Like dreams and Surrealism, for Savinio cinema is, in short, both an extraordinary probe into the unconscious and a diabolical instrument, in that it accustoms us to lingering in the indistinct, without bringing its discoveries to the clarity of Metaphysical Art. Yet despite this ambivalence, the link with his own and de Chirico’s imagery is very strong: in his early theoretical articles from the early 1920s, he defines it as ‘mythology in action’, capable of ‘showing us our own contemporaries in a state of contemporary primitivism’, or rather ‘an exact image of the earth before the Flood’; and in his final piece, written on his deathbed, Savinio uses cinema to bid farewell to a human world destined to be lost in astronomical space. But when sound cinema took hold, his love of souplesse inspired him to admire, above all, the cinema of Paris, which ‘creates prose’ by pouring the national resources of theatre and the novel onto film. Thus the ‘gags en passant’ of René Clair—this Racine with a camera—are set against the ‘thoughtful humour’ of Charlot, who forces us to pay for his witticisms with a moralising pause. Significantly, as soon as they set foot in America, the French directors’ work deteriorates: it is like transplanting organisms designed for rooms on a human scale into a boundless prairie; or, to put it without metaphor, into the climate of that gigantism which, for Savinio, is the most dangerous enemy of intelligence.

Generally speaking, Europe confines itself to theorising or alluding, with aesthetic tact, to what countries still too young thoughtlessly translate into monstrous realities: communism in Russia, or that surrealism which in the US culminates in Disney’s frenzied Fantasia – ‘a meal consisting solely of saccharine sweets, washed down with rosolio’ – with a ‘nauseating’ effect. Yet Savinio is not exactly kind to the old continental Surrealists such as Cocteau either, despite the fact that his fiction, from Angelica to Angolino, shares with them a certain use of ‘frames’ and an obsession with the symbol of the eye. Even the most insignificant film, as Balducci rightly points out, becomes, in Savinio’s criticism, an opportunity to raise a general issue of aesthetics, ethics or civilisation. What is more: just as when he goes to the theatre, Savinio also makes some of his most surprising observations at the cinema by paying no less attention to the audience than to the actors. The context explains the text.

Final-year students at a Parisian secondary school are on a train to Naples for a school trip. On the train, two of them exchange tender moments. They are secretly watched by another boy and another girl, each unaware of the other’s presence. It is a film about glances and fantasies, inspired by a novella by Wilhelm Jensen of the same title: ‘Gradiva’ was the fantasy of an archaeologist in love with a bas-relief – possibly from Pompeii – depicting an unknown young woman whom he christened Gradiva. The 1903 short story owes its fame to Sigmund Freud’s interest; he studied the case as if a patient had just recounted it to him on the couch. Projections and fantasies, in simple terms. Put more bluntly, we fall in love with an image. Marine Atlan offers her own take here – it is her first film after years as a director of photography. The fair-haired Toni recounts the story of his Neapolitan ancestors: perhaps true, perhaps fabricated, perhaps half and half. His grandmother, a young girl working as a servant for a very rich man, who falls in love with her the moment he sees her. An earthquake strikes; his grandmother – who is pregnant – was outside and rushes home: not a single wall remains standing. The students observe the Greek statues, studying their anatomy. They are all in love with Toni, except for one girl who is convinced she is too ugly to attract attention, so she reads books. The teacher is passionate; the students are portrayed with wisdom and realism.

There aren’t many new ideas about, so remakes are the order of the day. A new ‘You’ve Got Mail’ has been announced, for example. The original, starring Meg Ryan and Tom Hanks and directed by Nora Ephron, is now 28 years old; ‘and it certainly shows its age’, writes Stuart Heritage in The Guardian. He does not even mention the earlier film, directed by Ernst Lubitsch and dating from 1940—which was adapted from the 1937 Hungarian comedy Parfumerie by Miklós László. Lubitsch never ages; it would be a crime even to think such a thing. But Nora Ephron had already replaced ‘postal hold’ with the more contemporary—at the time—email in her film.

Now that our inboxes are crammed full of pointless press releases; that bookshops – both independent boutiques and chain stores – are having to compete for an ever-shrinking market; and that romantic relationships seem to have lost a fair bit of their appeal, the whole affair needs rethinking. Deborah Kaplan and Harry Elfont, who wrote "Lap Year" in 2010, are pondering this. For Italian viewers: "Una proposta per dire sì". Nothing memorable, though. 23 per cent positive reviews on Rotten Tomatoes.

First of all, email must go. It is no longer the new and fascinating tool it was in the 1990s. Switching to Instagram or other social media platforms does not change the situation much. We always leave traces; no one is truly anonymous, like a letter with no sender left at a post box (any doubt that such letters even exist anymore is immediately dispelled by a quick glance at the Italian Post Office’s website).

These days, any email from a stranger – no matter how enticing or flattering the content (for example, an anonymous admirer who doesn’t dare reveal their identity) – would immediately be deemed dangerous, sent to the bin, and then deleted from the bin as well. Only individuals such as Tom Hanks (aged 70) and Meg Ryan (five years his junior) might resist the temptation. Stuart Heritage suggests that they might fall in love whilst both falling victim to an online scam that leaves them penniless. He’d go and see the film, he says. We’re not quite that strapped for cash yet.

This is a unique opportunity. It’s a chance to see a beautiful film – not for the amount of skin on show. Set in Tokyo in 1936, it tells the story of the passion between Sada, a former geisha, and Kichizo, the owner of the inn where she works. We know nothing else about them; they are almost always in bed naked, and the film – in its uncut version, which hasn’t even been seen in Japan – lasts one hour and 40 minutes.

Since 19 October, another scandalous film has returned to Italian cinemas – not all of them, but mainly those specialising in arthouse cinema. Ken Russell’s "I Diavoli", dated 1971, five years before "L’impero dei sensi". The Wall Street Journal has devoted a lengthy article to it, suggesting that it has captivated Gen Z – Zeta as in Zoomers, that is to say those born between the mid-1990s and the early 2000s. The generation that did not have its own Douglas Coupland as a key writer, but is now associated with the derogatory phrase ‘Ok, Boomer!’. This contempt, as we can see, does not extend to generational films, in contrast to the endless porn of the present day.

Oliver Reed, sporting a fine pair of 1970s porn-star-style moustaches—you will no doubt have seen Deep Throat; Jacqueline Kennedy was also photographed queuing in New York—plays Father Urban Grandier in 17th-century France. Vanessa Redgrave plays the Mother Superior of the convent. At the heart of the story lies a case of possession in 17th-century France, fictionalised by Aldous Huxley in his book "The Devils of Loudun": a case of collective demonic possession that took place in 1634 in the French town of Loudun. The first to write about it was Alexandre Dumas, who included it in his collection Les Crimes Célèbres, published in 1840. There is also a comic book, illustrated by Paolo Armitano and Davide Furnò.

Sex in a convent is now a classic theme. Whether raunchy, as in certain Italian films (‘Metti lo diavolo tuo ne lo mio inferno’, 1972), or experimental, such as Krzysztof Penderecki’s opera, which premiered in 1969 – though not without controversy. Returning to Ken Russell’s film, the Wall Street Journal reports on its resurgence, having reappeared in a New York cinema last autumn. The craze then spread to England and Ireland, and Halloween did the rest. And, of course, it spawned memes – a sure sign of its appeal to the public.

In a 1995 interview, Ken Russell reiterated that his film was not a pornographic film. Rather, it was about brainwashing.

It was censored nonetheless; two scenes were cut. Even the critics were perplexed; no one came to the film’s defence. In the first scene, the crucifixes were not used in a particularly orthodox manner. In the second, there was blasphemy and a touch of the macabre. Sister Jeanne does terrible things with the priest’s charred femur, recovered after the burning. Both scenes have been rediscovered and restored. A fan has put a plastic replica of the charred femur up for sale – 3D printing works wonders.

In short, beauty is confined to the past, as in the case of a Botticelli painting, and the only excellence celebrated is that of Beretta rifles. One cannot expect too much subtlety from a programme such as The Gentlemen, but this depressing portrayal is not very different from that of the White Lotus season set in a hotel in Taormina, with the manager hiding her neuroses behind authoritarian perfectionism, two shrewd escorts and the inevitable mafioso. As is well known, the government’s line is to change the narrative surrounding our country, and these portrayals call for reflection, starting with the stereotypes that everywhere reinforce prejudices and shy away from deeper analysis: one need only venture into a discussion of American society to realise that even in Italy there is a tendency to oversimplify its characteristics through the most hackneyed clichés. When considering how this trend might be reversed, it is important not to forget the industrial heart of the film industry: both the major studios and the all-powerful streaming platforms know that the most obvious choice is also the most profitable one: it is risky to change a narrative that works, given a reality that is far more varied and, in many respects, decidedly different.

Today, Italian production companies have limited clout compared to the major studios, but this has not always been the case: until a few years ago, high-quality series such as The Young Pope, Gomorra and My Brilliant Friend made their mark on the world stage, directed by top-class filmmakers and starring – in the case of The Young Pope – international stars: In some cases, they portrayed an even more violent and corrupt image of the country, yet one free from prejudice and stereotypes. This was happening whilst Luca Guadagnino was making – and continues to make – international films and series in Italy too, as in the case of We Are Who We Are. One wonders why there are no productions like those mentioned today and what has happened in the space of just a few years: it is clear that every factor that makes productions competitive on an international level plays a decisive role, but the primary responsibility for the narrative lies with the writers, who are all too often tied to depicting local situations and realities that lack universality.

Both the major studios and the all-powerful streaming platforms know that the most obvious choice is also the most profitable: it is risky to change a narrative that works, given a reality that is far more varied and, in many respects, decidedly different. The case of “The Gentlemen”

It is worth analysing which of our films have been successful abroad and how Italians have been portrayed in international productions, starting with the criminal in The Gentlemen who boasts descent from Michelangelo. In Good Morning Babilonia by the Taviani brothers, two craftsmen hired in Hollywood on the set of D.W. Griffith’s Intolerance proudly claimed to be ‘the sons of the sons of the sons of Michelangelo and Leonardo’, before adding, in a contemptuous tone, ‘and whose son are you?’. The film was made in 1987, and one wonders whether, forty years on, we still find ourselves caught between our own pride and the derision of others. Great cinema has repeatedly managed to succeed without succumbing to stereotypes: one need only think of La Dolce Vita, which remains one of the highest-grossing international films of all time. Beyond a long series of extraordinary iconic sequences – the statue of Christ flying over the rooftops of Rome, the Trevi Fountain, the aristocrats’ party – the film owes part of its success to a superficial interpretation of what Fellini is telling us: the glamorous veneer has overshadowed the tale of a writer’s downfall, a man who renounces his own talent and can no longer heed the call of purity, as the film’s finale – in yet another unforgettable scene – reveals. Once we look beyond the glittering surface, we find ourselves faced with a sombre work, marked by moral corruption and despair, as evidenced by the suicide of Steiner, the intellectual who deludes himself into believing he can live amidst the perfect beauty of Renaissance paintings. Gay Talese, who, swept up by the film’s charm, decided to get married in Rome, maintains that La dolce vita depicts “a hell disguised as paradise”.

It is not dissimilar to what happened with Paolo Sorrentino’s La grande bellezza, an Oscar-winning film closely linked to Fellini’s cinema. Jep Gambardella, too, has turned his back on his talent after writing a cult book, and drags himself wearily to parties which he enjoys only at the thought of causing them to fail. Malice is an attempt to overcome boredom, and beauty can only be glimpsed in the silence of dawn within certain stately homes, or is lamented in the memory of a youth now gone. These are, however, all too fleeting moments: the sentiment conveyed by the film is one of defeat and depression. Despite the presence of a mystical saint who feeds only on roots, here too part of the film’s success is due to a hedonistic surface, which celebrates an extremely elegant homo italicus with such immense talent that he can afford to squander it. Roberto Benigni’s La vita è bella was certainly an extraordinary success; it dares to adopt comedic tones in recounting the greatest abomination of the twentieth century and celebrates the love of a father who shields his son from the tragic reality with increasingly far-fetched tales: this is yet another homo italicus, whose jester-like theatrics and ability to get by are extolled.

In the era of neorealism, the saying that ‘dirty laundry is washed within the family’ was certainly a serious mistake, but there is no denying that those masterpieces immortalise a tragic reality, which becomes grotesque in comedies: what impression might a viewer from another country form when faced with the diabolical plan to get rid of his wife, carried out by the protagonist of Divorzio all’italiana? Or of the murderous police inspector in Investigation of a Citizen Above Suspicion, which triumphed unexpectedly at the Oscars? Very often it is our own filmmakers who create a dissolute, tragic and irredeemable narrative, and we cannot expect foreign cinema to portray anything different. There are also films with a humanist approach, which embraces our limitations, such as Amarcord, which won an Oscar and is loved by audiences all over the world. We are talking, however, of an artist who chose a bittersweet tone as he approached the twilight of his life’s journey, having won his first two Oscars with tragic stories such as La strada and Le notti di Cabiria, and his third with 8½, which concluded with the line ‘life is a party’: a moving yet utterly universal humanism, not tied to our cultural reality.

Great cinema has managed to succeed without pandering to stereotypes: one need only think of "La Dolce Vita". Very often, it is our own filmmakers who create a narrative that is dissolute, tragic and irredeemable, and we cannot expect foreign cinema to tell a different story

After a long period of stagnation, films have emerged that are neither negative nor depressing in tone, but which feature the elements that international audiences love in an Italian production: the soldiers in Mediterraneo are light-hearted and intelligent, whilst the protagonists of Il Postino, Nuovo Cinema Paradiso and Call Me by Your Name are romantic and full of passion. With the exception of the latter, they are all set in the past and always feature captivating settings: in my view, the ability to resonate with the tastes of audiences worldwide whilst highlighting distinctly Italian characteristics is a talent in itself, and I wish to emphasise the importance of the producers: Franco Cristaldi, in particular, engaged openly with Giuseppe Tornatore to ensure the film’s success.

I have not mentioned the adaptation of an Italian literary classic such as Vittorio De Sica’s Il giardino dei Finzi-Contini, nor a film that has very little Italian about it, such as L’ultimo imperatore, apart from Bernardo Bertolucci and his key collaborators. While our filmmakers immortalised Italy through their own eyes, international cinema—and Hollywood in particular—portrayed a picture that can be summarised in a few categories, starting with geographical implausibility: in Nine, a dreadful musical adaptation of 8½, Daniel Day-Lewis travels from the outskirts to the centre of Rome via the Amalfi Coast. Something similar occurs in the no less dreadful House of Gucci, where Adam Driver cycles around Milan via Rome’s Coppedè district. In Summertime, a great director like David Lean falls into the trap of portraying a Venetian child who looks every bit the part of a Neapolitan street urchin, which is a shame, because the film – which also features the cliché of the treacherous Italian Latin lover – depicts the loneliness of a middle-aged, unmarried American woman with remarkable psychological subtlety. Of course, there are also accurate films, and the list is long of those that celebrate architectural wonders, such as The Belly of the Architect or even the quarries that supplied Michelangelo with marble, as in The Brutalist. In the category of the ambiguous homage, the essential example is The Third Man, where the villainous protagonist explains to a friend that the violent years of the Borgias were also those of Leonardo and Michelangelo, whilst in five hundred years of peace and brotherly love, Switzerland has produced nothing but cuckoo clocks.

In Inglourious Basterds, Quentin Tarantino stages a sequence in which he pokes fun at stereotypes of Italians: the film is a remake of Enzo G. Castellari’s That Damned Armoured Train, just as Django Unchained was a remake of Sergio Corbucci’s film. He is responsible for the revival of Italian B-movies, as evidenced by Leonardo DiCaprio’s character in Once Upon a Time… Hollywood.

International film directors are generally baffled by our politics: in The Godfather Part III, a degenerate offshoot of the first two instalments, a man commits a murder whilst quoting Giulio Andreotti’s line: ‘Power wears down those who do not have it’. Coppola must have been struck by it, but in the film the line has no real dramatic significance. In Titus, two factions clash under the banners of Roma and Lazio, and one gets the impression that Julie Taymor wishes to immortalise a world in which farce has replaced tragedy. As for the category of traditions, the finest example is the Sicilian sequence in The Godfather, with the story of Michael Corleone’s falling in love, courtship and marriage, whilst Italy as a land of joy and love has yielded varying results, depending on the calibre of the filmmakers: Roman Holiday is a classic because William Wyler succeeds in portraying a sunny and chaotically perfect atmosphere, something Jean Negulesco fails to achieve in Three Coins in the Fountain or Florian Henckel von Donnersmarck in The Tourist. As Tarantino demonstrates, it is possible to make skilful use of stereotypes, which, in Billy Wilder’s work, takes on an affectionate tone: in What Happened Between My Father and Your Mother?, there is no character more endearing than the shrewd hotel manager Carlucci. It was 1972, and the character is the polar opposite of the manager in The White Lotus. It’s the same approach taken by Woody Allen in Everyone Says I Love You: unlike in recent productions, the beauty of Italy also influences the characters’ sensibilities and intelligence, just as it did in Vincent Minnelli’s Two Weeks in Another Town.

Beauty that is, however, used in a contrasting light in horror films: cities of art become the setting for monstrous crimes, as in A Venezia un dicembre rosso shocking or Hannibal. Even the glamour of The Talented Mr Ripley plays on the dissonance with the crimes committed by the protagonist, and the splendour of Capri and Casa Malaparte makes the protagonists’ crisis in Jean-Luc Godard’s Contempt all the more painful.

This stands in contrast to what occurs in Somewhere, by Sofia Coppola, who deeply loves our country, from which her grandfather Carmine emigrated. Her gaze is disheartened when she shows the protagonist at the Telegatti awards ceremony: no stereotypes, no lazy or malicious exaggerations, but an authentic portrayal of an event that has long enjoyed success. The director is well aware that Italy is not just that, but even this helps us to understand why a new narrative is so difficult to achieve.

Now the City of Naples is paying tribute to her with the ‘Antonietta Uncut’ initiative, running from 11 November to 2 December: alongside the comprehensive retrospective of her works at CasaCinema, the Nest and the Napoli Est Teatro, there will be a series of seven lectures given by the director (as with the screenings, attendance is free of charge).

Has she ever regretted sparking that dispute over the distribution of her film?

More than twenty years on, I would say I’d do it all again, even though I paid the price. I’m proud of myself, but I do not feel sorry for myself nor do I consider myself a heroine, even though it hurt to see the indifference of so many colleagues, who lacked the strength or the interest to realise that a case like mine could just as easily have happened to them. It is not merely a question of solidarity, but of political awareness.

In “L’occhio della gallina”, he portrayed his story in a tragicomic vein.

Because I did not view it through a paranoid lens: I never believed it was a case of personal persecution, but rather a situation that could have happened to anyone. I fought to stay true to myself.

Did being a woman put you at a disadvantage?

I am not a conventional feminist, nor have I ever experienced gender subordination; on the contrary, I believe that being born a woman and in Naples has been a double blessing for my artistic life. I make no secret of the fact, however, that the lack of dialogue with the institutions – whose leadership was almost entirely male – may also have stemmed from this: perhaps it was uncomfortable for them to speak on an equal footing with a woman.

Like his film, Striano’s book also suffered from adverse circumstances.

I was more combative than him because I was quite young, and I identify with Striano partly because of his artistic solitude. If you do something that doesn’t fit into either the mainstream or the auteur tradition, you become unclassifiable. To me, both labels seemed too narrow: it is possible to pursue an aesthetic exploration that isn’t self-referential, and it is possible to take the audience into account without being merely ‘pop’. Unfortunately, those who tread the line between the two poles are disconcerting to producers and critics who are prisoners of definition. Never mind: everyone must have the courage to believe in their own way of expressing themselves.

What are your aspirations as an independent director and producer?

I do not wish to go against the grain, but there is a long-standing problem: as a result of the 2016 Franceschini Act, funding for the film industry saw exponential increases that favoured a select few, penalising smaller players and perpetuating a system that remained unchanged even as governments came and went. A bubble had formed: we saw millions of our tax money being channelled into films that were guaranteed to turn a profit along the way, rather than expecting the films themselves to make money at the box office, or at the very least to have cultural value. Furthermore, the idea that cinema is an industry by law has taken hold: even the younger generation has been brought up to think this way. The lectures I will be giving in Naples will focus on the opposite perspective: the uniqueness of the filmmaker and an awareness of the artistic process as a means of combating cultural impoverishment.

How do you rate TV series?

Ninety per cent of them are the result of an industrial process in which even the authorship of the work is lost, but I’m not entirely opposed to it. Someone suggested I watch “Adolescence” and I found it absolutely brilliant, precisely because it defied that pseudo-industrial mould. I must admit I do not like wasting time: if a story does not grab me straight away, I would rather watch Dancing with the Stars or Le Iene: they still open a window onto the world – perhaps a depressing one, but one that is more enriching than a bad TV drama.

Who will he draw inspiration from for his “Lezioni napoletane”?

I aim to emulate the spirit of Calvino’s "Lezioni americane", the book I have given away most often in my life—even to my beautician. This is not presumption but an act of gratitude. Today, I am not as afraid of artificial intelligence as I am of the loss of humanity – that feeling which makes you laugh until you cry in moments of pure joy, or brings you to tears. For example, at the theatre, I am moved when, at the end, the actors come out to take their bows: whether I enjoyed the performance or not, I feel gratitude for the generosity of those who took to the stage.

What is the greatest source of satisfaction in the tribute that Naples will pay you?

The hospitality of the Nest, on the eastern outskirts. I was a girl from a middle-class neighbourhood, raised within a magical circle. When I managed to break out of it by travelling around the city, I realised that the outskirts often produce more interesting ideas. It’s like in the film industry: perhaps creativity lies on the fringes because those at the centre are lazier. As Age & Scarpelli used to say: ‘Take the tram if you want to write’. Out there lies the world.

When it came to showing their gratitude, however, very few turned up. Minister Giuli dedicated the day to Tinto Brass, who had passed away just a few hours earlier. The PD is already calling it the ‘Schlein Bill’ and will use it as a selling point in the election campaign. Mollicone said ‘thank you’ in public, but since then there has been nothing more from the political sphere. But politics, as we know, is not a grateful business. Cinema, however – you might say, colleagues, directors, actors – surely they would have expressed their thanks. But no. Or at least there is no record of it. The trade associations were quick to point out that autonomy has been watered down, funding is uncertain, and so on, whilst taking care never to mention Pupi Avati. Now, one can say anything about him, except that he acted out of self-interest or personal gain: they still wish him many more films, but at eighty-eight years of age, from an agency that, if all goes well, will open in 2028, he doesn’t have much to gain. There is a promise of streamlined procedures, a reorganisation of the sector, and support for independent producers. Or it may become yet another ‘useful’ body, the umpteenth political spoils of war, a ‘reservation’ for those left out in the cold by the next elections. We shall see. For the moment, however, the Agency exists where none did before, and action was clearly required. The only lingering suspicion is that, had someone else been leading this battle, we would have seen interviews, tributes, torchlit processions, front-page headlines with ‘Thank you, Pupi’ in huge letters, and a proposal to name a room or corridor in the new Agency after him.

Anyone who attended secondary school during those glossy years will have compulsively re-read such articles (let’s not even mention the photographic evidence), the unattainable pinnacle of which were the periodic auditions to which Brass subjected the aspiring leading ladies: stories—I know not how true—of a fairy-tale world over which the director reigned like a carnivalesque sovereign, in meticulously staged photos depicting him grinning with a cigar between his teeth whilst, before him, who knows how many aspiring starlets lay on the sofa—albeit on all fours, with their skirts lifted and their knickers askew – they might have been retired porn stars, bored shop assistants, hopeful newcomers, or veteran stage veterans willing to pose nude, but only for artistic purposes… This ‘court of miracles’ must not be forgotten now that newspaper critics are filling their obituaries with the most specious distinctions, lamenting Brass the director, but only the avant-garde director of his early days, not the cynical, low-brow box-office sell-out, not the satyr who had developed a senile obsession with adolescent eroticism.

Brass didn’t care for critics: part resentful, part amused, Tullio Kezich recounted how, after criticising one of his works, he found his name engraved on the gravestones in a cemetery scene in Brass’s next film. Just as he laughed at the critics back then, so Brass would laugh at the timidity of those who today forget that his films were social phenomena – the brazen articulation of what was teetering on the edge of a somewhat hypocritical sleaziness, much like the racy covers of the aforementioned weekly magazines, for which Cuore published a detailed ranking by erogenous zone (Panorama and L’Espresso were jostling for the top spot, whilst Epoca and L’Europeo were lagging behind), whilst the more demure Italia Settimanale nevertheless allowed itself to slip into its review of L’uomo che guarda a wistful remark: ‘It’s nice to earn money by filming what you imagine whilst masturbating’.

Back when the Lega claimed to be ‘tough’, Brass was called upon to condemn a form of machismo he deemed ‘orrotic’ – a portmanteau of ‘eroticism’ and ‘horror’ – yet he would then bless journalists with the wish ‘Erectio perennis’. Admittedly, the scripts for his films might have been slapdash, the acting questionable, the nudity decidedly excessive – but that was the trend elsewhere too: one need only recall Il macellaio and Le età di Lulù, the provocative Francesca Dellera in La carne, Anna Falchi stripped bare and furious in Dellamorte Dellamore, Valeria Marini astride the mortadella in Bigas Luna’s Bambola, and the scene with the eel, the eel! Tinto Brass was the supreme chronicler of that collective adolescence, free from shame as he was wholly focused on the irresolvable tension that always animates sex and resolves it into disappointment: as in the short film in which a man waiting for the underground at night spots a woman on the opposite platform undressing and winking at him; he races up the stairs to reach her without crossing the tracks, and when he arrives, she’s gone, vanished like a wet dream. Or that scene in which a couple take refuge to make love on a bell tower because they want to enjoy themselves closer to the sky: well, Tinto Brass is dead now that the sky has receded, the tension has eased, and we no longer need sex.

And Tinto Brass really was always a world apart, in his own way, even whilst having his feet, hands and body firmly in the world. He had a keen eye and ‘a touch of the voyeur’, as he put it, but without any sleaziness; sincere insofar as a film director can be sincere – that is to say, ‘almost never’.

He had been drawn to Tinto Brass’s films by a sense of affinity and voyeurism. He loved the cinema, but had never really thought of working in it. He was, however, curious to know what went on behind the scenes of films. He went to Paris to learn French, and there he began working as an archivist at Henri Langlois’s Cinémathèque française in exchange for board and lodging – nothing more: “I could afford it; having a father who was a lawyer was a great advantage”. He found a way to learn the craft of film editing and began to dream of making it his profession. Because “the editor is detached from the world; I just have to get inside the director’s head to understand what he wants”. Through his close association with directors and his ability to interpret their thoughts, he was approached by Roberto Rossellini to edit several documentaries in the series L’India vista da Rossellini. The director found him likeable – a bit odd, but likeable. He recommended him to Alberto Cavalcanti, who, instead of letting him do the editing, made him an assistant director. It wasn’t what he wanted, “but it was money. I was meant to be a lawyer and ended up as an editor. Compared to that, being an assistant director was a walk in the park’. It was less of a walk in the park to do what he’d set out to do. It took him time – about ten years of ‘serious’ films. What he wanted to do was challenge the prudes, ‘because there was nothing more irritating in Italy at the time – and not just then – than the prudes’. He made the shift towards eroticism for two reasons: he believed that cinema was joie de vivre and he wanted to finally highlight “what cinema had hidden for far too long: the arse”. Feminists hated him, and yet “I, too, have always had little patience for machismo and exhibitionism fuelled by too much testosterone”.

His eroticism stemmed from his love of art, he said. It was his grandfather’s fault: it was he who renamed him Tinto, in honour of Tintoretto. That name erased his own: only on the register was he Giovanni Brass. His eroticism was a choice of total and radical freedom. A libertarian, but one with good judgement, aware that there is no personal freedom without respect for the freedom of others. And just one commandment: ‘Do not abuse your power!’ For him, eroticism was liberation and freedom. It became his election slogan when he stood as a candidate for the Bonino-Pannella List. Out of this world, in his own way, yet very much part of the world, because wanting freedom ‘means fighting for everyone’s rights’. Tinto Brass was a character in his own right. Out of this world and yet perfectly at home in it. Even in his old age in Isola Farnese, because “if there’s anything truly important, sooner or later it reaches Isola Farnese too. Like hydrogeological instability. It reached Isola Farnese. The ground gave way and Isola Farnese really did become an island. Like Venice, but without the smell of ‘frescino’.”

A new ensemble production, featuring a group of actresses from different generations and with diverse sensibilities, ranging from Anna Ferzetti to Michela Andreozzi, from Sara Drago to Angela Finocchiaro, Lucia Mascino, Carlotta Natoli, Veronica Pivetti, Fabrizia Sacchi, Paola Turci and many others. An actress, author and exponent of a theatrical tradition in which the intelligence of language meets irony and civic-minded reflection, Lella Costa belongs to that rare category of artists capable of engaging with public discourse without sacrificing complexity. “Returning to this play offers an opportunity to examine the relationship between theatre and society, the tone of the Italian debate, the anxieties of the younger generations and the fate of the spoken word in an age of incessant communication,” she explains to Il Foglio.

Thirty years on, how has the perception of the female body changed?

That is a significant question. For some time, it has been assumed that conditions have improved, that progress has been made in terms of knowledge. However, I am not entirely convinced, because I am uncertain whether what was once a women’s movement—a sharing of experiences, a coming together, a reclaiming of control and knowledge over one’s own body—still occurs today. It remains uncertain whether young women today are given the opportunity to understand their own bodies and to recognize clearly what they need and what it all entails. In this sense, The Monologues surprise and entertain, telling stories that are not taken for granted.

Is this a current text?

In a sense, it is, because it stems from research and a series of interviews that Eve Ensler conducted in the 1990s with women of all ages and social backgrounds in the United States. The Vagina Monologues embody this voice, and it is no coincidence that the author prefers them to be read aloud rather than recited from memory, as they represent authentic voices and lived experiences. The text’s strength lies in its consistently light-hearted tone, despite the powerful themes it addresses. There is a great deal of irony, and the show is also highly entertaining.

When this text was first staged, some words were still unpronounceable.

In fact, perhaps some of them are even more so now. At the time, they were provocative words. Even a word like ‘vagina’ – which is the technical term for the organ it refers to, a word we are not familiar with – came across as provocative and strange. This was the late 1990s, yet rather than provoking scandal, the initiative generated a powerful sense of solidarity—a theme that surfaced across diverse narratives and resonated with women of all ages and backgrounds who could recognise themselves in the same performance and script. The same holds true today.

You have often assigned irony a cognitive function, and it allows you to approach topics that formal language tends to make rigid. What is your relationship with humour when the subject is violence against women?

The monologues also address this in the strictest sense. Just consider that until 2010, the word ‘femicide’ did not exist. Unfortunately, the phenomenon existed, but there was no word to describe it. The monologues address violence and rape, but they primarily explore the relationship women have with their own bodies and their own vaginas—a relationship that is often repressed and treated as a taboo subject. If this were not the case, discussion would be easier. Ensler tackles the themes of violence in other ways, such as in The Body of the World or the work she has done for One Billion Rising.

You met at the Argentina here in Rome for the first Italian V-Day in 2001 and then in America.

Yes, in 2008, to mark the tenth anniversary of the play’s first staging in New Orleans, where Hurricane Katrina had struck. We put on a performance attended by 40,000 people. I was in Boston in 2016, however, because she had staged another of her plays there.

Throughout her career, what relationship has developed between the actress’s writing and her body? Has the stage taught her something that the written page alone could not have revealed to her?

Words and the stage are so closely linked that, to me, they are inseparable. Mine is a theatre of the spoken word. I am often the author or co-author of these words. In the case of I Monologhi, my contribution as an author lies not in the text itself, but in the way it is brought to the stage – in the performance. She has also participated in all performances of the play "Ferite a morte", adapted from the book of the same name by Serena Dandini, and is pleased to be recognised for her credibility. When she addresses certain topics, it is clear that she was cast not only for that particular production, but because specific issues and themes are close to her heart and because she believes in them deeply.

How difficult is it to be credible at this particular moment in history?

There is often confusion between recognisability and credibility, which do not necessarily go hand in hand. There are people who are very recognisable but who are not, in fact, credible. Would you ever buy a car from someone you don’t trust? I wouldn’t, let alone anything else. In my case, I believe I have earned this recognisability, meaning that when I speak on certain topics, I am credible.

Italy is going through a particularly turbulent period. The squares of Rome and Milan, the student protests and the demonstrations that have swept across the country all point to a generation that has lost patience with traditional forms of representation. What do you make of this unrest?

I lived through the years of the great mass protests myself, and it is impossible for me to ignore them. Today’s movements are different because the world has changed, the world of communication has changed, and we have social media. Underlying it all is a genuine unease that stems from an objective view of the world. When people ask me how I am, my automatic reply is ‘as well as can be expected, given the state of the world’. Feeling well as an individual isn’t really worth that much, after all, and I’m not just saying this to sound like a do-gooder. I’m troubled by this revanchism, this return of wars which, rather than receding from us, have drawn nearer and multiplied. It’s hard to talk about the evolution of the species when we’re still fixated on the enemy and on physically annihilating them. That’s not very ‘sapiens’ of us.

In your opinion, how can one distinguish between a protest that sparks reflection and one that ends up being nothing more than a spectacle?

I believe it takes time. One of the pitfalls we all tend to fall into is that there has been this terrifying acceleration in the flow of information and the sharing of news, and there is no longer time for reflection and re-evaluation. I feel like saying: ‘Calm down!’. These young people, who are now assuming responsibilities in the face of a daunting world, have at least the sacrosanct right to take their time, find their voice, and be judged. As Karl Marx observed, people are not judged by what they think or claim to think, but by what they do. So let us give them time to understand. It always strikes me as a bit disingenuous that, when it comes to events that are undoubtedly very negative – such as acts of violence, smashed shop windows and so on – far more emphasis is placed on that than on everything else. There’s a problem with who’s telling the story; it’s a matter of choice.

During the protests, the word ‘freedom’ was often shouted. What does it mean to you today to be free?

It is one of those words we all think we agree on, but in reality it has many different meanings. The real difference lies between freedom TO and freedom FROM. Not all freedoms from the world’s negativity are yet guaranteed to everyone – such as freedom from want, from slavery, from war and from violence… that is where we should start in order to see how freedom TO act and to express oneself plays out… it seems to me that those who protest and end up in prison are not, after all, completely free from a series of heavy constraints. I understand perfectly well that the future is something very uncertain and frightening. Rather than free, I consider myself extraordinarily lucky and privileged, and I aim to make the best possible use of that.

Tonight she will be at the Teatro la Cometa here in Rome and then on tour to Milan, at the Carcano – a theatre she co-directs with Serena Sinigaglia – two venues where women play a prominent role.

I cannot help but be delighted; the meeting with Maria Grazia Chiuri was a real treat, and that Roman theatre, steeped in history and brought back to life, is extraordinary. All in all, let’s make our voices heard.”

What would you like a member of the audience to take away with them as they leave the theatre?

The words and ideas shared – even just a tiny bit of something, whatever it may be. And then the beauty we sow, and the good we make of it all.

If we ask ourselves what the connection is between Federico Fellini, Spielberg, Luchino Visconti, David Lynch, Dario Argento, Monicelli and Pasolini (as well as the investigations into Pinelli’s death), the answer is: Carlo Rambaldi. To many, this name might mean nothing, but only until one lists his creations, which have had an impact not only on cinema but also on the collective imagination of entire generations – true pop culture icons. A master of special effects, Rambaldi was also a major contributor to the imagery that transcends films and takes on a life of its own. Sometimes you don’t even need to have seen the film to recognise the characters. A native of Emilia, he created the alien E.T., the gorilla in King Kong, and the terrifying face of Alien with its retractable jaw—to name just the most famous, for which he won Oscars (three in total). Rambaldi was a builder of machines, robots and creatures that appeared on screen to the audience as if they were real—more real than realistic. On a sweltering October day, his star was unveiled, and a ceremony was held to reveal for the first time the large plaque that will remain there forever – until the Californian wildfires reach West Hollywood too.

An Emilian who created E.T., the gorilla from King Kong, and the terrifying face of Alien. And those are just the ones for which he won Oscars.

At the star-unveiling event, among the various VIPs paying tribute, there is also Dee Wallace—elegant in a Chinese gown, with icy eyes and a background in Wes Craven’s horror films—who played the mother in E.T. and tells Il Foglio about the first time she saw the alien, arriving on set one morning. “I remember that first day very clearly. I walked into the studios, turned to my right and there were two men standing either side of E.T. I froze and stared at that little creature,” she says, almost getting emotional, “it was so incredible that you could see his soul. And working with E.T. was like working with another person. I have such wonderful memories. Spielberg’s film wouldn’t have been what it was without this creation.”

Rambaldi’s works and creatures were so realistic that in 1971 he even had to prove in court that the scene depicting the vivisection of a dog in Lucio Fulci’s Una lucertola con la pelle di donna – from the golden age of Italian erotic horror – featured robots, not real dogs, because animal rights activists were up in arms. He was responsible for the special effects in Profondo Rosso, as well as in La Grande Abbuffata – he created the mannequin of Mastroianni, frozen to death on the Bugatti – and in Pasolini’s The Canterbury Tales – he created the mechanical devil. He also created the anatomical mannequin that, at the request of the Milan Public Prosecutor’s Office, was thrown out of a police station window in an attempt to understand how the anarchist Pinelli—wrongly accused of the Piazza Fontana bombing—had died, that is, been killed. The Years of Lead, Italian-style comedy and Steven Spielberg—what a career. Of the great director – for whom he’d also worked on Close Encounters of the Third Kind – Rambaldi said: “He’s a good lad, very cheerful and friendly. Like all Americans.” With Lynch, he’d create the giant worms for Dune; with Mario Bava, the masks for Diabolik.

Dee Wallace, who played the mother in “E.T.”, recounts the day she encountered the creature on set: “It was so incredible that you could see its soul.”

Born in 1925 in the province of Ferrara and having died in 2012 after retiring to Calabria, Rambaldi learnt to handle tools and mechanisms, to build, fit and manufacture, in his father’s bicycle workshop. Remembering him at the ceremony with great tenderness was his millennial granddaughter, Cristina Lippolis Rambaldi, an actress based between Italy and New York, dressed in a sparkling red-carpet gown. She spoke of when ‘Grandad Carlo’ used to play with her and his other granddaughters, building things, sharing drawings and gazing at the stars through a telescope. His daughter also spoke of how reserved he was – “a quiet man” – but also of how his eyes would light up whenever people asked him about his work.

Special effects, then, before special effects as we know them actually existed, when Hollywood’s avant-garde was still the oldest practice in the world: that of marionettes and puppet theatre, to which animatronics was applied – not just pneumatic mechanics but later electronics too – to open jaws and eyelids, to extend claws, to make reptilian tails thrash. “A pioneer of mechatronics,” they say of him, and the president of Cinecittà, Senator Antonio Saccone, on his arrival in LA, speaks of him as a bridge “between the Italian cinematic tradition and the global audiovisual industry,” because “what could be more beautiful than technology when it is used to create magic? It teaches us that we mustn’t be afraid of the future, but rather embrace it.” And he explains to Il Foglio that, in his view, for Rambaldi, “cinema has always been a great technological revolution, and Rambaldi has left us with the idea of knowing how to harness new technologies and transform them into pure creativity and entertainment”. Thus, a “builder of mechanical actors”, as some have described him, and a source of Italian pride.

According to the president of Cinecittà, Antonio Saccone, “Rambaldi left us with the idea of embracing new technologies and transforming them into creativity”

Because the Walk of Fame event is also a small gathering of the Italian and Italian-American community in Los Angeles, attended by Little Italy’s president, Anna Manunza, and Consul General Raffaella Valentini, who tells us, “For Rambaldi, this is an opportunity to showcase Italy through its great achievements. And our strength has always been craftsmanship combined with creativity, and in California”, the land of tech, “it seems like a contrast, but in reality it isn’t. This is the place where our way of being Italian finds a new identity”, a meeting of hands-on expertise, dreaming big, and new techniques. “We convey this every day by trying to overcome the stereotypes of a country that looks to the past. We have extraordinary artisans; we want to showcase and promote them, whilst remaining aware that we must look to the future. It is no coincidence that so many films are shot here – and it is not just a matter of tax credits, but because Italy is home to some truly talented craftspeople. Costume designers, set designers, sound effects… a tradition that is widely recognised in Hollywood.” Since taking up her post as consul, Valentini has unveiled two more stars honouring her compatriots: Giancarlo Giannini and Franco Nero. There is talk of another one soon, but that remains a state secret.

The vast debate about technology is the hot topic in the broad world of Californian entertainment. Here too, there is a fear that artificial intelligence – or ‘Superintelligence’, as Donald Trump now calls it – might take away jobs and render workers redundant. We spoke with Matt Winston, son of the late special-effects and animatronics pioneer Stan Winston, whose work on films such as Terminator, Iron Man and Edward Scissorhands built on the legacy of his mentor, Carlo Rambaldi, and his ability to conceal construction techniques from the public eye. “Without his thirteen-metre King Kong, there would have been no T-rex in Jurassic Park created by my father,” says Winston, who, having grown up in the industry, has also acted in series such as Friends and Scrubs.

Artificial intelligence tools are sparking a debate on how to use them ethically, as they ‘steal’ other people’s art. But Pandora’s box has been opened. How can we use AI to elevate artists without replacing them? “We cannot leave all the fun of creating to the machines. My father used to say that whenever a new technological tool came along, everyone thought it was the only one worth using; yet the secret to creating magic is to use all the tools together – both traditional and new – partly because that way the audience has no idea how things were put together and remains in awe.” Winston Junior, together with his family, has set up a school for ‘character design for cinema’, so that these skills are not lost in the great maelstrom of machine learning. Even the granddaughter of the ‘father of E.T.’, Cristina, acknowledges that ‘it’s not a competition with AI, but the Rambaldi Foundation’s mission is also to preserve something that is being lost’.

As a boy, Rambaldi wanted to be an artist. And of course, as is often the case, his family did not agree. He had enrolled at the Academy of Fine Arts in Bologna. He began out as a sculptor. But it was through cinema that he eventually found his calling, recalls his family, who were present at the ‘star’s’ event, after seeing the 1933 version of King Kong. He went on to direct the 1976 version, entering the orbit of producer Dino De Laurentiis, who took him to America – a country about which he said that, when it came to getting things done, ‘people don’t get bogged down in idle chatter’ – and which, as a pro-European, he commented on by saying that ‘if Europe were to start thinking like a united continent, truly collaborating and without getting bogged down in pointless nationalism, then it could have the same potential as America’.

In addition to his desire to animate inanimate objects and create new things, he was deeply interested in worlds and had a profound passion for space and other universes – it is no coincidence that he later turned his attention to aliens – and he drew and painted. At the Italian Cultural Institute in LA, an exhibition of his drawings and paintings has been organized, depicting distant worlds, lunar and Martian landscapes, galaxies, spaceships, and islands floating in the blackness of the cosmos – and at the exhibition, lined up beneath a display case, are his three Oscar statuettes. At the opening at the IIC – which was packed with Italians, though not exclusively – the playlist featured ‘Rocket Man’ and ‘Man on the Moon’, ‘Life on Mars’ and ‘Moonshadow’, alongside pasta with pesto and mondeghili, yet another instrument of the tricolour’s soft power. There was a video appearance by Guillermo del Toro, who calls Rambaldi ‘a worldwide maestro of magic’, and says he is concerned that technology is taking away the marionettes he loves so much; he is fighting to recognise those who create practical special effects, to bring them back onto film sets. The remarks also call to mind Nolan’s *Odyssey*, which set the summer alight – a hollowing out of the Homeric epic, transformed into PTSD – Troy like Vietnam, an Apocalypse Now (perhaps) but with feathered helmets – where, however, everyone, across the political divide, celebrated the fact that Polyphemus was made of papier-mâché and not by computer, and that the transformation of the Greeks into pigs was ‘all real’, that is, achieved through ‘theatrical illusion and animatronics’.

Rambaldi had a great passion for space. His drawings of lunar landscapes and floating islands are on display at the Italian Cultural Institute in LA

So there’s still room, then, for tangible things – a bit like the return to vinyl. Rambaldi – this Leonardo da Vinci, as Matt Winston called him – had also had the idea of building his own space Disneyland (hence the alien drawings) outside Ferrara, to be called Millennium. His own sci-fi Epcot, a futuristic theme park that was never built – a Gardaland inspired by the imagery of the covers of old Urania magazines. When asked in recent years whether he believed in aliens, Rambaldi would say: “Well, perhaps they exist, but the distance is too great… thousands of light-years. So we’ll never reach them and they’ll never reach us. Therefore, the dilemma will always remain: do they exist or not? And in any case, it’ll be nice not to reveal the answer, because many other stories can be invented.”

Demonstrators have taken to the streets over a Moncler jacket seized in the name of the ‘cost of living crisis’, while Feltrinelli’s books remain unread, scattered on the ground and kicked aside as obstacles. Back in the days of proletarian expropriation, one would at least depart with a Lukács under the arm, a Marcuse, an Adorno, a *Workers and Capital*, an *Anti-Oedipus* – hefty tomes, useful even for defending oneself against the police. That was class consciousness. This group, however, simply does not know what to do with books. Then there are the commentators on the left, for whom protest is always sacrosanct. Here, too, is the grand return of the word ‘System’ – oldies but goldies, dusted off and bandied about everywhere: young people may well be without values, but at least they’re there to tell us that ‘the system must be brought down’, dismantled, deconstructed from within, ‘de-structured’, like fusion carbonara. ‘Young people are smashing shop windows – not just the physical ones, but also those of the narrative of power’ (you might think I am joking, but that is exactly how I read it in Il Fatto Quotidiano). And yet, if you are genuinely seeking values, do not waste your time in the streets, do not overanalyse, and do not get bogged down in lengthy sociological dissections of smashed shop windows. Go to the cinema. Or switch on Rai 1. There’s plenty there to re-educate our young people: a constant stream of films that promote values – such as those paraded last week at the North Rome Film Festival (that’s what we call it in Rome, because on any weekday afternoon it’s technically out of reach for anyone who doesn’t already live in that area). While the shop-window smashing is said to reflect a ‘society without values’, the red carpets are said to embody the accumulation of values – or rather, ‘surplus value’, as that chap would say: femicides, the rule of law, bullying, emotional education, mafias, anti-mafia groups, women’s emancipation, exemplary lives, martyrologies, beatifications. In the streets, ‘no values’; on the screen, far too many. And as usual, never a middle ground.

The feel-good film, destined to be one of those ‘films-that-should-be-shown-in-schools’, is certainly nothing new – far from it. However, at times the phenomenon can spiral somewhat out of control. As early as September, we had entered what Avvenire dubbed “the month of Carlo”, referring to Acutis, the teenage saint, patron of the Internet, “the cyber-apostle who spoke to millennials” – roughly the same age as the Maranza crowd in the town squares: a TV film, a cinema documentary, a reprint of his mother’s book (Il segreto di mio figlio), and the twentieth anniversary of his death. Piemme for print, Mediaset for video, Cannes for exports: a textbook example of vertical integration, a hagiography produced along the supply chain. In the film, Carlo is a saint at six, at eleven, at fifteen. Three sizes of the same halo, not a single crack, not a single less edifying aspect. A paragon of virtue in its purest form – and one of the most unbeatable. At the press conference, Truffaut was even invoked—the director behind the film that improves life, ours and that of our children—though not the one who said, ‘If you want to send a message, use Western Union; don’t make a film’ (Samuel Goldwyn). The film about Acutis was, however, a huge success. It is, as has been written, indicative ‘of our need for values’ (there they are!). It was also a somewhat unexpected success because, as they said, Acutis is no Padre Pio and “his devotion was not ancient, well-established or global” – even though it certainly is global: as I write this piece, I’m reading about thousands of people queuing in Brazil to see a strand of his hair.

The fact is that with Padre Pio, one had to be somewhat from the local area, whereas Acutis became a saint online; he was born global. This exemplary film-story does not contradict the panic over young people lacking values; if anything, it is the fundamental photographic negative: the young man who uses the internet for good whilst others use it to film looting. The saint in a tracksuit who brings food to the homeless while others are ransacking Prada. The film’s director, Giacomo Campiotti—the same director behind Ennio Doris—states that Carlo Acutis is a pure hero, the right saint at the right time, in a society sliding towards violence and selfishness. In short, he is the antithesis of the ‘maranza’: the son that adults would like to have, watched by adults on a Sunday evening, whilst their own children are who knows where. The actor cast to play the young saint was, in fact, already a familiar face in the world of films promoting civic values: Samuele Carrino had previously starred in Il ragazzo dai pantaloni rosa, thus an exemplary victim in another exemplary film. Films that promote values have their own stars.

Sunday evenings featuring uplifting biopics have now become something of an institution: a week before "Acutis", here is a softened, sweetened, pro-government "Guareschi", achieving a 16 per cent audience share – which is no mean feat these days. Acutis is an extreme version of this – more successful, more saintly – which has even earned praise from the Rosario Livatino Study Centre, just as preparations were underway at the Rome Film Festival for the premiere of Livatino, a film by Michele Placido – the blessed man reviewing the saint, and the circle that closes all by itself.

Sunday evenings featuring uplifting biopics are something of an institution: "Acutis" is the most extreme example, but there has also been a toned-down, pro-government version of "Guareschi".

Livatino – Il giudice e i suoi assassini has its roots in Renaissance patronage. It was conceived, the director explains, following a telephone call with Pope Francis, who asked whether this story about the judge was true. It was then christened at the premiere by Mattarella, as if by a concordat. Placido invokes “the great socially conscious cinema of Rosi, Petri and Damiani, which is lacking today”. But that cinema was about investigation, suspicion and accusation. Here, the institutions are in the front row, on the red carpet, blessing the film. The result is a game of winks and mutual flattery: at the start of Livatino, the judge’s parents watch La Piovra on television, witnessing the death of Commissioner Cattani – that is, the young Placido – a trauma for an entire generation, including the reviewer. Three Placidos appear in the same scene: the elder directing, the young one dying on television, and Placido’s son—Brenno—portraying the judge’s best friend. Also at the Festival, still on the subject of judges, is Un atto d’amore, a documentary by Stefano Ribaldi and Maria Falcone, who also directs and serves as president of the Falcone Foundation, chronicling thirty years of the Foundation’s work. It is a triumph of mannerism.

The film Portavalori functions much like the armoured van of the same name and arrives at the cinema under escort: the family at the front, the Foundation and the Film Commission on either side, and the institutions in their official cars at the rear. Bringing up the rear, the critics reserve judgement: it may not be a masterpiece, but it is nonetheless ‘urgent’, ‘necessary’ and an ‘important civic testimony’. Take, for example, Giulia Cecchettin’s film on femicide, another ‘highly anticipated’ highlight of the Festival. In Se domani non torno, directed by Paola Randi and starring Filippo Timi as the father, Giulia’s killer has no face and no name: he is ‘him’, a pronoun. A noble idea: to deprive the culprit of the limelight that the news reports have already bestowed upon him. Yet the film, in its didactic ambitions, seeks above all to teach viewers to recognise the warning signs (obsessive jealousy, a need for control, psychological blackmail) and then refrains from showing the very relationship in which those signs manifested themselves. It is like a guide to fungi without illustrations of poisonous mushrooms, so as not to shock the reader too much. You come away knowing they exist; what they are, who knows. In She Said, a film about the #MeToo movement, Weinstein was only glimpsed from behind; you could hear him on the phone – in short, he didn’t exist. The film was hailed as a necessary piece of work and, as such, was largely ignored. By contrast, the British, with Adolescence, have demonstrated how such subjects can be handled: four hours with a young boy who killed a classmate, confronting him directly, one long take after another. The film has even been introduced in schools, provided by Netflix with Downing Street’s blessing. The issue is not where the film ends up, but how it is made.

In the Cecchettin case, the message is embedded in the press conference: to support sex and emotional education in schools. Gino Cecchettin, moreover, had already criticised the Valditara bill in an interview with Domani. In short, a film in the form of an amendment, with a title that says it all: Se domani non torno is, in fact, a variation on – and an offshoot of – Cortellesi’s now-iconic C’è ancora domani: over thirty-five million in box office takings, school groups queuing up, that finale with women queuing to vote for the first time. Since then, “tomorrow” has become not only a daily occurrence but also an inexhaustible source of civic titles: C’è ancora domani, Se domani non torno, È già domani, and the manifesto-book by Silvia Salis, Mayor of Genoa, which has just been published by Feltrinelli – even though no rioter took it away after smashing the shop windows. “Tomorrow” as a brand. ‘Tomorrow’ in response to our young people’s cry that ‘they’ve stolen our future’. ‘Tomorrow’ also as a more concrete and attainable goal than the ‘sun of the future’, which instead was lost in an unspecified future (and besides, ‘see you tomorrow’, as they say in Rome).

In Giulia Cecchettin’s film about femicide, the killer has no face. A noble idea, but the film aims to make viewers reflect on the warning signs without actually showing them

It is still too early to imagine how many spin-offs Cortellesi’s film will generate. But in the meantime, also at this festival brimming with values, the closing event featured "Ricordati ragazza", a documentary written and directed by Claudia Gerini. It is produced by Luce Cinecittà and Rai Cinema in collaboration with the Chamber of Deputies, which, for the first time in its history, is participating in the production of a film – who knows under which budget heading. The pretext: the 80th anniversary of women’s first vote and the Constituent Assembly. The plot: Matilde, an 18-year-old, would rather be at the seaside with her friends on the day of her first vote. It is her mother and grandmother who accompany her on a journey to discover the achievements that made that gesture possible, through a mix of archive footage and re-enacted scenes. At the screening, representing the production company, Anna Ascani spoke of fuelling the ‘fire of equality’. Meanwhile, Claudia Gerini—who a few years ago declared she hated films solely about women—is moved as she quotes Luciana Castellina: “Being a woman is a lifelong endeavour” (Castellina, a girl from Parioli—in North Rome, in fact—whom politics had discovered all by itself, without needing her grandmother). In short, on one side are the value-less youths who ransack Prada. On the other is Matilde, who, poor thing, hasn’t yet acquired any values, but there are her mum and grandmother – and, behind them, the parliamentary Republic – to patiently explain them to her. The young person as the recipient, the adult as the sender, the institution as the commissioner.

Because, ultimately, the real question is always the same: who commissions it? Why so many? Is there really an audience for this sort of thing, apart from school groups herded off to the cinema? At the heart of it is often a book by a family member, which comes with the full package: the rights, the moral endorsement, the promotion already sorted, and an audience already moved to tears. Giulia’s father (Rizzoli), Carlo’s mother (Piemme), Farouk Kassam’s father (Rai1, in November, the kidnapping story spread over three evenings), Giovanni Falcone’s sister (in person, as the narrator). The sequence is always the same: the bereavement, the book, the foundation, the film, the schools, the anniversary, Mattarella. A circular economy of memory.

Let’s be clear: every family has the right – indeed, the duty – to keep a name alive. But isn’t it a bit anachronistic to keep thinking that the old feature film – as they used to say – perhaps even as compulsory viewing in schools, is the most effective tool? Especially at a time when eighteen-year-olds consume cinema in fifteen-second snippets, in front of six screens all lit up. And might it not be the case that, alongside the mission, something else is creeping in? A touch of artistic ambition, a hint of narcissism, the pleasure of finding oneself on the red carpet, under the flashbulbs, with a heap of values to display instead of a designer dress. Cinema, as we know, is contagious, like measles. Foundations become production companies, foundation chairwomen become narrators, actresses become state-appointed directors, and the Chamber of Deputies becomes an associate producer. Ministers, undersecretaries, governors and councillors sit in the front row. The film industry, which has ever-dwindling funds, gladly opens its doors to those who arrive with a script, funding and a seal of approval in their pockets. The only question that remains is who will actually watch all this ‘cinema of values’.

It is almost hard to believe. In the theatre, he had not just played a minor role. His calling had come early, and his career spanned several decades. He was 11 years old (born in 1940, the youngest of three children, in Yorkshire) when his English teacher – whose name was Cecil Dormand – gave him a copy of "The Merchant of Venice" and told him to recite it. It certainly wasn’t his family who introduced him to the classics. His father was a sergeant major, with a penchant for alcohol and a tendency towards domestic violence. His mother worked in a textile factory. With Shakespeare, it was love at first sight. He put it in writing, in his own words, as follows: “A writer from 400 years ago sent me an invitation. I felt my deepest, most intimate self connect with something mysterious, foreign, exciting. I was hooked.” That was the effect old Will’s verses had on a young boy who hadn’t grown up with The Lion King. Patrick Stewart enquired about acting schools in the area and began attending them. Only later did he learn that his schoolteacher had paid for his first lessons.

He worked for a while as a journalist and a furniture salesman. He then received a scholarship to resume his studies at the Bristol Old Vic Theatre School. He made his debut in a production of "Treasure Island". By the age of 19 he was already bald; alopecia ran in his family. He joined the Royal Shakespeare Company and enjoyed a successful career there. This was before his television career in the US, which began in the late 1980s (of the last century, of course). He starred in "Hamlet", "The Tempest" and "Much Ado About Nothing".

His big break overseas came with a production of ‘Othello’, performed in Washington in 1997. Ten years later, it was the turn of ‘Macbeth’, which earned him a Tony Award. Charles Spencer wrote in the Daily Telegraph: “He is an actor of great charisma. Someone who can make himself a ham sandwich on stage and turn it into the most terrifying gesture you’ve ever seen”. Did the popularity he gained from “Star Trek” bother him? Not at all, he declared: “I’m proud of it. It’s well-made television; there are ideas and arguments, and it tells magnificent stories”.

What went wrong? Everything, or almost everything. Starting with the opening credits, which in the original were animated. A hearse made its way across a map, down one narrow street after another, to reach the country house where the funeral had been arranged. It moved forward, turned a corner, reversed direction, and already the viewer was laughing at the thought of the lost coffin. It set the scene for the relatives failing to recognise the deceased upon his arrival, so the whole thing starts all over again – certain gags are in two parts; a director regarded in Italy as a master of comedy should grasp this straight away. Instead, we get the usual dialects that always make people laugh; here we’re in the Frosinone area. The officiating priest livestreams the service on his mobile, complete with merchandise. The girlfriend, due to be introduced to the family, has swallowed a hallucinogenic potion as a tranquilliser – and climbs onto the rooftops, half-undressed. The original film is available to stream on Prime Video: political incorrectness is a serious business.