters, Kate and Mara, who were sensational in Werner Herzog’s film Bucking Fastards (to be read by reversing the initials). They deliver all their lines in unison, playing mirror-image twins who are a bit mad, inspired by the true story of Freda and Greta Chaplin, who were born in York.

The Coppa Volpi for the actress – this isn’t the Berlinale or any of those other ‘woke’ festivals where no distinctions are made. She’s set for a brilliant career, and let’s hope that for the occasion she’ll learn how to dress: a white mini-dress that looked as if it had been cut into strips isn’t exactly in keeping with the gala evening. The ceremony was hosted – like the opening ceremony, and apart from a few slip-ups – by Greta Scarano (waving a watermelon-slice fan in solidarity with the Palestinian people) and Nicola Maupas (who starred in the prison drama Mare fuori).

The other Coppa Volpi was won by the great John Malkovich. A thoroughly deserved win, but given the current climate and the announcement by director Alberto Barbera – “it will be a political festival” – we suspect that his persona played in his favour. In the film Wilde Horse Nine, written and directed by Martin McDonagh (perhaps the finest playwright to have turned his hand to cinema), he plays a former CIA agent with Alzheimer’s. He spills the beans on the secrets of the trade and recounts having witnessed the assassination of JFK ‘from the other side’. He is on Easter Island – pardon, Rapa Nui – with a colleague to see the giants – pardon, Moai.

The geopolitical agenda continues with ‘Un bon petit soldat’, directed by the Frenchman Stéphane Brizé. The ‘labour and exploitation’ theme at film festivals is his speciality. He casts Alba Rohrwacher as the lead actress and wins an award for the screenplay. The Silver Lion for Best Director goes to “Dau” by Ilya Khrzhanovsky. It took 20 years of work to tell the story of a brilliant Greek physicist. In a secret, heavily guarded Soviet research laboratory, he was forced to work on an atomic bomb project for 40 years.

The Jury’s Special Prize, as was to be expected, went to “NAZA”. Interviews with military personnel, speaking on condition of anonymity, who describe the dirty work – noble souls, for war is always like that – of hunting down Hamas sympathisers in Gaza, who return home to sleep at night. The directors—both Israeli—are Yuval Abraham and Rachel Szor. He grabs the microphone to denounce ‘the dehumanisation of the Palestinians’. She—remember, she was the co-director—doesn’t say a single word. The film ‘Possible Love’, directed by cult director Lee Chang-dong—the only Korean who doesn’t rush things—wins the Grand Jury Prize.

The Italian contingent – five films in competition out of 21 – did not fare particularly well. No awards were won. Not even by Paolo Strippoli for "L’estranea", the most original title of the five: written and directed by him, and with a touch of horror (though the director rejects the label). A director in his early thirties – he was born in 1993 – and a film that will appeal to audiences. The same cannot be said of “The Echo Chamber”, directed by Andrea Pallaoro from a screenplay rediscovered in one of Bernardo Bertolucci’s drawers.

What will remain of this Venice Film Festival (apologies, President Buttafuoco), apart from the awards for those who won them? What is the state of cinema, in general? In my view, films are too long: 90 minutes is the right length; 120 minutes is a possible exception to be assessed on a case-by-case basis. From the 121st minute onwards, there’s a problem (with the screenplay, the direction, and certainly the editing), and the film shouldn’t be granted a censorship certificate.

One must know how to cut things short, to be concise: in art as in life. I myself, in my own small way (I am ‘short’ even physically – I am not quite of medium height), cut the pieces I submit to this newspaper down as much as possible: so as not to bore you and because I know you do not have time. It so happened, therefore, that whilst I’ve been here as a ‘special guest’ at the Venice Film Festival, a few Venetian scenes have been left out of my daily reports from the Lido. I’ll leave them here for you, just as they might lie on the floor of an editing room back when film was still being cut on a moviola.

Tickets to attend screenings at the Venice Film Festival are named: you log in to the website using your accreditation and book your place. If, for any reason, you can no longer attend a scheduled screening, you must cancel your booking: if you miss three screenings, you’ll be banned from the site, and if someone from the Biennale bumps into you on the street, they’ll give you a good thrashing. Furthermore, tickets are non-transferable: both I and a girl know this all too well. One evening, I tell her that I won’t be going to the screening I’d booked for the following day because I have to go to a party – as readers of this newspaper know, for me on the Lido, parties are a duty and films a pleasure, and duty comes before pleasure if only because of the bills. The young woman would love to see the very film I will not be attending, but for which she has not managed to secure a seat. We look at each other, and we are both thinking the same thing: it is not right, but let us try. I give her my ticket. I immediately feel guilty toward the Biennale: I spend the night in a restless sleep, dreaming of Barbera crying and Buttafuoco coming to look for me with a pitchfork, along with the entire Russian pavilion. The following day, at the appointed hour (that is, just before the screening), I stare at my phone waiting for news from the girl, who texts me, ‘I’m queuing to get in’; I’ve got cramps from the stress, my nerves give way and I cry out to the heavens, ‘Eloi, Eloi, lama sabachthani?’. Six minutes later, the girl phones me: she has been turned away. The usher who scanned her ticket looked at her and said, ‘You don’t look like Saverio to me.’ Not only is the ticket named, but the ushers are also scrupulous. What a perfectly organised event the Biennale is! Any attempt to circumvent the system is swiftly detected. I immediately cancel my ticket; once I am back on the right side of history, and my heart rate has calmed down, I reflect on the fact that ‘woke’ is well and truly over. Had a steward dared to tell a young woman two years ago that she did not look like a man, the reaction would have been severe: a public scandal, a social-media firestorm, the mass resignation of the entire Biennale, and, from the following year onwards, the Venice Biennale might have been replaced by the Cannes Film Festival. Now, however, it is the end of fluidity and identity politics: a girl is no longer free to feel like Saverio Raimondo; she cannot expect to be called Saverio Raimondo if she is not one; and, above all, neither she nor I have seen this film. I will suggest we go and see it together when it comes out in the cinemas.

Isola Edipo is “a festival that brings together cinema, art and music; a meeting place at the heart of the Venice Film Festival”; but it is also the spot on the Lido where young people, hipsters and creatives gather. There are food trucks, beer and sunsets. It’s the Pigneto of the Venice Film Festival. Here, on one of the first days, the ship of Venezia – the city’s football team, promoted to Serie A this year – docked: a black galleon with the word ‘SERENISSIMA’ on its hull, looking vaguely menacing. Once moored, the footballers disembarked, accompanied by their respective girlfriends—none of them appeared to be single: the men in full kit as if they were about to take to the pitch, the women dressed as if for a beauty contest. Their destination is the red carpet, but first someone has the idea—given that Edipo is such a young, informal venue—to pull out a football. The reaction is Pavlovian, and the eleven players begin dribbling as if they were in the penalty area. One player gets carried away—or rather, his foot gets carried away—and chips the ball toward a still life arrangement of several Spritz Cynars, set up specifically there on a small table for the photos—Cynar is the team’s sponsor. The result: the glasses all fly through the air, and their contents pour down on one of the Miss contestants; who, not content with already being completely soaked and having her make-up ruined, also starts crying. Help arrives promptly, with make-up wipes and a make-up bag. Perhaps the red-carpet appearance will be saved, but the relationship won’t.

The final party of the 83rd Venice Film Festival is for the film “Ride”. Among those attending (both the film and the party) are Margherita Vicario, Ensi, Levante, Dade, Kaze, Kyshan Wilson and Johnny Marsiglia; some of them even take to the stage to sing and play music. The event carries a distinctively Milanese atmosphere, akin to a night at Plastic. At this party, one detail I have also observed at a couple of other events is the VIP area – a cordoned-off section of the venue, an ‘impassable barrier’, housing the celebrities – none of whom, without detracting from the illustrious names mentioned above, are George Clooney or Nicole Kidman. At first, this tacky and daft gimmick makes you – an invited guest but not a VIP – feel like an intruder, even if you haven’t gatecrashed; it’s along the lines of ‘I did you a favour by getting you on the guest list, but actually I don’t want you here and I’m going to make you feel like a loser’. Then, however, you realise that inside the VIP area – which is tiny, by the way – there’s an open bar exactly the same as the one outside; the dance floor is outside; the toilets are outside; life is outside. At a party, it’s the VIP area that’s the loser: they tell you it’s a perk, but it’s a ghetto; they pass it off as a privilege, but it’s apartheid.

These days, at parties, I wander about like Gianni De Michelis in his heyday: I drink, dance and meet people. A young man in a T-shirt, a bit tipsy like everyone else, stops me and says:

“I see you at every party!!!” (Apologies for the multiple exclamation marks, but the music was loud. Editor’s note)

“Yes, I write about this in Il Foglio!!!”

“Il Foglio???” he exclaimed in horror. “Il Foglio is the only newspaper to have given the film about Gaza one star!!!”

“Well, aren’t you pleased? I mean, if they’d spoken well of it, it would have caught you off guard and made you suspicious; you’d have had your doubts about the film; whereas speaking ill of it makes you proud of your convictions; doesn’t it?”

He pauses for a moment, then laughs: “You’re right!” And we embrace.

Approximately fifteen minutes later, he returns to me (indicating that he has not engaged with anyone else, or does not wish me to, or both). He launches into a lengthy diatribe about how the Left should resume armed action. I retort that I do not believe there is any shortage of violence in the world, especially at present. He concedes the point but argues that the Left is not responsible for it. I counter that a bullet, whether it comes from the right or the left, is still a bullet; and generally speaking, I’d be against it. He launches into a defence of 11 September and cites Luigi Magione as a role model; I point out the contradiction of idolising someone who killed with a gun yet then being against rearmament. He then tells me, “I need to go for a wee,” and we embrace once more. Immediately afterward, I depart from the gathering and proceed to report him to the Digos.

The other Coppa Volpi was won by the great John Malkovich: a thoroughly deserved win, but given the current climate and the announcement by director Alberto Barbera – “it will be a political Festival” – we suspect that his persona played in his favour. A former CIA agent with Alzheimer’s, who spills the beans on the secrets of the trade and recounts having witnessed the assassination of JFK ‘from the other side’. The geopolitical theme continues with Un bon petit soldat, directed by the Frenchman Stéphane Brizé. The ‘labour and exploitation’ theme at film festivals is right up his street. Here he casts Alba Rohrwacher as the lead actress, and the film wins an award for best screenplay. The Silver Lion for Best Director goes to “Dau” by Ilya Khrzhanovsky. Twenty years of work to tell the story of a brilliant Greek physicist in the USSR. In a secret, heavily guarded research laboratory, he is forced to work on an atomic bomb project for 40 years.

The Jury’s Special Prize, as was to be expected, went to “Naza”. Interviews with military personnel, who remain anonymous, recount the dirty work – war always is – involved in flushing out Hamas soldiers and their supporters in Gaza. The directors – both Israeli – are Yuval Abraham and Rachel Szor. He grabs the microphone to denounce “the dehumanisation of Palestinians”. She does not say a single word.

Carla Lonzi, “Vai pure”

Carla Lonzi is the woman who, more than anyone else in Italy, has raised the issue – not merely in theory – of freeing women from a given order, from a pre-established world (created by men, of course). She did so by writing, living her life, raising issues, withdrawing from public life, and discussing matters with other women. ‘We communicate only with women’ is the final point of the Manifesto of Female Revolt, written in 1970. Scandalous, exaggerated, unexpected – how dare she? What utter nonsense. “The world will not come to an end if men no longer have the psychological equilibrium based on our submission” (this sentence, read and reread, changes something forever). Carla Lonzi was thirty-nine years old in 1970, with a son who was still a child; she had discovered in 1968 in America that she had cancer and had undergone surgery. She loved Pietro Consagra, an artist and sculptor, and loved him right to the end despite the impossibility of resolving their relationship – both personal and universal – through dialogue (she died aged fifty-one because the cancer returned); she lived this short life with great nonchalance and immense care: for words and for relationships. The words with which to describe art, first, and then to define and express the feminine difference. Her relationships with her friends, with her comrades in the protest group, with men, and with Consagra. Her books are essential for giving the mind a jolt, for starting to think and reason again, almost from scratch.

Francesca Archibugi first met Carla Lonzi many years ago, as a young girl in the school corridors. She found her charismatic and irresistible

At the Venice Film Festival, as part of the Giornate degli Autori section, Francesca Archibugi has just presented her documentary on Carla Lonzi, produced by Fandango, "Carla Lonzi, dentro e fuori dal mondo". It is a very special film, not only because of Francesca Archibugi’s special bond with Lonzi: her partner, and composer of the documentary’s score, the jazz musician Battista Lena, is that very child – Carla Lonzi’s son – who in 1968 was ‘sent off like a bullet’, all on his own, to America to find his mother, who was undergoing emergency surgery. ‘Fired off like a bullet’ appears in the film and in Carla Lonzi’s endless diary, Taci, anzi parla, published in 1978 in the Scritti di rivolta femminile (the famous, marvellous green booklets that can still sometimes be found at the Libreria delle donne in Milan) and now in the La tartaruga series (which is republishing all of Lonzi’s writings). “Sparato come un proiettile” features Carla Lonzi’s voice recreated using artificial intelligence, so that the voice-over is almost as much hers as the words themselves. These words explore art and then life, a woman’s place in the world, and the ever-present possibility of being misunderstood. It also includes the amused account of an American doctor who was “more than scandalised by my frivolity”.

The special bond with Carla Lonzi began many years ago, when Archibugi, then a schoolgirl, first saw her from a distance in the school corridors, finding her charismatic and irresistible. She was the mother of her thirteen-year-old school friend – who later became her boyfriend, the father of her children and her lifelong partner – Bat, but above all she was a woman who listened, asked questions and knew how to recognise the importance and worth of those in front of her. Archibugi recounts this with shyness and admiration in the film, whilst Carla Lonzi’s son presents his mother to the audience with equal shyness and admiration, yet with clarity, and watches and re-watches alongside us private – and therefore exceptional – footage that is exceptionally moving. Intimate moments of happiness, the sun on bare bodies, family gatherings, travel photographs, moments of discussion, and moments of pain in which, however, the pain does not pass, because Carla Lonzi’s strength in facing it is greater. Always with a book and a pencil in her hand, even when half her face was covered by a bandage and she was reading with just one eye, yet still attending meetings as usual.

“I set out on my own, following no one. I had no need to flaunt ideologies, nor to seek political gratification: I was – and still am – living through, clarifying and transcending the limits imposed by male-dominated culture and society on human relationships. For me, the only desirable society is one in which it is possible to live these relationships.”

The great vitality and turbulent freedom of a woman, who is also happy to devote herself to describing a pink skirt, a pale green belt and a white blouse

All this is constantly happening both within and outside the world. A world that labels feminists as dangerous, extremist and aggressive. “They’re overdoing it,” says a woman in the 1970s footage that opens the documentary. “They’re overdoing it,” many say even today – women say it too. “She’s overdoing it,” they used to say of Carla Lonzi even back then. Strangers said it; sometimes even her friends said it – women who, having fallen in love with Carla Lonzi, found themselves facing the great struggle of having to deal with Carla Lonzi, who demanded a higher and more constant level of uncompromising commitment.

“According to Marisa, I form unhealthy relationships with others. I have an unhealthy outlook. I want to see myself reflected and constantly be told that I’m extraordinary; otherwise, I don’t know how to live. When the mirror doesn’t work, I break down. She says I’m extremely narcissistic; I can’t accept solitude or find a sense of self when I’m alone.”

Archibugi captures the complexity of a woman who analysed criticism deeply, who took it to heart and never stopped thinking and reasoning, who hoped, believed – and then no longer believed – that she could resolve everything through dialogue. Dialogue above all else. Continuous dialogue, never tiring. The words to express oppression, the words to say: ‘I exist and I no longer wish to exist solely in relation to men’; this is the foundation of the struggle and the foundation of freedom. The Clitoral Woman and the Vaginal Woman and Let’s Spit on Hegel are books that emerged after the break with the art world. Battista Lena identifies illness as the moment of change, the transition to this searing feminism—never exclusionary, concerned with the living substance of existence.

“They’re overdoing it,” says a woman about feminists in the 1970s footage that opens the documentary. “They’re overdoing it,” many people still say today

Whilst watching the film, I found myself thinking back to Elena Ferrante’s tetralogy, My Brilliant Friend, and the protagonist, Elena’s, encounter with Carla Lonzi through her books: ‘Whilst men devote themselves to space exploration, life for women on this planet has yet to begin. Woman is the other side of the earth. Woman is the Unforeseen Subject. To free oneself from submission, here, now, in this present moment. The author of those pages was called Carla Lonzi. ‘How is it possible,’ I said to myself, ‘that a woman can think like this?’ I struggled so much with books, but I merely endured them; I never truly made use of them, I never turned them against themselves. That is how one thinks. That is how one thinks against the system.” How is it possible for a woman to think like that? That’s the moment when your brain gets a jolt and often says: enough is enough. In Elena Ferrante’s novel, Elena tries to share her enthusiasm with Lila, acknowledging in her that independence of thought, that capacity to exist, which she herself lacks. She discusses with her on the phone the concept of the ‘clitoral woman’, the ‘vaginal woman’, and the feminist group she had joined, and Lila’s reply is unforgettable: “What the fuck are you on about, Lenù? Pleasure, the pussy – we’ve got enough problems as it is; you’re mad.” She advises her not to waste time and instead focus on what truly matters.

Yet Carla Lonzi had grasped the deepest essence of the matter, and the people interviewed in this film (family members, her partners at the time, feminist philosophers, academics, historians and artists) confirm this: she got to the root of the problem.

It was too early, it was too late, she was too alone – she of all people, who, according to her friend, couldn’t bear to be alone? And who used to say: ‘Enough is enough, we need a break.’ Away from the celebrations of male creativity, let’s stop playing the handmaidens. It was all so scandalous, and it still is. So much of her remains, and thankfully this film, with her face, her movements, those slightly damaged home movies showing the great love between a man and a woman, and the great vitality and tormented freedom of a woman happy even to devote herself to describing a pink skirt, a pale green belt, a white blouse. “I was happy,” says Carla Lonzi. Happy with that pink skirt, the pale green belt, the white blouse, Pietro Consagra photographing her against the backdrop of a luminous structure at the Sant’Antonio International Fair, which thus serves as her halo for ever. There, too, the coat is pink, the scarf red. Archibugi says she was so elegant, but not in a bourgeois way.

“I realise how much I may have let slip along the way, and sometimes I am frightened when I look back at what has been and what might have been, but I realise that nothing would have dissuaded me from turning to what is essential. Now the superfluous captures all my attention and my desires.” The film will be in cinemas for three days, on 26, 27 and 28 October. Viewers are encouraged to discover Carla Lonzi and recognize her.