The “andatio” of this economy is so depressing that one may start seeing culture as a redeemer. We are all survivors of a seven-year downturn. We dream of doing little, if nothing. Yet we must work double shift just to make ends meet. We live in a beaten up economy. Gas is at an historical peak, and still inching up. An atypical war is with no end in sight. Terrorism is on the rise. Stronger emerging economies threat labor wages. Menacing dictators, even in Italy! Africa in shambles. Famine and poverty everywhere. The environment sending alarming signals. This is no furtive political remark, just a status quo observation. It’s a depressing scene out there. Where do we find inspiration if not in the humanities?
Meanwhile, it is Spring, isn’t it? Even older specimen, like me, who have long tempered their hormones are inspired by glimpses of paradise such as those offered by a beautiful woman walking by, spreading a whiff of femininity, an eternal mystery that has inspired and moved the bones of every full-blooded Italian man. And who can, better than a boisterous, young America understand the effect of hormones on the mind? In an era in which caution and circumspection should be the rule, America still shows off its muscle, instead of its wit. Don’t argue with me: only young boys can’t lose a game. They stomp, whine and cry; they won’t back down; they make it look like the world is coming to an end. Men don’t behave in such manner. Look at Spain, France, Belgium, Italy, Germany and old Brittain. They have lost many games and look at their respectable place in the world. I am not suggesting to switching chase here. I am suggesting that America has never needed the wisdom and maturity of Old Europe as it needs it today. French used to say in the sixties: drop your panties, not bombs. But they are not Puritans.
I have been sensing the desire to make an umpteenth point about Italian culture bubbling up, but I have been too busy lately to write and editorial. You may think that I am raving, mixing up politics with remarks on love, which is a mightier opponent than most. What you do not know is that I am very fond of America, not so much of its mock-up bullies, real chicken when it comes to tough decisions. You are also reading from a great critic of Italy. I am a post-antique. I am not so sure that modern Italy is a place for me. But what I found out last month in the darkness of a movie theatre is that Italians are capable of finding meaning in the midst of a political chaos, capable of being poetically inspired while surrounded by ignorance and vulgarity, capable of falling in love in spite of all odds.
Back to the movies, my observation is that this new generation of Italian directors has made strides. There was a notorious hollowness between the generation of Fellini, Visconti, Rossellini and Antonioni and the arrival of the new generation, headed by Giuseppe Tornatore (Cinema Paradiso and The Star Maker) e Gabriele Salvatori (Mediterraneo). Even the bright Bernardo Bertolucci, Lina Wertmuller, Ermanno Olmi, Ferretti, Sergio Leone and the Taviani’s, the brilliant Massimo Troisi, Nanni Moretti and Bellocchio, could not reach the achievements of the previous generation, if you simply think of colossal works like Otto e Mezzo, Roma, i Vitelloni, Morte a Venezia, Professione Reporter, Blow up, Roma Città Aperta e Paisà, which are still among the best twenty movies in the history of the world cinematography. Well, although the weight of the new directors pales by the old ones, the content of their message is profound. With no props, no stunts, no explosions, weapons, blood and violence (sorry, but sex – thank God, it is still on the Italian menu!) and a minimal budget, linear story lines that narrate the struggle of men and women in a world where the future is uncertain, jobs in shortage, careers unstable, having children is debatable, living with one’s parents often unavoidable, dealing with a mean boss a daily experience, dealing with nonsense a daily routine. Italians manage to find poetic inspiration and meaning in the midst of all this, where it would seem to anyone coming from a stronger economy (what in the world am I talking about? China?) that the essential elements for a comfortable living are missing. Italians manage to rise above these limitations and circumstances. They manage to remain honest, to fall in love, to carve a small world for themselves, to give themselves a hope for a better future. I find it extremely inspiring.
I will not get into the details of each storyline, although One for Two by director Eugenio Cappuccio and The Fever by Alessandro d’Alatri, were quite powerful motion pictures. All the scripts were rather introspective with the characters they portrayed, showing their daily struggles, hiding nothing, delving into generational passages, social responsibility and existentialism, the latter not intended as a loose suicidal attitude but as a form of auto-exorcism from the inner demons. Growing was invariably connected to understanding love, whose object of desire is unreachable by its own nature, not to mention deeper universal issues such as aging and death, which are notoriously two themes that Americans avoid at all cost, resorting to anything: Botox, silicone, plastic, Viagra, you name it. No one I know writes about these issues, about the addictions and fixations of nations. Americans believe in the fountain of youth, in the possibility of rebirth at any age. It used to be a muse of the American life, back when it actually had a myth of renewal to rest on. The fact is, the fountain of youth is a metaphor for a state of bliss the French call “la joy de vivre”. Italians have always had art and poetry on their side. They never feared getting older, for it is the time wisdom arrives. French still believe that they are better lovers. Whatever! French like to talk. Italians are doers. We have the best wines anyway, and our women are not so lunatic (I am totally joking!). But Italians have always been inspired by something or by someone. They have always managed to adopt a muse, whether art, food, culture, sensuality, soccer or endless political debate. Are there things in life that matter more? Yes, dear readers, I forgot something on purpose. The mighty Euro. No one, I repeat, no one in those Italian movies had money, not a penny. And they were rather pissed about it, but to my pleasant surprise none of the characters seemed to attach happiness to the possession of it. There were a few rich guys, but they were having a harder time. This is what is inspiring about Italy. Happiness is a pursuit open to anyone.
On this penniless, jolly note, I leave you.