Il Mio Viaggio in Italia -or- My Journey Through Italian Cinema (Part Seven: The Bicycle Thieves)

Nothing is as pure and beautiful as truth. It may go down hard, it may have rough edges that make it uncomfortable, but it is without tarnish or imperfection. The ugly, the distasteful comes from lies and distortion. There is no beauty in deception, just artifice masking an empty vessel.

Perhaps this explains the enduring beauty, 60 years on, of Lardi di Bicicilette (1948) aka The Bicycle Thieves, directed by Vittorio De Sica.

It seems on the surface such a simple story, even too simple to be the basis of a film. Unemployed man gets job that requires bicycle. Gets his out of hock. Happily starts job. Bike stolen. Devastation. Looks hither and yon for bike and/or thief with help of little son. Despairing, steals one himself, is immediately caught but released.

It is the very starkness of the story, the realness of it, that make The Bicycle Thieves so irresistible and allows it to work on so many levels. It is the quintessential example of neo realist film making that came out of Italy beginning in the mid 1940's. Famously, De Sica used no professional actors (though Cary Grant and Henry Fonda were both considered for the lead) and every frame was shot on location in Rome.

Lamberto Maggiorani in the lead brought an everyman face that is the Latin equivalent of Gary Cooper. The son, Enzo Staiola, is cherubic and heart breakingly authentic. To me it's their relationship that is most indelible about the film. A child who loves his father unconditionally and wants to believe him regardless of circumstances juxtaposed with a father who loves his child unconditionally and wants desperately to live up to his son's faith. The boy dutifully and gladly follows his dad everywhere helping any way he can. It is a metaphor for all children and their devotion to dad, especially those like Antonio who are both forthright and have a sense of fun.

In one scene Antonio temporarily abandons the search and takes his son to a restaurant for a lunch they cannot afford. But they both deserve something for their efforts. They revel in their meal far more than the well-to-do family at the next table, for whom the repast is just another lunch. But in another scene a frustrated Antonio slaps his son. We feel bad for the boy whose devotion to papa is challenged by the man himself. But we also feel for the father, driven to an act he clearly and quickly regrets.

There is no uplifting ending to The Bicycle Thieves, only father and son forlornly walking home increasingly just part of the crowd. Tacking on a "happy ending" would have rang false to a story that was all about truth. Truths such as the reality that the police could do virtually nothing for Antonio. Truths about the scarcity of jobs and the demoralizing effect of unemployment. Truths about how a job is not just a means of earning money, but an identity and sense of purpose. Truths about how quickly one's circumstances can shift and how one act of thievery can have a ripple effect. Truths about how good intention, dogged determination and faith are not necessarily rewarded. Truths then about life. Life can be full of disappointment and pain, but in the living of that life there exists opportunity. We may eventually find redemption. We may find hope. We may even find our bicycle and another job. There are no certainties, as The Bicycle Thieves reminds us. But there it is. Life without guarantees, just us to make of it what we will. All best pursued with the aid of loved ones. It is in the reflection of others souls in our hearts that we are truly blessed.

The Bicycle Thieves has earned a place in the pantheon of "Greatest Films" lists, even topping the prestigious Sight and Sound's debut list in 1952. Watching it today I was struck by how often I was moved by moments within it. Antonio's realization that his bicycle has been stolen evoked so strongly the same feelings I've had when a possession has been stolen. His desperate often quixotic search felt familiar to any of us who have tried in vain to recover something stolen or missing. And looking at people who have their bikes, who have jobs, who have plenty of cash, recalls any trace of envy, covetousness or jealousy I've ever had.

This then is the mark of great cinema, of great art. To be moved. To relate. To see truth in all its magnificent clarity and beauty.

Il Mio Viaggio in Italia -or- My Journey Through Italian Cinema (Part Six: Stromboli)

Saying that this is Ingrid Bergman at her most beautiful is like saying this is Sinatra singing his best song, or Michael Jordan playing his best game of hoops. But say it I will: Folks, Ingrid was never, ever more beautiful than when she appeared in Stromboli (1950).

One supposes that much credit goes to the film's director, Roberto Rossellini. Off camera, director and star had just began an illicit affair that would eventually lead to pregnancy, scandal, divorce and marriage. So it shouldn't be surprising that his camera treated her rapturously. It can be further speculated that Ingrid was in the head over heels phase of love that can make a woman positively radiate.

But you know what else? She played a real stinker. You thought her character, Alicia, in Notorious (1946) was shady, get a load of Karin in this picture. She is one selfish, pouty, manipulative lady. The way she treats her poor fisherman husband, Antonio (Mario Vitale) is a caution. He's not a bad bloke either. The honest and ernest hard working kind of guy that too often gets stepped on.

We meet Karin at the end of World War II in a displaced persons camp. Antonio is an Italian soldier who courts her through the barb wire that surrounds the camp. She's knocked around lot in large part because of the war and she lost a husband, totally because of the war. Karin has had some tough breaks and gets another when her application to emigrate to Argentina is denied. It's then she latches on to Antonio who marries Karin and takes her to his hometown, the island of Stromboli.

The sparseness of the island, the lack of amenities and the close proximity of an active volcano gives the bride second, third and fourth thoughts about her new situation. When the locals shun her, bad gets worse.

One of the great things about films like Stromboli is you can go interpret in two ways: 1) what was Rossellini trying to say? or 2) what do I take from this film? Indeed it is a characteristic of many films from the post war neo realism school. At the risk of a spoiler I must add that the ambiguity of the ending (though there was at one time a Hollywood ending tacked on to please low brows) certainly adds to any discussion on Stromboli's underlying message.

Rossellini reportedly wrote the film as he filmed it and in lieu of a script used his own hand written notes. Clearly characters and setting were of equal importance to anything so mundane as a screenplay. The director also utilized "real people" (as opposed to the fake plastic ones in most movies) in the form of island residents. This included amazing fishing scenes (real fish, no actors). There was audible squeamishness among the audience when I saw Stromboli recently at the Pacific Film Archives in Berkeley ( I thought some people were either going to puke or call PETA during the ferret/rabbit scene). The scenes of the volcano acting up were also amazing and doubtless done with nary a special effect. Well you can't have neo realism without such strong doses of realty. It all added to the feel of a true story. Stromboli felt like something of a documentary at times, so much so that the never lovelier Ms. Bergman couldn't totally doll it up.

Actually the Ingrid/villagers contrast was not a dichotomy. She had to be in contrast to everything and especially everyone else in the film. This was the brilliance or luck of Rossellini, to have a film goddess who was a brilliant actress to provide such a startling but believable contrast to her environs and thus make the story he was telling all the more compelling.

We watch Karin's struggles with her environment, both the physical and human. It's really a struggle within herself. Whatever is around us just is and there's little if anything that we can do about it. What's key is how we deal with and react to our surroundings. We, like Karin, also confront the question: do I stay or do I go? Either way we answer, as Karin finds out, leads to another set of ponderables.

With Stromboli you might say that some audiences would come for Ingrid but stay for the story. Not a bad deal.

(Some might squawk at my including this film in my series on Italian cinema inasmuch as it was largely in English and backed by an American studio. But this was an Italian film all the way, not just the director and all but one of the performers, but the crew and most importantly, the style.)

Happy Woody Allen's Birthday Everyone!

Let's Imagine You Had a Really Weird Dream About Hitchcock's North by Northwest....

This was posted today on Jim Emerson's Blog. In his words: "I can't explain it but I kinda like it." It sure helps if you've seen North by Northwest (1959) a few times. I don't know if it would help if you've experimented with psychedelics (and by the way, I'd strongly recommend against it). Mostly it helps if you've got a mind that you're welling to let step outside for a walk every now and again.

Dig it.

A Medicine For Melancholia

Today I had a case of the end-of-the-Thanksgiving-Break-three-weeks-until-Christmas-break-blahs. Fortunately I had recently recorded Flying Down to Rio (1933) which was, as you are no doubt aware, the first cinematic pairing of Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers (I was going to toss a whole bunch of glowing adjectives in front of their names but those names in and of themselves suggest all manner of encomiums).

Flying Down to Rio has some rapturous film moments surrounded by a fairly silly story. This was to be par for the course for Fred and Ginger's films. I say that not to slight them in the least, I own a box set of their films that I wouldn't part with for its weight in gold (please don't take me literally if you have gold to offer, I was being hyperbolic in order to make a point).

So I watched Flying and voila, mullygrubs gone. Above I have posted a scene from another Fred and Ginger film, Swing Time (1936). If you're currently feeling down in the dumps (actually wouldn't being "up in the dumps" be as bad as down in them? I mean whether up or down, the dumps are not a happy place to be...but I digress) and do not have access to one of their films (what's wrong with you? No Astaire Rogers in your house. For shame!) try this on for size. There's plenty more at some place called You Tube that you may have heard tell of.

Suffice it to say that I believe it infinitely more difficult to be depressed in this day and age when there is ready access to some of the lightest, most carefree moments ever recorded. I hasten to add that when such moments are supplied by the likes of Fred and Ginger, they are wonderful displays of extremely talented people cutting the rug. So you get awesome talent mixed in with delightful character actors like Eric Blore who shows up in the above clip. You just can't beat em with a stick, not that you'd ever want to.

In Woody Allen's Hannah and Her Sisters (1986), Woody's character botches his own suicide. Disconsolate, he walks the streets of New York for hours, finally entering a movie theater that is showing The Marx Brothers in Duck Soup (1933). Revelation! To see such merriment and fun may not give purpose to life but it does show that humans can be be pretty darn good at entertaining themselves and one another. If one is in fact only to go around once, why not take advantage of all the joy that can be found.

Serious business must be tended to and we've all got responsibilities and duties aplenty. But when burdens and cares start to feel oppressive and the seemingly endless slog seems purposeless, it is indeed nice to know that we can spend some time hanging out with folks like Groucho Marx, Fred Astaire or any of the other zillions of entertainers whose works are forever preserved on websites, Cd's, DVDs and the like.

It took George Bailey a visit from an angel to see that he had a "wonderful life." Sometimes a visit to you tube is all any of us need.

Il Mio Viaggio in Italia -or- My Journey Through Italian Cinema (Part Five: Mafioso)

Can you have a movie featuring a Mafia Don without something untoward taking place? One can hope that what seems like an engaging, charming sometimes comic little film will leave us with a smile and nothing difficult to endure and ponder. But then it wouldn't be much of a movie.

Mafioso (1962) is much of a movie. It's a lot of movie.

Antonio is a Milanese factory supervisor who takes his wife and young daughters to his Sicilian hometown for a long awaited vacation. They stay with mom, pop, the ugly duckling sister and a seemingly endless parade of extended family and old friends. Among the friends is the local Mafia Don.

It's all perfectly charming as Antonio renews old acquaintances and his wife tries to win over in laws who initially think her a snob. But you sense that Antonio's chumminess with the Don may end up having ramifications, especially when he helps our hero purchase some land for his dad. Hey, it was just a favor. Maybe it can be repaid someday.

In films with Mafia Dons, favors are going to need returning. Guaranteed.

So what's the Don going to ask of Antonio? Lesse, could it have anything to do with Antonio's renowned marksmanship? Whattayou think? Of course the Don allows Antonio the option of saying "no." But that offer is bracketed with reminders of what a lovely family Antonio has. Hmmm.....

It's impossible to go further with our story without spoiling it. Suffice to say that Mafioso mixes morality in with the smiles. Really an amazing film from director Alberto Lattuada. I felt like I'd gotten many hours worth of story in one hundred and forty three minutes of running time.

Movies fail or succeed on how much they engage and whether they resonate with us. Mafioso adds to these successes by the different ways in which it engages and resonates. Lattuada is a director who happily allows characters and their circumstances dictate his story telling. His camera follows them, deftly shifting from close up to long shots as needed to best convey their interaction with events. When Antonio is faced with his "big decision," we suddenly see his face, especially his eyes, in full frame and then those of the Don. Perfect.

Mafioso is an easy enough story for a director to get wrong and for that matter, Alberto Sordi in the lead does a marvelous job of being true to character regardless of what unfolds before him. A lesser thespian would have gummed it up. The movie desperately needed Sordi to stay within Antonio and that he did. He strikes no false notes.

I hope you see Mafioso. It's available on DVD and has been shown a few times on TCM. Do yourself a favor and check it out. Really, it's not like doing a favor for the local Don.

You a Bad Man, Lieutenant...Hey, Don't Kill The Messenger...Not Your Hope/Crosby Road Picture. My Three Trips to the Cinema This Week

A drug addled corrupt cop, soldiers who have to notify next of kin of a loved one's death, and a post apocalyptic world traveled by a father and son. Tis the season for prestige films and that does not necessarily mean songs, yucks and romance.

I've ventured to three films these past five days looking for a movie that will bowl me over. I was so bowled over once and impressed twice. Not bad and to some degree a measure of how selective I am about what I'll plunk down cold hard cash to see outside the comfort of my own home. Happily I only once had to deal with a large crowd -- what did I expect the day after Thanksgiving? -- and sadly that mob included a few chatterboxes and one person who kept rifling though a plastic bag. Otherwise my fellow patrons were on good behavior. Bless you.

I sat through many of the same trailers and all the same adverts. I also maintained my streak that now goes back many years, of not spending a dime on movie theater garbage -- I mean food. If they ever offer their fare at reasonable prices and upgrade their selections to include something healthy, I may reconsider this policy.

Here's what I saw.

The Bad Lieutenant: Port of Call New Orleans. Which would make a more interesting main character for a film? 1) A law abiding accountant who regularly performs charitable tasks; or 2) a corrupt cop who's addicted to heroin and has a hooker as a girlfriend? If you said the former you're...Well, I'm not sure what, but you've certainly not seen a lot of films. Nicholas Cage stars as a chap as described in the second film scenario. Werner Herzog directed and both did a splendid job. Cage plays a very bad man indeed and you'll find yourself wondering how low he can go. Will he hit bottom? It's bound to be a deep one and cause a mighty crash. Or will he survive the film? Perhaps settle down with his prostitute girlfriend (Eva Mendes)? There is a crime at the center of Bad Lieutenant but the film is much more of a character study. Seriously, who needs a plot when you've got a degenerate junkie cop as the lead? For all that, this is a more accessible film than the original Bad Lieutenant which starred Harvey Kietal and was about as hopeful and merry as a urinary tract infection.

The Messenger. My daughters used to watch this silly kid's sitcom from Canada called Flash Forward. One of the co stars was a geeky teen named Ben Foster. He's no geeky teen anymore. In fact, he's an actor who gave one of the best performances you'll see this year, if not the best. He plays a Iraq war hero back in the states to finish the last few months of his stint in the army. He's assigned to arguably the worst possible home front detail, delivering the bad news to families that their son, daughter, or spouse has died. He is under the tutelage of a sergeant played by Woody Harrleson who gives a similarly brilliant performance. Doesn't exactly sound like the makings of an entertaining film. Didn't to me but I trusted the legions of critics who sang the film's praises. Those critics were spot on. I should, at this point, trot out the world "powerful," to describe The Messenger. Sounds right. But frankly I wouldn't know what the hell I meant any more than if I tried this one: "moving." So let's scrap the cornball adjectives. The utterly gut wrenching scenes of family's being notified are endurable because they seem so real and such an integral part of what war is and does. But more than that they are a thread that runs through this story that is about much more. The relationship of two men and how they deal with their own experiences as soldier's and as guys trying to make sense of life. Samantha Morton plays a widow and her relationship with Foster is both touching and surprising. There are no cliches in this extraordinary film.

The Road. Listen everyone, I'm going to save some of you a lot of time and bother. If you've read and loved a book that is subsequently made into a motion picture don't not go to see that film if you cannot stand the idea of one iota of said book being altered. And if you do go see the movie, spare us your complaints about the it deviating from the book. Films are under no obligation to reproduce books exactly. In fact, they couldn't do it if they tried. I was one of the many, many people who read and loved Cormac McCarthy's novel The Road, upon which this movie was based. (Please note the use of the word BASED.) Today I saw the movie and enjoyed far more than those who whine about how it "doesn't live up to the book." Two different forms of art. A painting based on song is not going to be the same either. The story is about a father and son trying to head south and to the sea, navigating a post apocalyptic landscape in which animals are dead, powerful earthquakes occur daily, nothing grows and cannibalism is rampant. Sounds like fun. The point the boy constantly needs re-assurance on is: are we good guys? Dad insists they are. They would never, under any circumstances, resort to eating their fellow man. It is a basic question too few of us ask ourselves, least of all those in positions of power. Are we doing "good" or "bad" for the others and our world and is there any ambiguity about it. There is in the case of the father, as film goers will see. Ain't nobody perfect. The film will, inevitably draw usually unfavorable comparisons to the Pulitzer prize winning novel. That's a shame because it's an important work in its own right and deserves a wide audience.

Il Mio Viaggio in Italia -or- My Journey Through Italian Cinema (Part Four: 8 1/2)

There's this guy, see and he....He's a director struggling with...And he's got a rich fantasy life...his wife....his lover...a producer who, like a lot of....Catholics, including priests....Symbolism!

Sometimes I write about a film that's so meaningful (to me) that I figure I gotta outdo myself. All stops pulled out, a post that beats the band. Those pulled out stops are beaten by the band with a post.

Words fail.

Federico Fellini's 8 1/2 (1963).

Guido Anselmi is an artista. Specifically a film director. A ladies man, you should excuse the archaic expression. Played by Marcello Mastroianni, he is Italian cool to the nth degree. Bemused, happily tortured by the many women, supplicants, and hangers on. He's been called both a sadist and a masochist. I know this is a reflection on me, but he seems pretty together. Everyone around him is a little...a little what? A little much at times. They sure won't let the man be. Questions, comments, demands.

There's magic.

There's the Catholic church.

There's beautiful women.

There are dreams and fantasies and the all mix together for a most delicious stew. You could make this movie too provided you were Fellini. Otherwise -- forget it!

Some people don't get it. There's too much or the story doesn't hold or it's self indulgent. Oh well. I offer no insults, explanations or apologies.

It's this: a movie you can go for a walk in. You got your Claudia Cardinale, your Anouk Aimee (fer starters with the women, this is) you got life with all its best parts. The living and dreaming and the excepting that the trials and tribulations are blessings. They mean we're here that we're present. 8 1/2 celebrates life. Look, no one's dying, no one's in any real pain. There's some angst to be sure. There's a lot of existential this and that. Mostly there's rhythm, you can see it in the way people walk. There's the beat, the dance that is life. No wonder they made a musical out of this that will be a film released next month. This is a musical with visuals. (I know what I mean.)

We start in a dream sequence that's one of the most (adjective here) opening scenes you'll ever behold. Stuck in car in traffic and asphyxiated -- not so nice. But the floating, the being pulled down to the beach -- so nice.

Then to the spa. One film in the can the next about to start. But THE MAN NEEDS HIS REST. Won't get it. Will get the women. The wife, the lover, the exes. Will get the producer, typical suit worried about what, the bottom line. Will get the "collaborator" the writer. Pain in the arse, ask me. Will get those papists. Weird scene. Slip in and out of memories, fantasy. (Here's to the harem scene!).

Will get a closing scene that's one of the most (insert another adjective here) on film.

Here's what Guido says during the movie: I thought my ideas were so clear. I wanted to make an honest film. No lies whatsoever. I thought I had something so simple to say. Something useful to everybody. A film that could help bury forever all those dead things we carry within ourselves. Instead, I'm the one without the courage to bury anything at all. When did I go wrong? I really have nothing to say, but I want to say it all the same.

Hmm. This the director in the movie or the director of the movie talking? (I think so too).

I owe this movie a book. It inspires the creative in me, the artista the intellectual with a dancing soul. It dares to be great. It dares to go places and invites viewers to come along. That's what's so damn great about 8 1/2. It's a ride you get on and off as you please. It's not a one and done film. Not if you like it and if you like it you love it. There is, to flip a phrase, a madness to Fellini's method. You can watch so much here. You can play along at home. What's this mean and what's that all about. Or just enjoy the look which is really the FEEL. Oh sure and the characters too. Watch how sane, how utterly maddeningly and completely sane Guido can seem. Look at whatta crazy sunavbitch he can seem. The world's coolest everyman. (You do know this is an allegory -- no it's not!) Not many movies go in so many directions at once -- on purpose!

Mmmmmmmmm......

Affascinante! Entusiasmante!

What a Stinker -- Don't Ya Just Love Him?

Years ago there was this old coot who showed up AA meetings, who every time he shared mentioned having drank with William Holden. I never knew what to make of him. Was he exaggerating based on a one time encounter? Was he really old pals with Holden? Or was he totally delusional?

I decided to let my imagination run with the notion that he'd been a close confidant of the great actor, who was a known lush. Cynicism can be so boring. It being more fun to believe in Santa Claus.

Someone who clearly didn't believe in Ole Saint Nick and who positively wallowed in cynicism was J.J. Sefton, Holden's character in the Billy Wilder film, Stalag 17 (1953).

This film without Holden would be like the Chicago Bulls of the 1990's without Michael Jordan.

Stalag 17 has some serious problems -- really, the Germans didn't think to look for Lt. Dunbar in the water tower? That's both dumb and negligent. The humor lapses into farce and Neville Brand is jut too over the top as a vigilante. But its a movie that many of us have visited repeatedly over the years because of Holden. (In one of their rare moments of clarity the Academy of Motion Pictures gave him the Best Actor Oscar for this performance.)

Sefton's a guy who a fellow POW says would bet on his own grandmother getting hit by a bus. That's figurative, literally he bets a couple of his fellow GIs wont make good on their escape. He wins and rakes it in. What a stinker.

But let's forget the particulars for a bit. Let's take a look at this guy. He's from Boston, sergeant in the army...No that's details of the man's life, as relevant as a social security number and about as interesting. What's so compelling about Sefton?

Okay so the guy's a schemer. Knows all the angles, how to make a buck. You just know that back in the states he'll never be a big time entrepreneur, hell, he don't even like them guys, but he'll always have plenty of dough and a gimmick to make some more.

Some folks hate our man Sefton. They see that he's a head of the game. While they're getting by as best they can, playing by the rules, on the up-and-up, Sefton's making book and making a buck. They come to him to use a telescope to watch the Russian women at the delousing station. They come to him for some nasty ass home made hooch. They come to him to lay a bet on horses races run by mice. People come to him. He don't go go them. Some people don't like it when there's someone who's always a step ahead. Call in envy, a form peculiar to men. And when Sefton gets a beatin' (for something not his fault) there's no whining from him about innocence, just a determination to settle the score.

Holden played other cynics (see Bridge on the River Kwai (1957) and Sunset Blvd. (1950)). They were rough and smart and put themselves first. If they were going to sacrifice they'd wanna know what was in it for them. When Sefton volunteers to be the hero its because he likes the odds. He'll be helping a rich guy escape and figures a nice fat reward will be his due.

Still with Holden's Sefton it's not what he does but how he does it. Rugged handsome in a way that appeals to men as well as women. He's no pretty boy. That voice. Deep and interesting. Spitting out words rapid fire but so's we can understand him. Not a hint of affectation.

You don't see Sefton moving fast. But damned if you can't tell he's thinking fast. Calculating. Odds and angles and probabilities, one step ahead of all those dogfaces who do their thinking after they act.

Here's where I'm going to go with this: the man, Sefton played by Holden, has charisma. Yeah I said it. What I mean here is not the first definition about leadership, but the second one that in Miriam Webster that says: "a special magnetic charm or appeal." And how.

Watch Stalag 17 (if you have On Demand you can "demand" it through the end of next month). You'll enjoy Otto Preminger as the camp commandant, maybe. You'll enjoy Sig Ruman as Sargent Schulz, maybe. You'll enjoy some of the prisoners played by the likes of Harvey Lemback and Robert Strauss, maybe. You'll enjoy the story based on a play by Donald Bevan and Edmund Trzcinski, maybe. You'll enjoy Wilder's direction, maybe. You'll love Holden as the heart and soul of this move, definitely.

Hey, maybe some day I'll claim I drank with Holden.