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 Place, Setting, Perspective

Narrative Space in the

Films of Nanni Moretti

Eleanor Andrews

FAIRLEIGH DICKINSON UNIVERSITY PRESS

Madison • Teaneck
Published by Fairleigh Dickinson University Press
Copublished by The Rowman & Li lefield Publishing Group, Inc.
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Copyright © 2014 by Eleanor Andrews

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or
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Andrews, Eleanor, 1953-

Place, se ng, perspec ve : narra ve space in the films of Nanni More / Eleanor Andrews.
pages cm
Includes bibliographical references and index.
ISBN 978-1-61147-690-3 (cloth : alk. paper) -- ISBN 978-1-61147-691-0 (electronic)
1. More , Nanni--Cri cism and interpreta on. I. Title.
PN1998.3.M67A53 2014
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To my dear parents, Rhoda and George Whitcombe,
who always believed in me
List of Figures
 Acknowledgments

I would like to thank Stella Hockenhull, Ken Page, Fran Pheasant-Kelly,

Pritpal Sembi, and Barbara Crowther, my good friends and colleagues in
the film studies sec on at the University of Wolverhampton, UK, for all
their help over the years and for reading various sec ons of the book in
dra form. I am grateful to Glyn Hambrook, who has given me invaluable
advice on the work, and to Gaby Steinke for her many useful sugges ons
and for taking the pressure off my teaching and marking load in recent
years while I was wri ng. Thanks also go to other colleagues at the
University of Wolverhampton: Paul Brighton, Gerry Carlin, Mark Jones, and
Jackie Pieterick for proofreading dra s of chapters. I would like to
acknowledge the huge amount of help given to me during my research by
Pamela Morris and the staff of the Harrison Learning Centre at the
University of Wolverhampton, who never failed to obtain whatever texts I
required.
At the University of Reading I would like to thank Christopher
Wagstaff for sharing his extensive knowledge and exper se on Italian
cinema with me and for his percep ve comments and cri que. Gra tude is
also owed to many other friends, including Wendy S rling, who have given
me constant encouragement and have believed that I would eventually
complete this project.
In addi on, I would like to thank Harry Keyishian at Fairleigh Dickinson
University Press and Brooke Bures of Rowman & Li lefield for their
support, and for answering my many queries.
Last, but not least, I am indebted to my family: my husband, Alec
Andrews, for his tolerance and air of baffled curiosity over the many long
years of this work, when I seemed to spend more me in the company of
Signor More then I did with him, and my sons Alex Andrews and John
Andrews, who have dealt pa ently with my fluctua ng moods of joy and
despair.
 Clari ication

For the purpose of clarity, the name “More ” will be used to refer to
the author, filmmaker, and actor, Nanni More , while “Nanni” will be used
to iden fy the character that is the fic onalized version of More
appearing in Dear Diary, April, and The Caiman. In this book, Place, Se ng,
and Perspec ve have very specific meanings, whereas the terms loca on,
site, locus, area, situa on, surroundings, scenery, venue, and locale are all
used in a much more generalized way. All quotes from the films are
verba m rather than from the screenplay. All transla ons are the author’s
own, unless otherwise stated. The tles of More ’s films are given below
in English. A detailed filmography follows the text of this book.

La sconfi a / The Defeat, 1973

Pâté de bourgeois / Bourgeois Pâté, 1973
Come parli, frate? / What’s That, Brother? 1974
Io Sono Un Autarchico / I Am Self Sufficient, 1976
Ecce Bombo / Here Comes Bombo, 1978
Sogni d’oro / Sweet Dreams, 1981
Bianca / Bianca, 1984
La Messa è Finita / The Mass Is Ended, 1985
La Cosa / The Thing, 1989
Palombella Rossa / Red Lob, 1989
Caro Diario / Dear Diary, 1993
Aprile / April, 1998
La Stanza Del Figlio / The Son’s Room, 2001
Il Caimano / The Caiman, 2006
Habemus Papam / We Have a Pope, 2011
 Chapter 1
Introduction
Nanni More has been at the forefront of filmmaking in Italy for the
last four decades, fulfilling the role not just of director but also of actor,
writer, producer, and distributor. He is in addi on the owner of the Nuovo
Sacher cinema in Trastevere, Rome, where he screens both mainstream
and independent films. His importance as a cineaste outside Italy has been
signaled in recent years by several retrospec ve fes vals of his oeuvre,
held in Berlin in May 2011, at the Cinémathèque Française, Paris, in
September 2011, and at the Riverside Studios, London, in April 2012, as
well as by his appointment as jury president of the Cannes Film Fes val in
May 2012. Although not prolific in his filmmaking, More is important
because of his filmic style as crea ve ar st, and his influence on the Italian
film industry, as mentor and entrepreneur. His films courageously and
uniquely raise the consciousness of his compatriots to what is actually
happening in contemporary Italian poli cs and society. To date, the study
of More ’s films has concentrated either on an analysis of individual films
or on certain thema c areas: More ’s authorship; autobiographical
aspects of his films; his use of comedy; his interest in poli cal issues; the
recurrent topics of language and family. The examina on of the visual and
spa al quali es of his films is frequently overlooked or is tangen al to the
main focus of the studies. The purpose of this book is to examine afresh
the films made by More , employing the increasingly significant study of
space, in par cular narra ve space in film, and considering his works from
their aesthe c point of view. The book is conceived with the awareness
that narra ve space cannot be studied purely in aesthe c terms, and that
social, poli cal, and cultural aspects of the narrated spaces are important if
a thorough appraisal of an oeuvre such as More ’s, which is profoundly
suffused in sociopoli cal commentary and analysis, is to be achieved.
More ’s early interest in film was encouraged by his family, and as an
adolescent he became a member of a film club in Rome, where his filmic
influences included Italian Neo-Realism, the French New Wave, and the
comedy of Jacques Ta , Jerry Lewis, Buster Keaton, and Totò. His other
major ac vi es at this me included water polo and a burgeoning interest
in le -wing poli cs. Like many other notable filmmakers, More entered
the world of filmmaking without any film-based academic qualifica ons,
and a er being refused the posi on of assistant director with Paolo and
Vi orio Taviani, he began his cinema c career with a group of friends in
1973, crea ng three short works: The Defeat (1973), Bourgeois Pâté (1973)
and What’s That, Brother? (1974). His first feature-length film, I am Self
Sufficient, was made in 1976. Set in his own milieu of middle-class Rome,
and partly about his own experiences, these films quickly showed a
tendency toward an autobiographical style, with a focus on the merging of
public and private life. Three major trends of his oeuvre were quickly
established in these early works: poli cally commi ed filmmaking, episodic
narra ve structure, and sa rical comedy.
Over the forty years of More ’s career as director, actor, and writer,
the study of space has grown in importance in many areas of the
humani es from the perspec ves of geography, human geography,
philosophy, sociology, cultural theory, anthropology, poli cal science, and
literary and film studies. Terms such as “space,” “place,” “se ng,” and
“landscape” have been discussed in detail and shaped in very complex and
rich ways. In a recent work, Barney Warf and Santa Arias (2009) describe
the way that the obsession with me and historicism, prevalent in the
nineteenth century, gave way very gradually in the twen eth century to
the resurgence of the examina on of space as a significant area of study.
Warf and Arias note the work of Henri Lefebvre (1991; 1996; 2004) and
Michel Foucault (1977; 1989), whose analyses of space contributed greatly
to the understanding of the organiza on and coherence of the modern
world, and whose studies had a considerable influence on the increased
interest in space leading to the phenomenon known as the “Spa al Turn”
(Warf and Arias 2009, 3). Warf and Arias suggest that the addi on of social
theory, notably in the works of David Harvey (1985; 1989; 2000; 2003)
“formed the centerpiece for a cri cal reevalua on of space and spa ality in
social thought” (Warf and Arias 2009, 3).
For the poli cal geographer Edward Soja (1989; 2009, 11–35), spa al
rela onships, together with me and no ons of society, form the triangle
of social theory. Spa al studies con nued to develop in the 1980s, and
cri cal theorists began to examine space from Marxist, feminist, or cultural
geography perspec ves (Leach 1997; Massey1994; Crang 1998;
Featherstone and Lash 1999; Rendell, Penner, and Borden 2000). This area
of studies has spread more recently to encompass such fields as
economics, anthropology, psychoanalysis, literary cri cism, interna onal
rela ons, and film studies. Since film is primarily a visual medium where
the mise-en-cadre and the mise-en-scène concern spa al rela onships, it is
no surprise that in recent years scholars in film studies have examined a
variety of works in many styles and genres from the approach of spa al
studies (Gardies 1993; Aitken and Zonn 1994; Konstantarakos, 2000a; Dürr
and Steinlein 2002; Evere and Goodbody 2005). Some analyses have been
associated with architecture and cityscapes, in par cular in the
documentary film, films noirs, horror films, and crime movies (Watson and
Gibson 1995; Clarke 1997; Penz and Thomas 1997; Shonfield 2000; Shiel
and Fitzmaurice 2001; Barber 2002; Shiel and Fitzmaurice 2003; Wallace
2009; Lorber 2011). Other cri cs have concentrated on rural landscapes
and their affec ve aspects (Casey 2002; Pugh 1990; Lefebvre 2006;
Hockenhull 2008). Where Italian cinema is concerned, Mary P. Wood
suggests:

The study of filmic space is especially frui ul in the case of Italian

cinema as it raises ques ons of class and gender representa ons,
authorial intent, ar s c conven ons, technology and meaning
construc on. (2005, 183)

A further area of renewed interest in film studies is the examina on,

understanding, and analysis of the aesthe c quali es in film, manifested in
par cular through the mise-en-scène (Dalle Vacche 2003; Dalle Vacche and
Price 2006). This topic was superseded for several years by the study of
film from a structural, philosophical, and psychological point of view.
Geoffrey Nowell-Smith argues for a return to examining the aesthe cs of
film, because in his view there is more in a mo on picture than what is
describable merely in words. He suggests that, as with music and pain ng,
film transcends verbal descrip on (2000, 16). Other film scholars have
developed these ideas, notably Stella Hockenhull, who iden fies as an
“affect” the sen ment evoked through filmic landscapes which elicits “a
certain type of emo onal and intui ve response which can be sa sfac on
or pleasure derived from a par cular idea or image” (2008, 24).
 The study of space and aesthe cs in More ’s work has generally
been overlooked in favor of discussions of his ideas and philosophy, which
have o en remained disassociated from the visual aspects of his films.
Flavio De Bernardinis (1987; 1994; 2001; 2006) is one of very few cri cs to
give a comprehensive textual analysis of the films, dealing also with the
themes, the narra ve, and the characters. Others have commented very
briefly on different aspects of More ’s visual style (Menarini 2002,
passim), cinematography (Brune a 1991, 361), use of color (Sorlin 1996,
155), and narra ve structure (Brune a 1982, 510; Valdecantos 2004, 44),
but in the majority of the cri cal analyses of More ’s oeuvre the
spectator’s experience of what can be seen within the frame and what may
be implied outside the frame, and how these elements have been selected,
organized, combined, and manipulated by the filmmaker, has largely been
ignored. Since the audiovisual nature of film assigns a major part of the
narra ve to the visual element, the narra ves constructed by More tell
their stories as much by what is seen in the frame as by what is heard on
the soundtrack. In order to explore narra ves that have been created
largely in visual terms, the spaces that allow a narra ve to be constructed
must be iden fied and characterized. Several film scholars have a empted
classifica ons of narra ve space in film. David Forgacs (2000), for instance,
describes two types of narra ve space: the three-dimensional, real world,
pro-filmic space, and the two-dimensional space bounded by the frame of
the screen. Stephen Heath considers all filmic spaces as construc ons,
using elements that exist in real space (1981, 40) and that give con nuity
to the narra ve. He argues:

The match of film and world is a ma er of representa on, and

representa on is in turn a ma er of discourse, of the organiza on of
the images, the defini on of the ‘views,’ their construc on. (1981, 26)

Mark Cooper develops Heath’s ideas of narra ve space and shows

that the significa on of a scene can be a ributed to the framing of the
shot, even when there is no edi ng or movement. He cites the Lumière
brothers’ film L’arroseur arrosé / The Waterer Watered (1895) where a
simple story is told in a sta c frame, without recourse to close-up or
edi ng, thanks to “careful framing and arrangement of props, scenery and
actors” that “plainly dis nguish the le foreground of the frame, with its
menacing hose, from the hiding place behind the bush” (Cooper 2002,
140). He goes on to compare this with Les enfants pêchant des creve es /
Children Shrimp Fishing (Louis and Auguste Lumière, 1896), where there is
no dis nc on of areas within the frame, and consequently no construc on
of a narra ve, just a recording of everyday events (Cooper 2002, 140).
Cooper argues that although many film theore cians, including André
Bazin, Sergei Eisenstein, and Chris an Metz, focused on the shot as the
principal analy c unit of a film, “ul mately, the sense of theore cal
inadequacy results from awareness that no single technique of produc on
will suffice to describe the semio c organiza on of the visual field for a
viewer” (2002, 142).
Narra ve space in film is also examined by Jeff Hopkins, who
considers film as a semio c landscape, where movement and an illusion of
depth are produced “through a rapid succession of sta c photographs . . .
where the boundaries between the real and the imaginary, fact and fic on,
are blurred” (Hopkins 1994, 49). Hopkins suggests that the cinema c
landscape is not “a neutral place of entertainment or an objec ve
documenta on or mirror of the ‘real,’ but an ideologically charged cultural
crea on whereby meanings of place and society are made, legi mized,
contested, and obscured” (1994, 47).
Seymour Chatman (1990) examines the differences in the level of
descrip on that can be produced between the novel and the film. In a
comparison between the wri en introduc on of the character Charles
Smithson in John Fowles’s The French Lieutenant’s Woman (1969) and its
filmic equivalent (Karel Reisz, 1981), Chatman notes that the film, by
displaying Smithson’s physiognomy and costume all at the same me,
allows the spectator to select and come to his or her own conclusions
about the protagonist’s character and social status. In the wri en version,
however, the reader is given par cular details that the author has chosen
to illuminate significant aspects of the protagonist’s disposi on and
standing in society. He states:

Film gives us plenitude without specificity. Its descrip ve offerings are

at once visually rich and verbally impoverished. . . . Contrarily, literary
 narra ve can be precise, but always within a narrow scope. (1990, 39–
40; original italics)

In a further considera on of narra ve space in film, André Gaudreault

and François Jost concur with this line of reasoning and contend that space
predominates over me in film narra on, because it is there visibly in
every shot. They argue:

The basic unit of the story, the image, has a highly spa al meaning, so
that, unlike many other narra ve vehicles, cinema always shows, we
will see, both the ac ons that make the story and their context as
they happen. . . . Time only comes about in the transi on from one
frame (which is already space) and a second (which is also already
space). (Gaudreault and Jost 2005, 79; original italics)

The film image provides not only an informa ve backdrop to the story
(descrip ve), but is also part of the story (ac ve), a combina on that the
wri en narra ve cannot achieve at the same me (Gaudreault and Jost
2005, 88). They use the term polyphonie informa onnelle (mul -layered
informa on) to describe the way in which cinema has “the ability . . . to
deliver a quan ty of informa on” (Gaudreault and Jost 2005, 81).
Andrew Higson, looking in par cular at the way landscape and
cityscape construct narra ve space, also discerns that the novel has to deal
with narra on and descrip on in separate instances, while the cinema can
narrate and describe simultaneously (Higson 1984, 3). Another film scholar,
André Gardies, widens the focus of narra ve space beyond the mise-en-
scène and uses the term l’espace narra ve (narra ve space) to describe
loca ons and l’espace diégé que (diege c space) to refer to the doubled
construc on of the space of the film story and the space viewed within the
frame by the spectator (Gardies 1993).
Natalie Fullwood builds on the ideas of narra ve space expounded in
these previous works and adds a gendered perspec ve. Her focus, in the
films of Antonio Pietrangeli, is the way in which the cinema reestablishes
the pro-filmic space by not only the choice of spaces depicted but also on
“the stylis c and technical choices which determine how these spaces are
represented.” For Fullwood, these choices include the binary opposi ons
whereby, for example, through detailed mise-en-scène and specifically
pa erned cinematography, the space of the countryside is seen as dull and
conven onal, while the city is represented as exci ng and aspira onal for
the female protagonists (Fullwood 2010, 87).
Drawing together the essen als of these different approaches,
narra ve space in film is an amalgama on of numerous aspects: physical,
profilmic cityscapes, landscapes, and objects in the mise-en-scène;
conceptual elements to be visualized and explored on the screen; technical
methods of presen ng these aspects to the audience, according to the
codes of film language; philosophical and ideological no ons on the part of
the filmmaker to be conveyed to the spectator. To these defini ons there is
a further nuance: the art of the filmmaker in his or her selec on,
combina on, and manipula on of all these factors, to relate the narra ve.
This synthesis of elements that go into crea ng a narra ve space allows
the author(s) of the film to present a total work in a way that can be seen,
heard, and understood so as to convey the meaning(s) of the film. This
book is a study of the way in which More selects, combines, and
manipulates elements of narra ve space in his films. The work is divided
into three sec ons: “Place,” which concerns the physical and pro-filmic
elements; “Se ng,” which involves the conceptual and technical aspects,
and “Perspec ve,” which comprises the philosophical, ideological, and
aesthe c components of More ’s films.

PLACE
Place, according to the geographer Tim Cresswell, is not a dedicated
scholarly construct, but a commonsense, everyday word that is both
straigh orward, in that everyone has a general idea of the no on of place,
and complex, because the word can be defined in so many ways (Cresswell
2004, 1). Yi-Fu Tuan defines place as part of the wider term space and
argues that a space requires a movement from one place to another (Tuan
1977, 12). For both Cresswell and Tuan a place comes into existence when
humans give meaning to a part of the larger, undifferen ated space, which
encircles the planet, and through which biological life moves. Whenever a
loca on is iden fied or given a name, it is separated from the undefined
space that surrounds it. This defini on of place is supported by David
Forgacs, who suggests that place occurs “when mathema cal or physical
space is reorganized as social space, or simply when people inhabit a
space” (2000, 103). Peter Wollen further argues that place in film is “a
more concrete concept” than space and thus involves “a complex of
connota ons” that allows place to become a func on of the narra ve. He
adds:

It is too easy to overlook how crucial, in any filmmaking, are decisions

on whether to film in sets or on loca on, the search for and choice of
loca on. . . . Place is at the heart of filmmaking. (Wollen 1980, 25)

Places, chosen by the filmmaker for a specific purpose, bring with

them a range of connota ons, some intended by the filmmaker and others
added by the spectator from his or her own knowledge of the world. The
inten on in this study is to dis nguish the par cular narra ve func ons of
various places in More ’s work.
Many filmmakers will use places in an authen c way, so that shoo ng
occurs in the same loca on as the place in the story. Thus, Paris, in À bout
de souffle / Breathless (Jean-Luc Godard, 1959) or Cléo de 5 à 7 / Cléo from
5:00 to 7:00 (Agnès Varda, 1962) represents itself, with loca on shoo ng in
the streets of the French capital portraying contemporary life there. Other
filmmakers, for reasons of economy or prac cality, will use one place to
represent another or will reconstruct a loca on in a studio for be er
control over the elements and sound. For example, Les Misérables / The
Wretched (Billie August, 1998), which purports to take place in nineteenth-
century France, or Oliver Twist (Roman Polanski, 2005), which is set in the
London of Charles Dickens, were both filmed largely in the Czech Republic
in the twen eth century. On the other hand, the Paris suburbs in Le jour se
lève / Daybreak (Marcel Carné, 1939), were recreated in the Cinema
Studios, Billancourt, Paris, and the fantasy world of Narnia, in The
Chronicles of Narnia: The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe (Andrew
Adamson, 2005), was shot in many loca ons in New Zealand, Poland, and
England, together with studio work that fused to create an imaginary
region (Nowell-Smith 2001, 101).
“Place” in this work considers the significance of physical loca ons
exis ng in the real world to which the spectator brings his or her own
associa ons and that can either be confirmed or subverted by the
filmmaker. “Place” contains both ac ons and events and may refer to a
specific loca on, such as a par cular country, city, or well-known area. It
may also be a precise landscape that adds semio c meaning to the text, for
instance, a mountain range or a desert. Characters may move freely from
one place in the world of the narra ve to another, or may remain confined
in one place. “Place” is further subdivided into the binary opposi ons of
landscape versus cityscape, interior versus exterior, and public versus
private. These aspects of “Place” are frequently interlinked. Thus, a scene
in a city square, such as the merengue sequences in Dear Diary, are
simultaneously exterior, urban, and public whereas the scene in the
monastery in The Mass Is Ended is interior, rural, and private. Figure 1.1
iden fies in a schema c way the rela onships between different aspects of
“Place” as considered in this book. The inten on is to dis nguish the
par cular narra ve func ons that these places have in More ’s work.

Place

SETTING
Narra ve spaces in film are more than just physical loca on. In a medium
where fic on frequently predominates, films may concern the real world
or may deal either wholly or in part with fantasy. Se ng is the part of
narra ve space that refers to filmic concepts to which the spectator brings
his or her own associa ons and expecta ons in terms of the stereotypical
features. These filmic concepts can be further validated or challenged by
the filmmaker. The sec on on “Se ng” takes the discussion of narra ve
space in More ’s films to a more abstract concept of loca on linked with
genre. The mise-en-scène will normally be detailed, to give both place and
me references, and some se ngs are emblema c, such as Monument
Valley, on the borders of Utah and Arizona, with the Western genre.
Fantasy may be associated with par cular se ngs, for example, Gothic
castles with the horror film, and may apply to the en re film, where magic
worlds or parallel universes are portrayed. It can also be used in segments
of the film that refer to daydreams, dreams, or nightmares. Movement
from one place to another may be as natural as moving from one room to
the next, or it may, at a fantasy level, mean going to another non-
con guous place by means of magic or other supernatural phenomena.
Somewhere between reality and fantasy lies memory. Memory is
frequently depicted in film as a flashback. In general, where this is the case
the filmmaker may iden fy the move from the real world to the fantasy
one by a change for example in color, costume, ac on, or sound within the
narra ve. Se ngs may also be stereotypically gendered, so that a beauty
parlor (Steel Magnolias, Herbert Ross, 1989) is essen ally feminine,
whereas a 1940s ba leship (In Which We Serve, David Lean and Noël
Coward, 1942) is a masculine loca on.
Genre study, as a way of referring to a characteris c kind of text, has
developed from its origins in the field of literature to a wider use over the
last century in film studies, media, and linguis cs. Today, films are classified
beyond the universals of tragedy and comedy into categories such as
comedy, film noir, science fic on, and the horror film (Schatz 1981; Swales
1990; Stam 2000). Genres may have similar geographical and temporal
se ngs; comparable plots or formulaic narra ve structures; typical
situa ons; stereotypical characters; analogous themes and pa erns;
repeated iconography (se ng, costume, props) and mo fs; characteris c
music; iconic performers (John Wayne and the Western; Arnold
Schwarzenegger and the ac on film; Woody Allen and the comedy);
stylis c or formal conven ons of mise-en-scène (costume, makeup, and
ligh ng), cinematography and edi ng; par cular moods and tones (such as
film noir).
Iconography arises from deep-seated cultural codes that are already
in circula on, as well as from filmic conven ons. Chris ne Gledhill argues:
 It can be seen . . . that while iconography is manifested in visual terms
it contains more than simple visual imagery. . . . Moreover, in
par cular visual mo fs iconography focuses a wide range of social,
cultural and poli cal themes which are part of the currency of the
society for which it works. (Gledhill 1999, 140)

This is analogous to the way in which a Medieval or Renaissance

individual would have “read” a pain ng (Panofsky 1970). The importance
of iconography in the Western, for example, includes the visual dichotomy
of the landscape, where the raw harshness of the desert is in clear contrast
to the ordered civiliza on of the garden, the wilderness to the newly built
town, nature to civiliza on. Each genre has its own conven ons, its own set
of rules and codes by which it operates. Genres can also be combined, for
example horror with a musical (The Rocky Horror Picture Show, Jim
Sharman, 1975) or Western with a comedy (Blazing Saddles, Mel Brooks,
1974). Genre categories may also change over me—for instance a
Hammer horror film from the 1950s may have a considerably different
impact and target audience from a contemporary horror film; compare
Dracula (Terence Fisher, 1958) with Låt den rä e komma in / Let the Right
One In (Tomas Alfredson, 2008). As David Bordwell and Kris n Thompson
suggest:

Instead of abstract defini on, the best way to iden fy genre is to

recognize how audiences and filmmakers, at different historical
periods and places, have dis nguished one sort of movie from
another. (Bordwell and Thompson 1997, 52–53)

From the audience’s point of view, genre conven ons are a pathway
into a film and form the way in which the audience recognizes and
understands certain types of film. Thomas Schatz defines genres according
to their se ng in terms of “determinate space” and “indeterminate space.”
Determinate space is associated with genres that occur in various
archetypal social se ngs, such as Western, gangster, or detec ve films,
where there is a no on of community tension and the control of space
(Schatz 1981, 26). Indeterminate space “depends less upon a heavily coded
place than on a highly conven onalized value system” (1981, 27) and thus
includes musicals, melodrama, romances. The se ngs for these la er
types of film do not have to be repeated and the social conflicts are less
about the control of territory than a range of social conflicts and their
reconcilia on or resolu on.

PERSPECTIVE
Point of view has two dis nct meanings for film studies. The first is the
op cal point of view and is the way in which a perspec ve is created by
filmic techniques, usually of cinematography and edi ng, as one means of
visual communica on between the filmmaker and the spectator. Three
types of op cal point of view will be discussed in rela on to More ’s
work: the omnipresent, omniscient narrator point of view; the invisible
witness perspec ve; the character-glance. The Rückenfigur (“back-figure”)
is a trope taken from Roman c pain ng that occurs frequently in More ’s
films. It combines the character-glance point of view with the invisible
witness point of view. More uses op cal point of view to narrate, clarify,
explain, or emphasize the meanings that he wishes to express in his filmic
texts.
The second no on is the a tudinal point of view, which refers to the
way in which the filmmaker demonstrates visually his or her subjec ve
narra ve stance and personal philosophy. It is axioma c that the a tudinal
point of view is manifested through the dialogue and the use of inter- tles
and voice-over as well as in the visual dimension. This is linked to the idea
of the narrator, which in More ’s case is further complicated by the
enmeshed connec ons between More the author of the filmic text,
More the enunciator of the filmic text, and More the character within
the filmic text. The filmmaker may wish to use the narra ve space to fulfill
a par cular func on in the conveyance of the message of the film. Thus
the a tudinal point of view may be based on the poli cal, historical,
religious, philosophical, ideological percep ons and even gender-biased
views of the filmmaker as auteur in rela on to the characters and the
happenings within the diegesis. The sec on on perspec ve will also study
and evaluate the aesthe c quali es of More ’s work and the way that this
relates to his visual style and the meanings proposed to the spectator.
 Figure 1.2 demonstrates the rela onships between these various
elements. It begins on the le -hand side with Cinema c Space, which
refers widely to any space concerned with the cinema, of the cinema,
dealing with films and filmmaking. This includes the physical edifice,
tradi onally a fixed building, where the film is being screened. This is the
site of the interface between the audience seated in the auditorium and
the film as product on the screen. This aspect of cinema c space is beyond
the scope of this work and will not be discussed further. Narra ve space, in
terms of “Place,” “Se ng,” and “Perspec ve,” appears on the screen by
means of the formal film language of mise-en-scène, cinematography,
edi ng, and sound, which acts as a filter at the heart of the diagram. On
the right-hand side are the elements of narra ve space that will be
discussed in this book, and their link to the chapters that follow. Part one
of this book will look at the concept of “Place,” including cityscape,
landscape, physical posi on inside and outside, and the contrast between
public and private space. Part two will consider “Se ng,” focusing on
genre, fantasy, and gender-biased func ons in film, and will examine how
these se ngs may set up par cular aesthe c, cultural, or social
expecta ons. Part three is dedicated to “Perspec ve,” which involves the
point of view taken op cally by the camera, the a tudinal point of view
that is the visual (and implicitly aural) expression of the filmmaker’s
personal philosophy, and the various aesthe c and narra ve devices used
to achieve this.
Figure 1.3 shows the rela onship between the author and the
spectator and implies both authorial input, in terms of suggested
meanings, comments, and points of view, as well as poten al connec ons
and meanings that the spectator may add to the narra ve. All of these
connec ons, sugges ons, and associa ons pass through the filter of the
screen by means of formal film language.
Cinema c space (1)

Cinema c space (2)

 1
Place
 Chapter 2
Nearly All Roads Lead to Rome
CITY SCAPES
For the sociologist Georg Simmel, the network of human social
rela onships, with the many and varied interchanges and communica ons
that occur between individuals, emerges ini ally as the basis for the
forma on of a community, such as a city, a town, or even a village. He
suggests that the complexi es of the modern city create new social bonds
and new a tudes toward others, as well as having a transforming
influence on humans, giving them a new rela onship to me and place. In
his essay on city life, “The Metropolis and Mental Life,” Simmel states:
“The city is not a spa al en ty which entails sociological characteris cs,
but a sociological en ty that is formed spa ally” (Simmel 1971, 324).
Documentaries, newsreels, and later comedies and dramas feature
urban se ngs. The infinite variety of hiding places (alleyways, passages
and cul-de-sacs), together with areas where hazardous ac vi es could take
place (roo ops, cellars, and balconies) meant that the cityscape was an
ideal loca on for serials with cliff-hangers as well as films noirs (Sorlin
2005, 25–36). Film historian and sociologist Pierre Sorlin suggests that
ci es are “an inexhaus ble source of anecdotes and chronicles. Natural
landscapes, rural landscapes, invite medita on, but ci es trigger the
imagina on” (Sorlin 2005, 30). Having spent his en re life living and
working in the capital city of Italy, it is not surprising that More chooses
the cityscape, and Rome in par cular, as the prime loca on for his films.
Geoffrey Nowell-Smith offers a broad dis nc on between studio-shot
films of cityscapes and loca on-shot films. Studio-shot films offer “a
generally dystopian vision” (Nowell-Smith 2001, 101) of an
indis nguishable city, such as in Metropolis (Fritz Lang, 1927), Blade
Runner (Ridley Sco , 1982), and many examples of films noirs. Loca on-
shot films show a place that is easily iden fied, for example A Taste of
Honey (Tony Richardson, 1961), which features Manchester, and Brighton
Rock (John Boul ng, 1947), made in the eponymous city. This second
category Nowell-Smith suggests can be used for touris c representa ons
of ci es, but may also be used by filmmakers to show “aspects of ci es
which do not correspond to audiences’ pre-exis ng expecta ons” (Nowell-
Smith 2001, 101). Filming on loca on may be either an aesthe c or an
economic choice (2001, 102–3). In More ’s case, at the start of his career
filming on loca on was chosen for financial reasons, since he used friends
and family to supply cast, crew, and locales. With certain films, such as the
site in Sicily in Red Lob, the choice was a prac cal one, connected with the
shoo ng schedule. Later, when film produc on was under the control of
More ’s company Sacher Film, loca on shoo ng was made according to
aesthe c choice, notably with Dear Diary.
The same physical city can be represented in very different ways
according to the filmmaker’s visual style and purpose. For example,
Michelangelo Antonioni’s representa on of Milan, filmed in La no e / The
Night (1961), differs greatly from Luchino Viscon ’s version in Rocco e i suoi
fratelli / Rocco and his Brothers, made the year before. Where Viscon
focuses largely on the historical and sociological aspects of the city,
Antonioni emphasizes the textures, surfaces, materials, and pa erns of the
modern cityscape (Nowell-Smith 2001, 105). When dealing with a
cityscape More is interested, like Antonioni, in the substance of the city,
as represented in its architecture, as well as, like Viscon , in the social
pa erns that make up that par cular place.

ITALIAN CITIES
In the opinion of film cri c André Bazin:

The Italian city, ancient or modern, is prodigiously photogenic. From

an quity, Italian city planning has remained theatrical and decora ve.
City life is a spectacle, a commedia dell’arte that the Italians stage for
their own pleasure. And even in the poorest quarters of the town, the
coral-like groupings of the houses, thanks to the terraces and
balconies, offer outstanding possibili es for spectacle. (Bazin 1971,
note on 28–29)

Since the development of the Grand Tour in the seventeenth century,

the major ci es of Italy, and Rome in par cular, became important places
to visit, at first for the sons of the gentry, and later those of the
professional classes. Between 1600 and 1800 the emphasis of the purpose
of the Tour shi ed from “touring as an opportunity for discourse, to travel
as eyewitness observa on” (Urry 2002, 4). The growth in the number of
guidebooks also increased and thus promoted the development of what
John Urry calls “The Tourist Gaze” (2002, 1). The nineteenth century saw a
further move from the mere observa on of museums, buildings, and
ar facts to a more emo onally engaged experience, in which scenic beauty
was appreciated as “private and passionate” (2002, 4). The sending and
collec on of postcards further disseminated images of famous loca ons
and buildings, which frequently became icons for that par cular place
(Taylor 1990, 181). Nowadays, of course, what the tourist gazes upon can
be captured in photographs (Taylor 1990, 177) and home videos. Travel
films, documentaries, adver sements, television holiday programs, and
more recently the Internet and social media have also helped to spread the
familiarity of a given des na on. In their turn feature films have used the
loca on of certain well-known places, which are already considered to
have par cular connota ons, for example Paris with romance, to add
meaning to the narra ve.
More uses the cityscape of Rome in his films predominantly as a
place in which to comment on contemporary Italian society, by showing
the audience this loca on in a relaxed way that encompasses an ironic
cri que mingled with both pleasure and pride. Milan, Venice, and London
make brief appearances in April, where they have a specifically poli cal
aspect, linked to the documentary that More is a emp ng to make in
that film. Acireale and Ancona, on the other hand, are chosen for specific
aesthe c and narra ve reasons as will be outlined below.

ROME
Since 1898, when an Armenian archbishop was filmed in the Eternal City,
Rome has featured in the tles of more than 160 films, not to men on the
dozens of other films made in and about Rome, such as Three Coins in the
Fountain (Jean Negulesco, 1954), La dolce vita / The Sweet Life (Federico
Fellini, 1960), and Acca one / The Scrounger (Pier-Paolo Pasolini, 1961).
Less popular than Paris (571 named tles), New York (401) and London
(221) (Source: Internet Movie Database), Rome is nevertheless a significant
geographical loca on in filmmaking (Konstantarakos 2000a, 112–23).
However, Nowell-Smith believes that it was with Italian Neo-Realism, and
in par cular the war trilogy of Roberto Rossellini (Roma, ci à aperta /
Rome Open City, 1945, Paisà / Paisan, 1946, and Germania Anno Zero
/Germany Year Zero, 1948), that the cityscape provides “the condi ons/of
life for the films’ characters . . . which are effec ve because absolutely
authen c” (Nowell-Smith 2001, 104–5). Figure 2.1 shows the principal
loca ons used in More ’s films; it is clear that Rome is undoubtedly the
most popular city used.

Geographical loca ons in More ’s films

In his ar cle about Rome on film, David Bass adds to this visual no on
of travel and iden fies several types of representa ons of the city. He
describes the “armchair tourism” of the film cartolina (“postcard film”)
such as Roman Holiday (William Wyler, 1953), where a fragmented visual
version of the city is presented as valida on of presence in the place and
where edi ng creates a spa al ellipsis of all the highlights of a visit that
treats the city as a type of museum. Similarly, in Three Coins in the
Fountain, Rome is seen in a series of beau ful, full color, moving postcards.
In Bass’s view, some filmmakers, such as Fellini, present a collage of Rome,
mixing “sacred and profane, public and private” (Bass 1997, 93). Other
filmmakers acknowledge the importance that Rome has vis-à-vis the
cinema industry, in par cular the key role of the studios of Cineci à
(“Cinema City”) from the construc on in the 1930s to the present day. Bass
goes on to discuss the rather different view of Rome of the insider, such as
More , where films are “made in the service of the exis ng city” (Bass
1997, 88) and where the individual neighborhoods are of greater
importance than the city as a whole.
The produc on designer on Dear Diary, Lorenzo Baraldi, said that, as a
na ve of Parma and therefore an outsider to Rome, he was more aware of
the city as a loca on than were the Romans who “generally do not no ce
their city, because they are immersed in it, they live there without seeing
it” (Bruscolini 2000, 60). In his opinion the various quarters are as
important to films about Rome as are the well-known sights, such as the
Trevi Fountain, the Forum, St. Peter’s Basilica, and the Coliseum. This
apparent blindness to the tourist sites of the city seems to be shared by
Nanni in Dear Diary, as none of the iconic a rac ons are featured and
although a large part of the Rome that More presents to the spectator is
a rac ve and photogenic, it is not the visitor’s Rome seen in other films
men oned above. However, this does not deny him a fascina on with
aspects of its pres gious architectural heritage, including the facades of
many buildings, and he declares that “The thing I like the most is to see the
houses, to see districts.” Thus, in many of More ’s films, the main
loca ons in Rome are the less well-known residen al suburbs. He states:

I looked not only for places which were not “well known” or
immediately recognizable as “Roman,” but above all areas that were
not modern, not familiar but not too eccentric either, a bit dilapidated
without giving the impression of squalor. . . . I took a lot of care about
the se ng. (Giovannini, Magrelli, and Ses 1986, 27–28)

More does not view the city with the “tourist gaze,” but with what
could be called a “familiar gaze.” The spectator is shown the places that
More enjoys, which serve a narra ve func on for his work and which are
for him the quintessence of Rome.
In I Am Self Sufficient, More uses high-angled exterior shots of Rome
that are stark and that diminish and alienate the human form within this
cityscape. Several scenes, in par cular at the railway sta on, where
student teacher, Giorgio (Giorgio Viterbo), waits for his train, emphasize
the austerity of the grey modernist architecture. The strong ver cal lines of
the sta on building and the camera zooming out make the figure of Giorgio
seem small and insignificant in comparison with the buildings. Equally
dehumanizing is the vast open space at the Castel Sant’Angelo, which
forms the backdrop of two scenes between the estranged couple, Michele
(Nanni More ) and Silvia (Simona Frosi). The first is perhaps some a empt
at reconcilia on between them; the second is where their son, Andrea
(Andrea Pozzi), is passed from the safekeeping of Michele to his mother,
Silvia. The emp ness of the space and the miniaturiza on of the human
figures at the close of the second scene reinforce Michele’s isola on. In
contrast to the many shots in this film featuring the hos lity and angularity
of the city, More also composes several shots through archways,
represen ng a threshold of choice or decision, such as the ironic roman c
framing of Silvia in an archway at the end of her rela onship with Michele.
Rome is, however, rarely treated as a hos le environment, but is
frequently presented as a place where More can express his pride in his
na ve city as well as his personal views on contemporary Italian society, in
the very place where he belongs. Thus, his wanderings around Rome on his
Vespa in Dear Diary are filmed in such a way as to impart a significant part
of his personal philosophy. Speaking of the process of filming the city in
Dear Diary, the cinematographer Giuseppe Lanci also favors the “familiar
gaze.” He states:

If you make a film that wants to recreate Rome for what it is, you look
for condi ons of ligh ng and places that have the meaning of the city;
otherwise, to avoid ‘the postcard effect’, you look for a se ng that is
less tradi onal, less exploited. (Bruscolini 2000, 57)

The striking thing is that this sequence featuring day me Rome is

largely empty, both of people and traffic, in contrast to the normal daily
situa on. According to Lanci, it was vital that More was filmed alone on
the streets of Rome, “going around, lost in thought” (Bruscolini 2000, 58);
in order to do this the shoo ng had to be done in August and in par cular
at the weekends and at lunch mes when the streets were virtually free
from traffic. There is a feeling of libera on and exhilara on in Dear Diary,
as Nanni enjoys roaming round his na ve city. Lanci considered that this
was good aesthe cally as well as thema cally, since “at that me, the sun
being very strong, you could represent the sunniness of the city”
(Bruscolini 2000, 58). More comments on the notable difference of visual
style in this film, compared with earlier ones:

I shot Dear Diary with a great feeling of freedom, pleased with myself,
wan ng to do it my way. In the first episode, dri ing through the
streets on a Vespa in a deserted Rome, followed only by a jeep on
which there were the camera operator and director of photography. It
was a joy. I felt as free as when I made my first short films. Even the
style is affected; something new here is that the camera moves
con nuously . . . there are changes where I used to prefer sta c shots
and a certain type of internal montage. (Comuzio 1993, 62)

The image of the helmeted More on his Vespa has become the logo
for Sacher Film, More ’s produc on company. However, Dear Diary and
April are not the only films to employ this type of vehicle, which was first
produced in 1946 and by the 1950s had become an affordable form of
transport. Its use is a reference back to such films as Roman Holiday, Three
Coins in the Fountain, and La dolce vita. As Nanni moves around, he
observes, he is fascinated with the life he finds on the streets, and he
par cipates with a crowd of merengue dancers, while at the same me
displaying a cri cal a tude toward some aspects of modern life in the city.
He becomes a flâneur on a Vespa, a motoflâneur of the suburbs (Bass
1997, 91). Flânerie is applied in general terms to any leisurely pedestrian
explora on of city streets, especially where there is aesthe cally keen
observa on of inhabitants of different social classes. The expression was
coined in the 1860s by Charles Baudelaire, who considered this figure to
play a vital role in understanding, par cipa ng in, and portraying the city.
During the 1930s Walter Benjamin adopted the concept of the urban
observer both as an analy cal tool and as a way of life. Benjamin’s flâneur
is a detached but highly observant middle-class wanderer (Benjamin 1978;
Tester 1994; Benjamin 2006; Mennel 2008a). A flâneur, as “a key figure in
the cri cal literature of modernity and urbaniza on . . . an archetypal
occupant and observer of the public sphere” (Wilson 1995, 61), thus had a
double role in city life: as a par cipant and as a watchful bystander. By
showing the audience this trajectory of the familiar gaze on Rome, More ,
through Nanni, uses his personal sights and perspec ves on the city to
highlight aspects that he wishes both to praise and to draw to the a en on
of the spectator from a cri cal point of view.
Nanni begins his journey around Rome at La Garbatella, an area
founded in the 1920s as a Borgata Giardino, an Italian version of the Bri sh
Garden City. The chosen loca on for the new quarter was outside the
sec on of the ancient walls between Porta San Paolo and Porta San
Sebas ano and near Via Os ense, where the inhabitants could find public
transport to go to work. The area was developed by blocks (lo popolari)
that were designed by different architects over a period of approximately
twenty years. This produced a great variety of styles and decora ons, with
many details recalling Medieval, Renaissance, and Baroque pa erns. The
inhabitants of La Garbatella have clearly defined poli cal opinions and
because of their working class origin they tend to support le -wing par es.
In choosing La Garbatella as his preferred area of Rome, More not only
associates himself with the richness and gravitas of the architectural
designs, but also makes a connec on with the ordinary working-class
people as the original inhabitants of the area.
Nanni con nues from central Rome to Spinaceto, a vast housing
development begun in Rome in the late 1960s. It was designed with the
high-rise apartments built on either side of the main roads and the shops
and tree-lined avenues running down the center of these roads.
Unfortunately, although in the original plans, there were few cultural
buildings erected in this area, and it gained a bad reputa on both
architecturally and socially. Nanni’s visit to this area is largely out of
curiosity and as he rides along, he states in voice-over:

I remember one day I read a story outline called Escape from

Spinaceto. It was about a boy who ran away from the neighborhood,
 ran away from home and did not come back ever again. So, let’s go
and see Spinaceto.

Nanni rides his Vespa to the very end of a street, where he is dwarfed
by the tower blocks on all sides, and halts by a graffi -covered concrete
wall where a young man (Italo Spinelli) is si ng. Behind him is a patch of
waste ground covered in weeds and debris, with vast apartment blocks
rising up in the background. Nanni comments that this place is not as bad
as he had thought, but this is rendered ironic, because it is clearly a
neglected urban development that lies both physically and spiritually
outside the central area, cut off by the vast Roman ring road. Unlike in La
Garbatella, More feels no connec on here, but equally he is not
prepared to dismiss this working-class neighborhood out of hand.
Nanni con nues even further away from the heart of the city to Casal
Palocco, a more luxurious middle-class development on the Via Cristoforo
Colombo, on the way to Os a. This area is completely separated from the
central part of Rome and forms a li le island of its own. The idea for the
crea on of Casal Palocco dates back to the Fascist regime of the 1930s
when the construc on of an elegant residen al area to the south of the
capital was suggested. The area was provided with excellent facili es, both
in terms of commercial outlets, cultural and social opportuni es, and open
spaces, and in the 1960s many actors and other celebri es moved into this
area. Later on, it became more cosmopolitan, while s ll maintaining its
posi on as an affluent loca on. Nanni’s journey to this district ends, as in
the Spinaceto sequence, with a conversa on with one of the inhabitants.
Here, however, his comments are more vindic ve. In contrast to the
casually dressed young man from Spinaceto, the representa ve for Casal
Palocco is middle-aged, driving an expensive car and bringing home video
casse es. Having moved to this area in the 1960s, when Rome, according
to Nanni, was at the height of its beauty, he now represents everything
that Nanni declares that he despises: people who watch videos instead of
going to the cinema; people who eat takeaway pizzas instead of going out
to a convivial restaurant; people who wear track suits and slippers instead
of dressing properly. If Nanni does not condemn the inhabitants of
Spinaceto for their way of living, he heaps blame on those who live in the
leafy, comfortable suburb of Casal Palocco, where even the air seems to
him to be tainted by their way of life. Here the filmmaker suggests both
visually and verbally that the people who live in Casal Palocco have
surrendered to a lifestyle where their standards have fallen from the
halcyon days of the 1960s. They live within their personal comfort level,
where they feel most at ease and free from physical distress or anxiety.
They form part of the genera on that he considers has abandoned the
youthful ideals of the 1968 poli cal movements.
As part of his journey around the city, Nanni frequently traverses the
River Tiber and for him, crossing the Ponte Flaminio several mes a day
accentuates the connec ons between the various parts of Rome and the
different histories they contain. The bridge across the Tiber was started in
the 1930s, to provide an imposing entrance for incoming traffic to the
capital from the north. Bridges are tradi onally important connec ng
construc ons in the nature of defining place (Leach 1997, 104–5). In his
essay “Bridge and Door,” Georg Simmel suggests that bridges are the zenith
in human construc ve achievement “freezing movement into a solid
structure that commences from it and in which it terminates” (Simmel
1997, 66). A bridge not only allows connec on between one space and
another, but also emphasizes the separa on between these two spaces. As
his journey around Rome comes to a close, Nanni travels toward Os a to
view the place where Pier Paolo Pasolini was murdered in 1975 and the
monument that stands there.
Atypically for More , in the more recent film, We Have a Pope, two
very famous tourist sights, the Va can and the Forum, are featured. The
rituals of the Catholic Church are about ceremony and performance in a
public place. The papal elec on speech and blessing from the balcony of
St. Peter’s Basilica renders that place as a stage and the address as a
performance. We Have a Pope has as its central theme the struggle
between a man’s private existence and iden ty and the changes that may
be wrought when that person is forced onto a very pubic pla orm. The
reserved individual that is the newly elected Cardinal Melville (Michel
Piccoli) is overwhelmed by the responsibility of the very public task before
him, which induces in him a type of stage fright. He refuses to address the
Faithful in his new role and runs away, at first through the tortuous
corridors of the Va can, and then through the streets of Rome where he
remains incognito. His physical presence on the balcony is supplanted by a
black void, framed by a flu ering curtain, sugges ng the bleakness of his
mood and his lack of desire for the posi on. As he escapes from the
seclusion of the Va can, this hallowed and closed space is juxtaposed with
a number of uniden fied streets, cafés, and shops outside in the real world
of Rome. In his watchful meandering around Rome, Melville becomes a
flâneur, roaming haphazardly through the city, as anonymous as the streets
he walks through. This visually emphasizes the contrast between Cardinal
Melville as Pope elect, in the cocoon of privilege that is the Holy See, and
Melville as the undis nguished pensioner in a black overcoat, alone in the
city. As he wanders, Melville passes over a bridge where a happy crowd of
young people is seen behind him. Unremarkable and unrecognized, in the
communal space of a bridge that emphasizes connec on, he is spiritually
alone and despondent. The Pope should be a very public figure, but when
Melville escapes he becomes a terrified, unknown elderly man wrapped up
in his personal seclusion, despite being in the very public space of Rome.
Toward the end of the film, the public rela ons spokesman for the
Va can (Jerzy Stuhr) meets Melville in the Roman Forum to encourage him
to return to his du es. For centuries the Forum was the center of Roman
public life: the site for public discourses, criminal tribunals, and gladiatorial
contests; the place where elec ons and triumphal processions took place;
and the focus of business transac ons. Rather than film the scene in the
heart of Rome’s religious and moral authority, the Va can itself, More
uses this secular place, at the nucleus of ancient Roman poli cs, for a
discussion of ma ers of responsibility. The se ng of the Forum is also an
example of More ’s employment of bathos, since the conversa on
between the men in these spectacular surroundings dwindles into the
mundane and the indecisive. On the one hand, this loca on heightens the
importance of the posi on to which Melville has been elevated, like the
emperors of ancient mes, but on the other it also emphasizes the
realpoli k of the Va can procedures, which are far from being spiritual. In
his placing of Melville in the Va can and the Forum as well as the random
streets of Rome, More has underlined the contrast between a par cular
prominent role in a specific context and an obscure individual in a
generalized environment.

ANCONA
The choice of Ancona, a provincial city on the Adria c coast, as the
principal loca on for The Son’s Room was More ’s deliberate choice, again
driven partly by aesthe c and partly by thema c reasons. According to the
cinematographer Giuseppe Lanci, Ancona was chosen because of its
geographical posi on near the sea and its port. Other seaside ci es were
rejected: Pescara, because it was una rac ve; Genoa, because it was too
big; Livorno, because Paolo Virzì o en uses this as a loca on; Bari and
Taranto, because the public would expect a film about the problems of
southern Italy; Trieste, because it was too rich architecturally and would
have drawn a en on to itself (Chatrian and Renzi 2008, 181). More
rejected Rome for this film about the death of a child because he did not
want to deal with such a painful story in the place where he lived. He
wanted this sad narra ve to take place “in a town where the fabric of the
community is present and tangible” (Chatrian and Renzi 2008, 181). The
spectator is shown an everyday, familiar view of Ancona, star ng with the
psychoanalyst Giovanni’s (Nanni More ) local bar, and passing through a
school, a sports field, a series of shops, and other social spaces. It was
important to More that his protagonist was known in the town, possibly
only one of a few psychoanalysts there. More suggests that these
mo ves for using Ancona are not made explicit in the film:

None of this appears directly in the dialogue. This is the subtext of the
script, for me as director and actor in the film, but also for the
audience. The death of a teenager in a big city is lost in the stories of
three or four million people; in a city of average size, it is instead an
event shared by all, and one that people remember. (Chatrian and
Renzi 2008, 181)

This sense of small-town solidarity is shown in the scene when

Giovanni buys a CD for his dead son. Instead of finding the situa on
awkward, the shop assistant knows the circumstances and the people
involved, and can thus offer comfort and assistance in Giovanni’s choice of
music, Brian Eno’s “By This River” (1977).
The port and environs of Ancona are demarcated by the three actual
and one fantasy jogging sessions that Giovanni takes through the town. In
an interview, More suggests that Giovanni, as a psychoanalyst, uses the
period of exercise to find some silence and solitude (Joyard and Larcher
2001, 23). On each occasion the place and the ac on, together with the
music used, reflects the state of mind of the protagonist. The first run
occurs as the opening credits roll. Giovanni jogs along the quayside in a
brightly lit day me sequence, dwarfed by the huge ships at anchor there.
The music and vibrant colors give an op mis c feel to this scene, which is
heightened when Giovanni stops to watch the Hare Krishna dancers in the
street (Codelli 2001, 10). The mise-en-scène of the second run, however, is
less posi ve. It comes a er the confronta on between Giovanni and his
son, Andrea (Giuseppe Sanfelice), about the young man’s lack of
compe veness and just before Giovanni discusses the same issue with his
wife. Thus, it takes place at a moment when there is doubt in Giovanni’s
mind and this me the jogging session is at dusk, when nothing is quite as
clear as it is in the daylight. The third run takes place a er Andrea’s death
in a tragic accident. On this occasion Giovanni runs at nigh me, through
the rain. The bleakness of the mise-en-scène, with so li le light, echoes
Giovanni’s depression. The huge effort that this run causes him can be seen
in his face as his tears are mixed with the rain, emula ng the emo onal
struggle that he has in coping with his grief. Later in the film, totally
absorbed in his sorrow, Giovanni imagines the jogging session with Andrea
that never actually took place on the fateful Sunday morning of the boy’s
death. The visualiza on of this scene returns to the lightness and op mism
of the first ou ng, rendering it more poignant, as the father and son
appear relaxed and happy in each other’s company. The sympathe c
filming of Ancona gives a sense of the important in macy between
Giovanni and his hometown.

MILAN
Other ci es besides Rome feature in More ’s work, o en only flee ngly,
and frequently with a poli cal point to put forward. The streets, but not
the iconic buildings, of Milan appear briefly in April, where More films a
huge poli cal demonstra on for a documentary on contemporary Italy. The
demonstra on is a reac on against the success of the right wing in the
elec ons in April 1994. In the previous scene, in voice-over, Nanni had
commented “Our country must reflect on itself” and ge ng the Italian
public to think about their present poli cal situa on is part of his purpose
in making a documentary about contemporary Italy. Nanni observes that
since the 1994 elec ons there has been considerable debate about the
contras ng mo va ons of the Resistance and the Fascists in the Second
World War. He suggests in voice-over that the same ethos that produced
the socially engaged films of the Neo-Realist period needs to be revived.
On this occasion, however, the filming of the documentary has apparently
been marred by con nual rain during the shoot and so was not considered
to have been very successful. However, this denial of success is an example
of apophasis, a rhetorical trope seen in much of More ’s work, whereby
an issue is actually emphasized by being ignored or denied. In this case, the
filmmaker expresses a future desire to make a documentary, which is in
fact visualized on the screen. By seeming to fail to film the demonstra on
because of the inclement weather condi ons, the filmmaker nonetheless
shows the protest, while commen ng on it and making a visual intertextual
link with the postwar Neo-Realist film, Miracolo a Milano / Miracle in
Milan (Vi orio De Sica, 1951). There is a high angle shot of Nanni, with the
demonstra ng crowds milling all around him, followed by an overhead
view of dozens of umbrellas, with diege c crowd noise and the
Internazionale being sung in the background. This umbrella scene is
reminiscent of the sequence in Miracle in Milan when the protagonist Totò
(Francesco Golisano) conjures up umbrellas to shelter the homeless of the
Milanese postwar shantytown against the water canon of the ruthless
capitalist, Mobbi (Guglielmo Barnabò). The message here, using this
loca on with these associa ons, is that people need to act to help
themselves. As More stated at a poli cal rally on a later occasion:

You need to take responsibility for what you say and do, and not
always blame someone else, complaining against the state, against
others, against the evil system. . . . Consistency and accountability are
concepts that I learned from my father, who was liberal: he taught me
that you have to pay your taxes. (Mascia 2002, 91–92)

OTHER CITIES: VENICE, ACIREALE, LONDON

Another poli cally mo vated scene of the documentary within April takes
place in and around Venice. Once again, Nanni uses the techniques of
prevarica on and self-distrac on, which apparently take him away from
making the documentary on contemporary Italy. This sequence shows the
rally of the Lega Nord (Northern League) and the speech of its leader,
Umberto Bossi. The Lega Nord is an Italian poli cal party founded in 1991
as a federa on of several regional par es of northern and central Italy. Its
poli cal program advocates the transforma on of Italy into a federal state,
with fiscal federalism and greater regional autonomy, especially for the
northern regions. Interes ngly, and in contrast with his method of filming
in Rome, here in Venice More shows many of the famous buildings, and
employs the tourist rather than the familiar gaze.
The main part of Red Lob was shot in Acireale, Sicily. The reasons for
shoo ng the film in a loca on that is away from the protagonist Michele’s
(Nanni More ) usual environment of Rome is threefold: there is an
aesthe c purpose, as More wishes to film at a swimming pool with a
1950s appearance; there is a thema c dimension, because the physical as
well as mental disorienta on of Michele adds to the film’s main topic of
the iden ty crisis of the character and the Italian Communist party; there is
a prac cal mo ve, because since the shoo ng schedule was for the
autumn, it was too cool to shoot an outdoor pool in Rome (Toubiana
1989b, 25; Chatrian and Renzi 2008, 212). However, here the swimming
pool itself is the important loca on, not the fact that it is a town in Sicily.
Thus the geographical place here is less significant than the func on of
that loca on, which is discussed in subsequent chapters. Indeed, apart
from acknowledging the journey south by scenes of public transport, the
audience is not made aware of the geographical se ng.
London also features briefly in April. Here, the tourist filmmaker
More indicates the loca on by showing the iconic red London double-
decker buses. Since daydreaming and procras na on are major themes in
April, fantasy sequences visually demonstrate this temporiza on. Si ng in
his apartment, Nanni considers all the le ers he has wri en over the years
to newspapers and poli cal organiza ons, but has never actually sent.
There is a cut from the apartment to a fantasy scene that reveals a large
pile of le ers and in voice-over Nanni comments on the precise dates and
contents of these unposted missives. From this first visualiza on of his
concern about the le ers Nanni goes deeper into the fantasy and suggests
that because of his failure to send these significant documents he will
sooner or later go mad; when this has happened he will end up at
Speakers’ Corner, an area in Hyde Park, London, where people are allowed
to speak freely as long as the police consider their speeches lawful. In the
fantasy Nanni is seen se ng up a pitch, surrounded by other orators of
varying poli cal or religious persuasions. He takes up a declamatory pose
similar to the speakers around him and waves a handful of the unsent
le ers, yelling, “For us le -wing Italians, the model must be Emilia
Romagna.” Emilia Romagna today is considered as one of the richest
European regions and the third Italian region by GDP per capita. A
stronghold of center-le coali ons, it has a well-balanced economy based
on agriculture and motor produc ons, with good social services and
hospitals (Anon 2008). By reading aloud the content of these overlooked
le ers, More is of course voicing his opinions about various aspects of
contemporary Italian life. This is a further example of apophasis. The use of
this par cular loca on, where every type of person can put forward their
views, coincides with More ’s purpose in the April documentary of
declaiming his perspec ves on Italy. This daydream acknowledges his
desire to actually do something posi ve in the poli cal field rather than
merely think about it.
More employs cityscapes, in par cular in Rome, in all his films to
date, partly for financial, partly for aesthe c, but mainly for personal
reasons. He prefers to focus on the manmade built environment and the
city life in the capital, which he knows best and where he feels
comfortable, in his own milieu of middle-class Romans, using the familiar,
rather than the tourist gaze. When he ventures outside the security of this
cozy refuge, either he becomes an icon-seeking tourist, as he certainly was,
for example, in London and Venice, or he becomes ensnared in the less-
than-friendly environment of the natural countryside, as will be shown in
the following chapter.
 Chapter 3
Battling with Nature
The previous chapter demonstrated that More is for the most part
an urban filmmaker, so landscapes in his work are rare. Consequently,
when a landscape is featured it has a par cular func on for the narra ve.
In contrast to the city, which is familiar, the countryside is frequently an
unknown des na on to the urban residents and becomes a site where
their aspira ons are rarely achieved. Generally, the countryside is depicted
in a nega ve light. It is o en seen as an alien, in mida ng, and
unproduc ve place for the city-dwellers who go there.
In I am Self Sufficient the countryside is the place for a bonding
session held by Fabio (Fabio Traversa) for the members of his experimental
theater group. Here the members wander without purpose in a barren
landscape, while their leader inflicts on them various gymnas c exercises
as well as the dubious pleasures of camping under canvas. Since the group
gradually loses members in quite violent ways during their sojourn, the
countryside is depicted as a hos le environment. Only at one point is there
a feeling of exhilara on, when one of the group, Michele (Nanni More ),
has sight of the sea. The camera at first frames an empty space, into which
Michele runs with his back to spectator. This is an example of a
Rückenfigur, or figure seen from the rear, which is a common trope in
More ’s work. The significance of the Rückenfigur is discussed in more
detail later in this book. There follows a cut to a frontal mid-shot, where an
expression of wonderment can be seen on Michele’s face as he stands on a
high sandy ridge, overlooking the sea. The scene has intertextual
references to naïve Gelsomina’s (Giulie a Masina) blissful encounter with
the sea in La Strada (Federico Fellini, 1954) and fugi ve Antoine Doinel’s
(Jean-Pierre Léaud) exhilara ng first view of the sea at the end of Les 400
coups/The 400 Blows (François Truffaut, 1959).The coding of the sea as a
symbol of openness and freedom follows Michele’s abor ve a empt to
escape from the band of friends. It offers a moment of op mism in an
otherwise dreary and depressing environment.
In Here Comes Bombo, the countryside is presented as a place of
disenchantment, frustra on, and egocentricity. Michele (Nanni More )
and his friends decide to leave the security and comfort of their city life to
set themselves a challenge and spend a night on the beach at Os a, so that
they can see the dawn arrive. During the previous evening, one of the
young men, Vito (Paolo Zaccagnini), had expressed a desire to see both the
actual sun and the rising sun of Maoist Communism. Stretched out on the
pebbles of the beach, the men reconstruct, in an outdoor loca on, the
male discussion group normally held in the apartment of one of the
members, Mirko (Fabio Traversa). However, instead of interac ng, each of
them uses this place to focus on himself and his own problems. Mirko airs
some of his no ons on life in a poe c way; Goffredo (Piero Galle ) wants
to talk about his love life or lack of it; Cesare (Maurizio Romoli) is
embarrassed to be the only one of them in a happy rela onship; Michele,
unsurprisingly, talks about films; and Vito bemoans the lack of real poli cal
involvement by his pen-pushing colleagues and himself. This scene shows
that they are not really a group but a set of individuals with very different
perspec ves. Having talked late into the night, the members of the group,
apart from Vito, fall asleep. Abruptly, the next shot is of a gray sea in the
misty daylight. The cry of “Ecce Bombo (Here Comes Bombo)” can be
heard, which was apparently the street cry of a rag-and-bone man in Rome
(D’Agos ni 2006). Michele’s group of friends adopt this cry as their slogan,
which suggests a connec on with the i nerant life of the ragman, who
picks up bits and pieces as he goes along, hoping to turn them into
something useful. The tle obviously recalls “Ecce Homo,” the words used
by Pon us Pilate in the Vulgate transla on of the Gospels, when he
presented Christ, bound and crowned with thorns, to a hos le crowd
shortly before his crucifixion (John 19:5). Con nual specula on on the
meaning of the tle may produce many false trails, since “Bombo” can also
refer to a bumblebee, a type of sweet, a cocktail, and a na ve drum.
However, for More the tle was “solamente un suono” (only a sound)
(D’Agos ni 2006). On hearing the cry, the five friends rise from the off-
screen space at the bo om of the frame to see the rag-and-bone man
cycling along the road above them. Unfortunately, they have woken too
late and the sun has already risen. Their journey to this place has been set
up with a sense of purpose and even excitement, only to end in
disappointment. Their rising movement into the frame, mimicking the
mo on of the sun, is an ironic comment on their a tude and behavior.
More uses this movement into the frame to emphasize that, despite
their venturing into the unknown territory of the countryside, they have
been unsuccessful in their endeavor and have missed an opportunity.
Instead of witnessing the dawn, all the efforts of the group have ended
merely in a view of a member of the proletariat, as he struggles to make a
living. The countryside, though not hos le, is an unproduc ve place for
them. Here they had expected to have a sense of awe at the scene before
them, but they end up merely frustrated and disappointed.
In Dear Diary the same rural se ng of Os a is again a loca on of
an climax and dissa sfac on. There is a sharp contrast between this place
where Pier Paolo Pasolini was murdered in 1975 and the handsome
facades of the houses in La Garbatella or the leafy suburbs of Casal
Palocco that the audience has previously been shown during Nanni’s
(Nanni More ) scooter ride round Rome. The landscape on Nanni’s
journey toward Os a is bleak and there are only a few lonely figures on the
beach. The sky is white, the scenery una rac ve, there is less vegeta on
here than in central Rome, and the colors are not as vivid as in the city. The
soundtrack music, The Köln Concert by Keith Jarre , con nues quietly as
Nanni stops by a shabby fence made up of wooden poles and barbed wire.
In a poignant moment there is a shot through the wire, and then a slow
zoom in toward Pasolini’s memorial. The expedi on ends with the goal
completed, but in a despondent key, with a feeling of sorrow that this
squalid place, and by extension Italian society, has undervalued and
disregarded this important Italian filmmaker, philosopher, and poet. His
abandoned memorial does not merit the man whose life it purports to
commemorate.
A gloomy scene of ineffec ve ac vity takes place in the landscape on
a beach in April, where Nanni (Nanni More ) has gone to film his
documentary about contemporary Italy. A voice-over from Nanni iden fies
the place as Brindisi in spring 1997. Three days previously an Italian navy
vessel had rammed into a ship, which then sank, killing eighty-nine
Albanians who were trying to escape to Italy. The camera crew is wai ng
because it is likely that another boat will arrive any day. Desola on is
related in the auditory aspect of this scene, since there is no music but
only the occasional natural sound. The mise-en-scène is very sparse, gray,
and bleak, with only ny pieces of color on the equipment and clothes. The
exterior scene is intercut several mes with an interior where Nanni is
interviewing some of the refugees. This is filmed in much more close-
framed shots than the scenes of the landscape. Back on the beach, Nanni
observes that since the accident not one le -wing leader has been to the
place, which shows an absence both of poli cal and of human feeling. He
recalls that in the 1970s the young Communists would spend their
a ernoons watching the American television series Happy Days (1974–
1984), and suggests ironically that this was to form their poli cal, cultural,
and moral training. The memory of that cheerful, vividly colored television
program, which presented an idealized vision of life in mid-1950s America,
is in sharp contrast to the desolate present-day state of the Albanians.
The power of the landscape in pain ng, photography, and film
frequently evokes emo ons; this has been the subject of several recent
studies that draw their ideas from the Roman c movement of the
eighteenth and nineteenth centuries (Hockenhull 2008). The landscape is
o en filmed so as to have an emo onal func on, which may represent the
mood of a character, and is linked, not necessarily to any ac on that takes
place there, but to an emphasis on a character’s needs or desires. In The
Mass Is Ended emo ons are represented in the landscape right from the
opening shots of the film, crea ng a place that demonstrates visually the
predominant feelings of the protagonist. In the pre-credit prologue, the
landscape is not portrayed as an undesirable or nega ve place. The very
first frame is a serene, idyllic view of the sea with some land in the extreme
distance. The water is calm and not in any way hos le; there is no sense of
danger. The scenery depicted at the start of the film is shown in a cartolina
style, with a tourist gaze (Bass 1997, 88; Urry 2002, 4). It is an idealized
vision of a landscape of desire, where bright colors, predominantly the
blue of the sea, and the tranquility of the countryside contrast strongly
with the less prepossessing, everyday cityscape of Rome, seen later on in
the film. The camera holds for some me on this empty space before
cu ng to the reverse angle shot, presumably the point from which the sea
has been viewed. Tradi onal southern Italian rural architecture, where
simple lines are modified by li le cupolas, is filmed in brilliant sunshine,
giving a harmonious appearance. A distant solitary figure can be seen on a
balcony, sugges ng that the view of the sea in the first frame was his. This
is the protagonist, Roman Catholic priest Don Giulio (Nanni More ). A mid
shot taken from the balcony shows the figure’s gaze turn toward Santo
Stefano, an islet off the coast of Naples. Later, a er a brief spell spent
fishing, Don Giulio decides to swim to the islet. As he plunges into the
water the soundtrack music begins and he swims away from the isola on
of the island to the point where his figure is all but lost to view. The
narra ve func on here of the landscape is to show not only that the figure
is isolated, but also that this solitude can be something desirable. In fact,
Don Giulio craves seclusion, because it is easier than dealing with the
complex experience of real life. His later homecoming to Rome is a return
to a well-known space that is seen with a familiar gaze, but in the city he is
driven by his need for perfec on and harmony to interfere in other
people’s lives. Instead of this return proving to be a comfort to the priest,
the familiar becomes bizarre as he discovers that he has no control over
this space and no personal peace.
In a later sequence from The Mass Is Ended the wildness of the
countryside, although not hos le, reflects the violence of the emo ons of
the protagonist. A er a conversa on with his sister, Valen na (Enrica Maria
Modugno), about her pregnancy and possible abor on, Don Giulio’s makes
a journey to visit Simone (Mauro Fabre ), Valen na’s fiancé, to try to
persuade him to take posi ve ac on to prevent this. Don Giulio’s dejec on
becomes visible in his unkempt, unshaven appearance. A er a short scene
depic ng the journey from Rome in his pickup truck along serpen ne
mountain roads and through dense forest, there is a cut to a beau ful
landscape where a lake lies surrounded by hills. The camera lingers on the
scene and the sound of a strong wind is all that can be heard at first. Don
Giulio walks into the center of the frame from an off-screen space at a
point lower down the hill. The challenging uphill climb denotes the
difficulty of the task he is about to undertake. He approaches the campsite
where Simone is bird watching. Before Don Giulio can confront Simone
with the news, he has to endure the endless details of the environmental
study that Simone is carrying out. Most of this informa on is drowned out
by music, which comes to an abrupt end as Don Giulio tells Simone the
informa on about Valen na. In a brief moment of aggression, Don Giulio
uses physical force to convince Simone that he must act to prevent the
abor on. The filming of the landscape, which at first seemed peaceful and
luminous, now reveals chasms and sharp, craggy rocks all around as
passions are aroused. The irregularity and ruggedness of these natural
surroundings suggest that the hillside is a more apposite environment for
Don Giulio’s pent-up feelings than the more austere, clinical space, with
the hard, regular lines of the cold, bru sh 1960s architecture that make up
the Catholic school and Don Giulio’s living accommoda on.
Landscapes feature briefly in Sweet Dreams, when young filmmaker
Michele’s (Nanni More ) work is cri cized by the public for always dealing
with the same topics: “young people, the events of 1968, school, family,”
and for being too overtly intellectual, while ignoring the problems of the
working classes. These cri cisms are put forward on several occasions by a
man whose face becomes familiar, but whose costume and character differ
(Dario Cantarelli). This ubiquitous cri c always poses the same ques on as
to the relevance of Michele’s films to three characters who act as
exemplars of typical working-class Italians, taken from the whole
peninsula: a housewife from Treviso in Veneto, the prosperous northeast
region of Italy; a shepherd from Abruzzo, a rural region in the center of
Italy; a farmhand from Basilicata in the south of the country, one of the
poorest regions of Italy. The cri c wonders how this trio would enjoy
Michele’s cerebral offerings a er a hard day of physical work. The
landscapes shown in Sweet Dreams are purportedly in Basilicata and
Abruzzo, where the farmhand and the shepherd are seen briefly in what is
supposedly their natural habitat. This is one of the rare occasions when
More does not use an authen c geographical loca on. There is both
irony and surprise when, toward the end of the film, these three almost
mythical beings actually present themselves at the première of Michele’s
film, Freud’s Mother. The frequency and pa erning of the remarks about
these three characters by the “chameleon” cri c add to the building of a
climax, which is swi ly let down by the apparent apprecia on of Michele’s
work by the trio, thus contradic ng the cri c’s ideas. The importance of
these country loca ons, which are shown in a lyrical way, is to contrast
visually with the urban loca ons where apparently Michele’s typical
audience resides.
Further landscapes are seen during Nanni’s journey through the
Æolian Islands in Dear Diary which, as with his trajectory around Rome on
his Vespa, is looped and contorted. Star ng on the largest island, Lipari,
Nanni and his academic friend, Gerardo (Renato Carpen eri), move north
to Salina and spend a short me on Stromboli. They then alight for the
briefest visit to Panarea and head for the smallest and remotest island,
Alicudi, to the extreme west of the rest of the archipelago. On the island of
Stromboli there are examples of the landscape conceived as the Sublime,
which was a no on developed in literature, philosophy, and art principally
in the eighteenth century during the Roman c period. The debate about
the Sublime, as opposed to the Beau ful, was expressed by Edmund Burke
in his 1757 work Philosophical Enquiry into the Origin of Our Ideas of the
Sublime and Beau ful (Burke [1757] 1987). He believed that the Sublime in
nature could produce trepida on in the audience, since he felt that terror
and pain were the strongest of the emo ons. Nonetheless, he also
supposed there was an intrinsic “pleasure” in this emo on. Anything that
was magnificent, immeasurable, or incomprehensible could be an object of
terror and thus the Sublime. Amicable up to this point, Nanni and Gerardo
now sense the threatening presence of the volcano, which causes them to
quarrel. The whole ambiance of the island is one of tension and
aggression. This is further seen in the mise-en-scène where the houses are
jumbled together and ghtly packed along narrow lanes, presen ng a
claustrophobic atmosphere. Effort and fa gue can be seen in the figure
expression as Nanni, Gerardo, and the local mayor walk up stairways, with
doors constantly being slammed in their faces. The hos le inhabitants and
the narrow alleys contrast to the free flow and wider streets that Nanni
experienced in Rome. Gerardo and Nanni walk toward the volcano, having
le behind the single-minded, ambi ous, fantasist mayor and the
aggressive residents of Stromboli. A long shot has them disappear into the
grass, becoming one with nature and preparing the spectator for the next
shots of the crater itself. The Stromboli sequence contains a considerable
number of dialogue-free shots of the landscape, which increase the
spectator’s feelings of awe and wonder. There follow several images of the
fissure. All the power and menace of the volcano can be seen, as the lava
heaves and the smoke gushes forth in jets. The scene then cuts to Nanni
and Gerardo si ng looking over the crater, and staring in wonder at the
panorama. The scene is tranquil, but in sharp contrast with the force and
danger below them. In such a place one might expect murmurs of
admira on or cries of help, ecstasy, delight, or fear, even a primal scream,
yet the volcano itself soon becomes the sublime loca on for a scene of
ironic bathos, as the magnificent yet foreboding landscape is the se ng for
a banal conversa on between the friends about the details of an American
soap opera. This scene is dealt with in more detail in chapter 6: Laughter
and Tears.
The island of Alicudi offers an even more forlorn prospect for the two
friends. If the ci zens of Stromboli were antagonis c, the few inhabitants
of Alicudi are disturbing. Once again physical effort is needed to move from
the shore to the living accommoda on, which turns out to be primi ve.
Nanni, Gerardo, and their guide are dwarfed by the rugged landscape,
which cuts diagonally across the frame. It is strange, therefore, that this
loca on, without any of the comforts or expecta ons of the modern world,
is the place where both Nanni and Gerardo feel that they can se le down
to work.
In contrast to his familiarity in the urban se ng, More is alien to the
landscape. Yet, despite the disaffec on and otherness encountered by
characters in the countryside, More uses the narra ve space of the
landscape to display a variety of emo ons, whether disappointment, anger,
awe, or fear.
 Chapter 4
Inside
In The Poe cs of Space (1994) Gaston Bachelard discusses the
dialec cs of inside and outside in literature. He examines the way in which
different types of thinkers might illustrate these binary opposites: as a
simple “yes” or “no”; as being or not being; as open and closed; as here
and there (211–12). He argues:

Inside and outside, as experienced by the imagina on, can no longer

be taken in their simple reciprocity; consequently, by omi ng
geometrical references when we speak of the first expressions of
being, by choosing more concrete, more phenomenologically exact
incep ons, we shall come to realize that the dialec cs of inside and
outside mul ply with countless diversified nuances. (Bachelard 1994,
216)

Similarly, the narra ve func on and meanings of interiors in More ’s

films are not fixed and vary throughout his work. This chapter will examine
how More uses the narra ve space inside a building or a vehicle. Where
the interior is domes c, there are frequently links to More ’s view of the
family, very much in accordance with the stage he has reached in his real
life as a historical person (son, independent man, husband, or father).
O en, the established significance of an interior is considerably altered by
More , whose inten on is to manipulate these places through the mise-
en-scène, cinematography, edi ng, and sound, to engage the audience by
showing a jarring or subversive contrast.

INTERIORS
In the early films, such as I Am Self Sufficient and Here Comes Bombo, the
interiors of the family home are shown to be oppressive through ght
framing and sta c camera work. Here Comes Bombo in par cular has many
enclosed spaces without windows or sources of natural light (De Gaetano
2002, 47). The spectator sees the home of university student Michele
(Nanni More ) in some detail, including two scenes where the whole
family is seated in the dining room. However, instead of depic ng a united
family on these occasions, the audience witnesses instead how fragmented
and shi ing it is, with family members constantly moving in and out of this
communal area around the dining table. This claustrophobic ambiance
represents for More in these early years the repression he feels within
the family group, when he and his characters are young, single men, s ll
living at home and thus under the jurisdic on and to some extent control
of their parents.
The apartment that filmmaker Michele (Nanni More ) shares with his
mother (Piera Degli Espos ) in Sweet Dreams is at mes a place for
conten on. His clashes with his mother are due as much to his unresolved
Oedipus complex as to her own antagonis c personality. Michele’s mother
is domineering and not en rely suppor ve of her son’s career. She delights
in beli ling him, both to his face and to others, sugges ng that he is
shallow (he only reads the film reviews), lacks poli cal engagement (unlike
other young people), and has infan le desires (he only likes puddings).
Michele’s mother seems not to reach the high standards expected of every
Italian mother by her son, and consequently has to be punished (Mazierska
and Rascaroli 2004, 63). This sense of filial mistrust is reinforced by using a
popular song, Non Credere / Don’t Believe It (Mina, 1969), in a scene with
his mother, to emphasize the ambigui es of Michele’s rela onship with
her. The song is about a love triangle in which one woman declares her
love to be stronger than her rival’s. However, Michele uses it ironically to
counterpoint his feelings toward his mother, for whom he suggests he is “a
plaything, the whim of a moment” who is unloved. In another sequence, as
Michele fusses with lights and curtains before watching a film on
television, there is a visual reference to the pain ng known as Whistler’s
Mother (Arrangement in Grey and Black 1: The Ar st’s Mother, James
McNeill Whistler, 1871), with Michele’s mother si ng in the shade on the
extreme right-hand side of the frame, facing the le -hand side. This o -
parodied work is considered by some to be an icon of motherhood. This is
ironic, given that Michele does not consider her to be a good mother. The
scenes inside the apartment are notable for their use of deep focus, which
is a feature of many of More ’s films. The en re length of the main
corridor can clearly be seen, allowing the audience to observe Michele’s
disassocia on from his mother while she is on the telephone, as he walks
from room to room in the background.
In April, there is a development in the representa on of interiors,
which are no longer experienced as restric ng or claustrophobic loca ons,
as in the early films. The interiors in April are places in which the security
of the family life that Nanni (Nanni More ) has now achieved can be
centered, and a more mature outlook can be considered, if not exactly
adopted. They are the sites of discussion and reflec on within a safe
atmosphere. It is inside the family apartment that Nanni can review the
baby’s laye e and list possible baby names. Before the arrival of their son,
Pietro, Nanni is able to discuss freely his anxie es about the birth with his
partner, Silvia (Silvia Nono). Although the conversa on takes place on the
terrace of their apartment, this area is considered as part of their domes c
interior. Silvia describes in detail the various stages of labor as Nanni paces
up and down in the tradi onal way that expectant fathers are supposed to
do while the birth is taking place. This scene is used to comic effect, as the
more precise the informa on about the pain and the woman’s discomfort
is, the more panicked Nanni becomes. Silvia says that he must support her
during the most difficult moments, but he asks who is going to support
him. During the birth itself, the extremely anxious Nanni finds comfort in
the interior of the hospital, where pain can be controlled and panic can be
calmed. He even manages to conquer his fear long enough to a end the
caesarean sec on. Once the child is born, the apartment interior becomes
the loca on where he bonds with his son, overseeing bath me and
describing to the baby the different approaches of each parent: “There are
two voices, two holds, two touches. There is the maternal role and the
paternal one.”
In The Son’s Room, the spectator is introduced near the beginning of
the film to the inside area of Giovanni Sermon ’s (Nanni More )
apartment. The use of interiors in this film closely follows the no on
suggested previously, that in April the interiors are places of warmth and
safety, in contrast to the earlier films where interiors were more stressful
and claustrophobic. In this calm and comfortable se ng the Sermon
family is seen ini ally as a happy unit. The family living accommoda on is
connected by a long corridor and a series of doors to Giovanni’s consul ng
room as a psychoanalyst. Rather than use a studio set, More purchased
and refi ed two apartments in Ancona for the film, filling them with
modern white interiors and furniture (Chatrian and Renzi 2008, 112).
More comments on this alignment:

I wanted the office and the living space to be adjoining; the

professional space and personal space appear separated only by a
door. (Joyard and Larcher 2001, 20)

More goes on to explain that when at work Giovanni needed to feel

that he had his family close at hand, while, at the same me, “In the
apartment, I am not separate from all the problems and the people I see in
my prac ce” (Joyard and Larcher 2001, 20). In another interview he adds:

I had planned in the scenario that the office and the apartment would
be close to one another. I know that o en the dwelling and the office
of a psychoanalyst are located in different places, but instead, I
wanted to create a corridor that is like an umbilical cord connec ng
his office to his apartment, and vice versa. (Chatrian and Renzi 2008,
187)

Stefano Bolognini also comments on this link between the working

and living areas of the Sermon apartment:

The corridor Dr. Sermon walks down . . . to go from the family’s

rooms to the office where he works, and vice versa, symbolizes, both
tangibly and spa ally, the inner journey which each of us
[psychoanalysts] makes, day a er day, session a er session, to keep
separate, yet at the same me connected, our personal world and the
analy c func on prac ced with our pa ents. (Bolognini et al. 2003,
59; original italics)

The deliberate choice by the filmmaker of the close proximity of

Giovanni’s office and his living accommoda on means that the off-screen
space in the home is poten ally always the consul ng room and vice versa.
This linking of on- and off-screen space reflects the merging of the
professional man with the husband and father. The daily walks between
the office and the apartment take the spectator from the on-screen to the
off-screen, but always with the other place in mind, so that the
psychoanalyst has the family man in the background always in his
thoughts, and the paterfamilias becomes the doctor just by turning a
corner.
Only Giovanni and a single pa ent are seen at any one me in the
consul ng room. Neither his wife nor his children breach the entrance to
this area. Of the various office se ngs seen in More ’s films, this is one of
implicit dominance and guidance, with Giovanni at first nearly always in
control of the situa on. In this loca on the psychoanalyst Giovanni fulfills a
paternal role, listening to and counseling those under his protec on.
However, a er the tragic loss of his son, Andrea (Giuseppe Sanfelice), there
is a breakdown of the control dynamic in the consul ng room and a
reversal of roles, as Giovanni becomes the weak individual, and the various
pa ents undertake to comfort him.
The one truly unsympathe c interior in The Son’s Room is the chapel
of rest in the hospital. The use of very detailed aspects of the social rituals
concerning death are both seen and heard in the sequence when family
and friends bid farewell to Andrea and his coffin is closed. This interior is
plain and stark. The family stands alongside the coffin, with the mother,
Paola (Laura Morante), in the center of the frame. The sister, Irene
(Jasmine Trinca), is the first person in the family to kiss Andrea’s body,
followed by Giovanni and finally Paola, who lovingly kisses her dead son,
holding his face with both hands, before she walks away. Briefly, Giovanni
is the only family member on screen with the coffin prior to it being sealed
by the undertakers. Irene asks to see the body again before the coffin lid is
secured. For this family of nonbelievers this will be their very last sight of
Andrea. The fixing of the metal lid with solder and the rhythmic screwing
down of the coffin lid define the reality of the tragedy and the finality of
the loss. The details of these ac vi es, carried out so carefully and
methodically by the undertakers, are shown in close-up, with the
heightened noise of the blowtorch and drill carried over as a sound bridge
into the next scene, where Giovanni sits by himself in one living space,
while Paola screams alone on her bed in another. Thus the inhospitable
space of the chapel of rest percolates into the comfort of the Sermon s’
home, through audio rather than visual means. Only when Giovanni looks
at photographs of Andrea’s room, taken by Arianna (Sofia Vigliar), a girl
whom the boy had briefly met, does some sort of serenity return to the
family home. The no on of the secure interior is restored and the
Sermon s welcome her with the warmth and generosity exhibited earlier
in the film.
In The Caiman the office of unsuccessful film producer Bruno Bonomo
(Silvio Orlando) is o en cast in shadow. The apartment he shares with his
wife and two sons has a brighter aspect, but it is rarely seen in the
day me, and the use of ar ficial ligh ng adds to this atmosphere of
entrapment, with ght framing during scenes featuring his family. These
interiors show a return to the claustrophobia of interiors of earlier works,
as More uses these places to demonstrate visually the oppressiveness of
individual lifestyles in Italy in the new millennium.
O en, the customary meaning of an interior is significantly challenged
by the filmmaker, whose aim is to control the narra ve meaning of these
places by clashing or contradictory means through formal film language, in
order to engage the spectator and render the places into narra ve spaces.
The psychiatric center in Rome where priest Don Giulio’s (Nanni More )
sister, Valen na (Enrica Maria Modugno), works is such a place. At first it
appears merely as a rundown building in the suburbs. It has dilapidated
masonry and flaking paintwork. Don Giulio comments on the fact that its
less-than-cheerful appearance does not augur well for healing and
recovery. One reading of the presenta on of this space suggests a cri cism
of the authori es in Rome, who cannot provide a new or refurbished
building that has been promised for some me. On the second visit to the
psychiatric center it proves to be a place of pain rather than a place of
healing. On this occasion a le er, which has considerable significance for
both the brother and sister, is read. Don Giulio’s father (Ferruccio De
Ceresa) has wri en the recently discovered le er to his mistress, Arianna
(Carlina Torta). A rather drab interior places Don Giulio and his sister on
either side of a table, their conflict reflected both in their rela ve posi ons
and body language, and also in their contras ng black (priest) and white
(nurse) costumes. They confront each other about the recent events that
have disturbed their family. He sits in a very s ff, erect posture on the le -
hand side of the frame, in a seat higher than hers. She is seated on the
right-hand side of the frame, where she is slumped down. He has the
moral high ground, since Valen na had suppressed knowledge of their
father’s betrayal by withholding the le er. Although she has faith in the
fact that her father has found true love with another woman, Don Giulio’s
figure expression in this scene indicates that he does not believe this to be
valid and he cannot accept it. He uses the radio to drown out the sound of
his sister reading their father’s love le er. The words of the song (Sei
Bellissima / You’re So Beau ful, Loredana Bertè) form an ironic contrast to
the love le er being read. They speak of a jealous, strangulated love in
which the woman was a slave to an overprotec ve man. Behind Valen na
there is an open window looking onto palm trees, where fresh air can
enter. This reflects Valen na’s more open a tude. Behind Don Giulio there
is a grey wall and closed cupboard doors, mirroring his closed views on the
situa on. The narra ve space of the psychiatric center becomes a
metaphor for Don Giulio himself. It should be a place of healing, just as he
should be a person who can help to heal souls. However, it is a crumbling
place that is not fit for its task, in the same way that Don Giulio is unable to
complete the mission he has returned home to do.
More also uses interiors as metaphors for places of change. The
interior of Don Giulio’s parish church in The Mass Is Ended is portrayed in
various lights, some posi ve, but others nega ve and consequently
subverted, since a church is generally considered to be a place of refuge
and peace. The building, in a Roman suburb, is dilapidated, and like the
spiritual parish it serves, it needs to be rebuilt. The decay of the church
informs the audience, on a factual level, both of the fall in churchgoing in
that par cular area, possibly as a result of the marriage of the previous
incumbent, Don Antonio (Eugenio Masciari), and of the fact that the
suburbs of Rome are part of a more secular Italian society in the 1980s.
The first sight of this building is gradually revealed to the spectator from
around a leafy corner and is seen from Don Giulio’s point of view. Don
Giulio enters the building and walks slowly through the interior, which is in
severe disrepair (figure 4.1). The sugges on is that the church has fallen
into decay because of the immoral ac ons of the previous priest.
Abandoned pews and statues are strewn throughout the place in an
inharmonious composi on. The black-and-white- led floor is dirty and half
covered with detritus. This type of floor, seen in many churches, but also in
many Masonic lodges, is a deliberate allegory for the choices people make
between selfishness or selflessness, separa on or unity, darkness or light,
good or evil. It is an appropriate symbol in More ’s work, where he puts
forward what he considers a clear choice between doing right and doing
wrong. It is Don Giulio’s responsibility to clean the floor, restoring the
dis nc ons between light and dark once again, and also to a empt to
show his family and friends the clear-cut differences between right and
wrong. As the film progresses, the church building and its renewal will
stand as a metaphor for the an cipated public reconstruc on of society
and the private reestablishment of Michele’s family and friends. Don Giulio
stumbles his way through the debris and in a further point of view shot the
altar is revealed, with its pain ng of the Corona on of the Virgin in the
alcove above. Since the role of motherhood is one of the key themes of the
film, this pain ng of the mother of Christ becomes an important image in
the film. When Don Giulio celebrates his first mass there, the building has
been restored and there is a balanced composi on seen from the altar of
neat rows of pews and a clean floor. On this occasion, however, there are
no worshippers. On subsequent occasions the audience witnesses the
renewal not merely of the physical fabric, but also of the spiritual iden ty
of the church. Tableaux of significant church ceremonies are seen including
a funeral, a bap sm, and a marriage. The film affords a visual
transforma on from disorder to order, from leaking roofs, through
deserted masses, to posi ve events such as the catechism class and the
prenup al class, and finally to a full congrega on in a beau ful building.

Don Giulio enters his new church

Image reproduced by kind permission of Sacher Film, Rome

However, the tranquility of the building is subverted by the violence

and nega vity that follows the confession of adultery by Don Giulio’s
father. The breakdown of the rela onship between father and son comes
just at the moment when Don Giulio is preparing to officiate at a Requiem
Mass. The clear posi oning of a coffin within the frame both suggests the
death of the father–son bond and prefigures the mother’s suicide later in
the film. As the father’s confession begins, Don Giulio moves into the
sacristy, and his father stands in what appears to be in a separate room,
both to one side of the altar. The two men are seen apart, within separate
doorframes, accentua ng the emo onal distance between them, each in
his own interior place, each with his individual world and preoccupa ons.
However, as the father moves forward the spectator observes that the two
doorframes belong to one room and that the men are not in two dis nct
places at all. As they face each other the father walks into Don Giulio’s
area, thus breaking an apparent barrier between them. By choosing to
occupy the same loca on as his priest-son, the father suggests equality as
two men together.
A second bi er confronta on with Don Giulio’s father also occurs
inside the church. As the father enters the building, he passes a statue of
St. Joseph with the infant Jesus. This par cular image is used because the
steadfastness of St. Joseph as a guardian and husband is the basis for his
patronage of fatherhood and families. He goes to Don Giulio’s austere
bedroom, where he admits to Don Giulio that he wants to have a child with
his mistress. He pleads with Don Giulio to reveal this situa on to his
mother (Margarita Lozano). This is a reversal of the usual situa on, where
a son might ask his father for help in a delicate situa on. The shu ers are
closed and the room is dark and oppressive as the father sits dejectedly on
the bed. Both men are cut off from the outside world, in the restricted
universe of their own family troubles. The concep on of a child implies a
physical rela onship that Don Giulio cannot understand and his mother
will not endure. This shocks both priest and audience, since passion, as the
father readily admits, was something that seemed lacking in his
personality. In visi ng a priest, the father seeks pardon from the sinful
situa on he has entered into. In visi ng his grown-up son, he seeks
sanc on for his future family plans. Both the man and priest in Don Giulio
respond vehemently to these pe ons, driving his father away bodily,
spiritually, and psychologically. The priest’s reac on of anger and disbelief
demonstrates More ’s predominant message here, that marriage, or at
the very least a commi ed rela onship, is key to the forma on of a happy
family. As if condemning his father to be an outcast, Don Giulio at first
shakes him ferociously and then forces him from the interior of the church,
out into the wide world, slamming the door behind him. The tranquility
and compassion that should be the norm of the church and its environs
have again been subverted.
The third occasion in which the interior of the church has a nega ve
aspect is toward the end of the film, a er the suicide of Don Giulio’s
mother, when Andrea (Vincenzo Salemme), Don Giulio’s boyhood friend
and one- me terrorist, confronts Don Giulio there. This scene is dealt with
in more depth below.
Two interiors in More ’s work become the sites of a empts at
salva on and redemp on. The first is Olga’s (Lina Sastri) room in Here
Comes Bombo. This solitary, frail individual lives in the apartment of Mirko
(Fabio Traversa), one of university student Michele’s friends. A naïve
pain ng of a family has a prominent place on the wall of her basic room.
There is contrast here with Michele, who has a family that he rejects and
where he cannot relate to any of the members, and Olga who does not
have a family, but longs for one. Family and true friends are something that
she lacks and this makes the pain ng especially poignant as it points to her
unfulfilled desires. Indeed, when a group of Olga’s so-called friends comes
to visit her, she is of so li le consequence to them that they turn out the
light as they depart, leaving her in complete darkness. The interior that she
is framed in is canceled by the switching off of the light, just as she is
excluded from the everyday life enjoyed by her contemporaries because of
her mental illness. At the end of the film Michele is the only one of the
group of young Romans who actually goes to visit the sick girl. In the final
wordless scene of the film, the wayward Michele makes a commitment to
friendship and an a empt to dispel their mutual loneliness by willingly
being with Olga, so that this interior becomes the poten al site for
salva on on her part and redemp on on his.
 A similar endeavor at helping a friend takes place in The Mass Is
Ended in a room occupied by Don Giulio’s erstwhile friend, Saverio (Marco
Messeri), who has turned the interior into a place of self-imposed isola on
and exile. A er a failed love affair with Astrid (Antonella Fa ori), Saverio
has shut himself in and has gradually, and in a formal way, cut himself off
from his friends. The undecorated apartment is full of dead plants, piles of
papers, and old dusty les. Its general air of neglect connotes the way that
everything in Saverio’s life has ceased, and remains fixed in the past. He
has stopped caring about his existence. He does nothing and considers
nobody. In his own words, “Life has no sense, life is trivial.” Don Giulio
a empts to regenerate life in the place by bringing fresh plants to replace
the dead ones and seeks to encourage Saverio to take a forward look, but
all in vain. Don Giulio moves briskly and with purpose through this space,
while Saverio, on the other hand, remains sta c, with no resolve. The lack
of decora on in the apartment suggests a life of unfulfilled poten al. The
redness, which is part of his overall depression, is seen in the greyness of
the walls and the general lack of color in the whole apartment. Unlike
Olga’s room, where the family pain ng was both an ornament and an
aspira on, here there is nothing in the space to li the character out of
melancholy. This interior takes the no on of privacy to an extreme point,
where it takes on a completely nega ve quality. Contras ng with the site of
Olga’s bedroom, Saverio’s room is one of neither salva on nor redemp on.
On the contrary, this private loca on demonstrates Don Giulio’s complete
lack of success in helping his friend. The bleakness of the mise-en-scène
conveys to the audience not only Saverio’s despair but also Don Giulio’s
failure in his mission to transform the things and people around him.

CAR INTERIORS
From Young at Heart (Gordon Douglas, 1954) to À bout de souffle /
Breathless (Jean-Luc Godard, 1960), from Bonnie and Clyde (Arthur Penn,
1967) to Thelma and Louise (Ridley Sco , 1991) and from On the
Waterfront (Elia Kazan, 1954) to Il conformista / The Conformist (Bernardo
Bertolucci, 1970), car interiors have been used in many films to provide a
par cular kind of inner place. The interior of a car is a constricted loca on
that may func on as a place of in macy, confession, or debate. In The
Conformist the car interior, which appears throughout the film, represents
the enclosed space and prison-like world of Fascism, as well as being a
reminder of the a empted seduc on and supposed murder that trigger off
the protagonist Marcello Clerici’s (Jean-Louis Trin gnant) search for
normality. The narra ve of The Conformist is revealed in a series of
flashbacks, in which the framing device in “the present” is a car drive from
Paris to Savoy. The flashbacks take the form of the freely associated
thoughts of the protagonist, so that the car interior almost becomes a type
of psychoanalyst’s clinic (Ranvaud and Ungari 1987, 193).
More uses the interiors of cars very frequently in his films. These
sequences are o en shot in the same way, that is, looking through the
front windscreen into the car, rather than from the inside looking out.
These places are enclosed, and the characters are fixed inside while the
world moves by outside, so that the area within the car is always
foregrounded; in the majority of these sequences the exterior is not nearly
as important as what is going on inside. In Here Comes Bombo, the car
interior acts as a private place for Michele Apicella (Nanni More ) and
Flaminia (Carola Stagnaro), the wife of his friend Cesare (Maurizio Romoli),
who is an older, slightly in mida ng woman, with whom he has an illicit
liaison. However, their affair never gets beyond a debate quan fying and
jus fying their ac ons. Their encounters in the sta onary car suggest
entrapment within the affair. It is within this area that Flaminia confesses
her feelings of guilt, while Michele announces his jealousy of her husband,
albeit ironically, since he is more bored with their rela onship than
ashamed of it.
Sweet Dreams sees Michele (Nanni More ) use the car as the
loca on of a furious debate with the prospec ve assistant directors, Nicola
(Nicola Di Pinto) and Claudio (Claudio Spadaro). He rails about the way in
which everyone feels they have a right to discuss the cinema and its merits
or defects, even though he never speaks about things he knows nothing
about.
In the “Doctors” sec on of Dear Diary, Nanni (Nanni More ) uses the
car interior as a form of talking therapy as he discusses his uniden fied
illness in terms of personal guilt. The framing within the car is
claustrophobic, with a dark interior and a side view of Nanni looking
straight ahead and speaking to himself, and ul mately to the audience.
One of the many doctors he has visited has suggested that the skin
irrita on he is experiencing is psychological. Nanni repeats in a bemused
way, “It’s all my fault, everything depends on me.” In both Sweet Dreams
and Dear Diary the claustrophobic se ng of the car interior has
intertextual references with the opening sequence in O o e mezzo/8½
(Federico Fellini, 1963), where the filmmaker, Guido Anselmi (Marcello
Mastroianni), dreams of being trapped in a huge traffic jam in a tunnel.
The car is a site of catharsis in Red Lob, where in the final sequence
Michele is returning from Sicily to Rome. As his daughter, Valen na (Asia
Argento), sleeps in the back of the vehicle, Michele shouts out his
bewilderment at what is happening to him and to the Italian Communist
Party, of which he is a member, “We are equal, we are like everyone else,
but we’re different.” Discussions also take place in a car in April, where
Nanni talks to Silvia about all aspects of the arrival of their baby, from
breast-feeding to the fact that she or he will not be allowed to enter the
ac ng profession. As with the interior of their home, he appears to find
this small, enclosed place somewhere that he can voice his anxie es with a
certain amount of ease.
The Son’s Room dis nguishes two types of car interior. At first, it is a
site of solidarity. Here, father and son are seen on their way to a school
friend’s (Emanuele Lo Nardo) house, where they hope to resolve the issue
of the the of a fossil from the school’s science laboratory. It could have
been an opportunity to talk and bond, but notably Andrea does not choose
to reveal the truth about the robbery here to his father. A second scene of
apparent harmony occurs on the way to a tennis match in which Andrea is
playing. The four family members are ghtly framed in the vehicle, as if in a
stereotypical representa on of the ideal family in a television commercial.
They even enhance the sense of domes c accord by singing together
“Insieme a te non ci sto più” (“I’m no longer with you,” Caterina Caselli
1968). The words of this song are poignant: “It will not be easy, but you
know, you die a li le to live, goodbye love, goodbye, the clouds are already
further on, it ends here.” These lyrics are in strong contrast with the more
joyful visuals, but also seem to augur ill for future events. However, this
peace and unity is short-lived once they arrive at their des na on.
Andrea’s apparent lack of compe veness in the match and indifference to
winning leads Giovanni to cri cize him. It has been suggested by a number
of cri cs that this overt disapproval ul mately leads to Andrea’s death, as
he pushes himself too far in an a empt to please his father (De Bernardinis
2006, 63; Vighi 2005, 100; Vighi 2006, 167).
A er Andrea’s death the previously united family is sha ered and
visually dispersed within the domes c se ng. This disunity is also seen in
the car as Giovanni and his wife, Paola, return from a dinner party during
which Paola has spoken enthusias cally about a le er received from
Arianna, a girl whom Andrea had known briefly. The couple is turned away
from each other and she is angry because she feels that her husband was
embarrassed by her declara on. Only at the end of the film, when they are
driving through the night to France, is some sort of harmony and
equilibrium restored, especially between Giovanni and Paola. The framing
and the disposi on of the characters inside the car, this me without
Andrea, but with Arianna and her new boyfriend, recalls the previous
journey to the tennis match, so in some way the family is reestablished
within the safety of the car interior.
Car interiors in The Caiman have several func ons. First, they are sites
of exposure, as two discoveries take place here: film producer Bruno’s
(Silvio Orlando) comprehension that the film that novice director Teresa
(Jasmine Trinca) is proposing is actually about Berlusconi; the inadvertent
disclosure about Teresa’s homosexuality and the concep on of her child. It
is also the se ng for some important and ironic poli cal comment. Playing
himself, as filmmaker, More dismisses Teresa’s idea about making a film
on Berlusconi, which he sa rically suggests is a hackneyed subject, since
“everyone already knows everything about Berlusconi. . . . Whoever
wanted to know, knows, and those who don’t want to understand, come
on, what more informa on do you want to give, they know everything.”
At the very end of The Caiman, there are scenes inside the car that is
carrying the Berlusconi figure (Nanni More ) to his trial. Accompanied by
pulsa ng, in mida ng music, the Caiman u ers some of his most revealing
thoughts about his enemies and his projects. There are many dissolves
between the image of the Caiman inside his vehicle and the scenes at the
tribunal itself, thus merging the private area of the car with the public one
of the courtroom. Within the car the Caiman cri cizes both the le wing
and his allies. The dialogue that More uses for these addresses was taken
from actual speeches made by Berlusconi. As the Caiman leaves the court,
he ques ons the legi macy of the magistrates who, both in the film and in
reality, cons tute the only ins tu onal obstacle preven ng Berlusconi from
using the organs of state power in his own private interests. In the
apocalyp c scene that concludes the film, there is a clear warning of a
terrifying possible future for Italy. The Caiman states:

In a liberal democracy, the judges apply the law, they do not resist,
resist, resist against those who have been chosen by the voters to
govern. In a liberal democracy, the ruler can only be judged by his
peers and that is by those elected by the people. The class of judges
wants instead to have the power to decide for the voters. And I would
say that the me has come to stop them. With my convic on our
democracy has turned into a regime, a regime against which all free
men like you have the right to react in any way.

The Caiman’s admiring public proceeds to hurl missiles and Molotov

cocktails at the magistrates. The flames, which are viewed through the rear
window of the Caiman’s car as he departs, enhance his dark silhoue e and
give him a diabolic appearance.
Unlike the privacy of a car, the bus as a se ng is a public place that
moves within another public area. More uses buses as sites of
community ac vity in both Bianca, carrying the teaching staff of the
Marilyn Monroe School, and in Red Lob, transpor ng the Rari Nantes
Monteverde water polo team. However, in We Have a Pope he exploits this
narra ve space most fully. Halfway through the film, the fugi ve Pope elect
(Michel Piccoli) is traveling on a bus in Rome. As with so many scenes in
More ’s work, the spectator is launched in medias res. Neither the
character nor the audience knows the provenance or the des na on of the
vehicle. With no establishing shot, the spectator has to work to resolve and
decode both the loca on and the context. The new pon ff, normally one of
the most celebrated of Roman residents, is enclosed in his own private
world. Cocooned like a Russian doll within the real worlds of first the bus
and then the city, he is unrecognized by the people seated all around him.
The outside world passes by and the other passengers, although in close-
up appearing compassionate toward the distraught elderly figure,
exchange glances that suggest that he might be mentally disturbed. On this
journey, ex-Cardinal Melville is blending his outward-facing life as pon ff
with his innermost personal feelings. He is rehearsing his public ora on to
the world, while deba ng his inmost problems and talking privately to God.
Notwithstanding his obvious confusion, revealed in Piccoli’s understated
facial performance, his philosophical thoughts are far from being the
ramblings of someone demented. Quietly and subtly, he has something to
say about the contemporary Catholic Church. He suggests that it must
a empt to understand the world as it is and be prepared to admit its own
faults. Here, More ensures that the spectators reflect on the current
issues concerning the Catholic Church without feeling the need for explicit
interpreta on.
For More inner spaces have dual func ons: on the one hand, the
proximity of the surroundings may make the protagonist feel crushed and
oppressed; on the other, the closeness of the environment may give
comfort and security. Where consola on is expected (in a church) More
may present the audience with distress and anxiety. Where neutrality is
probable (in a bus) More may show a public debate. Above all, More
uses interiors as a filmmaker who wants his audience to reflect on what
they see and hear.
 Chapter 5
Outside
This chapter examines More ’s use of external narra ve spaces, and
also inves gates the conflict that exists between an individual’s private life
and personal space and their public persona in the world, a concept that is
so prevalent in More ’s work. It concludes with a considera on of the
images of thresholds and barriers that merge the inside with the outside.

EXTERIORS
As with interiors, exteriors in More ’s films have a varied narra ve
significance according to their place within the oeuvre and their situa on
in the context of the structure of each individual film. The exterior
sequences of I Am Self Sufficient, such as the countryside where the
amateur theater troupe goes for its training session, and the city streets,
where students Giorgio (Giorgio Viterbo) and Giuseppe (Luciano Aga )
venture out into the adult world, are filmed with wide-angle shots and a
variety of camera movements. This provides a greater sense of
independence and freedom, in dis nct contrast to the more claustrophobic
interior sequences. Giuseppe’s exterior scene is filmed with fluid camera
movements, rather than the more habitual sta c camera of More ’s early
work. The character moves in and out of the frame, and the composi on of
the human figure against the huge unclu ered square is accompanied by
upli ing music. The cinematography demonstrates his freedom as he
appears at last to have broken away from home.
On occasion, More uses a deliberately ambiguous setup in his
exterior shots, such as in Here Comes Bombo, when student Michele
(Nanni More ) is asking his latest girlfriend, Cris na (Cris na Manni),
about her approach to life. The closely framed two-shot scene appears to
be in the countryside, in an idealized, natural situa on suggested by that
se ng. There is a sudden cut to a long shot to show that the couple is
si ng on the outskirts of the city. Similarly, the rock fes val that Michele
a ends seems at first to be in a rural loca on, but a cut to a long shot
reveals that in fact it is just a city park, with cars going by in the
background. In this way, More focuses on the narra ve func on of a
par cular loca on and the ironic bathos that it might produce. By revealing
that apparently lyrical se ngs are in fact not what they seem to be,
More is demys fying certain illusions created by the cinema, in par cular
concerning the rela onships and behavior of young people. What appears
to be unaffected, wild, free, and roman c is in reality part of the everyday,
familiar cityscape of Rome. What might be fresh, spontaneous, and
dynamic is in truth much more everyday and mundane.
In The Mass Is Ended there is a visit to a chocolate factory in the
countryside outside Rome where priest Don Giulio (Nanni More ) takes
his catechism class. This lyrical, upli ing sequence opens with a traveling
shot of a rail track, apparently allowing anxious Don Giulio to leave his
troubles for a moment behind him in Rome. A large part of the sequence is
accompanied by gentle waltz music, with no dialogue. The party, including
the mature catechist Cesare (Roberto Vezzosi), arrives at the sunlit sta on
and makes a tour of the factory as it manufactures Easter eggs and other
seasonal products. There are many close-ups of the various processes in
the factory and the camera freely explores the interior using backward
tracking. Don Giulio takes on a childlike persona as he roams around the
loca on, touching, ea ng, and enjoying the sweets. The la er part of the
sequence moves outside into the grounds of the Dominican friary that
houses the factory. In this film about friendships that some mes fail, this
space has par cular resonances with the Garden of Gethsemane, which
formed the subject of one of the catechism classes previously shown in the
film. The class had been discussing the humanity of Christ and his need for
the comfort of his friends, because he felt alone and afraid in the face of
death. In a bower in the friary garden, Cesare reveals his concerns for his
friend, Don Giulio, correspondingly not wan ng him to be alone and afraid.
The links between the scene in the garden and the classroom sequence
demonstrate the need to remove the loneliness from life and share one’s
existence with others; and furthermore the humanity of the priest, who in
extremis reveals an all-too-human side as he loses his temper with his
family and friends.
In The Mass Is Ended there are several occasions when the
contradictory or atypical use of a place may lead to irony, even humor, in
the sense of incongruity. Neil Schaeffer contends,
 With incongruity we see two things which do not belong together, yet
which we accept at least in this case as going together in some way.
That is, when we no ce something as incongruous, we also
simultaneously understand it to be in some minor way congruous.
(Schaeffer 1981, 9)

One example of such usage is the scene in a car park on the banks of
the river Tiber in Rome. Before Don Giulio can park his pickup truck, a large
white car slots itself into his space. Don Giulio is marginalized on the le -
hand side of the frame, while the middle-aged, well-to-do owner of the
white car remonstrates with an ironic sneer on his face in center frame. It
is a pleasant spring day, with sunlight dappling the scene, yet there is no
happy, sunny reconcilia on here. In fact, the car owner and his three
passengers seize Don Giulio, carry him protes ng vigorously through the
car park, and plunge him into a nearby drinking trough. A er Don Giulio
has emerged from the trough, he tries to engage the man in conversa on,
but twice more his head is submerged in the water, almost to the point of
drowning. Part of this harassment sequence is filmed from a slightly
elevated angle, thus emphasizing Don Giulio’s weakness in the situa on.
A er each assault there is a sta c shot of Don Giulio’s body, which remains
mo onless and alone in the frame, the camera closely watching his
reac on. Flavio De Bernardinis notes an intertextual parallel between this
scene and one in Stanley Kubrick’s 1971 film, A Clockwork Orange (De
Bernardinis 2001, 88–89). A car park is a public place with a par cular
everyday purpose, of providing the rela vely safe custody of vehicles. In
this sequence, the narra ve func on of the place has been subverted on a
number of levels. First, it is a scene of violence, totally out of propor on
with the incident that mo vated it and in a place where security is the
norm. Second, the act of aggression is carried out on a Catholic priest,
whose very presence should embody an atmosphere of harmony and
concilia on. Third, there is the subversion of the proper es of water: both
the factual, life-giving and cleansing element and the symbolic, renewing
and sanc fying cons tuent. Instead of quenching his thirst, Don Giulio is
nearly drowned through the use of water. Instead of a spiritual rebirth,
given in the name of the Trinity, Don Giulio is three mes forced into the
water trough in a black and ironic parody of bap sm. Arguably, More ’s
purpose in using this area in this subverted way is partly a comment on the
lack of respect offered to Catholic priests in late-twen eth-century Italy,
something that the atheis c but moralis c More could not tolerate.
Although Don Giulio shows restraint and pa ence in the face of the fierce
hos lity offered to him by the assailants in the car park, he is inwardly full
of passions and confusions about the affairs of his friends and family and
his inability to support them. Thus the violence in this space is a
transferred, visible form of the rage within Don Giulio at his impotence in
helping others.
Unusually for a More film, the cinema as an ins tu on scarcely
figures in The Mass Is Ended, although it does make a brief appearance as
an exterior loca on where the narra ve func on is contrary to the
accepted one. Normally a place of entertainment, pleasure, and
performance, any violence that occurs in a cinema se ng usually appears
on the screen. However, in The Mass Is Ended the building itself, which is
now the Nuovo Sacher, More ’s own cinema in Rome, or rather the
outdoor auditorium, becomes the site of hos le aggression. Don Giulio’s
homosexual friend, Gianni (Dario Cantarelli), is a acked by three men and
when Don Giulio tries to come to his rescue he is assaulted as well.
Although apparently an instance of high tension, this scene also has a
comic undertone. The mise-en-scène shows Gianni and Don Giulio pinned
against the projector wall, on either side of the projec on holes. These two
men, with no sexual interest in women, are roughly ques oned by their
assailants about the straight so -porn film Sweet Movie (Dusan Makavejev,
1974) in which a naked woman bathes in chocolate. This leads to one of
the rare humorous moments in the film, as Don Giulio declares that he is
only interested in the chocolate. The tension is further relieved as Don
Giulio ironically recites the First Canto of Dante’s Paradiso, commen ng on
this par cular place, where Divine glory is less apparent than elsewhere:

The Glory of Him who moveth everything / penetrates all the

Universe, and shines / more brightly in one part, and elsewhere less. /
Within the Heaven which most receives His Light / I was; and saw
what he who thence descends / neither knows how, nor hath the
power, to tell. (Dante [1307] 2008, lines 1–6)
 The aggressors retreat and the cinema reverts to its unthreatening
and pleasure-fulfilling role.
Nearly the whole of Red Lob is shot as an exterior at the swimming
pool in Acireale, Sicily. More ’s original inten on was to set the film within
a cinema, but he rejected that loca on; a number of films with the cinema
as their se ng had been distributed in the 1988–1989 season: Nuovo
Cinema Paradiso, Giuseppe Tornatore, 1988; Via Paradiso, Luciano
Odorisio, 1988; Rorret, Fulvio Wetzl, 1988; Splendor, E ore Scola, 1989
(Chatrian and Renzi 2008, 101). This film about the internal problems of
the Italian Communist Party is presented in the form of an extended
metaphor, a film-long allegory, wherein no ons of iden ty, memory,
language, and ideology are played out against the backdrop of an
unrealis cally extended game of water polo. In Red Lob, the white
swimming trunks and blue hat are the iden fying elements of being part of
the Rari Nantes Monteverde water polo team to which amnesiac
Communist leader Michele (Nanni More ) belongs. In terms of the
poli cal concept, what Michele is searching for is a simple way of
iden fying what it means to be a Communist. The match itself is a fairly
simple construc on. There are two teams where each member has specific
skills (goalkeeper, shooter, defender, etc.) and works with the other
members of the team for possession of the ball and ul mately the
opportunity to score goals either in prepared set pieces or in fortuitous
pieces of play. The opposing team, iden fied by wearing red hats, works in
the same fashion, with the objec ve of foiling the first team’s a empts at
scoring, and endeavoring to gain possession of the ball themselves. A
match normally has a specific dura on, but the one in the film does not,
and even the basic rules of water polo (four short periods of play with
three brief intervals) no longer apply. This leads the spectator to assume
that the film is not dealing here with a realis c situa on. In Red Lob the
match, with its emphasis on right and le placed shots, is a straigh orward
representa on of the poli cal world, where two sides contest for power,
the Italian Communists against the Chris an Democrats. At the end of the
film, the result of the water polo match is hanging on a single goal and
Michele must make a decision whether to shoot right or le . In a
conven onal sports film at this point he would have scored the winning
goal, but in this more complex metaphorical film the decision is really
about what choices the Italian Communist Party is going to make. Having
failed to score the necessary goal, Michele is distraught, but the local
crowd of Acireale supporters jumps into the pool, adding to the idea that
inclusion is the solu on to the Communist Party’s problems. Having tried
to explain his last-minute change of heart to his teammates, the opposi on
goal keeper tells him that he could clearly read what he was going to do in
his body language. This also refers to the wavering and last-minute
transforma ons of the Italian Communist Party in the waning years of the
1980s. Gian Piero Brune a comments:

The confusion of the protagonist and the responsibility which he is

given in the final moment of the game seems, for example, consistent
with the difficult and decisive moment of transi on of the Communist
Party of Achille Ocche o. (Brune a 1998, 395)

Several cri cs have felt that this work was prophe c in that it
an cipated the crisis of communism both in Italy and worldwide (Lane
1989, 9 and Bonsaver 2001–2002, 166).
The exterior shots in Red Lob are ones of confusion, where a series of
apparently random events occur in the open space of the swimming pool,
signifying the haphazard thoughts that tumble through Communist leader
Michele Apicella’s (Nanni More ) mind as he tries to recover from
amnesia. The opposing interior shots (1950s domes c accommoda on,
1970s school buildings, and 1980s television studios) are part of the
intricate sequence of flashbacks that relate to different points in Michele’s
life as he struggles to overcome his amnesia and piece his life back
together. These flashback scenes are parts of the structure of Michele’s
lived experience at different moments in the past and are shown in a more
ordered and less confused way than are the exterior scenes, in that they
have a comprehensible internal narra ve structure. In this film the interior
and exterior spaces are dependent on each other to reconstruct the
meaning of Michele’s iden ty. At any one point in the chaos of the external
area, symbolizing the turmoil of Michele’s mind as it searches for clarity, an
ac on or event can recall a memory of past events. The more ordered
interior places are the memories that are the evoked and therefore fixed
moments in Michele’s memory. This is discussed in more detail in chapter
8: Sweet Dreams?
Two wordless lyrical passages featuring exterior places appear in the
Salina sec on of the “Islands” chapter in Dear Diary. They frame a brief
comic episode in which the filmmaker is commen ng on par cular
problems on this island, namely the domina on of parents by only
children. The first scene sees the solitary figure of Nanni (Nanni More )
walking slowly alongside an inlet, as one of the ferryboats heads out to
sea. He makes slow and steady progress toward a headland, passing a
dilapidated boat, an old building with a lighthouse, and a disused football
net. All of these items can be read as an indica on of the state of the
island: the tradi onal means of earning a living (fishing) being replaced by
other means of employment, thus the lighthouse becomes important only
for the tourist ferries; the abandoned football goal points to the fall in the
number of children, who might use such a facility. His solitude is notable in
this sec on, as neither his companion, Gerardo, nor his other friends are
seen, thus visually underpinning this sec on’s foregrounding of the only
child. In contrast to the comic sequence that follows, this scene employs a
moving camera as opposed to a sta c one. There is no comedy and no
dialogue, and the sequence has no direct narra ve links with preceding or
subsequent scenes. A er the comic scene (examined in chapter 6:
Laughter and Tears) there is a high-angled shot of Nanni on an abandoned
football pitch, con nuing the football theme that appears as a leitmo f in
many More films. As with the ferryboat sequence, the idea of solitude
and only children is underpinned visually by showing Nanni alone. More
says of this sec on:

The scene with the football in Dear Diary was not scripted. One day, it
was impossible to shoot because it was raining. And there was this
piece of land full of puddles, so beau ful that I decided to do this
scene. . . . The scenes with the ball are also moments of relief
between two dialogue scenes. (De Bernardinis 2001, 13)

Lyricism and movement in the exterior are seen in April when Nanni
(Nanni More ), either by running or dancing in the hospital grounds or
riding around Rome on his Vespa, experiences the exhilara on of freedom
from his worries and is able to express joy at the birth of his son, Pietro,
proclaiming details of the baby’s birth weight. In this external loca on he
casts away twenty years’ worth of newspaper cu ngs and revisits
childhood places, thus dives ng himself of the baggage of his past life, and
a emp ng to take on adult responsibili es. Wide, traveling shots depict
the exterior as a place of change and invigora on; this leads him not only
to ridding himself of things past, but also to experimen ng with fresh
ideas. This newfound freedom, enthusiasm, and openness to novel
experiences is depicted visually at the very end of the film, as Nanni
decides to wear a winter cape that he had never dared to put on before
and actually make the musical about the Trotskyist pastry cook, which had
been on his agenda for some me.
There is a sharp dis nc on in The Son’s Room between the known,
secure areas within the home and the outside world, where danger lurks
and threatens the family. On the morning when the son, Andrea (Giuseppe
Sanfelice), has the accident, all four members of the family are outside
their domes c environment and on their own. Something poten ally
threatening happens to three of them: the mother, Paola (Laura Morante),
witnesses a the at an outdoor market; the car that the father, Giovanni
(Nanni More ), is driving narrowly misses a lorry; the daughter, Irene
(Jasmine Trinca), and her friends take risks on their mopeds. Only Andrea
appears to be untouched by this imminent danger as he loads air tanks into
his boat to go diving with his friends. More has stated in several ar cles
that he was influenced here by the ideas of fate seen in the works of
Krzysztof Kieślowski, in par cular, Trois couleurs: bleu /Three Colours: Blue
(1993) which also deals with the death of a child (Bonsaver 2002, 30;
Codelli 2001, 10; Chatrian and Renzi 2008, 189). The outside danger seeps
into the domes c place of safety a er Giovanni’s unplanned weekend visit
to his pa ent, Oscar (Silvio Orlando). Si ng alone following the
appointment, on a wall by the sea, the as-yet-unrecognized site of the
family tragedy, Giovanni phones home, but there is nobody there to
answer his call. This is the first sign that the structure of their lives is about
to change.
A er Andrea’s death, the exterior sequences become even more
hos le as Giovanni goes to a fairground, to try to shake himself from the
numbness of his loss by experiencing extremes of noise and movement.
Here he finds a release for his anger and confusion. This space is boisterous
and full of garish lights, so the feelings it provokes are sensory rather than
emo onal or spiritual. The external shots of confusion coupled with the
raucous sound are the outward signs of his internal turmoil. In the
background of the se ng a sign saying “Happy Days” can be seen, which
stands in ironic juxtaposi on to the sen ments that Giovanni is
experiencing. This is a place where people are screaming in feigned horror
at manufactured experiences. This contrasts vividly with the scenes of
Paola at home screaming with the emo ons based on a real situa on
beyond her control. The final exterior place in the film is one that suggests
that the healing process for the Sermon family is beginning, thanks partly
to the interven on of Andrea’s one- me girlfriend, Arianna (Sofia Vigliar),
and partly to the reconfigura on of the family on the car journey to the
French border at the end of the film. The three remaining members of the
broken family spend some me walking on the beach, in a loca on
adjacent to the sea, the place that has stolen away their missing element.
As the characters move in the same area, but not completely together, the
film ends with two unresolved ques ons about whether Giovanni and
Paola will restore their rela onship and whether Giovanni will ever be able
to return to his work as a psychoanalyst.
The exteriors that More shoots in The Caiman are used to reflect
several of the problems of contemporary Italy. These are the visible effects
of a value system alluded to by the Polish financial backer, Sturovski (Jerzy
Stuhr), who ar culates the baseness of Italy under Berlusconi,

You are so funny, ridiculous. . . . You are a people halfway between

horror and folklore. . . . You are accustomed to your own crap.
Whenever we think you Italians have finally touched the bo om, but
no. You are there; you dig, dig, dig and go even further down, down.
You scrape the bo om.

Some areas are neglected and marginalized, while others are

sophis cated, but frene c; yet all suggest a decline in the country, whether
economically or spiritually. Although Bruno Bonomo’s (Silvio Orlando)
office interior is filled with film memorabilia that func on as evidence of
his rela ve success as a B-movie producer at an earlier me, the outside of
the office building is shabby and rundown. The pitch, where his son Andrea
(Daniele Rampello) plays football, is dilapidated, claustrophobic, and caged
in with chicken wire and dense foliage. A brightly lit street in Rome, taken
from a high-angle shot, shows a bustling crowd who have no concep on of,
and no interest in, the anxious figure of Bruno, who struggles
countercurrent through their midst, despondent and isolated a er a
confronta on with his wife, Paola (Margherita Buy). In the visualiza on of
novice filmmaker Teresa’s (Jasmine Trinca) proposed film of The Caiman
there is an exterior nigh me shot panning around an ugly block of
apartments, each one lit up and clearly tuned in to the same broadcast of a
Berlusconi speech. Interior dissolves between the views of iden cal
illuminated windows highlight the universality of this scene, thus
emphasizing Berlusconi’s monopoly, not just of some aspects of the Italian
media, but of a large tranche of public opinion. The effect of using these
examples of mise-en-scène and cinematography reflect the socioeconomic
pressures and constraints that characterize individual lifestyles in modern-
day Berlusconi-governed Italy.

PUBLIC AND PRIVATE PLACES

Throughout his career, More has emphasized and visualized the tensions
that exist between communal and personal life, carried out in public and
private spaces. In his work, More contrasts interiors and exteriors,
crea ng and illustra ng narra ve space for the performance of public and
private ma ers.
Many interiors are private, in mate places where an individual can
come to terms with his or her own iden ty. In terms of narra ve space,
such interiors are about being oneself, doing whatever pleases the
individual and using the place as a reflec on of your inner personality,
although generally being alone is viewed as something nega ve. An
excep onally lonely and private interior is the CAT scanner where Nanni
(Nanni More ) is placed for diagnosis of his cancer at the end of Dear
Diary. A er the mul tude of treatments he has endured in his search for
an answer to his illness, and the number of doctors and therapists he has
seen in various clinics, here he is en rely alone. The single, vulnerable
body of the pa ent in the private space of the CAT scanner demonstrates
visually to the audience the terrifying loneliness of the cancer. More ’s
mo onless, almost corpse-like presence in the dazzling white, clinical tube
is the opposite of his journey around the city on his Vespa, or his
gregarious behavior in the vibrantly colored and noisy Roman piazzas
where he had enjoyed the merengue dancing. He very effec vely expresses
in this brief scene the fear of terminal illness as a contrast to the vibrancy
that he feels in life.
More uses the bathroom as a narra ve space because it is a private
loca on closed off from outside influence or interference. The bathroom is
a place where the individual makes himself or herself naked and
vulnerable, revealing physical and possibly mental weaknesses. Here the
character can be true to himself or herself. For example, in I Am Self
Sufficient amateur actor Michele (Nanni More ) masturbates in the
bathroom a er a thwarted telephone conversa on with his estranged wife,
Silvia (Simona Frosi), which leaves him in a jealous rage. This is a visual
manifesta on of his self-sufficiency, sugges ng that he needs nobody
outside himself to sa sfy his physical desires.
The underground theater in I Am Self Sufficient, where the amateur
troupe is staging a play, is a loca on where public and private places
coexist: a stage for public performance with actors in character; an
auditorium for the recep on of spectators; backstage, a private place with
actors as real people. In general the division between these places is not
violated, except for one scene when two members of the audience sit on
chairs that are part of the stage set and that are used in the performance.
Through the use of a fixed camera in many sequences, the theater is seen
from both sides of the 180° line, mostly from theater-goers’ point of view.
The décor, costumes, and ligh ng extend the scenes in the theater from a
drama c to a filmic experience. Of par cular note is the sequence during
the performance of the play, when each character is revealed lying in a
pool of light against a dark background. This accentuates the no on of
isola on for the members of the troupe, despite the fact that they are
supposed to be incorporated into a group, and links visually the public and
private worlds. Backstage is presented toward the end of the performance
when Michele is virtually incapable of going on to act, thanks to the
consoling alcohol he has drunk a er he has handed his son, Andrea, over
to his ex-wife. There is clear dis nc on between this private space, in
which the individual is prey to personal whims and deficiencies, as well as
the vicissitudes of personal life, and the public space of the stage, where
the individual o en has to mask the private pain.
The normally convivial public place of a bar is used on many occasions
in Here Comes Bombo, but its func on as a site of warmth and friendliness
is frequently subverted through More ’s use of irony. The local pavement
café is the loca on for several lethargic mee ngs of university student
Michele (Nanni More ) and his three friends. It is also in a bar that he
u ers his now famous aggressive an -commedia all’italiana line “Are we in
an Alberto Sordi film?” However, these are not examples of cordiality, but
achieve the opposite effect. Here More , by challenging the tradi onal
social no ons of the bar, highlights and cri cizes the apathy and
indifference of the younger bourgeois Romans, and openly shows hos lity
and disdain for those more comfortable and middle-aged.
“The Fes val of Happiness” in Here Comes Bombo is held in a large
park on the outskirts of Rome. Here, the young people should be mee ng
together to enjoy each other’s company and listen to their own par cular
style of music. It should, as the tle suggests, be a lively, joyous occasion.
Instead, Michele finds people lethargically lying around, couples weeping
for no discernible reason and a general lack of a par cular purpose. This is
in sharp, ironic contrast to a clearly displayed banner that declaims, “Let’s
reclaim our life.” This place, albeit a transient one created for a specific
reason, is destabilized and transformed from its customary purpose. It is
used by More to reveal his sen ments about certain young Italian people
at that me who seem dissociated and disengaged by what surrounds
them. More said of the film,

I was interested in “washing my dirty linen in public,” being

transparent, ques oning and making fun of myself in front of other
people—and without fear of exploita on. I thought my point of view
(rather pessimis c) and the environment in which the characters were
(pe y and medium bourgeoisie, le -wing, in the city of Rome) was
biased. Instead, the film was more popular than expected and there
was a rush by many to iden fy with the characters and the
atmosphere of the film. (Giovannini, Magrelli, and Ses 1986, 16)
 The railway sta on has long been the site of tumultuous happenings
in films, whether on a grandiose public level, such as the shootout in The
Untouchables (Brian De Palma, 1987) or on a simple, in mate level, such as
the mee ng of Laura and Alec in Brief Encounter (David Lean, 1945). In
Here Comes Bombo More uses this public space on several different
levels. First it is the se ng for the bi er farewell scene between Michele
and his girlfriend, Silvia. They sit in the empty wai ng room and their
valedictory speeches echo in the cavernous space all around them. It
shows both physically and metaphorically the yawning gap between them
and the impossibility they will have of ever communica ng effec vely with
one another. Second, More , conscious of the wide background of
intertextual references possible at a railway sta on, has Michele perform
much of the farewell scene by himself, to which Silvia retorts, “You can’t
act.” Third, there is the comedy produced by More ’s manipula on of on-
and off-screen space. A sta c camera films their final dejected goodbyes.
Silvia leaves through glass doors to the rear of the wai ng room. Michele
gets up languorously and walks off on the right-hand side of the screen. At
this point the audience believes he has is leaving the sta on. However, as
the camera, s ll in the same posi on, holds a long shot of Silvia struggling
with her suitcase, Michele reappears on the pla orm, walking past her. He
grabs her case and disappears momentarily behind the suppor ng wall
between the glass doors. Suddenly the audience witnesses the suitcase
being flung with force from this hidden space and Michele reemerges and
proceeds to walk off at the le -hand side of the frame, leaving Silvia
looking on bewildered. The shock effect of the end of this scene shows us
more of Michele’s immature, self-centered, and spiteful personality, but
also is an example of More ’s dark comedy.
De Bernardinis dis nguishes in Bianca a sharp contrast between the
ver cality of the private buildings, such as the block of apartments where
mathema cs teacher Michele (Nanni More ) lives, and the horizontality
of the public buildings, such as the school and the police sta on (De
Bernardinis 2001, 74). Horizontal lines, going across the width of the
frame, are considered to be strong and secure, sugges ng durability,
constancy, or repose. Ver cal lines, reaching the height of the frame, evoke
no ons of force and potency, development and vigor (Wildi 2006, 28). This
visual opposi on in Bianca between the ver cal and the horizontal
operates as an explora on of the rela ons between public and private. The
more solid and stable horizontal nature of the school enhances the
headmaster’s (Dario Cantarelli) no ons of equality of his “tribe,” which
embrace both his staff and his pupils at the experimental Marilyn Monroe
school. On the other hand, a tall building allows the voyeuris c func on,
which is significant to Michele’s role. This is discussed in chapter 7: The
Scene of the Crime. The powerful ver cality of the private buildings
involves a constant ascent and descent of staircases, especially by Michele.
This mo f suggests the personal rise and fall of the protagonist; it o en
features in the gangster film and in film noir. When Michele climbs the
stairs inside his palazzo, the shot is taken from an extremely high angle
over the stairway, a view used in many films from Roberto Rossellini to
Marcel Carné, from Michelangelo Antonioni to Alfred Hitchcock, to bring
about a sense of disorienta on. The pale grey stairway is not a perfect
spiral, but has pointed sec ons ju ng out at angles. It resembles some of
the disturbing German Expressionist sets used by Robert Wiene in Das
Kabine des Dr. Caligari / The Cabinet of Dr. Caligari (1920), a film in which
unexplained murders take place and where mental illness is one of the
themes, and which thus has a resonance with Bianca.
There is tension between public and private in the life of the
protagonist in Sweet Dreams. To the outside world, film director Michele
Apicella (Nanni More ) is successful, arrogant, and demanding. He is
young, good-looking, and admired by many in the film community. Novice
filmmakers want to work with him, he is interviewed in many different
loca ons, and he is enough of a celebrity to be asked to take part in a
popular television show. He is recognized in many social areas such as
hotels, cinemas, and bars, and his opinion is sought, not only on films, but
also on details of other people’s personal lives. In public he is excessively
punc lious about details, including the state of the cinema screen and the
degree of competence of a projec onist when his works are being shown.
These aspects of the protagonist’s character are shown in Michele’s figure
movement depic ng general lassitude, boredom, and superciliousness. It is
also revealed in the dialogue by the reac on of the other characters to
Michele. However, in private his behavior is very different. Michele is
consumed with self-doubt at every stage of the filming of his new work,
Freud’s Mother, and in par cular, when he is wri ng in his home he
frequently suffers from writer’s block. In the same private se ng, he has
an unhappy rela onship with his mother, from whom he seems unable to
break away. His only release from this situa on is in increasingly disturbing
dreams and day me reveries, so that eventually his fantasy world merges
with his reality. This is considered more closely in chapter 8: Sweet
Dreams?
The audience gains visual access to the sacristy, a private place where
the priest is robed, near the altar within the public space of the church in
The Mass Is Ended. The church becomes the loca on for Don Giulio’s public
life as a priest, but also part of his private life, since it is in the sacristy that
he discovers the truth about the previous incumbent, he hears the
confession about his father’s adultery, and he is overcome with grief at his
mother’s suicide, to the extent that he is unable to carry out his du es.
In We Have a Pope, two scenes ironically merge the public with the
private. A er the outburst of emo on following his elec on, Cardinal
Melville’s (Michel Piccoli) physical medical examina on, which for most
people is an encounter between clinician and pa ent alone, is a startling
public event. Contras ng with the previous scene where Melville had been
clad in the magnificent papal robes, and had been distantly venerated,
here his naked torso is exposed and his body manipulated, showing that he
is a man like any other. Even more surprising, and filmed with humorous
overtones, is the scene where the psychiatrist, Dr. Brezzi (Nanni More ), is
supposed to interview the new pon ff in order to discover what is
troubling him. Again, this mee ng, which would normally be private, is
very public. Brezzi and Melville sit opposite and fairly close to each other in
a large, impressive room, but instead of being alone they are surrounded
by a menacing circle of cardinals. Unfortunately, given the nature and
status of his client, the psychiatrist is forbidden to make what might be
considered to be the customary psychoanaly c enquiries about unfulfilled
fantasies and sexual desires, dreams, and infancy. The clerics creep ever
closer, ghtening the circle around the two men, as the doctor a empts to
elicit illumina ng answers to his ques ons. Melville, bewildered,
frightened, and frequently tongue- ed, seems to carry his private space
within him, whether in the very public areas of display within the grandeur
of the Va can or in the anonymous streets of Rome.
 Most of the process in choosing a new Pope takes place in seclusion,
rather than in the communal places of the Va can City; More had li le
solid informa on on which to base this part of the film, so the vo ng
procedure is largely imagined (James 2012, 51). The juxtaposi on of public
and private is presented in par cular in a physical reversal of places
between Brezzi and the Pope-elect, Cardinal Melville. While Melville
escapes the clutches of the Va can and is freely wandering around Rome,
Brezzi and the cardinals are “imprisoned” in their rooms in the Pope’s
palace. While the new Pope is able to interact at will with the general
public, the doctor and the clergy are prohibited from making contact with
the outside world, even by using their cell phones. Each of the cardinals is
seen in his own space with his own hobbies and rou nes. These devout
men are each shown to have vices: drinking, smoking, drug taking, and
gambling, and are thus revealed as corrup ble individuals, considered as
vulnerable men before they are priests.
Later in the film, when he has run away from his papal responsibili es
to the city, Melville encounters a troupe of actors in a busy Roman hotel.
They are rehearsing a produc on of Anton Chekhov’s The Seagull. With the
anonymity given by his lack of pon fical trappings, he is accepted among
the players. Close-ups of his so , benign face show his contentment with
the theatrical company in comparison to the anxiety displayed on his
features when in the Va can. Melville finds support and kindness from this
diverse group of people, and the space where he feels most at ease is the
theater. He enjoys the no on of the camaraderie of the actors, the
rehearsals, the opening nights, and reading the reviews all together. Never
comfortable in his func on as priest, not because of a lack of faith, but
because of a lack of convic on that the church is the right place for him, he
has found his niche, a er a life me of ac ng out a false role. When, at the
end of the film, he is finally discovered by the cardinals, he is in a theater, a
place of performance, a public space where the personal and the private
are generally pushed away, and he has come to terms with himself. Unlike
the first balcony scene where Melville was unable to appear to make his
speech to the faithful, in the second balcony scene as the film closes,
Melville is present, and this me his performance is assured and his mood
is calm, even though his address negates his posi on as Bishop of Rome.
This finally brings together Melville’s private and public persona.
 THRESHOLDS AND BARRIERS
The interac on or conflict between two different areas, be they interior or
exterior, is used by More as a narra ve space. Barriers, frames, and
thresholds are used to demonstrate visually that characters are not just
physically separated, but may also be apart spiritually, ideologically, and
emo onally. Whereas doors can clearly be a link between two places,
closed doors are direct metaphors of the way in which people are
prevented by barriers from communica ng or from making progress
(Simmel 1997, 68–69). Even a threshold can become an obstacle. Early in
The Mass Is Ended Don Giulio revisits his childhood bedroom, where the
doorframe becomes a barrier between himself and his previous existence.
This sequence has the effect of a flashback, filling in parts of his past life
and youth. He opens the door to his old bedroom and, before going inside,
he stands for a moment hesita ng at the entrance, and merely looks in
from the outside. It is another world, one that he has not entered for many
years. He has to make a deliberate movement to cross the threshold into
that past world, the world of memory. Once inside, the past becomes very
vivid to him and he remembers clearly where his precious boyhood
ar facts were placed. In a wordless scene, accompanied by Nicola Piovani’s
wis ul music, the priest examines objects (football boots, a football, and
books) found in this bedroom he had used as a boy. There is one jarring
image, as Don Giulio is at one moment in this sequence framed next to a
picture of a young man, with long hair and moustache, clearly a younger
version of himself. This likeness contrasts sharply with the short hair and
clean-shaven appearance of Don Giulio. It suggests that in Don Giulio’s past
he had a different iden ty from that of the priest. This other iden ty as a
poli cal ac vist is supported subsequently in a court scene where Don
Giulio acts as a character witness for his one- me friend, Andrea (Vincenzo
Salemme), a terrorist suspect.
In The Mass Is Ended the spectator is presented in separate shots with
the two sides of a discussion at the gate outside the recluse Saverio’s
house, when his former friend, Don Giulio, first returns to Rome. Seeing
the ac on on both sides of this barrier, with both characters confined to
their separate areas, emphasizes the divide, contrast, and aliena on
between them. Saverio uses the gate to shut himself away from the world.
As Don Giulio hammers on one side, Saverio stands, hands on hips, but
immobile, on the other. As there is no response, Don Giulio men ons that
in the interim years since they last met he has become a priest. On the
word “priest” Saverio opens the barrier for a brief moment to embrace his
old friend, before abruptly shu ng it again. In the end, the gate remains
ajar, with Don Giulio standing unseen behind the half-closed sec on. With
a strong movement contras ng with Saverio’s lassitude, Don Giulio forces
open the gate and moves into Saverio’s space, breaking down the barrier
between them, at least for the me being.
Another barrier between Don Giulio and someone he is trying to help
occurs when he visits Andrea, who is accused of terrorism, in prison. The
shot, seen at first from Don Giulio’s point of view, is angled so that the
glass par on between the prisoners and their visitors runs on a diagonal
across the frame. Diagonal lines are vigorous. These operate in a rac ng
the spectator’s eye through a picture (Wildi 2006, 28). This diagonal divider
unse les the balance of the frame and suggests that the mee ng between
the two men will be tense. The visit is not a success in terms of Don Giulio
being able to help his old friend, since Andrea does not want to discuss
terrorism and Don Giulio does not want to remember the poli cal events
of his youth. The glass barrier between them connotes at the same me
their ability to see each other but their inability to make any contact,
whether physical, spiritual, or emo onal.
Glass is also used as a barrier to interac on at the swimming pool,
where Saverio, for once outside the seclusion of his apartment, and Don
Giulio watch a child as he trains, at first with others, and then alone. This
boy, Francesco, is the son of Saverio’s former lover, Astrid. The point of
view is taken from the interior of the baths, looking toward Don Giulio and
Saverio, who are outside the windows. In a balanced composi on, the two
men watch from the central window of the building. The boy swims
determinedly, making strong horizontal and ver cal lines across the frame.
His determina on is also seen when he jumps back into the pool a er he
has ini ally been persuaded to leave the water. The window glass affords
the characters as well as the spectator a transparent view of the whole
situa on, but puts up a barrier to any type of connec on or
communica on between the individuals: Francesco does not know about
the circumstances between his mother and Saverio; Astrid has no idea that
Saverio s ll thinks of her; nobody voices how they feel, even though the
audience can see the state of affairs clearly. In this sequence there is also
the voyeuris c desire, on the part of Saverio, to be in the place where the
child is, in Astrid’s nurturing embrace as she dries him.
The confession box in Don Giulio’s church sets up another type of
barrier, in a place where communica on is expected to be the priority.
A er his mother’s suicide, Don Giulio goes into his parish church, enters
the confessional, and cries. While he is s ll there, head in hands, his former
friend, Andrea, arrives—but not to confess. As they sit in this place that
normally has a very specific func on, with the penitent professing his or
her sins and the priest absolving them, the confessional box
compartmentalizes the two men, one as offender, though not remorseful,
the other as confessor, but unforgiving. Of the friends of their youth the
only one who has remained faithful to his teenage ideals is Andrea.
Without a hint of apology Andrea says candidly:

I was thinking that, a er all, un l a few years ago, I was like one of
you. Gradually others have had children, have changed jobs, religion,
and only I stayed true to myself. I don’t know how to do anything and
I have not accomplished anything. Why me?

The failures of the other friends to live up to the poli cal aspira ons
of their forma ve years are juxtaposed to Andrea’s stalwart devo on to his
principles. He makes this accusa on in the very place that, above all
others, denotes the major transforma on in Don Giulio’s life, from poli cal
ac vist to priest. The visual division of the two men inside the confessional
box emphasizes both Don Giulio’s solitary existence, alienated at this point
in the narra ve from his father and sister, rejected by many of his friends,
and no longer with the support of his mother, and also stresses how
different the two friends have become.
A different sort of barrier, a labyrinth, is seen in two manifesta ons in
We Have a Pope. The mass of corridors within the Va can are a network of
passages along which all the principal characters, including Melville and
Brezzi, move. Another maze is found in the Va can gardens where the new
Pope is observed by the Swiss Guards wandering the narrow pathways
with only his head and waving hand visible. The rest of his physicality is
hidden behind the barrier of a hedge in a similar way that his iden ty is
hidden from the world. The complexity of the warren of hallways, together
with the labyrinth of the garden, allude to the convoluted rules and
regula ons that surround the papal elec on, the rigid and unswerving way
of life within the Va can, the intricacy of the Catholic Church itself, and
ul mately the tangle of confusion in the mind and emo ons of the newly
elected pon ff.

SEEING BOTH WAYS

At mes More manipulates the mise-en-scène so that architectural lines
provide framing for his characters, thus crea ng narra ve spaces through a
series of windows and doors within the frame of the screen. In I Am Self
Sufficient the apartment of student teacher Giorgio (Giorgio Viterbo) is the
place where he engages in his dream life, yearns for his female neighbor,
and longs for escape. When his apartment is shown from the interior, it is
through ghtly framed sta c shots, which reflect the dull, enclosed, and
self-absorbed lives of the young people in the film. The exterior shots of
the apartment, which show that he and the young woman he desires have
dwellings that are at right angles to each other, are wider angled, and thus
less claustrophobic. These allow a visual demonstra on of the way in
which Giorgio gets closer and closer to his goal, without in fact ever
achieving it. The exterior view of three windows of Giorgio’s apartment is
seen on the right-hand side of the frame. The neighbor’s apartment is in
the background, facing the camera, where two windows are presented.
Giorgio sees the neighbor first at her window to the le -hand side of the
frame. Then she moves to her second window, at the inner corner of the
building. As Giorgio becomes more and more absorbed in watching the
woman, he moves window by window from the one closest to the
spectator, but furthest from the neighbor, by way of the central one, finally
to the window immediately adjacent to hers. These three windows,
constantly in the frame, act as three separate shots, but without cuts or
fades between. This is what More describes as internal montage
(montaggio interno), which will be discussed in chapter 12: An Ar st at
Work. This sequence demonstrates spa al rela ons, which in turn present
symbolically the problems and frustra ons of Giorgio’s daydream liaison
with his neighbor, posed by the barriers of the windows themselves and his
a empts to get closer to the woman he wants. In the end there is no
contact between them, despite his a empts to force her nearest window
with a broom.
Toward the end of Bianca, mathema cs teacher Michele (Nanni
More ) is forced to confront the blatant infidelity of two pairs of friends,
whose partnerships have now become entangled and blurred. The
audience is presented with an exterior shot through a window of the four
individuals si ng at a table in a restaurant (figure 5.1). Standing outside
the building, Michele asks his neighbor, Siro Siri (Remo Remo ), to suggest
how he thinks the two couples match up. As Siro Siri goes in to the
restaurant to talk to them, the four are no longer framed all together, but
are separated by the bars on the window into a couple, Francesco and
Luisa, and two apparent singletons, Ignazio (Claudio Bigagli) and Maria
(Margherita Ses to). This is used narra vely by More as a foreshadowing
of later events when Ignazio and Maria, who were the original couple, are
murdered.

Michele spies on his friends

Image reproduced by kind permission of Sacher Film, Rome

 In The Mass Is Ended there is a further example of how an exterior
shot of the framing of a character, this me combined with sound, gives
narra ve informa on. A er a brief conversa on with his sister, Valen na,
at the medical center, Don Giulio walks off-screen to the right-hand side,
apparently bringing the scene to an end. The camera remains on the
facade of the building, while the off-screen sound of footsteps stops, and
then starts again with more energy as Don Giulio reenters the frame and
walks briskly inside the building. Although the spectator does not witness
the scene visually, Don Giulio’s thoughts have been indicated by the
change and increased urgency of the off-screen sound. Arguably the off-
screen space is one of reflec on, where the priest changes his mind. A
crane movement of the camera follows his unseen progress inside the
building. A terrace bordered by an elaborate wrought iron rail and
decorated with large po ed plants in the upper part of the structure is
revealed. The camera moves in closer to two narrow doors that form the
access to the terrace from the inside of the building, and Don Giulio
emerges from the right-hand one. He collects Valen na from a room via
the le -hand door and they stand on the balcony rather like the figures in a
weather house. This is an unse ling image, as normally the ny man and
woman of the weather house should never appear at the same me, and
suggests that things are awry between the siblings. In the course of the
second conversa on an unseen hand closes off the door by which Don
Giulio has entered, and when Valen na leaves the terrace, closing her door
behind her, he is trapped in this narrow space. The camera pulls back
slightly, leaving Don Giulio standing alone between the two closed doors,
his quarrel with his sister unresolved.
Similarly, a scene in the solarium in Red Lob, the shot from the
exterior into the interior of the building, situates poli cian Michele (Nanni
More ) and his daughter, Valen na (Asia Argento), right in the middle of a
set of window frames, whose sharp delinea on adds to an effect of
harmony. The characters are captured in a brief moment of their life, as
though in a photo frame. The centrality and balance of the framing in this
brief sequence is crucial to the no on of order, which is what Michele is
seeking in his life, following his car accident and subsequent amnesia.
Furthermore, the posi oning of the characters in this way demonstrates
how central the no on of family is to More ’s idea of the ordered life.
 In his early films, More uses interior and exterior spaces in a
contras ve way, to emphasize the claustrophobic areas inside a building or
a vehicle and the less restricted ones outside. This use of narra ve space is
an index of the sen ments connected with the young people who feature
in these films. However, in some of his recent films, where the narra ve
centers on a more mature, family existence, this use of narra ve space is
reversed and the interiors are predominantly places of safety and affec on.
In Dear Diary and April exteriors are also presented as places of freedom
and happiness, while in The Son’s Room, the space outside the home is
portrayed as perilous and in mida ng. The Caiman sees a return to the
depic on of interiors as cramped and gloomy, analogous with More ’s
view of Italy under Berlusconi’s regime.
 2
Setting
 Chapter 6
Laughter and Tears
More ’s films cover a wide range of genres: from melodrama (The
Son’s Room) to murder mystery (Bianca); from poli cal allegory (Red Lob)
to fantasy drama (Sweet Dreams); from documentary (The Thing) to
memoir (Dear Diary). Above all, his films are frequently described as comic
(Mazierska and Rascaroli 2004, 85–113), although, as will be discussed
below, there is considerable room for debate in using this term to classify
his en re output.

COMEDY
Although at first defined as a comic director, as More ’s career developed
it became clear that his films were of a very different type from the other
contemporary Italian comic filmmakers, such as Maurizio Niche and
Roberto Benigni. Iden fying the way in which humor works and the
methods that the filmmaker has employed to produce laughter is a
difficult, some might say impossible, process, given that what is perceived
as comic appeals to the individual sensibili es of spectators who have
contras ng life experiences and may come from different cultural
backgrounds (Merchant 1972; Freud [1905] 1976; Chapman and Foot
1977; Schaeffer 1981; Suls 1983; Palmer 1994; Berger 1998; Davies 2002;
Hobbes [1650] 2008). “Comic” denotes the ability to cause laughter and
according to Steve Neale and Frank Krutnik:

A real event can be comic, as can a real person or an instance of

everyday discourse. So, too, insofar as the term refers to the effects as
well as the inten ons . . . can a horror film, a war film, or a drama.
(Neale and Krutnik 1990, 16)

Neale and Krutnik argue that “a comedy,” such as Some Like it Hot
(Billy Wilder, 1959) implies a narra ve structure, whereas “comedy,” such
as The Two Ronnies (BBC1 1971–1987), is non-narra ve, and is composed
of fragments. They point out that avant-garde and experimental films, like
Un chien andalou (Luis Buñuel, 1928) and So Is This (Michael Snow, 1982),
are not comedies because they do not have a conven onal narra ve
structure, but have comic elements within them (Neale and Krutnik 1990,
16). Comedy or comic situa ons develop from a number of elements. One
of the main components is incongruity or the juxtaposi on of
inappropriate happenings or characters (Raskin 2008, passim). Some mes
humor is produced by feelings of superiority or disdain in the spectator
toward the performer, some mes combined with schadenfreude (Morreall
2008, 211–20). Laughter can func on as a relief and a release from built-up
tension in the spectator (Freud [1905] 1976, passim). These lead to
pa erns of repe on and change and the surprise thwar ng of audience
expecta on (Clarke 2008). All of this is enhanced by the performance of
the actors, through facial expressions, mannerisms, or dialogue.
From his first feature film, I Am Self Sufficient, More was regarded as
part of a new group of comedy filmmakers, such as Roberto Benigni, Carlo
Verdone, Massimo Troisi, and Maurizio Niche . Focusing on Dear Diary,
Geoffrey Nowell-Smith describes More ’s work as being a “light yet
profound picture of contemporary Italy illuminated by the harsh gaze of a
solitary humorist” (Nowell-Smith 1996, 85). Peter Bondanella depicts him
as a comic director who “pokes fun” at Italian society while cas ng a
“jaundiced eye” on his contemporaries (Bondanella 1983, 377–78). On
several occasions Bondanella makes comparisons between More and
Woody Allen, both in terms of their actor/writer/director orienta on and
as regards the neuro c, obsessive personas that they portray in many of
their films. Contras ng the comic performance of Maurizio Niche with
that of More , Gian Piero Brune a states that of the two, More is “the
most loved, despite being the only one who does not care about pleasing
the public” (Brune a 1998, 361).
There were certain commentators who saw the work of these young
filmmakers as being a con nua on of the commedia all’italiana (Italian
style comedy), but More absolutely refused to be iden fied with this
early style of humor in film. Commedia all’italiana uses a somewhat bi er
humor to sa rize issues of contemporary social behavior, such as the huge
changes that were taking place in the postwar era in Italy, from the
economic “boom” to the transforma on in the a tude of the Italians
toward sex, faith, and poli cs (Marlia 1988, 101). Geoff King describes
commedia all’italiana as “a dark, o en cynical brand of comedy, rooted in a
society undergoing rapid change and plagued by corrup on, bribery and
fraud” (King 2002, 164). For Bondanella the typical character type of
commedia all’italiana “is an inept, self-centered, shallow, yet loveable
individual, the eternal adolescent whose lack of self-awareness some mes
borders on the grotesque” (Bondanella 2002, 145). Natalie Fullwood
considers that commedia all’italiana films “display many of the tensions
and contradic ons encountered by a society experiencing rapid shi s in
tradi onal social roles and iden es” (Fullwood 2010, 86). Giulio Marlia
considered More to be the most sociopoli cally “commi ed” of all the
comic directors, and saw in this a con nua on, rather than a break from,
commedia all’italiana (Marlia 1988, 107).
Conversely, for Manuela Gieri, More represents a subversion of the
well-established tradi on of the commedia all’italiana. In an interview with
Gieri, More outlines his endeavors to represent his own post-1968
genera on, with all the challenges and transforma ons it is forced to
undergo:

Perhaps I’m just trying to understand where this genera on is

heading. But with two firm points: one without too much
complacency, without too many complaints. In fact, I believe that
when it comes to talking about yourself, irony and thus self-irony
(autoironia) is obligatory. . . . The only way to be taken seriously is to
make fun of yourself. On the other hand, if you take yourself too
seriously then you become ridiculous. (Gieri 1995, 225–26)

Gieri’s work is largely based on the impact that the wri ngs of Luigi
Pirandello have had on the cinema. For Pirandello, humor is “a linguis c
response to the specific psychological and existen al condi on” of modern
man and to some extent, the power of laughter lies in the spectator, not in
the object of the laughter (Gieri 1995, 11). Gieri feels that More ’s
approach to comedy is nearer to the Pirandellian concept of “umorismo”
(humor) than to any tradi onal comedic prac ces.
Memmo Giovannini also believes that More ’s films are not typical of
commedia all’italiana (Giovannini, Magrelli, and Ses 1986, 55). He feels
that More has created a new genre, and he relates this to its ming,
post-1968 (1986, 60). From this comes More ’s impulsive and caus c
humor, “which has always been that of the moralist” (1986, 58). Indeed
More himself has distanced his work from the commedia all’italiana in
several interviews (Porton and Ellickson 1995, 14). In Here Comes Bombo
he cri cizes two icons of commedia all’italiana, Nino Manfredi and Alberto
Sordi. More felt that these actors had led Italian comedy into a series of
stereotypical scenarios, with stereotypical characters speaking
stereotypical lines. More says of commedia all’italiana,

The films considered the most successful of Italian style comedy are
those in which the authors have not shown themselves, but instead,
some mes with affec on, some mes with racism, [they have
represented] social groups far away from them: working class aspiring
to become pe y bourgeois. . . . I’m interested in the doing the
opposite. . . . I put on the screen, make fun of, a group similar to me
(from the social, genera onal, poli cal point of view), and even
myself. (De Bernardinis 1987, 6)

More ’s humor depends fundamentally on irony, which is “a dual

meaning where one is pragma cally marked as a disguise for the other”
(Palmer 1994, 151–52). In literature it is the gap that exists between what
is said and what is meant; in film it is the disparity or ambiguity between
what appears in the frame in literal terms and what that actually means.
The principal difference between More ’s humor and the commedia
all’italiana is that he finds irony and comic possibili es in the everyday
lives of his social circle and himself, using autoironia or self-irony, rather
than in specific, predesignated loca ons. Many of his films have a
fragmented or episodic narra ve structure in a series of comic “gags,”
which is o en the conven on of comic films. However, the humor in his
work rarely arises from slaps ck or pra alls, which is the type of comic
rou ne that was said, even from as early as Aristotle, to appeal to a cruder,
lower-class audience. In his Poe cs Aristotle states, “The same dis nc on
marks off Tragedy from Comedy; for Comedy aims at represen ng men as
worse, Tragedy as be er than in actual life” (Aristotle 1997, 3).
In More ’s films the comedy frequently arises from the situa ons,
from the audience self-recogni on, and from its expecta ons. In I Am Self
Sufficient, some of the comic elements are purely visual, for example the
facial expressions that Michele (Nanni More ) pulls behind former wife,
Silvia’s (Simona Frosi), back. Others are verbal, such as the squabbles about
the precise meanings of words between the amateur actors Pio (Alberto
Flores d’Arcais) and Benede a (Benede a Bini). Although it is debatable
whether a se ng can define comedy in the same way as the wilderness
defines the Western genre, this is not to say that the designa on of a
par cular space cannot be transformed into a humorous one, through
aspects of comedy men oned above.
An example of the use of se ng for comic and ironic effect can be
seen in the “Islands” chapter of Dear Diary. This focuses on one character,
Gerardo (Renato Carpen eri), a literary scholar who has spurned television
for many years. While traveling with Nanni (Nanni More ) around the
Æolian Islands, Gerardo is gradually drawn into the world of popular
television, including soap operas and audience par cipa on shows. Over
the course of a few days he changes from someone who despised
television into someone who cannot live without it. More said of this
episode,

Certainly Islands is also the story of the metamorphosis of this

intellectual. . . . Of course, I make him, in the course of a few days,
take the route which, usually, someone, an intellectual, would
develop over several years, and it’s a pathway that many people
follow, from the total rejec on of television to its absolute
acceptance, one might even say its adora on. (De Bernardinis 2001,
12)

The sequence occurs at the volcano on the island of Stromboli, which

is the loca on for Gerardo’s moment of self-discovery. At this point he fully
understands his addic on to American soap opera, because, from his
vantage point at the top of the crater, he realizes that a group of American
tourists at the bo om of the slope of the volcano will be able to give him
informa on about episodes that have already appeared in the United
States, but have yet to be broadcast in Italy. Gerardo does, however,
experience some embarrassment about ques oning the Americans, and
sends Nanni to obtain the necessary facts. As Nanni makes his perilous
descent of the incline, the camera looks back from his posi on to
Gerardo’s, on high. Here Gerardo’s figure is diminished; yet beneath him
lay all the strata of the volcano, built up over long years of erup ons. Their
age and complexity enhance the sublime nature of the scene, which
increases the incongruity of the frivolous ques ons and answers that are
shouted out by Nanni and Gerardo up and down the slopes. The depth of
knowledge that Gerardo has accumulated over the extensive period of his
study of the works of James Joyce and other classical authors has now
been displaced. Instead of demonstra ng this erudi on, Gerardo now
shows a detailed familiarity with the minu ae of the American TV program.
Ac ng as Gerardo’s intermediary, Nanni is both the interpreter
between the Italian and English languages, as well as physically a buffer
between the two worlds of scholarship and popular culture. There are
three dis nct strands of humor in this sequence. The first involves
Gerardo’s obvious awkwardness about asking the Americans for details
about The Bold and the Beau ful. This also indicates to the audience his
self-importance, because the Americans are clearly unaware that he is a
significant intellectual. This also contrasts with their openness and
naturalness with Nanni. The soap opera is part of their everyday world, and
the Americans do not see anything strange about Gerardo’s interest in it.
The second strand involves the ques ons and answers about the soap
opera character, Sally Spectra, and here, Gerardo’s sing-song intona on
adds to the comic effect. Finally, there is More ’s performance as Nanni.
The audience is aware of his strong Italian accent in speaking English,
something that has possibly not ever been heard before. His errors are also
humorous. For example, halfway down the slope he asks about Nancy, a
character who has not previously been men oned. When he meets the
Americans he gets out a list of prepared ques ons in English, even though
he is not seen wri ng them down. He then completely forgets to ask about
another character, Stephanie, and the microphones she had hidden. The
humor in this sequence is based partly on the spectator’s feelings of
superiority over Gerardo’s fall from his intellectual heights, and partly on
the manipula on of an awe-inspiring landscape into a comic one through
the incongruity between the se ng and the inconsequen al interroga on
that the two men conduct across it. Trivial ques ons about a soap opera
would normally be held in general conversa on in front of the television or
at a meal. However, there is bathos in the way in which these ques ons are
shouted across the countryside, which contrasts with the audience’s
percep on of the volcano’s stark beauty and the awe it creates. Adding to
the incongruity of the situa on is Nanni’s inability to remember the details
that Gerardo has effortlessly commi ed to memory.
A comic se ng is also created in Dear Diary on the island of Salina.
More uses young children as the principal performers and animal sounds
to enhance the comic situa on. The sequence opens with a telephone
conversa on between a li le girl and a man, comprised of ques ons and
requests. These form a pa ern based on repe ons and constant
references back to the beginning of the sequence. As the first conversa on
proceeds, some degree of exaspera on is seen in the man’s figure
expression as he lists the animal sounds, coun ng them off on his fingers.
Nanni now enters the scene and outlines the situa on on Salina where “it
was prac cally impossible to communicate by phone.” His observa ons tail
off and subsequently several repe ons of the first scene are played out by
other adults and children. Part of the humor lies in the despera on of the
adults and the dominance of the children. The children hang up on the
adult caller, or refuse to locate their parents or go even further and decide
to entertain the adult in a role reversal of the usual fairy-tale-as-pacifier
scenario. In terms of a “gag,” the punch line of this sequence is when the
fran c fourth woman is speaking in a very slow voice to the person on the
line. The scene then cuts to the recipient of the call, a baby holding the
phone. From the underlying premise of the whole Salina sec on, which is
that the island is run by and for only children, this baby represents the fact
that these children are in control almost from birth. There is also
performance humor, because clearly the baby cannot speak, and therefore
can neither reply to the anxious caller nor call anyone else to the phone.
There is also a mirrored appearance of the baby and the woman, in their
similar simple-minded facial expressions staring with open mouths. The
comedy in this sequence arises from the combina on of a number of
issues. First, the comic se ng is repeated several mes and is constructed
through the edi ng between the two physical spaces at each end of a
number of phone lines. Second, the audience witnesses the reversal of the
normal power balance and control between adults and children, with the
children in these circumstances having the upper hand. Finally, there is the
buildup in frequency of the repe on of the first, fairly innocuous
dialogue, and the increasingly unusual animal sounds coming from the
mouths of adults.
Comedy, irony, and frequently bathos are fundamental elements of
More ’s work. His choice, organiza on, and manipula on of se ng create
a narra ve space for comedy that gives meanings and pleasures to the
spectator.

THE MELODRAMA
Melodrama was originally a drama with music. In the nineteenth century it
became a produc on that centered on a conflict between heroes and
villains, o en in a family se ng, where a virtuous person, usually a
woman, or couple of lovers, was persecuted (Schatz 1981, 222; Sorlin
1996, 38). More recently, the label has come to signify any emo onal
drama, par cularly those based on family life (Nowell-Smith 1977, 113;
Elsaesser 1997, 350–80). The basic narra ve structure of the melodrama
can be outlined as a story star ng with equilibrium within a family
situa on. When unexpectedly an event occurs, destroying this harmony,
the narra ve is driven forward by the desire of the filmic family, and indeed
the audience, to seek and discover a new balance, bringing closure to the
story. Perhaps one of the best known of Italian melodramas is an example
of the post Neo-Realist strappalacrime (tearjerker) films, Catene / Chains
(Raffaello Matarazzo, 1949). During the course of this film an archetypal
happy family is reunited, despite jealousy, murder, despair, abandonment,
threatened imprisonment, and a empted suicide. On its release this film
was seen by six million people in Italy (Sorlin 1996, 107–10). Christopher
Wagstaff argues that the melodrama narra ve structure relates to “the
struggle of human existence” (Wagstaff 2007, 63–64). He describes how
the individual suffers as a result of exclusion and exile from an idyllic
organism, such as society or the family, possibly through transgression.
There is a sense of loss of the wholeness of the organism. Isola on and
vulnerability follow, “which is experienced as suffering” (Wagstaff 2007,
64). Wagstaff suggests that a circular narra ve ensues, whereby the
protagonist repeatedly a empts a recons tu on of the organism and a
return to the original idyll, but finally realizes that this is impossible, and
that he must se le for the discovery of a haven in his present situa on.
Wagstaff cites Ladri di bicicle e / Bicycle Thieves (Vi orio De Sica, 1948)
where, a er Antonio Ricci’s incessant and unsuccessful search for his
bicycle, he discovers the solu on to what he is seeking in his son, Bruno,
“who has been beside him all the me” (2007, 64).
In a similar vein, Bill Nichols points out that at the beginning of many
narra ves, but especially in the cast of the melodrama, there is a lack that
sets into mo on a course of events through a desire to reinstate this lack.
The majority of the narra ve is the central part, in which, generally
speaking, a empts are made to restore the lack. Nichols suggests, “The
beginning nego ates a contract toward us, with us: desire will be /
gra fied, there will be a return, pleasure waits to be had” (Nichols 1981,
74–75). He adds:

If we take the lure, we yield to the tale, sacrificing the par ality of the
present for the enriched future at the other end. We suspend belief
across a stretch of me, suspend our own present across the
unfolding present of the tale. It carries us, transports us into a fic onal
world . . . where the desire invoked will be sa sfied. If we recognize
the overall structure of the narra ve, we will have our gra fica on:
the events will add up, resolve themselves. (Nichols 1981, 75)

From its very beginnings, with the short home movie Repas de bébé /
Baby’s Meal me made by Auguste and Louis Lumière in 1895, the family
has been one of the central themes of cinema. This is certainly true of
mainstream Hollywood cinema, where films such as Meet Me in St Louis
(Vincente Minnelli, 1944), It’s a Wonderful Life (Frank Capra, 1946) and
more recently Junebug (Phil Morrison, 2005) and Li le Miss Sunshine
(Jonathan Dayton and Valerie Faris, 2006) are all popular viewing. There is
also considerable evidence that the family s ll holds a key posi on in the
Italian way of life, in a way that is completely different from northern
European countries like Great Britain (Finch 1989, 87–104). The portrayal
of the need for families to sustain each other during difficult mes is
reflected in the Neo-Realist works of the 1940s, for example, La terra
trema / The Earth Trembles (Luchino Viscon , 1948). Within the last twenty
years, films demonstra ng the importance of family life have also achieved
both popular and cri cal acclaim, such as La vita è bella / Life is Beau ful
(Roberto Benigni, 1997).
The home is the ideal locus for main characters of the melodrama to
act out their story, because within the family unit there are tradi onally
clearly iden fied roles and because the family is connected to its milieu by
social class (Schatz 1981, 226–28). In More ’s films, The Mass Is Ended,
The Son’s Room, and to some extent Here Comes Bombo have
melodrama c characteris cs, based largely on their emo onal content and
the se ng, which is the family home. Family life, and in par cular
parenthood, is an important feature of many of More ’s films. Ewa
Mazierska and Laura Rascaroli, in their study of More ’s work, examine
the recent social history of Italy in the 1980s and 1990s where the family
has a central place, with its strong rela onships between genera ons, low
divorce rate, and rela vely low number of single-parent families (Mazierska
and Rascaroli 2004, 84). They explore the problem of being part of a
dysfunc onal family and the rejec on of family life, which are dealt with in
the early films. As a development of this, in Bianca and The Mass Is Ended,
the perfect family is sought, and More presents his real-life family in April
(Mazierska and Rascaroli 2004, 47). In The Son’s Room, More shows a
seemingly model family, which is very nearly destroyed following the death
of one of the children. However, The Caiman displays the consequences of
separa on once family life has turned sour.
Several families are featured and a full range of emo ons is brought
into play in The Mass Is Ended. The family of the former priest, Antonio
(Eugenio Masciari), is seen ini ally as ideal and his house is a significant
se ng, as in terms of narra ve structure of the melodrama, it is the
equilibrium, the se ng of the idyll, to which Don Giulio (Nanni More )
ul mately, yet unsuccessfully, aspires. Located in leafy suburban
surroundings close to the church, Antonio’s home at first seems faultless.
On his first visit there, Don Giulio enters the garden through an open gate
into an area that is sunlit and invi ng, appearing like Eden before the Fall.
There are no barriers to be confronted here; it is a loca on of openness
and freedom. The spectator hears birdsong and sees the luxuriant plant
and animal life. This se ng offers a vivid contrast to the austere rooms
that Don Giulio inhabits and to the bleak apartment where Don Giulio’s
friend, Saverio (Marco Messeri) cuts himself off from the outside world.
More constantly frames Antonio with his wife, Lucia (Luisa De San s),
and child, Ma eo, making them appear to be a la er-day Holy Family. The
garden is also a se ng of ac vity. As Antonio’s son and his wife busy
themselves, they are placed in the frame between Antonio and Don Giulio,
indica ng the world that separates these two men. Lucia’s invita on to
lunch is declined, and for the first me Don Giulio excludes himself from
their family life. Ini ally, the proximity of this idealized family is disquie ng
for Don Giulio, but later, with his own family gradually falling apart, and
with his friends’ rela onships all fairly doub ul, it is to Antonio and his
family, in their domes c se ng, that Don Giulio looks for the harmony and
peace he desires.
On his second call at the house Don Giulio looks through the window
of the family dining room, and this se ng forms the image for the desire
for another life that is una ainable. However, on the third occasion the
atmosphere in the house is more nega ve. Don Giulio has finally accepted
an invita on to lunch and is seated with the others around the table,
where the checked tablecloth is a conven onal filmic marker of domes c
harmony. This prop appears in many genre se ngs, including Westerns of
the Classic Hollywood period, with connota ons of home, comfort, and
plenty (Townsend 1997, 84). However, the perfec on previously observed
in Antonio’s domes c se ng is now only superficial and the family begins
to reveal its flaws. Don Giulio’s strong desire to find a happy family is
subverted by the slovenliness of the couple’s clothing at the table, their
quarrels, their obsession with their child, and Antonio’s excessive talk
about sex.
Although this family setup is important for what More wishes to
show about family life in contemporary Italy, and the flaws beneath the
stereotypically ideal surface, nevertheless, the melodrama does not take
place within Antonio’s family. The actual conflict occurs at the home of Don
Giulio’s parents, and again this is shown through the use of se ng. The
returning priest’s wanderings through his parents’ apartment takes him in
a circle, signifying his desire to return to the me as well as the place from
which he has come. The sense of geography of the apartment is achieved
by the use of deep focus and a slowly tracking camera, so that the
audience has a clear vision of the way it is laid out. In terms of the parents’
physical posi on in the apartment, it is made clear that they occupy
opposite ends of this building. This physical separa on is a foreshadowing
of the events to come later in their lives.
Melodrama func ons in The Mass Is Ended and The Son’s Room on
the level of subtrac on, so that the complete, united family group is
offered for considera on only at the beginning of the film, and their flaws
are revealed as the narra ve progresses. This is demonstrated visually in
both films by the gradual reduc on in the number of family members
si ng at a meal in the kitchen se ng from the start of the film to its
conclusion. By the end of The Mass Is Ended, each family member has
“le ” the home, and the melodrama c narra ve structure is fulfilled by
Don Giulio’s realiza on that he cannot improve or change the situa on
around him, and must accept the resultant suffering. In The Son’s Room,
the new equilibrium is reached in the final scene, a er the car journey
across the border into France, as the three remaining members of the
original family of four are walking on a beach. They are depicted as moving
in separate and different direc ons, yet, although they do not walk
together, they are filmed within the same frame, sugges ng that there is a
tenuous renewed unity between them, and a new way forward. In an
interview More comments on this last scene:

I didn’t want to make it a sadis c film at the audience’s expense; I

didn’t want pain to isolate the characters in their own grief. That’s
why I wanted some movement at the end, physical movement—and
indeed there is a journey—and movement within the characters. They
don’t overcome the pain, but the pain begins to transform itself into
something else. There’s a small opening towards other people,
towards the outside. (Bonsaver 2002, 30)

OTHER GENRES

Romance

There are no generic se ngs that can be specifically allo ed to

romance films, although mee ngs on windswept heathlands may be used
to express turbulent emo ons, while churches or gardens where weddings
are being held suggest a happy ending, and scenes of departure from
railway sta ons, quaysides, or airports are o en used where a sadder
finale takes place. A romance film will have the roman c involvement of
the protagonists as the central premise of the story, and many films have
some aspect of romance between characters, at least as a subplot. A
prerequisite of the romance film is that it has a happy ending, o en
resul ng in a marriage.
In Here Comes Bombo, More uses se ng to subvert the no on of
the roman c film. In a mid-two-shot actress Silvia (Susanna Javicoli) and
her student boyfriend Michele (Nanni More ) are seated facing each
other, apparently in an outdoor restaurant, with an uniden fied stretch of
open water behind them. Their conversa on proceeds un l Michele
comments on the absence of waiters. Un l this point the off-screen space,
with other diners and the general custom associated with a busy eatery, is
only suggested to the spectator. However, at this point, there is a sudden
cut to a long shot that reveals the couple completely alone, on a type of
pier perched above the water on s lts, a sort of ra , on which they are
marooned (De Bernardinis 2001, 49). This would typically be used in a
roman c film to demonstrate the way in which lovers, preoccupied with
their own considera ons, seem to be stranded, away from other people.
However, the juxtaposi on of this assumed roman c tête-à-tête with
Michele’s irritable reac on to the poor service jolts the spectator out of
any idea of verisimilitude. This ironic view of the roman c genre con nues
in the drama c finale to this scene. Michele and Silvia are posi oned on
either side of the frame, with the immense stretch of water between them,
symbolizing the gulf in their rela onship. At first, Michele is clearly seen
from the front, but Silvia is somewhat negated, as only the rear of her head
is par ally seen. A er Michele’s jealous outpourings, Silvia, now center
frame, is le to explain herself, rather weakly. There is a cut to a tracking
shot of Michele, walking toward Silvia. Here More employs an extension
of the real distance, since it takes Michele a much longer me to cover a
rela vely short expanse than it would in reality. More does this to extend
the ironic drama of Michele’s role. In fact, in most of his scenes with Silvia
he seems to be playing the role of the jealous lover, rather than actually
being this figure. The camera moves on, even when Michele has reached
Silvia, and she embraces him, caught at the edge of the frame. The
roman c se ng for a moment of heightened tension, perhaps of
forgiveness or of par ng, is revealed, yet More treats it with both irony
and bathos, since the emo onal atmosphere is immediately deflated by
Michele’s cruelly self-centered remark, ques oning her mo ves for crying.
In Here Comes Bombo there is a scene between Michele and his latest
girlfriend, Cris na (Cris na Manni) in Piazza dei Quiri in the Pra district
of Rome. Here, the use of a swirling camera movement together with
upli ing, emo onal music, underlines both the whirlwind nature of their
romance and the confusion in Michele’s mind about this rela onship.
Instead of a declara on of love or a proposal of marriage, Michele abruptly
breaks off the rela onship. The cinematography, the sound, and the
generic se ng ini ally promised well for Michele and Cris na’s future
together, whereas, in fact, it is heading for yet another failure and more
disappointment. This is another example of More ’s use of bathos, where
the envisaged cause-and-effect link between scenes has the opposite
outcome to what the audience is expec ng.

Memoirs
Dear Diary visually suggests the crea on of a journal. The credits of
white handwri ng on a red background introduce the diary theme even
before the narra ve has begun. Similarly the film begins with a hand
moving over a page wri ng the words “Dear Diary . . .” Thus the narra ve
space for wri ng is privileged right from the start. In the first two chapters
the audience witnesses Nanni wri ng in his notebook, and the voice-over
frequently draws the a en on of the audience to this. In the first chapter,
“On My Vespa,” the fluidity of the camera movement reflects the way that
the diary format can move smoothly from one topic to another. However,
the film is divided thema cally into “chapters,” whereas a diary is normally
purely chronological. Unlike a wri en account, here events are seen as
they (appear to) happen, and not as recounted from the past. Dear Diary is
more of a docudrama, a lived experience and a mixture of fact and fic on,
including direct references to More ’s actual life, such as the scenes
filmed during his cancer treatment. More is construc ng a cinema c
object to which he a aches the no ons of a diary.
In Dear Diary Nanni delivers the narra ve in several ways: visually,
handwri en, voice-over, and direct dialogue. The majority of the film
shows as well as tells about Nanni’s life, experiences, and interests,
fulfilling in no small way Alexandre Astruc’s no on of the caméra-stylo
(camera as pen). Astruc stated, “Film is now simply becoming a means of
expression, everything the other arts were before it, in par cular pain ng
and the novel” (Astruc [1948] 1968, 17–23). Astruc suggests that the
director was no longer in thrall to a preexis ng text, but was an inven ve
and ar s c force in his own right. The variety of methods employed
enhances the diary format, in that they radiate from More ’s own screen
persona, Nanni: his handwri ng, his point of view, both visual and
philosophical, his voice, and his thoughts. This focus on Nanni is further
accentuated by his frequent isola on within the frame, be it watching films
at the cinema, dancing opposite the television image of Silvana Mangano,
playing football, walking by the ferryboat, or drinking a glass of water.

The Road Movie

Features that could be associated with the road movie have a

dis nguished career in Italian cinema, including films such as Paisà / Paisan
(Roberto Rossellini, 1946), La strada / The Road (Federico Fellini, 1954),
and Il ladro di bambini / The Stolen Children (Gianni Amelio, 1992).
Normally, road movies are linear, in that the protagonist(s) start in one
loca on and travel to another, but they may also be episodic or circular in
their construc on. In general, road movies are highly gendered spaces,
featuring a male flight from domes city and linking man, machine, and
mobility, although there have been modifica ons, such as the female duo
on the road in Thelma and Louise (Ridley Sco , 1991). The road movie
could further be described as one filmic adapta on of Mikhail Bakh n’s
literary chronotope of the road (Flanagan 2009, 53–82). Bakh n argues
that:

Of special importance is the close link between the mo f of mee ng

and the chronotope of the road (“the open road”), and of various
types of mee ng on the road. In the chronotope of the road, the unity
of me and space markers is exhibited with excep onal precision and
clarity. (Bakh n 1981, 98)
 Bakh n notes the poten al for encounter on the road, where people
separated by social and spa al distance can accidentally meet. He suggests
that “any contrast may crop up, the most various fates may collide and
interweave with one another” (Bakh n 1981, 243). Alexandra Ganser, Julia
Pühringer, and Markus Rheindorf state that “the chronotope serves as a
means of measuring how, in a par cular age, genre, or text, real historical
me and space as well as fic onal me and space are ar culated in
rela on to one another” (2006, 2). Ganser et al. offer a cri que of various
defini ons of the road movie and suggest that these may not just be
narra ves about protagonists on the move in a car, going through open
spaces, but may also be about transit through the cityscape on other
modes of transport (2006, 4).
In Red Lob there is a long journey from Rome to Sicily, as the water
polo team of communist leader Michele (Nanni More ) has to travel by
bus, train, and (presumably, but unseen) ferry. It is on this physical journey
from central to southern Italy that Michele begins his search for his lost
iden ty, following a car accident. The journey to Sicily is a communal one:
living, ea ng, and sleeping alongside the other members of the team. This
emphasizes the no on that the focus of Michele’s life as a leader of the
Italian Communist Party is the collec ve. In the course of this outward
journey he will start to recall some fundamental things about his life. In
this way More engages the audience to try to make sense of the events
that are revealed to both Michele and the spectator as the film progresses,
applying this as much to Michele’s life as to the contemporary events in
the Italian Communist Party.
Although presented in diary format, Dear Diary could also be defined
as a type of road movie. Bakh n’s chronotope of the road frequently
includes some type of quest for the Promised Land and may involve an
inner, spiritual journey. Nanni’s (Nanni More ) impulse to move between
se ngs, from one part of Rome to another, from one island to another,
from one doctor to another is mo vated by the desire to fulfill a quest for
something elusive that is not always found. In Rome, Nanni is ul mately in
search of himself by evoking the things he claims he likes best of all:
dancing, World Music, house fronts, bridges, films, or freedom of
movement. Dressed as a la er-day knight, with his helmet and trusty steed
(the Vespa), he becomes a sort of Roman Don Quixote. Nanni-errant has a
number of trials to go through in different se ngs. His Dulcinea is Jennifer
Beals, a goddess-like figure that Nanni admires from afar and whom he
some mes thinks that he glimpses in the distance. His eventual mee ng
with the woman he has idolized ends disappoin ngly, as she seems
frightened and uncommunica ve, and this par cular quest has failed. Later
in the same “chapter,” Nanni’s obsession with collec ng newspaper
clippings draws him to the site of Pier Paolo Pasolini’s murder. This
becomes his next quest, and Pasolini’s monument becomes a mythic
des na on. Yet, as with the mee ng with Jennifer Beals, this mission has a
bleak ending. Once the monument is reached, it is a dismal sight, covered
in weeds, behind a dilapidated fence. The journey ends with the objec ve
reached, but with an air of disappointment.
On the Æolian Islands the quest is for a se ng in peace and quiet so
that Nanni can prepare a new film. The success of this quest is constantly
undermined by the very islands themselves: Lipari is too noisy; Panarea is
too self-indulgent; Salina is too child-centric; Stromboli has an atmosphere
that is too nega ve and aggressive; Alicudi is too secluded. Only when
moving on the ferry between these fixed se ngs does Nanni experience
the happiness and peace that he felt when riding around Rome on his
Vespa. In the end, it is only on Alicudi that Nanni and Gerardo manage to
achieve some tranquility for concentra on on their work, even though for
Gerardo this serenity is short-lived. In the final “chapter” of Dear Diary
Nanni is looking for a solu on to his health problems, so the se ngs for
this quest take place mostly in the surgeries of a variety of doctors who all
deal with his external problems, each in a different way. The
autobiographical aspect of this is enhanced as More states in the film
that “nothing in this chapter has been invented.” He had kept all the
prescrip ons and remembered all the conversa ons with the different
doctors:

And that’s exactly it, I did not want to invent anything, just tell simply,
with a touch of irony, what happened to me; without feeling sorry for
myself, without cruelty towards the spectator, without indulgence
towards the disease. (Chatrian and Renzi 2008, 145).
 Once again, Nanni’s quest is not totally successful, since the various
clinicians, both the conven onal and the complementary, are only trea ng
the outward manifesta ons of the disease, which turns out to be cancer.
Only when there is a look inside his body can the causes are seen.
The sec on at the end of The Son’s Room involves the Sermon family
in a journey about discovery and change. The start of the journey in their
hometown of Ancona is in the city in the dark, which symbolizes their grief
at the death of Andrea, their son, and their inability to see the future
ahead clearly. The journey finishes on the beach in France in the sunshine,
signifying hope that life will go on. Philip Kemp notes, “Quite literally
they’ve crossed a border; the past is another country” (2002, 56). During
the course of this journey the grieving parents, Giovanni and Paola, make
hesitant steps to repair their rela onship, sha ered by the bereavement.
By helping Arianna, Andrea’s former girlfriend, to reach her des na on
they are indirectly doing something for their son.

The Musical

Musicals are seen in two films, Sweet Dreams and April. The musical is
perhaps the one film genre most closely ed to the rising and falling
fortunes of the Hollywood studio system, and less to Italian cinema in
general (Schatz 1981, 186). Over the course of its history the genre se ng
for the film musical has moved from the theatrical environs of the stage
and its dressing rooms to anywhere in the real world, where it was deemed
that music could add to the meanings and pleasures experienced by the
audience. In the case of More ’s work, both musicals are films-within-a-
film, so that the genre se ng is a film studio masquerading as either a
street scene (Sweet Dreams) or a cake factory (April).
In Sweet Dreams the audience sees a fragment of a musical dedicated
to the student riots of 1968. This film is being made by a promising novice
director Gigio Cimino (Gigio Morra), whose interests lie more in crowd-
pleasing than in promo ng an important poli cal message. The sequence
is introduced in a way that blurs the boundaries between filmmaker
Michele’s (Nanni More ) everyday world and the se ng of the film-
within-a-film. Michele is playing pinball in a bar, when an injured man is
brought in on a stretcher. As smoke fills the room, Michele runs out,
passing a burning car and more injured people. The se ng is confusing
un l the camera moves past Michele to show a group of students carrying
a poli cal banner. As diege c pop music is heard, the students, police, and
Maoists, complete with their Li le Red Books, all gyrate to the rhythm. It
becomes clear that this is the musical that Cimino had talked about
previously. The spectator watches the mediocre produc on alongside
Michele and witnesses the chant of “Vietnam will win” resounding from
the film set. This chant has a double edge: on the one hand it refers in a
straigh orward manner to one of the crucial issues of that period, the war
in Vietnam; on the other hand, it suggests that this film will be more
popular at the box office than the alleged cerebral films that Michele
directs.
In April various stages in the produc on of Nanni’s musical about the
Trotskyist pastry chef from the 1950s are seen. The genre se ng for this is
the film set. However, a er a promising opening sequence, when Nanni
joins the actors and crew on the first day of filming, the musical is canceled
and is not resumed un l the very end of the film. More uses the musical
not as a stereotype of Italian film produc on itself, but as the expression of
a par cular func on of film, which is to give pleasure to the spectator. The
musical is used by More in these two films because of the reference to
illusion and entertainment. The genre operates as a counterbalance and an
ironic contrast to the message More wants to deliver. In Sweet Dreams, if
the truth about the war in Vietnam is unpalatable, then More sa rically
suggests that making a musical about it will sweeten the message; showing
young people protes ng, instead of being slaughtered in the conflict. In
April, if current-day poli cs are overcomplex or are considered to be
distasteful to the general public, he sardonically proposes replacing it with
a nostalgic musical, set some forty years beforehand in a golden and
utopian past. The bright colors and exaggerated culinary confec ons of the
cake factory se ng reflect the visual style of the great Metro-Goldwyn-
Mayer musicals of the 1940s and 1950s, showing a protagonist who is
happy in his work. Furthermore, this dual approach of pleasure and duty is
ed into the narra ve of April, which has Nanni torn between infan le
enjoyment (making the musical) and adult responsibility (making a
documentary on contemporary Italy and becoming a father).
The Western

Surprisingly perhaps, even the Western gets a parodied passing

reference in More ’s work, although here it is not the open country of
Monument Valley that serves as the genre se ng, but the wild natural
area outside Rome. The sequence in I Am Self Sufficient, when the theater
group goes on an excursion in the hilly Lazio countryside, uses the
landscape to reflect the mood and a tude of the par cipants. The troupe
wanders, apparently aimlessly, into the empty, inhospitable, and
uniden fied terrain. As their journey progresses, they lose people along
the way, o en in drama c situa ons: one of the actors, Italo, is overcome
with exhaus on and has to be dragged along by a rope; the doctor, who
troupe leader Fabio (Fabio Traversa) has brought along, dies in mysterious
circumstances; another actor, Paolo (Paolo Zaccagnini), appears to go mad;
and two others are found lifeless with arrows s cking from them, as
though shot down by hos le na ves. In fact, losing characters is this
progressive fashion is rather more like an Agatha Chris e novel than a
Western. The drab loca on and the lack of direc on of the enterprise
suggest not the tradi onal Western structure of an outsider coming in to
resolve a difficult situa on, but the depressed and purposeless frame of
mind of the group. The sequence ends, not as in a Western with a
shootout or a civilizing marriage but with a return to an already exis ng
civiliza on: the arrival in the countryside of a man carrying a Roma soccer
team flag reminds Michele that he has missed a Roma-Lazio match in the
real world and this jolts him back to his mundane existence.

Horror

Genre se ng is important for the horror film, so that cemeteries,

Gothic castles, and isolated houses are o en the loca ons for supernatural
happenings in film. In the horror film, atmosphere can be created by
makeup and low-budget special effects, such as the use of ligh ng to
create the shadows as the se ng in which the terrifying ac ons take place.
The horror film is principally invoked in More ’s work, during the dream
sequences in Sweet Dreams. The horror aspect is most clearly represented
in the change of appearance of the protagonist, Michele, in the dream
world version where he transforms from schoolteacher into werewolf.
Some cri cs have described the changes as a Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde
scenario, showing the two sides of Michele’s character, both in the dream
world and in the real world (Gili 1991, 31; Socci 2008, 34). However, the
norms of genre se ng in horror films are subverted here, since the
monstrous creature, the werewolf, manifests itself not at night, in a lonely
place, but during daylight hours in a restaurant. Thus, More reverses the
filmic conven ons of the horror se ng to show, in this case, that the
monster lurking poten ally in everyone is there in everyday situa ons.
In More ’s work, se ng for genre may be employed in a
conven onal, generally accepted fashion, as a quick code for construc ng
meaning and giving pleasure to the audience. Conversely, the standard,
even reassuring, associa ons implied by a se ng may be deliberately
polemicized and challenged by the filmmaker.
 Chapter 7
The Scene of the Crime
VOYEURISM
Bianca is More ’s venture into the genre of murder mystery. Voyeurism
and its consequences are key themes in many types of suspense films and
this is certainly the case in Bianca. In order for a character to be a voyeur
she or he must have a vantage point and, in the context of voyeurism and
space, the most important se ng in Bianca is the balcony of the
apartment of Michele (Nanni More ), mathema cs teacher and suspected
murderer. There are clear intertextual links with Rear Window (Alfred
Hitchcock, 1954) and its no ons of voyeurism (Menarini 2002, 36).
However, unlike Hitchcock’s protagonist, L.B. “Jeff” Jeffries, who is
immobile because of his injuries and who has to rely on a camera lens to
enter other people’s spaces, Michele is free to move and take his
observa on of others away from the terrace and into their own homes and
other areas. From this loca on, characters are observed from Michele’s
point of view, not only physically, in that he sees, comments on, and acts
on his observa ons, but also psychologically, as the ac ons of the
characters are viewed through Michele’s moral filter. Menarini suggests
that the whole film is “a subjec ve view put on screen with objec ve
framing,” as seen through the eyes of the psychopath who is Michele
(2002, 43). There is also the sugges on that he must be deriving a
par cular kind of pleasure from watching and doing so unobserved.
The key theme of observa on is set from a very early point in the film
(see figure 7.1). Michele’s first ac on on entering his new apartment is to
cleanse the bathroom by se ng fire to the sanitary ware. This scene of an
inferno is filmed, not from an invisible witness perspec ve or from
Michele’s point of view, but from an overhead shot in the bird’s-eye
posi on of the omniscient narrator. The invisible witness shot is where the
camera
Spaces for observa on in Bianca

angles are taken from humanly possible posi ons. This type of shot
allows the spectator to become a voyeur within the diegesis of the film,
since many invisible witness shots will not be character driven, but will be
mo vated through the plot, such as a close-up on a significant prop. The
omnipresent, omniscient narrator point of view is where a variety of
camera angles, including extreme angles that are frequently outside
physical possibili es, are used. This may be used for establishing shots, but
may also be linked to shots in which the narra ve space gives character
informa on or is used to convey an emo on to the audience. These types
of shot are discussed more fully in chapter 10: Inside and Outside the
Frame. In this early scene Michele is the one being observed, and his
ac ons demonstrate within the first few moments of the film that he has
an obsessive nature. Shortly a er the drama c purge of the bathroom,
Michele steps out onto the sunny terrace, which is open on three sides.
The space is vibrant with green plants, to which Michele adds his own
contribu on, a contras ng dark pink azalea. This air of newness is in tune
with his fresh start in new accommoda on and a new job. Significantly, the
plants will later wither as his ini al op mism fades away.
Michele’s gaze, through a series of point-of-view shots, not only
establishes the geography of the terrace and the surrounding buildings; it
also introduces to the audience a number of important themes that will be
developed in the film. Michele’s first ac on on the terrace is to look up to
the apartments on a higher level and then down onto the street below. His
surveillance is everywhere. This is followed by a close-up of a mu lated
bird, seen from Michele’s point of view, alluding to the mysterious deaths
that will take place later on. The subsequent conversa on with his new
neighbors, Siro Siri (Remo Remo ) and the much younger Chantal, gives
Michele the opportunity to scru nize this dubiously matched couple, and
introduces the theme of judgment. His posi on on the terrace means that,
despite his moral disapproval of the pair, he has to physically look up to
them. The no on of scru ny develops further when Michele examines
some bullet holes on his wall. Not only does he look at them; he also feels
them, thus adding the sense of touch to the one of sight. A third sense is
then added as he hears the quarrel between other neighbors, Aurora
(Enrica Maria Modugno) and Massimiliano (Vincenzo Salemme), in the
apartment opposite. In a deep focus shot Aurora and her partner are
framed, from the point of view of Michele, through an arched window as if
they are in a pain ng. This window and the one beside it provide Michele
in subsequent scenes with two very clearly defined areas of observa on.
Aurora and Massimiliano’s rela onship is viewed from both outside
and inside their apartment, but Michele’s privileged observa onal posi on
on the terrace affords him the best vista and opportunity for scru nizing
their life together. Michele’s meddlesome behavior is seen from their very
first encounter when he ques ons why the couple is not married. Aurora is
aware of his con nued curiosity and notes, during a further quarrel with
Massimiliano, “Stop it, someone’s watching us.” Aurora’s betrayal of
Massimiliano and his ignorance of this is shown in a short sequence where
the camera oscillates from one window, where Massimiliano is alone
taking a phone call, to the other, where Aurora is kissing another man.
However, the point of view is only partly Michele’s here, as the audience is
made aware that Siro Siri also witnesses her deceit. The next me Michele
is seen on the terrace Aurora has been murdered, and again the windows
across from his apartment frame the next stage in the narra ve:
Massimiliano is being interrogated by a policeman (Roberto Vezzosi) seen
through one window, while Aurora lies dead, seen through another. At the
point when Michele observes her corpse, the police commissioner in
charge of the inves ga on closes the shu ers, thus cu ng off Michele’s
view and ending, in part, Aurora and Massimiliano’s story.
An important clue to the iden ty of the murderer is, of course,
Michele’s strange behavior vis-à-vis his friends. They are all “specimens” of
humankind under the punc lious inspec on of Michele; this idea is
reinforced by the detailed files that he keeps on all of them. His painstaking
cataloguing of their personal details and their near dread of his
interference in their lives are noted early in the film, when one friend
states in horror, “We will never be free of him.” The audience is also a
witness to the fact that Michele lies to the police about knowing anything
about the rela onship of the couple who live opposite him, Aurora and
Massimiliano. However, the audience is also aware that Michele was not
the only character to see Aurora’s stolen kisses with another man. Siro Siri
observed this behavior as well, and, since he was also involved with the
other pair of murder vic ms, he becomes a likely suspect for all the killings.
However, since there is no visualized evidence of their partaking in the
crimes, neither Michele nor Siro Siri can be held responsible for these acts,
and there is a shadow of doubt over whether the murderer could be a
third, never-revealed, person.
If Michele’s ini al observa ons from the terrace are miserable and
doomed to end badly, his later ones are more appropriate to his moral
outlook and expecta ons of human behavior. Si ng on the terrace, dining
alone on a simple boiled egg, Michele watches an ideal happy family
framed by the window, just to the le of Aurora’s tragic home. The parents
and their two children play peacefully at cards and smile at one another.
The emo onal gulf between Michele, with his frugal lone meal, and the
family enjoying me together, is vast. He later admits to his girlfriend,
Bianca (Laura Morante), that he very o en watches the family, and his
observa on of them is a source of great pleasure as they measure up to his
high standards of behavior. Yet, a certain amount of anxiety remains with
the spectator, who might assume that a slip in the family’s standards could
result in a dras c ending for them. Unlike Aurora, who was conscious of
being observed, the family is in blissful ignorance of Michele’s gaze. Even
near the end of the film, when Michele is downcast, visibly ill and
distressed, watching the family follow their morning rou ne offers him a
moment of tranquility and contentment. Here, Michele’s point of view
demonstrates his desire for the space of the other.
The railway sta on is a loca on where Michele observes the world in
general, and lovers in par cular, rather than specific people in whose lives
he wishes to intervene. The invisible witness perspec ve is used to observe
him at the same me, using varia ons in cinematography. The camera
focuses on Michele in center frame as he loses himself in the throng at the
sta on, while the crowd that surrounds him is shot out of focus. Twice he
turns in a full circle to encompass all around him before stepping onto the
train, uncomfortably and unnaturally close to a couple who are bidding
each other farewell. At the height of Michele’s contentment in this scene
he is taken away by two plainclothes policemen, his search for love and
perfec on now destroyed.
Another important sequence, where the invisible witness watches
Michele as he in turn closely observes others, is when he invites himself to
a family dinner at the house of Mar na (Virginie Alexandre), one of his
students. His mo va on for doing this is “to clarify the situa on” between
Mar na and her boyfriend Ma eo (Ma eo Fago). In this sequence the
family members display nearly every trait that Michele considers to be
wrong with contemporary family life in Italy, including poor paren ng,
second marriage, and unsociable or inappropriate behavior. Although he is
a guest, Michele adopts a commanding role from the very beginning of the
scene as he is posi oned at one end of the table, center frame, with the
camera at a slightly high angle. He is in the best posi on for his observa on
of this par cular grouping, and in turn, the spectator is able to observe his
ac ons in detail. Around the table the various members of the family are
involved in numerous ac vi es, one reading the newspaper, another on
the telephone, but are not taking part in the dinner as a communal ac vity.
The father (Alberto Cracco) and one of the sons are clearing the table while
the mother looks on. Michele dominates the table, making demands about
the pudding and giving orders about the children’s ac ons as though he
were the head of the household. His officious conduct is noted by the
parents, who exchange a glance of surprise. Michele monitors all the
details of the family’s behavior and quizzes them about every aspect of
their lives. Michele uses the family’s approach to serving the Mont-Blanc,
an appropriate dessert for the Franco-Italian family, as a metaphor for the
collapse of family values as he sees it. The Mont-Blanc, like the family, has
a delicate natural balance; if one element is removed the whole thing can
collapse. The stepfather is instructed not to make a tunnel through the
pudding, taking out all the cream inside and leaving the chestnut purée by
itself. More solid and reliable is the chocolate Sachertorte (More ’s own
preferred dessert), which is dense and uniform and will not subside. This
par cular cake will make its own appearance later in the film, when it
becomes Michele’s excuse for invi ng Bianca to his home. However, the
stepfather has never heard of this delicacy, which confirms Michele’s
opinion of the whole situa on, where there seems to be no solu on. He
says resignedly, “Let’s con nue like this, let’s hurt ourselves.” As if at his
command, the family explodes into a noisy quarrel in French. Michele’s
presence at this meal is one instance where his interference has a posi ve
outcome. The young couple decides to get married and have an
engagement party at school. Unlike Aurora, Massimiliano, Siro Siri, and
other characters, Ma eo and Mar na are seen to be conforming to
Michele’s moral order.
Unlike More ’s previous films, in Bianca there is no family and no
backstory given to Michele. In addi on, the group of friends around the
protagonist is compartmentalized as colleagues at school, neighbors, or
friends of long standing. Michele’s apprecia on of mathema cs gives him a
very black-and-white outlook on life. People who do not adhere to this
point of view appear to betray Michele, so that “Michele has only one
dras c solu on: murder” (Lusardi [1984] 1990). Only the certainty of his
subject allows Michele “to bring order and clarity, restore a perfect
linearity in rela onships and then in social rela ons” (Argen eri 1990). In
Michele’s classroom, Albrecht Dürer’s Magic Square is prominently
displayed. Dürer created this puzzle in 1514 as part of an engraving called
Melancholia. Not only do all the rows, columns, and diagonals total thirty-
four; so do the numbers in the corner squares and the numbers in the
central four squares. Alain Philippon suggests that Michele’s inability to
explain the square to the students was not through intellectual
incompetence, but because the square represented an ideal of
communica on that Michele failed to comprehend (Philippon 1986, 50).
He adds:

The rest of the film will basically show how much Michele has
struggled with mathema cally simple issues (the 1 + 1 of the couple,
the 1 + 2 of the love triangle, the 1 + 0 of solitude). (Philippon 1986,
50)

The interior of Michele’s apartment is a more in mate space than the

terrace. Here a neighbor can drop in and enquire about his state of health,
a policeman can ask him personal ques ons and examine his wardrobe, a
young woman can watch all his idiosyncrasies, s ll fall in love with him, and
be prepared to leave her previous rela onship to be with him. Yet, within
the walls of his apartment Michele is par cularly vulnerable. It is here
more than anywhere else that he realizes what it costs him to have such
lo y ideals. Through the point of view of the invisible witness, the
spectator is able to closely observe Michele’s obsessive behavior: the
purity of the interior, the sani zed bathroom, the iden cal pairs of shoes,
and the destruc on of the ant-infested kitchen areas. These ac ons reflect
his need for wholesomeness in life, and indicate the emo onal need and
pleasure that Michele gets in order and repe on. However, he finds no
pleasure in being alone in the apartment where, as he tells the psychiatrist
(Luigi More ) at the Marilyn Monroe School, he is unable to work, but has
caged himself in with “ metables, methods, du es.”

SPACES WITH A DUAL FUNCTION

Although he is eager to observe those around him, Michele is not keen on
being observed himself. In a sequence at school Michele feels disturbed
when, during his consulta on with the psychiatrist, he no ces that other
members of staff are watching him through a window. Unable to suffer this
scru ny, he swi ly cuts them out by pulling down a window blind. He
admits that he just does not like other people, and yet, he is interested in
the lives of others. Even in the psychiatrist’s office he snoops around
looking for “li le facts, li le details, even insignificant ones” with which to
analyze and categorize him. Michele sees others and is seen from various
forms of transport. On board a bus, Michele looks on bemused as the staff
from the Marilyn Monroe School sings the popular song “Dieci ragazze.”
The lyrics of the song seem appropriate to underline Michele’s solitary and
painful existence:

I saw a man who was dying for love; I saw another one that has no
more tears. No knife can ever wound more than a great love that
grabs your heart. (Lucio Ba s , 1970).

The camera moves to the outside of the bus, where Michele is seen
from the invisible witness viewpoint looking out through the window. It is
from here that he first sees Bianca, who is shown in a point-of-view shot
walking along the road. She looks up and they make eye contact through a
shot/reverse shot sequence. Michele is now trapped inside the bus and has
to scramble to get out of the vehicle; however, once he is at street level,
Bianca, his dream woman has vanished.
The pa ern of seeing and being seen culminates at the police sta on,
where Michele is under the scru ny of the police commissioner for the
murders of Aurora, Ignazio (Claudio Bigagli), and Maria (Margherita
Ses to). More acknowledges a curious bond between the policeman and
the alleged criminal and states, “Michele and the inspector are two
characters with their own independence” (De Bernardinis 2001, 73). Both
like to take the niest of details and put them together to discover
something new. Both of them have a “fixed idea” about one aspect of life
or another. Both men are lonely, and Michele has sensed this. While
Michele at first gives away few clues as to his associa on with the murders,
he does offer the police commissioner a huge amount of informa on
about himself. In the view of Alain Philippon, this policeman is “a funny
mixture of cop, mad scien st and consultant psychologist quite focused on
aggressive treatment and interven on at all costs” (Philippon 1986, 50).
During this scene the spectator witnesses Michele’s fascina on for
observing the shoes of the passersby at the pavement level window in the
police commissioner’s office. A reverse cut to Michele’s face shows his joy
on as he watches the feet, a similar expression of desire for another space
seen previously when he was observing the happy family. The enthrallment
that arises from this surveillance finally brings Michele to confess to the
murders.
In his search for romance, Michele tries his luck in a local park.
However, despite his dandyish costume and affected behavior, reading a
book while reclining languorously in a boat, he a racts no one. Instead he
is le isolated on the boa ng lake as happy couples row past his
mo onless cra . The camera zooms in slowly to reveal his disenchantment
with the situa on as he hurls his book into the water. As he gazes around
he is ignored by everyone, and yet couples form instantly right in front of
him, whether they be dog lovers exercising the same breed, or elderly men
taking advantage of any and every opportunity to encounter a woman.
With the informa on that he has learned from this situa on, Michele goes
to another loca on to try his luck at ini a ng a romance. From the park
se ng there is a sound bridge to a scene on a beach that reveals a skimpily
clad Michele who is surveying the entwined couples on the sand. The
choice of the song “Scalo a Grado” (Franco Ba ato, 1982) is ironic and is
typical of More ’s preferred use of a soundtrack whose words run
contrary to the image. The music has a lively upbeat tempo that might
seem consistent with the informal nature of the scene. However, the lyrics
evoking the experience of an Easter Sunday mass seem contradictory to
this display of casual sexual gra fica on. Michele stands center frame, with
his hands on his hips in a businesslike pose and, no cing that one female is
alone and unguarded, Michele decides to imitate the behavior of the other
young men on the beach with their girlfriends and lie on top of her. His
obvious confusion is made apparent by his body language as he struggles
to move away when she is clearly alarmed and offended. The other young
men, who seconds before were engaged in the same physical ac vity, now
a ack Michele, pushing him toward the very edge of the shore. He is
doubly marginalized, both physically and emo onally, from being part of a
rela onship, and this reinforces his later lack of success with Bianca.

THE GIALLO, THE WHODUNIT, AND THE FILM NOIR

The cinematography of Bianca is notably different from More ’s previous
films; much of this is due to the cinematographer, Luciano Tovoli, who
worked on many mystery and horror films, such as Suspiria (Dario Argento,
1977). The camera moves smoothly, o en following characters as though
stalking them. A greater variety of camera angles are also used and this
together with Franco Piersan ’s atmospheric music increases the sinister
tone of the film. Roy Menarini describes the film as un giallo or crime film,
with schoolteacher Michele (Nanni More ) as the serial killer with a
personal obsession (Menarini 2002, 36). The term giallo (yellow) was
originally coined to describe a series of mystery/crime pulp novels, first
published in yellow covers by the Mondadori publishing house in 1929. It
was later applied to films, par cularly those of directors such as Dario
Argento or Mario Bava, that are characterized by extended murder
sequences featuring excessive bloodle ng, stylish camerawork, and
unusual musical arrangements, generally with liberal amounts of nudity
and sex. The genre se ng for typical giallo violence is frequently in a
domes c situa on, where the vic m ini ally feels safe, and where the
horror of the murderous event is heightened by the everyday nature of the
loca on. Gialli typically introduce strong psychological themes of madness,
aliena on, and paranoia involving a mysterious killer, an inquisi ve witness
to one of the flamboyant murders, and an idiosyncra c but brilliant police
inspector. Although Bianca contains scenes revealing murdered persons in
domes c situa ons and includes a police inspector, there is no graphic
bloodle ng and no nudity; the few sex scenes shown are very decorous.
Based on the above descrip on it could be argued that Bianca lacks the
necessary explicit violence, gore, and sex to be defined as a giallo, and the
se ng, although partly domes c, is not that of a giallo.
Tzvetan Todorov iden fies three types of detec ve narra ve: the
whodunit, the thriller, and the suspense story (Todorov 1977, 42–52).
There is no one specific se ng for the whodunit, but as with the giallo,
and frequently with the suspense narra ve, a domes c situa on for the
crime accentuates the tension experienced by the spectator. In terms of
the whodunit, Todorov describes a dual construc on of two stories: one,
the story of the crime, and the other, the story of the inves ga on. The
first story tells what actually happened, while the second story gives an
explana on of how the truth was pieced together and made known to the
reader (Todorov 1977, 44). The thriller blends the two narra ves into one,
so that the ac on coincides with the repor ng of the event. According to
Todorov, “there is no story to be guessed; and there is no mystery” (1977,
47). The reader’s interest is engaged by curiosity, proceeding from effect (a
corpse) to cause (the culprit and his mo ves) and by suspense, moving
from cause (prepara ons for a robbery) to effect (corpses, crimes). Todorov
quotes a fic onal crime writer, George William Burton, who says:

All thrillers are based on two murders: the first of which, commi ed
by the murderer, is only the opportunity for the second where he is
the vic m of the pure and un- punishable murderer, the detec ve,
who puts him to death, not by any of these vile ways that he was
reduced to use: the poison, the dagger, the silent gun or silk stocking
which strangles, but by the explosion of truth. (Butor 1957, 147)

Todorov relates this dual element to the Russian Formalists dis nc on

between fabula (story) and syuzhet (plot):

[T]he story is what has happened in life, the plot is the way the author
presents it to us. The first no on corresponds to the reality evoked, to
events similar to those which take place in our lives; the second, to
the book itself, to the narra ve, to the literary devices the author
employs. In the story, there is no inversion in me, ac ons follow their
natural order; in the plot, the author can present results before their
causes, the end before the beginning. (Todorov 1977, 45)

However, Bianca does not fall into the category of the whodunit; the
police inves ga on of the several murders is given a very minor role. The
confession to the murders by Michele at the end of the film also denies
Bianca inclusion into this group, since in the whodunit the culprit denies
everything un l confronted by the detec ve as the narra ve concludes.
The milieu of the thriller, which suggests “violence, generally sordid crime,
the amorality of the characters” (Todorov 1977, 48), consists of tawdry bars
and nightclubs, which are accessed down dark, narrow allies. However, in
Bianca there is no squalid underground loca on. The film is much more in
the area of the suspense film, since there are two suspects, Michele and
his neighbor, Siro Siri (Remo Remo ), and no indica on of the modus
operandi of the criminal.
 Fabio Vighi suggests that Bianca is More ’s experiment into film noir,
although this seems as inappropriate a descrip on of Bianca as were the
terms giallo, whodunit, and thriller (Vighi 2005, 83). There are few
jus fica ons for using the label film noir in terms either of narra ve, filmic
style, or se ng. Film noir tends to have unusually convoluted story lines,
frequently involving flashbacks, flash-forwards, and other techniques that
disrupt and some mes obscure the narra ve structure. Voice-over
narra on, most typically by the protagonist, less frequently by a secondary
character or by an unseen, omniscient narrator, is some mes used as a
structuring device. The se ng consists typically of dimly lit, cheap
apartments and hotel rooms in big ci es, or abandoned warehouses. These
interiors have low-key ligh ng, with dark, claustrophobic, gloomy
appearances. Exteriors are o en urban night scenes with deep shadows,
wet asphalt, dark alleyways, and flashing neon lights. Film noir is likely to
revolve around flawed, alienated heroes with certain archetypal characters
such as detec ves, femmes fatales, corrupt policemen, and jealous
husbands. None of these devices is used in Bianca, so the descrip on as
film noir is also erroneous.
To a ribute Bianca to any one murder genre is a difficult task. If
anything, there are elements of the film poliziesco, a film detec ve story,
and the film polizio esco comico, which was a comic police film linking a
good-hearted criminal with a flamboyant detec ve. The la er had its
vogue at a similar me to the giallo. A great deal of the genre coding is
manifested in the cinematography and narra ve structure of the film.
Bianca is thus a suspense film, where the protagonist appears to suffer
from mental illness, obsession, coldness, logic, and a rigid moral code. This
turns into a weakness, where the main character does not know how to
live in society and thus becomes judgmental in the most dras c fashion.
The main se ng of the terrace of Michele’s apartment, as a voyeuris c
viewpoint, is the only one of par cular significance to the genre.
Is it possible to place Bianca within another genre? It could be argued
that it is a romance, since there is the full narra ve arc of Michele’s
rela onship with fellow teacher Bianca from their first mee ng, through
the stages of their rela onship, to their par ng. Mario Ses notes that in
the scene when Michele tells Bianca that their rela onship is over, Bianca
does not react or object. It is as if she realizes that there is nothing to be
done in the face of Michele’s moral rigidity. Although the audience had
perhaps hoped for a happy ending, with Michele so ening and changing
thanks to his rela onship with this woman, this just was not possible for
More and his cinema (Giovannini, Magrelli, and Ses 1986, 44). For
Michele, the important thing is to exclude all risks, ambigui es,
uncertain es, and contradic ons. His worldview is one that is completely
compact, homogeneous, and clear-cut, where Bianca is perceived only as a
pure aspira on and desire, rather than as a real human being. Since
Michele cannot bear the reality surrounding him to modify or change,
especially in affairs of the heart, he cannot endure it if reality does not
accord with his schemes (Giovannini, Magrelli, and Ses , 1986, 45–46). The
rela onship with Bianca was a choice for the protagonist, but also a choice
for More as filmmaker. He had the opportunity to make a love story but,
as it turned out, it became the story of an illness.
 Chapter 8
Sweet Dreams?
One of More ’s recurring traits is to incorporate many forms of
fantasizing into his films. However, this is o en as much a reflec on of his
own self-obsession and the autobiographical nature of his work as it is a
warning to his fellow ci zens of some area of concern. This chapter
explores the way in which More uses dreams and fantasies in his films.
The objec ve is first to consider the internal effects of the dream world
and their inward-facing elements on the work and on the protagonist, and
second to explore the outward-facing elements and the poten al external
effects on the spectator. This chapter will focus principally on Sweet
Dreams, Red Lob, and The Son’s Room.

DREAMS AND NIGHTMARES

Dreams and nightmares are occurrences to which every film spectator can
relate. The connec ons between watching a film and having a dream have
o en been noted by film theorists and cri cs such as Robert T. Eberwein
(1984) and Leslie Halpern (2003), and nightmares may have se ngs similar
to horror films (BBC Radio 4, 2009). The tradi onal experience of cinema-
going, where the spectator has a rela ve sense of isola on in a darkened
room, can be likened to our own experiences of dreaming alone at night.
There is, however, a doubled concentra on of this experience when the
dreams of a par cular character are presented on the screen (Eberwein
1984, 192). Eberwein suggests a taxonomy of dreams in his work on the
connec on between films and reveries. This codifica on includes dreams
that are the result of a response to a physiological s mulus, such as food,
alcohol, or trauma; dreams of past trauma c events that occur when
dreamers a empts to subdue their terrors; anxiety dreams that involve a
character’s fears and uncertain es; dreams of desire or wish fulfillment
that may be materialis c, ero c, or even poli cally mo vated; prolep c
dreams that involve foreshadowing and prophecy (Eberwein 1984, passim).
One difference between the spectator’s experience of a film and that
of a dream is that the film can be seen repeatedly a er the ini al event, on
television, video, DVD, or computer and is a shared event that can be
discussed with others who have undergone the same experience. A dream
is an individual, solitary episode, which is seldom if ever repeated, may not
be clearly remembered, and is rarely discussed with others. The transit
between the real world and the dream world in a film is o en signaled by
par cular changes in cinematography, edi ng, and sound, so that the
spectator is alerted to the move of a character from an everyday life se ng
into a fantasy realm. For example, in The Wizard of Oz (Victor Fleming,
1939) the real world is presented in sepia tones while the dream world is in
Technicolor. In Here Comes Bombo More parodies the transi on from
real world to daydream fantasy, which is as much about the filmmaking
process as about the psychology of the character. Goffredo (Piero Galle ),
a member of an all-male discussion group, relates his feelings of
depression and suicidal tendencies that may be the result of a childhood
trauma. As he starts his tale another member, Michele (Nanni More ),
begins making a strange whirring noise and the whole image goes out of
focus, changing the se ng from a living room to an outdoor area. As the
focus is restored, a short sequence is shown in which a man chases a li le
boy and a empts to thrash him. There follows a reversal of the focus out
and in; Michele’s peculiar sound can be heard once again as the scene
comes back to the present moment. The blurring of focus, the “uncanny”
sound and Goffredo’s performance indicate the conven onal code for an
altera on in the me and reality of the film. Here, More takes an ironic
look at the cinema, cri quing the over-simplified psychological
explana ons that are o en put forward as the cause of current troubles, as
well as the cinema c techniques of showing changes in me and reality,
which he is sugges ng have become clichéd.
More employs both dreams and nightmares in his films. From the
inward-facing point of view, these mostly indicate concern, anxiety, or wish
fulfillment on the part of the protagonist, about something that is
happening in the real world of the film. Dreams in More films are not
prophe c. Only the dreamer is aware of the content and only the film
spectator is privy to this content. The sole excep on to this is a discussion
between More and his partner, Silvia Nono, in Aprile / April (1998) about
an anxiety dream concerning the welfare of their baby son, when they
realize that they both had the same experience.
 Marco Bacci accurately appraised Sweet Dreams as “life, work and
nightmares of Michael Apicella, director, part three” (Bacci [1981] 1990,
155). This film places par cular emphasis on dreams to the extent that the
dream

The plot of Michele’s dreams in Sweet Dreams

world in the film becomes a se ng of its own. Figure 8.1 is a synopsis

of the plot of Michele’s dreams. The tle of the film is ironic, since
although much of the narra ve is concerned with the dreams of the
protagonist, they are far from being pleasurable. “Sweet dreams” (in
Italian, “Sogni d’oro”) is an expression that a mother might use before her
child goes to sleep, so the tle emphasizes the key theme of the
mother/son rela onship that occurs in both the film itself and the film,
Freud’s Mother, that is being made within Sweet Dreams. In addi on it
refers obliquely to the work of Sigmund Freud (Freud [1899] 2006), who
plays a significant part in Sweet Dreams. The depic on of the protagonist
Michele’s dreams in Sweet Dreams gives More the opportunity to focus
on two dis nct psychological theories. The first is the Freudian Oedipal
wish-fulfillment dream that involves a man making an adult rela onship
with a woman. Michele’s rela onship with his mother is an unhappy one
and this is paralleled in the film-within-a-film, Freud’s Mother, which
Michele is making. In both films a grown man who lives with his mother is
infan lized. In Sweet Dreams Michele vociferously announces “I do not
want to overcome the Oedipus complex” as he cocoons himself in a
blanket, thereby revealing his reluctance to reach maturity. The other
psychological theory suggested in the film is the emergence of the Jungian
Shadow, the dark side to one’s psyche, characterized by inferior, uncivilized,
or animal quali es that the individual wishes to hide from others. This
materializes in Michele’s reveries in the form of a werewolf. The use of a
werewolf image, as a creature that seems human but conceals bes al
desires, is an aspect that emerges from Michele’s unconscious. As
Michele’s appearance changes subtly over the course of the dreams, his
eyebrows grow to meet between his eyes, and his general appearance is
pale and haggard, un l the final scene when he becomes covered in hair,
thus complying with the typical

Posi on of the dream sequences in Sweet Dreams

image of a werewolf. According to the legends, a er returning to their

human forms, werewolves are usually weak and debilitated, and undergo
painful nervous depression. This is certainly the case with the dream world
Michele, as on occasion he loses the power of hearing and bodily control
and has an epilep c fit.
Figure 8.2 is a me line of the film, showing the points at which the
dreams arise, and marking their growing occurrence. There are eight
dream sequences in Sweet Dreams that occur with increasing frequency
throughout the film, un l, by the end, the fantasy world has taken over
completely from the real world of Michele’s life. Since the dreams have
their own inner plot line and clear narra ve structure, they are not just
random fantasy incidents, but become dis nct from the real-world
diegesis.
In films, dreams may frequently be introduced by voice-overs, fades,
dissolves, superimposi ons, or shots of the character falling asleep. A clear
marking of the dream from the reality of the film world is what Clodagh
Brook calls an “external boundary marker” (Brook 2007, 114). Figure 8.3
examines how the film moves from the real world into the dream. It notes
the content of each dream and the transi on back into the real world. Any
links or causes for the dreams are also suggested. At first, the dream
sequences in Sweet Dreams are clearly delineated in a tradi onal fashion,
as Michele is seen to both fall asleep and then wake up, but with no
addi onal audiovisual markers. This concurs with the circuit theory of
dreams in film put forward by Gilles Deleuze, who noted that a dream in a
film usually comes back in the end to the situa on that began (1989, 42–
65). However, as the film con nues, this demarca on is not always
indicated. Some mes Michele is seen to fall asleep and some mes to
awaken, yet to the audience it is always clear that this is the dream world,
since the se ng is visually differen ated from the real-world life of the
protagonist in several ways. First, many of the early dream sequences start
almost exactly where the previous one le off. Second, the
teacher/Michele in the dreams has a different physical appearance from
the director/Michele, because in the fantasies he has a beard. Third, Silvia
does not appear in any of the real-world scenes, and therefore is a
character firmly placed in the dream world. On three occasions Michele is
seen waking in some degree of anguish from these dreams: once in his
bedroom, as he tussles with the bedclothes; once in the office; once on the
film set. These three tormented awakenings in increasingly public se ngs
indicate the degree to which this dream world is taking over from
Michele’s real-world life. In the end, as the director/Michele’s confidence
in his new film falters, the dream world becomes more and more
prominent, un l finally the feelings of being out of kilter with the world
take over and Michele physically becomes the monster he believes himself
to be, despite all his superficial self-confidence and bravado. However, the
se ngs and ac ons in the dreams, although unse ling, are placed in
believable and explainable
The structure of the dream sequences in Sweet Dreams

loca ons rather than in uncanny and mysterious surroundings.

Arguably, the dream sequences could be memories of an earlier period in
Michele’s life, and therefore act, at least at first, as a type of flashback.
However, they are more feasibly projected fantasies of longing, taking
Michele away from the loneliness, isola on, and aliena on of his everyday
life. The hopes and desires seen in the dreams are soon followed by failure
and despair and the dreams become nightmarish by the end of the film.
These dreams are inward facing, rela ng to the protagonist. Michele does
not recount, discuss, or interpret his dreams with anyone in the real world
of the film, so only the character and the spectator have knowledge of
their content. More does not use these dreams in a didac c way, but
they are presented principally as markers of the protagonist’s character in
its unconscious state. The feelings evoked by the dreams are revealed to
the audience as the dreamer wakes in a state of great agita on. The
revela on of these suppressed emo ons demonstrates that Michele has
no command over his emo ons toward Silvia, losing control on several
occasions, which terminates in his transforma on into a monster.
The frightening and disagreeable dreams that Michele experiences in
Sweet Dreams are really nightmares, caused by nega ve emo ons such as
fear, stress, anxiety, and depression. Halpern suggests that in films this type
of bad dream reflects “more upon the nega ve, with nightmares
overwhelmingly appearing more o en than pleasant dreams” (Halpern
2003, 127). He adds: “Nightmares on film usually revolve around themes of
vulnerability, insecurity, helplessness, powerlessness, or loss of control”
(2003, 128). In some films, the protagonist has a prophe c dream about a
subsequent occurrence. For example, in Gone with the Wind (Victor
Fleming, 1939) the main female character, Scarle O’Hara, dreams she is
lost in the fog, an event that later occurs in the reality of the film. The
dream sequences in Sweet Dreams are not predic ons of anything to come
in the real world, and thus are not the an cipatory dreams of Eberwein’s
taxonomy. The narra ve events that appear in them are not repeated, do
not act as a warning, and do not parallel events in the real world of the
film, but they occur at par cularly stressful moments in Michele’s real life.
Thus, according to Eberwein’s taxonomy, Michele’s dreams in Sweet
Dreams are ones of anxiety and wish fulfillment.

FANTASIES AND DAYDREAMS

A daydream is a visualized fantasy or train of thought that is experienced
while remaining awake and that may take the daydreamer away from
being aware of his or her actual surroundings. These frequently involve
happy, pleasant thoughts, hopes, or ambi ons. Most daydreams are about
ordinary, everyday events, and may help people to examine problems and
achieve success (Klinger 1981; Christoff et al. 2009). A fantasy sequence at
the end of Red Lob provides an outward-facing func on for a filmic
daydream. The principal se ng of this film is the swimming pool of
Acireale, Sicily, but this scene is marked as different by being shot at the
Circo Massimo in Rome, thus bringing the narra ve in a circular fashion
back to the locale of the original accident that caused the protagonist
Michele Apicella’s amnesia, and featuring a second and more spectacular
car crash. In a juxtaposi on of conflic ng iden es and me zones, the
spectator sees Michele as a child with his mother, at the same me and in
the same se ng as the adult Michele and his daughter, Valen na.
Emerging unscathed from their wrecked car, adult Michele and Valen na
encounter some of the people from the Acireale pool. From a gantry above
them, a huge red paper sun is hoisted into the sky and everyone, including
both young and older Michele, stretches out toward it, reaching for the
hopeful future in a utopian world. However, those reaching for the sun
cannot touch it, and it offers them no real promise of a be er future. It
gives neither warmth to comfort them nor radiance to enlighten them. This
daydream sequence allows More to express his cynicism about what the
Italian Communist Party (Par to comunista italiano—PCI) is offering to the
Italian people.
In a later film, The Son’s Room, More employs two types of fantasy
sequence. The first is during the ini al part of the film, as More
establishes Giovanni Sermon ’s character and his profession as a
psychoanalyst. During a session with a female pa ent (Claudia Della Seta),
who has obsessive compulsive disorder, Giovanni dri s off into a
daydream. The move from the real world into fantasy is clearly indicated
on this occasion. Giovanni closes his eyes, the woman’s voice fades and
music and a voice-over show the transit into the fantasy. This is also seen in
a new camera angle that places doctor and pa ent in horizontal alignment
on the screen, instead of the doctor being placed behind the pa ent. In the
fantasy sequence Giovanni now invites the woman to look at his vast
collec on of sports shoes, which he keeps neatly lined up in a cupboard.
This fana cal interest in footwear is one of the recurring comic tropes in
More ’s work. In the fantasy dialogue, Giovanni suggests that he is both
as bored and as boring as she is, and suggests that doing some sport might
help her. The scene cuts back to the real world, where Giovanni opens his
closed eyes and the voice of the pa ent con nues. This daydream is
outward facing and gives the spectator informa on about Giovanni’s
character, showing him to be human rather than a saintly therapist. To
some extent this conduct undermines the professionalism of the
psychoanalyst, whose job is precisely to analyze the insignificant and
tedious expressions of the pa ent. It is one of the rare humorous moments
in an otherwise somber film. It is also an example of More ’s “self-irony”
(autoironia), since the filmmaker contends that Giovanni’s compulsive
behavior in this scene is a reflec on of his own obsessive personality (Gili
2001, 107).
The second example of More ’s use of the daydream in The Son’s
Room has no comic elements in it, but concerns instead wish fulfillment.
This me it is inward facing, dealing with the protagonist’s own concerns,
his looking back at recent experiences and his a empts to reconstruct
unhappy past events, giving them a different outcome. Four instances
occur, all associated with the fateful Sunday when Giovanni’s son, Andrea,
is killed. The first three occasions, which are closely clustered together, are
in the middle sec on of the film, as the family is adjus ng to life without
Andrea. In the first example, as the three remaining members of the family
each sit isolated in different areas of their apartment, Giovanni repeatedly
plays a short piece of music, revealing his desire to constantly replay and
then change the events of the accident day. There is a transit, without
par cular sound or cinematographical elements, from the real-world
se ng of the apartment to the fantasy world of Giovanni’s imagina on.
The audience sees briefly his visualiza on of the proposed Sunday morning
run that never actually took place. The scene quickly cuts back to the real-
world se ng, as the fragmented music con nues. The second occasion
occurs a er Giovanni’s visit to the diving equipment shop, where he gets
informa on about the safety aspects of a diving apparatus Andrea used.
There is a cut from this scene to a mid-close-up of Giovanni’s face, looking
sad and though ul. Suddenly, he looks up and off screen, and his point-of-
view shot shows Andrea in the red sweatshirt that he wore on the morning
of the accident. The spectator immediately realizes that the scene has
crossed into the fantasy-world se ng of Giovanni’s daydreams, as he
briefly reenacts the conversa on of that Sunday with his son. The third
occasion is triggered by a consulta on with Oscar (Silvio Orlando), the
pa ent who caused Giovanni to leave his family on the day of the death.
Again, with no clear demarca on, the spectator returns to the fantasy
world of Giovanni’s thoughts, as he revisits the whole scene of the tragic
morning. In the relived sequence, Giovanni declines the visit to Oscar, and
decides to go for a run with Andrea instead. The dialogue from the revised
version of the scene is played over the real-world se ng of Giovanni’s
consul ng room, as he glares at his pa ent lying on the couch. As with the
replaying many mes of the music system, Giovanni is trying to readjust
reality by running it over again. The fantasy is a wish fulfillment to
transform something that actually happened. Later in the film he admits to
his wife, Paola, that what he wants to do is “to go back.” At the end of the
imagined telephone call to Oscar, where the outcome is the opposite of
the actual events, Giovanni looks up briefly and pensively off screen, and
then there is a cut to another real-world se ng. Here Giovanni comes out
of this reverie and sighs, before commencing a conversa on with Paola.
These three fantasies are at the heart of the most dismal part of the
narra ve.
The final daydream occurs a li le later on, a er the discovery of
Arianna’s le er. Giovanni has decided to write to this girl, who had briefly
known Andrea, to tell her about his son’s death. In the real-world se ng of
his office he is seen wri ng several dra s of the le er, followed by a cut to
the fantasy world, as Giovanni again imagines the Sunday run (figure 8.4).
This me, however, there is dialogue in which Andrea men ons going
diving with his friends.
In the daydream Giovanni fulfills his desires by managing to persuade
his son to go diving another me. As the fantasy ends, the scene returns to
the real-world se ng with Giovanni staring blankly, his eyes reddened with
tears. In The Son’s Room the majority of the fantasy scenes are quite
different from More ’s other films. Instead of looking forward to a new
point in me these fantasies look backward in an a empt to change the
course of events, at least in the protagonist’s mind. These fantasies link any
point and any loca on in the present with a very specific point and se ng
in the past, a point and se ng when the actual outcome was undesirable.
Only in the final fantasy run is Giovanni able to complete his desires, and
en rely visualize the se ng and the wished-for result of his daydream. All
the examples of the dream-world se ngs in The Son’s Room demonstrate
in par cular Giovanni’s overwhelming feelings of unresolved guilt in his
rela onship with his son, especially his fear that his ambi ous aspira ons
for Andrea led the boy to go beyond his capabili es in diving, leading
ul mately to his death.
Fantasy run

Image reproduced by kind permission of Sacher Film, Rome

Time planes and memory triggers in Red Lob

PARALLEL UNIVERSES, MEMORY, AND NOSTALGIA

Somewhere between the real world and the fantasy se ng lies memory.
This is frequently depicted in film as a flashback with the cinematographic,
edi ng, and sound effects in associa on with the transit between the real
world and the fantasy se ng. The fantasy se ng may apply to a whole
film, and in the case of Red Lob the film forms a parallel world of its own,
where the majority of events take place in and around a water polo match
in a swimming pool in Acireale, Sicily, when even the basic regula ons of
the game no longer apply. More suspends the rules of me and space
within a fantasy that some cri cs have interpreted as a dream or a series of
memories or even the confused thoughts of a dying man (Parigi 1998). For
instance, the car of communist leader Michele Apicella miraculously
reappears at the very end of the film, in an epilogue. Bearing in mind that
Michele’s car had been involved in a serious accident at the start of the
film, leading him to lose his memory, and in addi on, that he had traveled
to the water polo match in Sicily by bus, train, and presumably ferry, there
is no narra ve logic here as to why he should be driving home at all. In an
apparent suicide a empt Michele drives the car downhill where it turns
over, yet he emerges amazingly unhurt.
More employs different planes of me, and different se ngs,
involving complex flashbacks from various periods of Michele’s life, which
all appear within the present journey to Acireale. These flashbacks link the
key themes of memory, iden ty, and nostalgia in Red Lob. The various
levels of Michele’s flashbacks can be seen in figure 8.5 and comprise the
distant past of Michele’s childhood; his adolescent past as a tenta ve
militant communist; the recent past of his poli cal television broadcast.
Each flashback has a dis nct and recognizable se ng, indicated through
the mise-en-scène, which gives the individual occurrences coherence, even
though they do not appear in chronological order. Each flashback builds on
the last, and their compila on gradually reconstructs Michele’s lost iden ty
and memory. The flashbacks to the various me zones are invoked in many
ways: through physical occurrences, such as touching the surface of the
water in the swimming pool; through the interven ons of others, such as
the recollec ons of Michele’s friend; through dreams, such as the first and
last memories of childhood; through dialogue, as when Michele talks to
the journalist about his childhood experiences.
Major screen me is given to the flashbacks that refer to Michele’s
childhood in the 1950s. Although the present of the film is set in the late
1980s, the décor of the pool in Acireale is influenced by the style of the
1950s. The whole structure of the swimming pool and the surrounding
ameni es were reconstructed so that the colors, the murals, the solarium,
the umpire’s chair, and the bar had an atmosphere of that decade
(Toubiana, 1989b, 25; Chatrian and Renzi 2008, 113). Within the distant
past of childhood scenes, there is an internal narra ve, and therefore an
internal sequence, that shows the development of li le Michele’s reluctant
associa on with water and with water polo, as well as chronicling his
rela onship to his family. The first flashback to Michele’s boyhood is
introduced by a musical cue and occurs as he is asleep on the train journey
to the south of Italy. There is a cut to a domes c interior where a young
boy, dressed in 1950s-style clothing, is ea ng a pastry. He turns away from
the camera and a female voice off-screen, presumably his mother,
encourages him to go to a par cular event or loca on that he has
previously rejected.
There is a cut back to the present, and the audience sees a pensive
but by now fully awake Michele reflec ng on his youthful a tude. At this
point in the film, it is not clear what this childhood sport was. However,
li le Michele is disinclined to take part in it and prefers the lure of cake
instead. In terms of giving character informa on, this early scene in the
fantasy world shows that li le Michele does not want to par cipate in the
poten ally challenging communal ac vity, but favors a more pleasurable
pursuit. It suggests that this character trait will impinge on Michele in the
present of the film. The childhood flashbacks con nue with their own
narra ve structure, to show how Michele’s reluctance and fear turned into
acceptance of his role within the team. His unwillingness parallels his
poli cal development, where at first he was hesitant, but later he became
part of the communist grouping.
One fantasy sequence in the film forms a type of Chinese box effect
(see figure 8.6), where the fantasy se ng is at a double remove from the
real world of the swimming pool. This is the flashback to the childhood
crime of stealing a cake from a baby. This is visualized and is at first
presented on screen in the form of a dream that the adult Michele has by
the poolside. In the adult Michele’s dream, li le Michele’s parents
apparently send him to prison for his misdemeanor. The boy packs his
suitcase and leaves, but once outside, he no ces that he is wearing slippers
out in the street and he shouts out in anguish. Within the flashback dream
of the adult Michele, li le Michele awakes from the nightmare of his
inappropriate footwear. This double dream foreshadows some character
traits in the adult Michele. The innermost dream reveals that li le Michele,
and hence adult Michele, suffers from guilt at a past transgression (stealing
the cake as a child, trea ng a fellow student badly as an adolescent) and
also a sense of not quite conforming to the situa on (wearing unsuitable
shoes as a child, not exactly following the party line with the PCI).

Chinese box effect of a dream in Red Lob

The adolescent flashbacks parallel the child’s unwillingness to join a

group and the bad behavior of the childhood scenes. Memories of
Michele’s adolescent past feature, both as clips from More ’s short film
The Defeat, which addresses the poli cal doubts and uncertain es of a
young aspiring communist, Luciano (More ), and as recreated
visualiza ons of past events. Extracts from the The Defeat appear three
mes: first, triggered by an old school friend’s insistence on remembering
the past; second, following the disastrous interview with a journalist;
finally, in a lull in the water polo match. These flashbacks show that
Michele is singularly unsuccessful in his role as young communist ac vist.
He says all the wrong things and is unable even to deliver the wri en word
via the newspapers that he was supposed to distribute. This is symbolic of
his rejec on of the media, and of the wri en word in par cular, seen later
in Red Lob. His anxie es and doubts are part of the dilemma about being a
commi ed Marxist, while living comfortably in the middle classes, a
subject expressed by Bernardo Bertolucci in Prima della rivoluzione /
Before the Revolu on (1964). Having finally commi ed himself to a cause,
Michele is then shown to make poor choices, indulging in bad behavior.
There are also two visualiza ons of an incident when Michele was a
student, when a fellow student was forced by the others, including
Michele, to go around wearing a placard that said “I am a fascist worm, spit
on me.” Memories of the period of terrorist slaughter from the late 1960s
to the early 1980s, the so-called years of lead (anni di piombo), are
ar culated by the se ng for these juvenile memories, which is an
ins tu onal building in a 1970s cityscape.
The recent past, to which so many characters in Red Lob make
reference, is Michele’s famous, even notorious, poli cal television
broadcast of the previous Tuesday. The television studio is seen four mes,
and on each occasion the flashback is triggered by Michele trying in various
ways to answer his own ques on, “What does it mean to be a
communist?” For the communist ac vist, Michele, the whole of his life, his
iden ty and his surroundings are in total disorder as a result of the
amnesia that followed his car accident. In a parallel way, More is showing
the spectator that the Italian Communist Party, the Italian media, and
indeed Italian society as a whole are disordered, have a form of amnesia,
and need to be restored to health. Michele must a empt to put his world
back together, to find sense and clarity, but also, perhaps to reinvent
himself to something be er than he was before. The same could be said
for the need of the PCI to understand itself and perhaps reformulate,
renew, or restore some of its ideologies. Thus it is memory, both individual
and collec ve, or rather the reconstruc on of a lost memory, that forms
one of the principal themes of this film. In the final flashback to the
television studio, the memories of the recent past merge with the present
in the real world of the swimming pool, as Michele starts to sing Franco
Ba ato’s “E vengo a cercare” (“I’m coming to look for you,” 1988) and
the crowd joins in. The lyrics express the need for a change in life to a
much simpler way of living. This final phase in the reconstruc on of
Michele’s memory shows the audience the end point of the stages that he
had to go through in order to emerge as a mature late-twen eth-century
poli cian, who, as a representa ve of the modern Le , genuinely wants
the best for all. The se ng for the adult memories of a member of the PCI
who is not only commi ed to the cause, but is ready to make good choices
and indulge in appropriate behavior, is the television studio, a place from
which these op mis c and humanis c views can be broadcast far afield.
The dream sequences in Red Lob are both inward and outward facing. They
concern the reconstruc on of the failed memory of a member of the
Communist Party, so are internally orientated toward the protagonist. At
the same me, these dreams represent the failed memory of the Italian
Communist Party as a whole in the late 1980s and are therefore outward
facing to the contemporary Italian audience.
In More ’s work there is a transforma on of loca ons that exist in
everyday life to a realm of dreams, nightmares, daydreams, memories, and
imagina ons. On occasion, through dreamscapes, More is able to
demonstrate an internally facing point of view, revealing the emo ons and
inner psychology of the protagonist. Thus, anxie es about rela onships,
feelings of guilt, no ons of memory, nostalgia, and wish fulfillment, which
his characters may be unable to disclose in their real-world, waking lives,
are visualized on screen. Furthermore, the dreams are orientated to an
external point of view, to emphasize a problem that More perceives in
Italian society.
 Chapter 9
Whose Space is it Anyway?
Since the 1970s, issues of gendered spaces have been acknowledged
as important in many fields of scholarship, including film studies. However,
gendered spaces are an aspect of the work of More that has not been
focused on in any detail. In his discussion of gendered se ngs in the films
of Michelangelo Antonioni, David Forgacs suggests that in Il deserto rosso /
Red Desert (1964), the natural landscape is feminized (in the protagonist’s
dream of the lovely island) and the industrial landscape is masculinized
(the manufacturing plant outside Ravenna). This gendering of spaces also
occurs in L’eclisse / Eclipse (1962), where the stock exchange is a fast-paced
masculine world that alienates the protagonist, Vi oria (Forgacs 2000,
106). One of the most significant characteris cs of the period in which
More has lived has been the profound change in the role carried out by
women in the rich countries of the Western world. In the postwar period,
into which More was born, women were s ll very much ed to the
home. However, in the 1970s, the women’s libera on movement in Italy, as
elsewhere in the Western world, involved protests against the patriarchal
system; the feminist movements were dedicated to the crea on of an
awareness of the state of oppression in which women lived, and to the
possibili es of their libera on from this oppression.
From the 1970s onward, there were concurrent developments in
feminist film theory (Hayward 1996, 185–90; Anderson and Gale 1999,
180–82). Debates arose around Laura Mulvey’s defini on of the Gaze of
the spectator as a male phenomenon directed toward the figure of the
woman on screen as the object of desire (Mulvey 1975, 6–18). The contrast
between masculine and feminine statuses in society was frequently
discussed in terms of dominant or submissive roles in both film and real life
(Kaplan 1983; Williams 1984, 83–99). It was suggested that gender
defini ons were fixed in binary opposi ons, such as economically
superior/economically inferior, physically strong/physically weak, domes c
domain/public domain, ra onal/emo onal, produc ve/reproduc ve,
based on social, psychological, physical, and biological parameters (Kuhn
1985).
 Over the nearly forty years of More ’s filmmaking there have clearly
been posi ve developments in the status and posi on of women in Italian
society, and modern, independent, strong women have o en featured in
contemporary Italian cinema. Liberated women have, however, not always
been the focal point in More ’s films. The eponymous heroine of Bianca
has a much less significant role than does More ’s protagonist, Michele. In
April, More ’s real-life wife and mother have secondary roles because the
film focuses on More and the birth of his son. Nevertheless, the
representa on of women in his work has developed alongside the changes
in society.
More ’s films mostly center on the male-orientated world of the
protagonist, and the angst that arises from threats to masculinity in the
late twen eth and early twenty-first centuries, as the women’s libera on
movement took hold. This is apparent in his very first film, I Am Self
Sufficient, which deals in part with the difficul es of being a single male
parent. In Here Comes Bombo the protagonist is a member of a male
consciousness-raising group, something that More had experienced
personally in the 1970s (Susanna Nicchiarelli, 2007). The role of the father
is important in many of his films, especially April, The Son’s Room, and The
Caiman. Several writers have commented on More ’s representa on of
the crisis in masculinity in the contemporary world and in par cular in
Italian life (Mazierska and Rascaroli 2004; Su on 2004, 144–54).
Frequently, More depicts the male characters, including himself as
protagonist, as being pathe c, narcissis c, irresolute, disloyal, capricious,
or corrupt, for example the dissolute middle-aged character of Marco Pulici
(Michele Placido) in The Caiman. This is consistent with the representa on
of the male figure in Italian cinema, certainly in postwar Italian film. More
recently, More has illustrated a male desire for power, status, and money
in his depic on of Silvio Berlusconi in The Caiman. This chapter will focus
on the way in which gendered se ngs have been selected, constructed,
and manipulated by More . Of the 110 se ngs that feature in More ’s
eleven feature-length films to date, ninety-five refer to gender-neutral
public spaces, for example bars or parks, while ten refer to stereotypically
masculine spaces, such as sports venues and the interior of the Va can in
Rome, and only four to essen ally feminine spaces, for instance a convent.
 Feminist geographers have been at the forefront of theories on
gender and space. In her 1992 study, Daphne Spain argues that:

[A] thorough analysis of gender and space would recognize that

defini ons of femininity and masculinity are constructed in par cular
places—most notably the home, the workplace, and community—and
the reciprocity of these spheres of influence should be acknowledged
in analyzing status differences between the sexes. (Spain 1992, 6)

Tradi onal pa erns of gendered behavior and status are embedded

within specific loca ons in society, and as such are represented in film as
par cular se ngs. In Spain’s view, “Gendered spaces themselves shape,
and are shaped by, daily ac vi es. Once in place, they become taken for
granted, unexamined, and seemingly immutable” (Spain 1992, 28–29).
The domes c kitchen is tradi onally considered to be a
predominantly female working space and center of the home, where the
family gathers and where the atmosphere is one of nurturing. Gaston
Bachelard refers to the “maternal features of the house” and describes the
“enveloping warmth” where the resident is “enclosed, protected, all warm
in the bosom of the house” in an idyllic maternal paradise (Bachelard 1994,
7). Even in the modern era, this space is thought of as the hub of female
ac vity within the family living accommoda on (Best 1995, 181–94; Bordo,
Klein, and Silverman 1998, 72–92; Morley 2000; Shonfield 2000, 79;
Dowler, Carubia, and Szczygiel 2005; Anon 2009b). In a survey from the
United States in the 1990s over 70 percent of working women in
heterosexual coupled households did the cooking, cleaning, and laundry
(Hanson and Pra 1995, 143). The kitchen appears as a se ng in countless
Italian films and television dramas as the site of many noisy, lively, but
frequently posi ve family encounters, for example, in Amarcord (Federico
Fellini, 1973).
The kitchen features in most of More ’s films, but its use as a
gendered se ng varies according to More ’s construc on of the narra ve
and the ideas he wishes to debate in each film. In other words, the
meaning of the kitchen depends on its fit into the narra ve of each film. In
Sweet Dreams this se ng is used in a stereotypical fashion, where a
housewife from Treviso is considered to be an archetype of the working
classes. Toward the end of the film, this woman is seen in her large modern
kitchen, conven onally dressed in an apron and preparing a meal for her
two small children. As with the other two representa ves of the masses, a
farmhand from Basilicata and a shepherd from Abruzzo, she appears to
respond to an unheard summons, throws the food she is cooking on the
floor, takes her cardigan, and abruptly leaves, with her startled children
watching her departure through the window. She, and the other two
proletarians, will later appear at a debate about filmmaker Michele’s
(Nanni More ) work. In this scene the kitchen is part of the established
no on of the female realm, just as she is a representa ve of the female
working classes.
Similarly, in one sequence in The Mass Is Ended, the kitchen is
associated with its normal domes c func on, providing a scene of familial
harmony. Coming home late one evening, Don Giulio (Nanni More )
enters his house to discover that ex-priest Antonio’s (Eugenio Masciari)
family, idealized by Don Giulio, has taken over the kitchen, implying that
this dwelling place is not a home without a family. Don Giulio hesitates on
the threshold of the kitchen, standing by himself, while the family is
framed there together, busily and earnestly engaged in household du es.
This is the visual manifesta on of the comments made by Antonio’s wife,
Lucia (Luisa De San s), that Don Giulio is “separate, excluded from many
things.” The kitchen in Don Giulio’s austere home is thus temporarily
transformed into a welcoming domes c se ng, reinforcing the no on of
the importance of family life that is central to the narra ve of the film.
Elsewhere in The Mass Is Ended, however, More subverts the
implicit func on of the kitchen as a female gendered se ng for conviviality
and comfort and turns it into a nega ve loca on, where raw feelings are
exposed. Toward the end of the film, there is a scene where Valen na tells
her brother, Don Giulio, about her unwanted pregnancy and her desire for
an abor on. The siblings are seated in the kitchen, in a confronta onal
situa on on either side of a table. In this sequence the violence is in the
dialogue, when Don Giulio states that if she aborts the baby he will kill her
first and then himself. The two remain completely s ll, with their emo ons
seen only in their faces. Their next encounter, however, takes the hos lity
between them to a stage of physical aggression. Valen na is furious about
her brother’s interference when she learns that he has told her fiancé,
Simone, about the pregnancy. They are placed on either side of the frame,
with a huge void between them. The hos lity of their conversa on turns to
actual violence as Valen na stands up abruptly and looms over her
brother, shou ng: “What use are you here?” He then slaps her face and
they join in the center of the frame in an angry physical struggle. At the
end of the sequence Don Giulio can be seen to move into the room to the
rear of the kitchen and the two are now in completely separate areas, both
physically and emo onally. They turn their back on each other and sit in a
mirrored posi on, with their heads in their hands. The camera pauses on
this image, making the cut into the next sequence seem jarring.
At breakfast the day following the siblings’ fight, they are shown again
si ng opposite each other, but this me the scene is suffused with light.
The kitchen seems to be serving its appointed purpose and Don Giulio and
Valen na appear to have made up their quarrel, as they smile and talk. She
walks round to his side of the table and embraces him. All looks peaceful
and full of reconcilia on. There is a cut to a slightly high angled exterior
shot of Valen na walking away from the building. Everything is tranquil,
emphasized by the gentle non-diege c music. Then, the le -hand side of
the frame is filled with the blurred outline of Don Giulio’s shoulder and the
spectator realizes that Valen na’s departure is seen from his point of view
inside the building. The music stops abruptly and is replaced by the sound
of breaking glass as Don Giulio puts his fist through the window. The
camera remains on a close-up of his hand with the jagged edges of glass
suspended precariously above it. Valen na’s body is now a blur in the
background as Don Giulio deals with his injury. The serenity and apparent
normality of the kitchen is again the site of angry emo ons. The breaking
of the window demonstrates outwardly both the mental fragmenta on of
the protagonist in the stress of the situa on, and the disintegra on of his
family.
In the other films that feature the kitchen se ng, it is frequently the
male protagonist who is seen at work there. In par cular, in The Son’s
Room, Giovanni, as a New Man, takes his share in food prepara on for his
family. The kitchen is an important area; it is where the family, at the start
of the film, laughed and talked together at meal mes. This is the se ng
where they sat having a leisurely breakfast on the morning of Andrea’s
accident. Thus, at the start of the film, the kitchen func ons in its accepted
way, as the locus of warmth, care, and nurturing. However, as the film
progresses and Andrea meets his death, it becomes the loca on where the
breakdown of the ghtly knit family manifests itself most acutely. It is in
the kitchen that Giovanni acknowledges that there are defects within his
seemingly perfect family. This is shown through the mise-en-scène, as
Giovanni no ces for the first me that household items such as jugs,
saucers, and furnishings, are damaged, scratched, or broken. The
acknowledgement of flaws in these everyday ar cles signifies to him the
flaws in the everyday fabric of his family life. Giovanni demonstrates his
anger and frustra on, and his fragmented emo ons, by destroying his
favorite teapot. This no on of irreparable destruc on was in fact ini ated
by Andrea who, before the screened narra ve begins, is accused of
breaking an object by damaging the fossil stolen from school, which he is
subsequently unable to repair.
A further example of family breakdown also occurs in the kitchen
se ng. An opening scene in the film had shown Giovanni cooking and
sharing a family meal. A er the tragedy of his son’s death he is once again
seen preparing a meal, but this me he is alone in what had once been a
familial area. As Giovanni cooks, one of the glass dishes cracks and the
food is ruined. In the same way, Giovanni’s family, so apparently simple and
transparent, had proved to be delicate and unstable, and had not
withstood the power of an a ack on its substance. The end of the
sequence sees Giovanni si ng alone in the kitchen, at the table where the
whole family had shared many meals. He leaves the food he was preparing
for others and eats a basic, solitary supper of bread and cheese.
The only other tradi onally female se ng is the convent, seen in
Sweet Dreams. Here, the filmmaker Michele Apicella receives a good deal
of cri cism both about his “difficult” personality and about his work, which
is described as “ugly, vulgar, and tasteless.” However, one of the nuns
shows a sympathe c understanding of his produc ons, and there is a
strange calmness and sincerity when Michele eats with the sisters. When
he admits to being a nonbeliever and to his group of friends being
indifferent to religion, he says this without the arrogance and the derision
that he displays in other scenes. There is even one slight gesture of
comprehension and warmth, when Michele touches the arm of one of the
nuns to assure her that there is a resurgence of interest in the Pope. The
use of the convent se ng unusually shows that when Michele is greeted
with sympathy and kindness, he responds in kind. In this spiritual, female
se ng Michele finds tranquility away from the male-dominated spaces of
the film set and the produc on office.
A similar use of a spiritual se ng, this me male-gendered, arises in
The Mass Is Ended. It occurs at an important turning point in the film, a er
Don Giulio has told his sister’s fiancé, Simone, about the baby that
Valen na is expec ng. In despair at his sister’s threats to abort the child,
he visits an old monastery, set in beau ful, peaceful surroundings against
the hillside. The ancient building evokes a sense of solidity and durability in
the changing contemporary world. Unlike life in the city, life here has
proceeded at the same slow pace for centuries. From an exterior shot of
the building there is a cut to the inside and the camera moves forward,
exploring the area. The interior walls are covered with fragile, worn-out
frescoes. The camera moves around to reveal Don Giulio as he makes his
confession to an older priest. The scene is caught midway and almost has
the impression of being a counseling session. Don Giulio’s feelings are of
confusion, loneliness, anger, and frustra on, and the serenity of the space
juxtaposes his inner turbulence. His desire is to escape, even return to his
former island parish. Don Giulio wants other people to behave in the way
that he considers is best, and he admits to the other priest his impression
that people enjoy confessing sexual sins merely for the pleasure of reliving
the moment of the sin. They do not readily confess to other types of evil
against mankind. From the in macy of the chapel, there is a cut to an
exterior view of the cloisters. Again the solidity of the ancient walls is a
point of comfort in a vacilla ng world. In a harmonious composi on, the
two priests are seated under the central of three arches. The peacefulness
and age of the building, as other monks pass slowly in the cloister behind,
contrast with the tumult of Don Giulio’s recent experiences. The monastery
also contrasts to the place from which the older priest-confessor has
recently returned. He describes his former missionary parish near the
Magellan Straits, where his wooden church had to be secured by steel
cables because of the strong wind that could drive a person mad. Although
this verbal depic on does not present as a rac ve a scene as either Don
Giulio’s former parish on the island of Ventotene or even the current one in
Rome, it is here that the seeds are sown for the idea of a fresh start for the
younger priest. This spiritually tranquil mee ng at the monastery and the
contact with the old missionary priest will ul mately lead Don Giulio away
from his family and from the misplaced hope for security that it seemed to
offer him.
In the opening sequence of We Have a Pope the audience sees a wide
variety of humankind in the piazza outside the Basilica of St. Peter, a
microcosm of the world in a gender-neutral se ng. However, the scene
quickly changes to the interior of the Va can with the rigidity, pa erns,
and formali es of the Conclave of Cardinals as they elect the new Pope. As
the central se ng of the film, this area is depicted not only as a spiritual
loca on but also as one that is essen ally masculine. This is, however, not
the conven onal filmic masculinity of display of bodies, cars, and guns, but
rather a maleness of uncompromising discipline and control against a
tranquil, spiritual background. This type of unyielding masculinity pervades
the chamber where the conclave is held, as well as the cell-like private
apartments of the cardinals and the Holy Father. The inflexible rules and
regula ons of the Catholic Church concerning the elec on of the Holy
Father transform these spaces into a type of prison. Indeed, when the
newly elected pon ff, Melville (Michel Piccoli), escapes from the Va can,
his anonymity allows him to be unfe ered in his wanderings around Rome,
while Dr. Brezzi (Nanni More ), the psychoanalyst brought in to help the
reluctant Bishop of Rome, and the cardinals are virtually held cap ve,
sequestered within the Va can.
The film also explores the ques on of masculinity in rela on to vice
and virtue. Within their own private spaces, and in their free me, the
clerics are perceived only as mortal men with ordinary and pe y flaws such
as enjoying rich food and smoking, deligh ng in partaking of alcoholic
drinks and relishing gambling on a minor level. A major transforma on of
these men occurs during the course of the film, bringing with it a so ening
and unbending of some of the conven ons within the Va can. This is seen
in the team game of volleyball that Brezzi organizes for the cardinals, which
it is suggested is be er than the solitary vices and pleasures. Nevertheless,
the temporarily altered Va can has a gender bias that is s ll slanted
toward the masculine, in that the major transforma on is through sports.
The changes are short-lived; once the fugi ve Pope is located, the
volleyball tournament is abruptly abandoned and the formal status quo is
resumed. It is notable that in this masculine space, More does not deal
with the well-publicized major faults of the troubled contemporary
Catholic Church, but does, as in The Mass Is Ended, touch on examples of
Chris an teaching: humility, universal love, and support.
In Sweet Dreams and The Mass Is Ended, the atheis c More chose
two essen ally religious se ngs, one masculine and the other feminine, to
offer a locus of peacefulness to an otherwise troubled protagonist. This
suggests a fundamental need for More ’s characters to find solidity and
security in se ngs associated, not just with deep spirituality, but also with
tradi on and the culture of the past. In We Have a Pope, there is subtle
cri cism of the all-male religious se ng as somewhere where rigid rules
should and can be relaxed and where behaviors should and can be
changed.
Of the neutrally gendered se ngs seen in More ’s work, several of
them are concerned with possible mee ng loca ons between the sexes,
and demonstrate the mores involved. In Red Lob the swimming pool is the
primary loca on. A public swimming pool is somewhere that people of
both working and middle class can socialize in a relaxed atmosphere, on an
equal foo ng. It is also a place where men and woman can meet, which
has, at the very least, flirta ous overtones connected to scanty clothing
and acts of bravado. In Red Lob, however, it does not have the sexualized
and socialized undertones men oned above. In this film, the swimming
pool provides various zones of ac vity, which are linked to communist
leader Michele’s recovering memory and func ons as the se ng where
the rediscovery of his iden ty, as an extended metaphor for the iden ty
problems of the Italian Communist party in the late 1980s, is pieced
together.
In other films sports areas, in par cular football pitches and
swimming pools, are generally coded as masculine, because they concern
male teams or individuals and because the male body is featured
predominately in these loca ons. In The Son’s Room it is on a tennis court
that psychoanalyst Giovanni (Nanni More ) accuses his son of not being
sufficiently compe ve. This conversa on concerning the importance of
virile compe veness will haunt him a er his son’s death, because of the
guilt arising from the suspicion that the boy died a er pushing himself too
far in the diving incident. Giovanni’s daughter, Irene (Jasmine Trinca) plays
sports be er than her brother does and is successful in the male-
dominated se ng of the basketball court. Irene, and not Andrea, fulfills
their father’s no ons of ambi on and drive. On three occasions the
spectator encounters her on a basketball court, a loca on that might
tradi onally be viewed as masculine. In fact, women’s basketball is very
popular in Italy. There are 107 official regional teams, as well as many
school, college, and university based teams (Anon 2009a). On the first
occasion she learns about her brother’s death. The second me, her grief
leads to frustra on and a fight on court. Finally there is a quiet encounter
with her father as she prac ces scoring baskets. On each occasion, she
demonstrates a strong spirit of determina on, which her brother seemed
to lack. The differences in Andrea’s rela onship with his parents are
outlined in a scene when he and his mother, Paola (Laura Morante), are in
the kitchen. It is here, in the cozy relaxed family situa on, rather than on
the compe ve sports field with his father, that Andrea feels he can
confess to the crime of the stolen fossil.
Associated with the spor ng venues in More ’s films is the male
changing room. This is normally an area where male bonding takes place,
through a series of rituals, which include banter inclining to the gross and
sexual, physical horseplay, and vociferous boas ulness (Eitzen 2003, 132;
Curry 1991, 119–35). The no on that imbues this space is to fuse a
disparate group of men and make them into one compe ve unit. In Red
Lob the male changing room features several mes, with two dis nct
func ons. First, near the beginning of the film, this space fulfills its normal
male-orientated func on. It is the place where the water polo team coach
(Silvio Orlando) talks to his men about tac cs. More uses this session on
water polo strategy to reflect the many ways in which the members of the
Italian Communist Party debated and organized their campaigns, both
within the party and against adversaries of the party. The team, and thus
the party, is urged to do nothing unusual, and not change their strategy
unless forced to by the other side, which seemed to be the Communists’
strategy in the 1980s. Later, toward the end of the film, a er player
Michele’s (Nanni More ) disappointment at the failure of a penalty shot at
goal, the changing room takes on a more protec ve, almost womb-like role
for him. As the womb defends the baby, so the changing room shields
Michele from the outside world. As it feeds the infant, so the changing
room provides nourishment, with the pizzas that are brought in. In this
comfor ng space, Michele admits that he never really enjoyed playing
water polo and confesses that it was the communal life that he relished:
the traveling, the changing rooms, and the companionship. Pascal Pernod
comments on this scene, “It allows him to marry the desire to belong to a
community (the team) with that of remaining in his mother’s womb”
(Pernod 1989, 15). Similarly feminized is the 1950s changing room seen in
the flashback sequences in Red Lob. In an overhead shot of the changing
cubicles, many mothers are seen drying their sons’ hair. This cuts to a long
shot of dozens of other mothers doing the same. This image of the
universality of an everyday occurrence has posi ve associa ons of familial
contentment.
The only female changing room that is seen in More ’s work is in a
clothes shop in The Son’s Room. This small area in a women’s shop is not
seen as sexualized, frivolous, or commercial, but merely as a loca on
where Irene can momentarily cut herself off from the outside world and
from her parents’ incessant, concerned, and protec ve gaze. Isolated in
the cubicle from her mother and the other shoppers, she breaks down and
her grief is depicted in a ghtly framed close-up, as she contemplates her
brother’s death.
More ’s first two films of the new millennium are characterized by a
more decided emphasis on female characters. The places these women
occupy in the diegesis of the films highlights that, despite the difficul es
they each encounter in their lives, they persist with for tude and tenacity.
In the opinion of one journal:

More delivers the democra c future to women, to what is female,

to that area of sensi vity and truth that goes beyond appearance.
These are women on their own, sweet and fragile, yet strong and
obs nate. They believe in what they do and they know that they must
do it, even if it will cost them pain and loneliness. The future is
female, More says to us. (Anon 2006)

In The Son’s Room, mother and daughter, Paola and Irene, represent
strong women who manage to cope be er with the pain of losing a loved
one than does Giovanni himself. In terms of gendered se ng, Paola is seen
fewer mes in domes c areas such as the kitchen than her husband.
Furthermore, she has her own job as a publisher and a place of work,
separate from her living accommoda on, that Giovanni only enters as a
welcome guest. In fact, Paola is not the only female character to have a
career: Silvia from Here Comes Bombo is an actress; Don Giulio’s mother in
The Mass Is Ended works in a library; Bianca is a schoolteacher; there is a
female journalist in Red Lob; in Dear Diary a reflexologist has her own
consul ng room; in April More ’s partner, Silvia Nono, works as a
translator and More ’s mother, Agata Apicella More , was a
schoolteacher. The difference from The Son’s Room onward is the amount
of screen me given to the female characters.
Although there are a number of important female filmmakers in Italy
nowadays, including Francesca Archibugi, Stefania Casini, Liliana Cavani,
Cris na Comencini, Francesca Comencini, Simona Izzo, Francesca
Marciano, Cinzia Torrini, and Lina Wertmüller, in general, the world of
filmmaking is s ll male dominated and the film studios portrayed in
More ’s films are, with the excep on of The Caiman, male-gendered
se ngs. However, through the character of Teresa, the novice filmmaker in
The Caiman, More suggests an aspect of social change within twenty-
first-century Italy. Apart from Valen na in Here Comes Bombo, Teresa is the
only female character in More ’s work who is poli cized, since Teresa has
the strong desire to reveal the truth about the various scandals in the life
of Silvio Berlusconi in her film. As a woman in a man’s world, Teresa is
uncorrupted, fresh, determined, with a new a tude to filmmaking. This
compares favorably with the jaded, cynical, and to some degree tainted
film personnel whom she encounters in the produc on office and on the
film set. These dis nc ons are seen in makeup, costume, and figure
movement. While Teresa is pe te, dressed in modern, casual clothing, the
men of the film world are middle-aged, o en corpulent, and drably a red.
However, although she moves confidently through the enclosed office
workspace, she is less dynamic on the open film set, where her
inexperience and self-doubt show.
Film producer Bruno’s (Silvio Orlando) wife, Paola (Margherita Buy), in
The Caiman has a fairly passive role as a wife and mother. She has a pale
strained look, which is reinforced by her casual a re in pastel colors; she is
o en filmed in the tradi onal se ng of the home, in par cular in the
kitchen preparing food. This appearance is in very strong contrast to her
cinema presence in her role as the powerful and dominant Aïdra. On the
screen this difference is shown through makeup, costume, and figure
movement. Aïdra is glamorous, wearing bright colors and alluring clothes.
She is depicted in ac on, moving swi ly through loca ons and making
drama c exits, for example through a sheet of plate glass. Aïdra is o en
found in a masculine adventure se ng, as the agent of physical violence.
When Paola ventures into male terrain, such as the football pitch where
her son is playing a match, she is uncomfortable and out of place.
More ’s use of se ng and his placing of the figures within the frame
give visual support to the narra ve. He provides a filmic representa on of
the rela ve unimportance of Paola in Bruno’s life. As they discuss their
marriage problems in the kitchen, she wants to make a posi ve move
about their family future, but Bruno, as with his film work, will neither
admit defeat nor make any direct decisions. When both characters are in
the frame together, she is marginalized on the le -hand side of the frame,
slightly out of focus, and seen from the back. Bruno, on the other hand,
has the dominant posi on in the center of the frame. In a later scene when
Bruno is a emp ng to explain the breakdown of their marriage and the
consequent separa on to their two sons, Andrea (Daniele Rampello) and
Giacomo (Giacomo Passarelli), he is seated with his children near to the
camera, while Paola stands distant and alone in the background.
The execu on of law and jus ce is tradi onally carried out in male
gendered se ngs, with the majority of judges and barristers in Italy being
men (Anon 2007). Spaces of jus ce and the provision of law appear several
mes in More ’s work, notably in Bianca, The Mass Is Ended, and the
fic onalized film-within-a-film of The Caiman. When, in The Mass Is Ended,
Don Giulio is called to court to act as a character witness for his erstwhile
friend, Andrea, most of the court officials are male. However, the new
millennium gives a fresh focus on this established legal structure in The
Caiman, where the public prosecutor against the Caiman (represen ng
Silvio Berlusconi) is female. Anna Bonaiuto’s performance is based on the
real-life public prosecutor Ilda Boccassini, who is part of the prosecu on
team against Berlusconi. She is also a powerful, obs nate woman, who
believes in the equality of all Italian ci zens before the law. She takes a
dominant posi on in the courtroom, commanding half of the space, in
direct opposi on to the Caiman. In the final sequence of the film, a er the
successful prosecu on of the Caiman, she matches his unwavering glare
with a fearless look of complete hate and disgust. The liberated females
seen in The Caiman are markedly different in appearance, aspira on, and
a tude from the provoca vely clad showgirls, who perform
predominantly for the male audience in Berlusconi’s television studios, a
se ng of spectacle. These broadcasts are successfully parodied in the
visualiza on of Teresa’s fic onalized account of his life in her version of The
Caiman.
The roles and status of the sexes have changed greatly during
More ’s life me, in the world in general and in Italy in par cular. The
representa on of women in More ’s films has followed a parallel path to
that of the real world, so that his work remains a consistent snapshot of
and commentary on the segment of contemporary Italian life that he is
part of, namely educated middle-class Roman society. In his more recent
films, More ’s use of the loca ons that are tradi onally gender-labeled
reveals something of his worldview and his belief in equity and personal
freedom. This is somewhat at odds with the misogynis c treatment of
women in More ’s earlier films. For example, in Here Comes Bombo, a er
the breakup of university student Michele’s rela onship with Silvia
(Susanna Javicoli), he starts many different affairs. His liaison with Flaminia
(Carola Stagnaro), the wife of his friend Cesare (Maurizio Romoli), never
gets beyond a debate quan fying and jus fying their ac ons, since she is a
slightly older woman who in midates him. With Cris na (Cris na Manni),
in contrast, the rela onship is consummated, but her immense frivolity
distresses Michele, perhaps because it reflects his own uncertainty and
inac on in life. Each succeeding liaison is given a decreasing amount of
screen me, un l a scene devoted to an old flame, Francesca, lasts just
over a minute. Each affair has a similar narra ve arc, which follows closely
the pa ern of rela onships that Michele states that he prefers, “falling in
love, courtship, the first me you make love, even the prepara ons for the
first me and when you leave each other,” in other words, everything
except the core of the rela onship itself. This indicates on the one hand
Michele’s despera on at forming some sort of emo onal e, and on the
other hand demonstrates that no ma er who the female is, he is incapable
of engaging with her in any commi ed way. Only with outsider and loner
Olga (Lina Sastri), in the final wordless scene of the film, does he make a
commitment to friendship and a empt to dispel their mutual loneliness by
voluntarily being with her.
Se ngs in film that are associated with gender are o en
stereotypical, and they are frequently selected by the filmmaker with the
gender norms in mind, based on audience expecta on and poten al
spectator-driven bias. However, in the case of the films made by More ,
the form is not so fixed, so that it may be maneuvered, altered, and
subverted by the filmmaker. More frequently uses se ngs in ambiguous,
unusual, or startling ways, in order to cap vate the audience and engage
them in the film, while reversing the normal func on of a par cular
loca on: rendering a kitchen a more masculine space, while (briefly)
feminizing the male changing room.
 3
Perspective
 Chapter 10
Inside and Outside the Frame
OPTICAL POINT OF VIEW
This chapter will discuss the ways in which More ’s films use perspec ve
in terms of an op cal point of view as a func on of narra ve space. The
op cal point of view is the way in which a perspec ve is created filmically,
o en employing cinematography and edi ng, as a means of visual
interac on between the filmmaker and the spectator. In real life, the visual
area has no rigid demarca on, but is governed by our ability to see, both
physically (the quality of our eyesight) and topically (our posi on on the
earth). In film, the frame presented on the screen puts a sharp boundary
around what can be viewed. The delimi ng factors of the screen on which
a film is projected are the four borders of the rectagonal shape, which falls
in line with the tradi onal outline of the majority of pain ngs and
photographs (Aumont 1997, 107–9). Jacques Aumont adds to this
discussion the terms object-frame, which is the physical frame holding a
pain ng or a photograph, and the limit-frame, which is the intangible edge
of the image defining where it ends (Aumont 1997, 106). However, in the
opinion of film scholar André Bazin:

The screen is not a frame like that of a picture but a mask which
allows only part of the ac on to be seen. When a character moves off
screen, we accept the fact that he is out of sight, but he con nues to
exist in his own capacity at some other place in the décor which is
hidden from us. (Bazin 1967, 105)

In film the image frequently has a common aspect ra o, which is the

propor on of the projected height of an image to its width. There have
been many aspect ra os in the history of cinema, including the Academy
ra o of 1:1.33, US ra o of 1:1.85, and the European ra o of 1:1.66
(Monaco 1977, 86–90). Unless the camera moves, the spectator is limited
to what can be seen within that four-sided frame. The filmmaker makes
decisions about where in the frame to posi on a character or a prop, and
how to place characters and objects in rela on to one another. In classic
Hollywood produc ons, characters and objects of importance are
tradi onally placed center frame. Some, more independent, produc ons
may use different parts of the frame to express a variety of complex
meanings. Of equal importance is the juxtaposi on of characters and
objects within the frame. Thus, two characters speaking from either side of
a desk may indicate important differences in their ideologies, or may
suggest a confronta onal situa on. For instance, the interview scenes
between Second Lieutenant Billy Prior (Jonny Lee Miller) and Captain
William Rivers (Jonathan Pryce) in Regenera on (Gillies MacKinnon, 1997).
For a more in-depth discussion of the significance of placement within the
frame, see Bordwell and Thompson 1997, 226–58.
The most detailed study of point of view in the structure of film
narra ve form to date was carried out by Edward Branigan (1984). His
work shows the wide variety of func ons that may be included under the
term point of view. He examines what is observed, what is experienced,
how iden ty with the observer is created, how language is used, and how
opinion is directed. Branigan’s no on of what is observed is termed in
Place, Se ng, Perspec ve: the op cal point of view. Several of the other
concepts examined by Branigan are amalgamated later in Place, Se ng,
Perspec ve as: a tudinal point of view. Branigan states that subjec vity is
the fundamental cons tuent in all point-of-view structures, be they of
author, narrator, character, or spectator. He goes on to argue that:

Subjec vity here has something to do with “perceiving” and also,

perhaps, with “feeling.” Leaving aside for the moment the ques on of
whose percep on, it is clear that the term subjec vity is not used to
describe what the film is about—a par cular character, topic or theme
—but rather to describe in some way how the film presents or
portrays its character or story. Thus a dis nc on must be made
between the telling of a story and what is told by a story. . . .
Subjec vity, then, is the process of knowing a story—telling it and
perceiving it. (Branigan 1984, 1; original italics)

In this chapter, three types of op cal point of view will be discussed in

rela on to More ’s work (see figure 10.1). The first is the omnipresent,
omniscient narrator point of view, where a variety of camera angles,
including extreme angles that are frequently outside physical possibili es,
are used. The implica on of this is that the camera may be the incarna on
of the narrator, or perhaps the representa on of the director’s eyes. The
omniscient narrator point of view may be used for establishing shots, but
may also be linked to scenes in which the narra ve space gives character
informa on or is used to convey an emo on to the audience. The second
type of op cal point of view involves the somewhat less flexible
perspec ve of the invisible witness, where the camera angles are taken
from humanly possible posi ons. This type of shot allows the spectator to
become a voyeur within the diegesis of the film, since many invisible
witness shots will not be character driven, but will be mo vated through
the plot, such as a close-up on a significant prop. In a discussion of the
invisible witness, the work of V. I. Pudovkin is a useful point of departure.
He theorized that the camera lens represents the eyes of an implied
onlooker or someone who is watching the ac on. Accordingly, cuts in the
edi ng process stand for the different glances that the onlooker directs to
one point in the scene or another (Pudovkin [1929] 1958, 120–36). In a
similar vein, Susanne K. Langer argues that “The percipient of a moving
picture sees with the camera; his standpoint moves with it, his mind is
pervasively present. The camera is his eye” (Langer 1953, 413). Rudolf
Arnheim expressed this as “Our field of vision is full of solid objects but our
eye (like the camera) sees this field from only one sta on point at a given
moment” (Arnheim 1958, 18).

Op cal point of view in film

 The third type of op cal point of view is the character-glance, which
u lizes low, neutral, and high angles, always within the range of the
physically humanly possible. An example of the op cal point of view
sequence is as follows. In the first shot a character in the frame looks at
something that may be on or off screen. The following second shot shows
the object of the character’s glance filmed from the op cal standpoint of
that character, in the place represented in the first shot. The spectator
infers that the second shot corresponds to the character’s point of view.
Varia ons of this two-shot structure may also appear, with a reversal of
shots one and two, or with shot two sandwiched between two examples of
shot one. Where the object of the first glance is another character, a
second point-of-view shot may come in to play, if the second character
looks back at the first. Whatever the case, the audience shares knowledge,
however briefly, with the first character to become the subject of the first
gaze, but then can switch to register the subjec vity of a second character
and a second gaze. This technique is commonly used in shot/reverse shot
sequences, typically filming a dialogue scene.
David Bordwell and Kris n Thompson consider that the character-
glance point-of-view shot is part of con nuity edi ng, involving the eye line
match. High or low angle shots may imply the vantage point of a character.
A panoramic or panning shot suggests that the character is surveying the
scene, whereas a tracking shot, or the use of the handheld camera,
signifies that the character is moving. Subjec ve shots like these also draw
the spectator into the narra ve so that he or she iden fies with the point
of view (Bordwell and Thompson 1997, 289). In Gilles Deleuze’s concept of
the Movement-Image, characters are placed in narra ve posi ons where
they habitually observe things, subsequently respond, and then react in a
chain of cause-and-effect events. Deleuze examines issues of point of view
in what he describes as the Percep on-Image (Deleuze 1986, 73–88).
Through the point-of-view shot, Deleuze argues, a film character can
perceive, and therefore can go on to feel, think, or act. In turn, the film
character must also be perceived, and this act is accomplished through the
camera as it observes the character alone, or the character within the
se ng, or simply the se ng before the character enters the shot.
Deleuze’s no ons of the percep on-image trace the movement from the
subjec ve to the objec ve through three aspects of percep on: solid
(normal human percep on that is character centered), gaseous (the
objec ve, nonhuman eye of the camera), and liquid (the transi on
between the two). For Deleuze, the subjec ve is the way in which images
in the film are organized around a dis nct center (e.g., a character), and,
he contends, is taken from the perspec ve of a character within the
diegesis, what is defined in this book as character-glance. The objec ve
diffuses this center and is taken from the perspec ve of someone external
to the diegesis, what is here called the invisible witness. Percep on may be
influenced by sensory factors, for example, a character’s damaged eyesight
in La Roue / The Wheel (Abel Gance, 1923), which is presented to the
audience by using blurred focus to show a previously clearly presented
object; or affec ve factors, such as in Lo sceicco bianco / The White Sheikh
(Federico Fellini, 1952), where obsessive admira on for another character
is shown from a low camera angle, which gives the character being
observed an overpowering presence (Deleuze 1986, 73).

ON-SCREEN AND OFF-SCREEN SPACE

Narra ve space may also include what is not depicted within the frame,
but what is suggested by the off-screen space. Recent developments in film
narratology have paid greater a en on to the role played by space both
within and outside this frame, in determining the structure of and the
connec ons within the narra ve. Point of view and percep on are closely
linked to the space on and off screen (Burch 1973; Bonitzer 1976). David
Bordwell suggests that “off-screen space modulates in importance because
the viewer’s hypotheses make it more or less salient or concrete”
(Bordwell 1985, 120). Seymour Chatman’s terminology for the same no on
is “implied story-space,” which is “everything off-screen to us but visible to
the character, or within earshot, or alluded to by the ac on” (Chatman
1978, 96). Wri ng in 1973, Noël Burch dis nguished six segments of off-
screen space. The first four of these are determined by the four borders of
the frame. A fi h is the space implied behind the camera, and a sixth
describes the space behind the décor or behind some object within the
décor (a tree, a street corner, a door, the horizon). Burch in par cular refers
to the use of off-screen space in the work of Jean Renoir, Robert Bresson,
and Michelangelo Antonioni (Burch 1973, 17). As a film proceeds, and as
the camera moves, the on-screen space will frequently become the off-
screen space through the cinematography, and one aspect of the off-
screen will become on-screen. André Gardies, among others, has
suggested that this is the fundamental me/space link (Aumont,
Gaudreault, and Marie 1989, 97–100; Branigan 1992, 40–43; Gardies
1993). These points can be dis nguished by naming the original on-screen
space the “here,” and subsequent spaces the “there.” The transfer
between the space “here” and the space “there” is firmly linked to the
me element of the narra ve.

SUTURE
From the 1970s onward the point-of-view shot was a contested topic of
discussion in the area of the psychoanaly c suture theory. Suture was
introduced into film studies by Jean-Pierre Oudart, who based his ideas on
the works of the psychoanalyst, Jacques Lacan (Oudart 1977–1978, 35–47).
Oudart’s inten on was to give an explana on for the rela onship between
the filmic text and the spectator. In its basic form, suture was considered to
be the effect of certain codes that metaphorically “s tched” the spectator
into the filmic text. According to this theory, in a typical shot/reverse shot
sequence using two characters, the spectator adopts the posi on of first
one and then the other character, and becomes both the subject and the
object of the look; from this an illusion of completeness is derived. This
gives the spectators a sense of the off-screen space, “s tching” them into
the filmic text (Hayward 1996, 375–79). The decep on of the film,
purpor ng to be a piece of reality, is preserved in the seamless nature of
this s tching. This theory has had many cri cs, one of whom is Bordwell,
who strongly contests Oudart’s no on of suture, since this “suggests that
the viewer builds the meaning of each shot from the ground up” (Bordwell
1985, 112). Instead, Bordwell proposes a Construc vist account, based on
the philosophical framework that argues that human subjects construct
meaning from current knowledge structures. Bordwell suggests “that we
come to the image already ‘tuned’, prepared to test spa al, temporal, and
‘logical’ schemata against what the shot presents” (Bordwell 1985, 112).
Bordwell’s argument is compelling, especially as it is now feasible to
assume a degree of sophis ca on on the part of the spectator that leaves
li le doubt as to the la er’s capacity to recognize point of view.
Furthermore, the minute and rapid psychological shi s suggested in
Oudart’s structure of the point-of-view shot imply that the spectator is
unaware that the work of art in which they are involved is apart from the
real world. Later theorists propose that suture involves the spectator’s
acceptance or rejec on of ideologies presented on screen (Dayan 1976;
Carroll 1988). This no on therefore links the op cal point of view with the
a tudinal point of view, which is discussed below.

OPTICAL POINT OF VIEW IN MORETTI’S FILMS

All three categories of op cal point of view, omnipresent, omniscient
narrator, invisible witness, and character-glance, will be discussed in
rela on to More ’s work. Op cal point of view is one of the filmic aspects
of More ’s work that un l now has not been examined in any detail. The
inten on here is to show that op cal point of view, whether from the
perspec ve of an omniscient narrator, an invisible witness, or a character-
glance, has a significant part to play in the construc on of narra ve space,
thus ar cula ng meanings and pleasures for the spectator.
In the opening sequence of I Am Self Sufficient, the leader of the
amateur theater company, Fabio (Fabio Traversa), is seen from an
omnipresent point of view using an extreme high-angle shot. At this stage
the spectator has not been introduced to any other characters, and there is
no cutaway to another character, perhaps si ng on a roof, from whose
point of view this aspect could feasibly have been seen. This is a narra ve
shot from the omnipresent narrator, rather than from a character-glance
point of view, as it tells something about Fabio and his urgent, yet largely
unsuccessful quest for people to collaborate in his latest experimental play
produc on. Later in the film, Fabio invites a disparate group of young
people to his friend Michele’s (Nanni More ) apartment in order to start
up the experimental theater group, giving performances, based on the
concepts of pure theater, the no ons of Antonin Artaud and Georges
Bataille, and the works of Samuel Becke . A er Michele has hesitantly
agreed to be part of Fabio’s troupe there is a cut to an interior shot of
wardrobe doors. A man, playing a guitar, later iden fied as Paolo (Paolo
Zaccagnini), moves in a jaunty style into the otherwise empty frame,
accompanied by upbeat music (“Swingin’ the Blues,” Count Basie, 1938).
This is an invisible witness point-of-view shot, which forces the spectator to
consider not only who this man is, but where he has moved from.
Throughout this sequence new characters are frequently introduced to the
spectator by this method—star ng with a shot of an empty frame into
which the character moves. This creates the sensa on that they have all
been drawn together from an unknown place beyond the filmic frame and
the story world, to unite in Michele’s apartment, in front of the camera. In
a cinema c self-referen al device, indica ng the unreality of the sequence,
More is playing with a form of ambiguity, so that here off-screen space is
also “out-of-the-film space.” These characters do not come from anywhere
in the diegesis off screen, but rather had no place either in the diegesis or
in the film un l they appeared in front of the wardrobe or in Michele’s
living room. Equally, in Here Comes Bombo, the student Michele frequently
makes an entrance into already established spaces, rather than being there
at the beginning of the sequence. This occurs, for example, on the film set,
at his family home, and when he a ends the rock fes val. The se ng is
presented from an omniscient narrator point of view, enabling the
spectator to register the informa on, before Michele walks in to become,
very o en, a jarring presence.
A further example of the use of the off-screen space combined with
edi ng in I Am Self Sufficient uses character-glance point-of-view shots to
create a sense of confusion in the audience. The theater group is taken by
Fabio on a bonding session in the hilly area outside Rome. In this
sequence, the loca on is established as some kind of wilderness, and two
of the troupe, Pio (Alberto Flores d’Arcais) and Benede a (Benede a Bini),
can be seen si ng and arguing on rocks amid the vegeta on. There is a
fade to black, but the fade in is neither clearly another me nor another
place. Instead, the spectator is presented with the head of a black dog in
profile against a sandy-colored background on the le -hand side of the
frame. The animal’s presence cannot be connected to any visual or verbal
cues in the previous shot; thus the spectator is le to speculate about the
off-screen space and query the whereabouts of the characters and the
behavior of the dog. As the animal begins to bark, there is a cut to fellow
troupe member Paolo, looking off screen to the right-hand side, at first in a
downward direc on and then at a neutral level accompanied by a gesture
that implies a ques oning. This is followed by a cut to another man also
looking off screen to the right-hand side, and shaking his head in
bewilderment, as if in response to Paolo’s unspoken ques on. Here More
is deliberately crea ng an ambiguous sequence, making the audience do
the work of deduc on, rather than explaining everything in a wide shot.
This is rather like the Soviet filmmaker Lev Kuleshov’s montage
experiments of the 1920s, the so-called Kuleshov Effect. Kuleshov
discovered that depending on how shots are assembled, the audience will
a ach a specific meaning or emo on to it. The implica on in More ’s film
is that both men are looking at the dog and querying its presence, but the
three individuals are not seen in a shot together to confirm this no on.
Early on in I Am Self Sufficient Michele has to come to terms with his
role as a single parent. From an omniscient narrator’s point of view,
More uses an extreme high-angle shot of Michele taking his son, Andrea,
across the road, using a pedestrian crossing. This demonstrates Michele’s
actual benevolent behavior vis-à-vis his son, which is in sharp contrast to
the evil interior thoughts given by the voice-over of Michele in the previous
sequence. In the preceding scene, there is a medium close-up of Andrea
innocently ea ng his breakfast, while Michele stares malevolently at him
and the interior thought voice-over states, “But why do I have such a
strong urge to strangle you?” This disparity between what he thinks and
what he does illustrates the conflict in Michele’s mind between the
frustra on of having to care for his son and the ins nct to protect him.
Instead of using the character-glance point-of-view shot to explain or
confirm the spa al geography of a scene, More some mes uses this
filmic device to cause a lack of clarity, especially in sequences that have no
ini al establishing shot. One example comes toward the end of I Am Self
Sufficient. Michele is bemoaning his fate to his friend Giuseppe (Luciano
Aga ) concerning the breakup with Silvia (Simona Frosi). This takes place in
Michele’s kitchen, when Fabio phones saying that he wants to speak to
both of them. The sequence begins with a two-shot of the friends and is
subsequently related in a series of individual shots as Michele takes the
phone call. There is a cut to another two-shot of Michele and Giuseppe,
s ll clearly si ng in a kitchen, since behind them are a fridge and various
utensils. Both men look up and off screen to the right-hand side of the
frame. The spectator could deduce from this that the two men are s ll in
Michele’s kitchen, and that they are looking off screen at Fabio, who has
just come in. In fact, the newcomer turns out to be Franco, an Italian
Buddhist (Franco More ), who lives in a commune. Shown in close-up,
Michele looks up and around, clearly discussing what he can see off
camera, and his words indicate that this is a completely different kitchen; it
is the one in the commune. Again More is making use of this edi ng
technique both to keep the audience alert to the vicissitudes of the
narra ve and also to remind the spectators of the crea ve and fic onal
nature of cinema.
Two of More ’s films in par cular, Here Comes Bombo and Bianca,
have observa on as a central theme—a concept reflected in their use of
perspec ve. The no on of voyeurism in Bianca has already been discussed
in chapter 7. The character-glance point-of-view shot is significant in Here
Comes Bombo, in rela on to Olga, who is frequently the observer of the
an cs of Michele and his friends. She watches the young Romans’ lives
from outside their group and comments, like a Greek chorus, on their
ac vi es. Olga is played by Lina Sastri, a Neapolitan actress, who was
genuinely an outsider to the group of young people in Rome. She shares an
apartment with a student, Mirko (Fabio Traversa), and is variously
described as being “mad” and “schizophrenic,” although her figure
expression suggests deep depression rather than schizophrenia. Her area
for observa on is the main living room of Mirko’s apartment. Olga’s
presence punctuates the film at intervals, and in this way, her role of
onlooker frames the film. Her character-glance point of view, together with
the opinions that she holds, mean that certain aspects of Michele’s life are
filtered through her perspec ve. She first appears once Michele and the
various groups associated with him have been established in the film. She
looms into the right-hand side of the frame as Mirko and Michele are
talking about their male discussion group. Such groups had arisen from the
feminist groups of the 1960s and 1970s, where women had met together
to discuss all aspects of their lives, and offer support to each other in a
variety of circumstances. More had been part of an all-male group in
1974. They had had a few mee ngs talking about private and personal
ma ers, but rather like the group in Here Comes Bombo, once there was
nothing more to say, the mee ngs ceased. There is a moment that evokes
the mee ng of Osvaldo and Gelsomina in La Strada (Federico Fellini, 1954),
as Olga and Michele exchange a first glance. There seems to be an instant
of recogni on between them, which springs from both of these characters
apparently being out of line with the rest of society. A reverse shot reveals
her pale, melancholic face, which has such correspondence with Michele’s.
Martyn Auty has noted a resemblance between Michele’s expression and
that of the mournful comic actor, Buster Keaton, whose image appears on
a poster in Michele’s bedroom (Auty 1979, 170). Similarly, in Olga’s
appearance there is a female version of Keaton’s sorrowful character. In
one scene in par cular she comments with candor on the behavior of
Michele, Mirko, and their friends as they make a prank phone call to a girl
whom one of them has just met. Olga enters the frame from the right-hand
side and stands observing the scene. A reverse shot close-up reveals the
look of anxiety on her face, and she is ini ally forced into silence by a
gesture from Mirko. From her own posi on of misery and isola on she
shows an empathy with the unknown other female, an emo on that is
apparently totally lacking in the young men.
In Here Comes Bombo, More uses many sta c shots, where the
spectator deduces meaning from the perspec ve and posi oning of the
characters within the frame. The lack of movement relates to the lethargic
state of mind of the characters, as well as the atmosphere that More
wishes to create in these sequences. Consequently, the se ng for the
mee ngs of the male discussion group is frequently filmed with a sta c
camera, o en using the same setup each me the group is revisited; this
emphasizes their general iner a and lack of convic on. This contrasts
strongly with scenes where there is either no ceable camera movement,
such as the whirling mo on in the shots of Piazza dei Quiri , or when there
is obvious figure movement across the frame, for example when the
Roman youngsters set out to visit Olga at the end of the film. Cesare
(Maurizio Romoli) suggests that the members of the men’s discussion
group go to see Olga, partly to get a different perspec ve on their lives and
partly to cheer her up. He says, “Perhaps it’s our mistake to think that our
li le Roman groups are the whole world, the whole of reality.” This no on
is depicted as spreading throughout the community of young people by a
sequence of short scenes in which the suggested visit is announced and
passed on. In one scene a desolate roundabout, lit by a central street lamp,
is shot from a high angle with a sta c camera. From a posi on that is
arguably impossible in an everyday situa on, the point of view of an
omniscient narrator is used. At first one figure, then several, run across the
road and get into a variety of vehicles to visit Olga in her distress.
Supported by strident, intense music, this sequence suggests that
everyone, except Michele, who has already refused to go, is traveling
purposefully toward this single goal of Olga’s home. However, this fervor
quickly fades as passing a rac ons of a primal kind (food, sex, and social
ac vity) lead them away from their original endeavor.
The most poignant use of a character-glance point of view occurs in
the very last sequence of Here Comes Bombo, when the audience is
an cipa ng a huge crowd descending on Olga’s apartment. Only Michele,
who claims that he does not like sick people, makes the journey. A cut to
medium close-up shows Olga seated center frame and filmed from the
front. Apart from her physical coloring, this appears as a black and white
shot, a possible allusion to the two sides of her illness visually represented.
At first she looks down, but as her gaze gradually moves upward, it is not to
observe the group who have been waylaid by their own personal desires,
or even to make momentary eye contact with the audience, but to glance
at Michele, who is seen in the point-of-view reverse shot, looking
downward to the right-hand side of the frame. His gaze also slowly travels
upward, and at a certain point the spectator might assume that the two
gazes connect. A further cut to a medium long shot reveals the whole
se ng, with Michele standing on the le -hand side of the frame and Olga
si ng on the right-hand side. The camera remains s ll in the melancholic
silence of the scene, with Michele placed in shadow and seen from behind
having taken on Olga’s habitual posi on as observer. The composi on, the
s llness, the silence, and the dura on of this shot accentuate both the
individual loneliness of the characters and the unspoken connec on
between them, which follows from their unconven onality. The fuller
picture indicates that the look that passes between them is in fact flee ng,
as both look away a er a short while.
An early scene in Here Comes Bombo uses a combina on of invisible
witness perspec ve, on-screen character observa on, and camera
movement to emphasize the power struggle between Michele and his
father (Glauco Mauri). Michele’s sister, Valen na (Lorenza Ralli) and her
friends are si ng in her bedroom planning a sit-in at their school. As a
lively debate develops, the camera tracks back from the room to reveal
Michele observing the group from the doorway. The camera then pulls
back even further to disclose the father watching Michele from another
doorway. Although one might expect the father to be the one who should
be closely monitoring the situa on, in fact it is Michele who is shown to be
ahead of his father in this. On the other hand, he is depicted as being
totally unaware that his father is scru nizing his behavior.
Using character-glance point of view in Sweet Dreams, film director
Michele (Nanni More ) casts his actors in a novel way, by observing their
footwear as a criterion for making value judgments about people. The
scene begins conven onally with the actors si ng in a wai ng room and
Michele’s assistant arriving with a set of files as though Michele were going
to interview these candidates in a regular fashion. However, this swi ly
changes and, lying on the floor, Michele observes the applicants through a
crack in the door. A point-of-view shot tracks along the feet of the actors,
and Michele makes his choice according to his opinion about their shoes.
There is a cut to a shot of Michele’s face peering through the chink at the
various feet. The use of op cal point of view also gives character
informa on about Michele and his obsessions, as the successful candidates
seem to be wearing more conven onal shoes, indica ng Michele’s
inclina on for order and conformity.
In Sweet Dreams there is an omniscient narrator point of view
sequence, which supplies character informa on by placing the spectator in
a privileged posi on. Michele takes Nicola (Nicola Di Pinto) and Claudio
(Claudio Spadaro), the would-be assistant directors, to a cake shop. The
shot is taken not from Michele’s op cal point of view looking in at the
cakes, but from the other side of the glass cabinet, so that the spectator
sees into the space containing the cakes and then through it to Michele
and his companions. As Michele names each cake his excitement visibly
mounts un l finally he comes to his personal favorite, the Sachertorte, the
idea of which brings him to a moment of ecstasy.
In Sweet Dreams there are several occasions in which changing point-
of-view shots on the film set of Freud’s Mother vacillate between two
images: that of “Freud” and his mother within that diegesis from the
character-glance point of view of Michele and his crew filming the scene in
the studio, and also the point of view of the invisible witness observing
Michele crea ng the film. The edi ng between the shots reinforces the
self-reflec vity of the film Sweet Dreams and shows the process of filming
taking place, emphasizing the ar ficiality of the process. It also suggests a
changing narrator, some mes Michele as director of the film-within-a-film,
and some mes the omniscient authorial narrator, More himself.
Both Sweet Dreams and Bianca end with a lingering sta c view of a
scene from the point of view of the invisible witness, as the protagonist
leaves both the screen space and the loca on. In Sweet Dreams, the film
closes with a dream sequence where director Michele (Nanni More ) and
his would-be girlfriend, Silvia (Laura Morante), dine together, during which
me Michele gradually mutates into a werewolf. As Silvia explains to
Michele her change of heart about her life, she seems oblivious at first to
the dras c change in his appearance. Even at the start of the scene, his hair
is long and disheveled, his eyebrows are thicker, and he looks pale and
red. The irony of this is that she observes several mes how much she has
changed, while it is Michele who is changing before our eyes. From a
medium shot of Silvia there is a cut to a reverse angle shot of the table
from her point of view, focusing on a glass that has fallen over. Michele’s
hand, as it reaches for the glass, is covered with thick, dark hair. The
reac on shot from Silvia shows her looking from the hand to the face.
Another reverse point-of-view shot reveals Michele’s completely altered
appearance, with thick hair and beard, and eyebrows that meet in the
center. As he declares that he is a monster, but s ll loves her, he falls to the
floor and Silvia runs screaming from the restaurant through the glass doors
at the rear. Once through the doors, she quickly drops completely out of
view. The altered Michele also runs from the venue into a park at the rear
of the building and the camera remains sta c as he disappears into the
vegeta on. This last shot, empty of both Silvia and the dream-world
Michele, is the final blow to the real-world Michele, who similarly is never
seen again. He can neither break away from his Oedipus complex in his real
life, nor can he have any success with the girl of his dreams, where his
adult sexual feelings are revealed as monstrous and destruc ve in his own
psyche. The camera stays on this image during the final credits. Similarly,
a er his confession to the murders in Bianca, mathema cs teacher
Michele (Nanni More ) is taken outside the police sta on and put into a
police van. Again the camera is sta c as the van moves away into the
distance and then turns a corner out of sight, leaving the shot fixed on the
street scene. The loca on remains solid and intact, but Michele in each
film has disappeared into the off-screen space behind the point of view of
the invisible witness. In both these cases the spectator is le with the
empty frame, where the distressed protagonist has been removed from
view, and the final outcome remains unresolved.
In The Mass Is Ended, the first view of Don Giulio’s (Nanni More )
bedroom in the presbytery is from an extreme high-angle shot. The
austere, bare room with its uncarpeted floor holds none of the comforts of
the apartment of Don Giulio’s parents. Don Giulio lies down exhausted on
the bare ma ress and goes to sleep. He is presented as small, alone, and
vulnerable in a cheerless place, and the spectator sees this from an
omniscient narrator’s point of view that might be described as a God’s-eye
view. A er a fade to black, there is a fade up that returns to the same
place, sugges ng a me ellipsis, but with the camera at a neutral, human
angle, since this is when the priest first encounters some of the
schoolchildren he will be teaching in catechism class. Deep focus is used so
that contemporaneous ac vity can be seen in various areas of the screen.
This allows the audience to see through his open window to where
children are playing football in a sunlit playground and is Don Giulio’s link
with the outside world as through its frame a football arrives, whose
owner indirectly invites the priest to play. This scene of a priest playing
football with his young pupils is an intertextual reference to Roma, ci à
aperta / Rome, Open City (Roberto Rossellini, 1945). Most of the ensuing
game of football is also filmed from a high angle, as Don Giulio temporarily
ends his isola on and joins in with the children.
The Mass Is Ended has many point-of-view shots from Don Giulio’s
perspec ve, including the opening view of the sea and the panorama of
Rome. These are used as moments of pause or reflec on, but are also
frequently images that focus a gaze of desire on the part of the priest. This
is par cularly no ceable in the sequence when Don Giulio looks through
the window of ex-priest Antonio’s (Eugenio Masciari) house, which frames
his point of view, at the family seated in the dining room. Similar to
Michele in Bianca, Don Giulio observes his model family in their idyllic
se ng, as a scene of desire for an una ainable other world. The scene,
filmed in deep focus, allows the spectator to see clearly the composi on of
the family around the table, from Don Giulio’s op cal point of view, while
at the same me perceiving the barrier set up by the window between
them and Don Giulio.
The presenta on of character, especially at a moment of epiphany or
change, may be seen through the point of view of an omnipresent,
omniscient narrator. In The Mass Is Ended, frene c movement as an index
of inner turmoil is captured in the scene when Don Giulio learns of his
mother’s suicide. From a posi on outside the window of the presbytery,
the camera moves smoothly forward. There is the sound of a rapidly
turning object as the camera moves round to reveal a languid Don Giulio
furiously spinning a globe, first in one direc on and then in the other. The
man’s appearance is not healthy and his obsessive revolving of the globe
gives a feeling of disorienta on. This uncertainty of movement mirrors his
confused state of mind, as he tries to decide what to do with his life. He
then receives a telephone message with news of his mother’s death and
moves rapidly to leave the building. A match on ac on, accompanied by a
sound-bridge of drama c non-diege c music, gives a temporal ellipsis and
sees him progress rapidly from his building to his parents’ apartment,
where he has to confront his mother’s suicide.
The sequence in Dear Diary where Nanni meets his idol, actress
Jennifer Beals, uses his character-glance point of view for the en re scene.
Ironically, despite his declared fondness for the film in which she stars,
Flashdance (Adrian Lyne, 1983), he seems unsure of her iden ty. His
eventual mee ng with his dream-woman results in an awkward
conversa on about dancing and about her shoes, during which Beals
becomes increasingly aware of the dangers implicit in an encounter
between a celebrity and an admirer. As Nanni talks, she backs away from
him, looking warily off-screen at her devotee. Nanni’s eccentric behavior is
then presented visually, as he is not firmly grounded in the center of the
frame. Instead, as Beals describes Nanni as being “off” and “almost stupid”
to her husband, Alexandre Rockwell, Nanni is depicted literally “off” as only
half of him appears on the right-hand side of the frame.
In The Son’s Room there is an important character-glance sequence
when the father, Giovanni (Nanni More ) goes to Irene’s (Jasmine Trinca)
basketball match to tell her of her brother’s death. She sees her father and,
through straight cut edi ng of shot/reverse shot, a look passes between
them that indicates to Irene that something is very wrong. She remains
transfixed, looking at her father, while the rest of her team all run in the
opposite direc on. More said that this sequence was based on his own
experience, when his father came to the swimming pool where More
was training to tell him that his grandfather had died. Without being told
verbally of the death, More had ins nc vely known about the bad news
from seeing his parent from afar (Joyard and Larcher 2001, 23). The
straight cu ng of the look passing between father and daughter, as well as
the wordless transmission of the message, not only indicates the
effec veness of this edi ng device in showing visually the impact of this
sad news, but also demonstrates the closeness between these two
characters, who have an almost telepathic moment of contact in this
scene.
There is a significant change in the point of view in The Son’s Room
between the opening shot and the closing sequence. At the beginning of
the film an invisible witness shot tracks psychoanalyst Giovanni Sermon
(Nanni More ) as he jogs along the quayside in Ancona and then visits a
bar for his morning coffee. By the end of the film, the Sermon family is
seen from the character-glance point-of-view shot of Arianna, the girl who
had briefly known their son, as she goes away on a bus. As the remaining
three of the family stroll on beach, the spectator might wonder what the
outcome will be for them. The narra ve is then carried away with Arianna
on the bus, as she leaves them and their unresolved difficul es behind. In
this way More uses point of view as a procedure for bringing the
narra ve to close.
A sequence in which an op cal point-of-view shot from a character-
glance perspec ve of a television screen becomes incorporated into the
en re film frame and into the present narra ve can be found in Red Lob. In
the swimming pool bar the film Doctor Zhivago (David Lean, 1965) is being
transmi ed on a television set. More chose this film because he wanted
to use a text that was a mixture of love story and poli cal film:

Doctor Zhivago interested me as a story of both love and poli cs. In

fact I was unsure whether to choose Doctor Zhivago or The Way We
Were with Barbra Streisand and Robert Redford. Doctor Zhivago is a
 film that as me passes I have seen in different ways. . . . And I find
the ending is incredibly sadis c. (De Bernardinis 2001, 10)

More highlights the choice that the Communist Party had for its
future in the 1980s by quo ng directly from this film, merging the
character-glance point of view with that of the invisible witness, and
ul mately making the film-within-a-film into a part of the main narra ve.
More chooses sequences from various stages in the development of the
love story of Lara (Julie Chris e) and Doctor Zhivago (Omar Sharif). Doctor
Zhivago puts forward no ons of the old-style Communist ideals, and offers
defini ons of two types of man: one who is pure and high-minded, “the
kind of man that the world pretends to look up to and in fact despises”; the
other who is neither high-minded nor pure, “but alive” (Doctor Zhivago,
verba m). From this binary opposi on the op on appears to be either a
Communist Party that is pure and high-minded, but derided, or one that is
pragma c and therefore alive. Using a film about the beginnings of
Communism is not insignificant; such debates were rife in Italy at the me
Red Lob was made.
To view the last moments of the Doctor Zhivago broadcast, water polo
players, the audience at the match, and even the bartender are drawn
toward the television in the bar. Protagonist Michele even leaves the
crucial shot at goal that he is about to make, preferring to watch a scene
from a familiar film, whose ending is well known to him. More explained
that he had originally wri en a scene where Michele invites his daughter
to watch the end of Doctor Zhivago, but she ques ons why he should want
to do so, since he already knows it has an unhappy ending. Michele’s
response was to have been that perhaps on this par cular occasion there
would be a happy ending. In the event, More decided not to shoot this
scene, but to leave the interpreta on much more open, “However, we
understand: this film that we have seen so many mes with the whole
audience, we would like it if this evening it all ends well” (Gili 1989, 22). In
this scene, the failed last mee ng between Lara and Doctor Zhivago is
depicted. Despite Zhivago’s a empts to a ract Lara’s a en on as she
moves away in a bus, and despite Michele and the intra-diege c audience
willing her to turn around and acknowledge him, she is totally unaware of
his presence. Zhivago has a heart a ack and collapses in the street before
he can get to her. There is a sense of inevitability and fixedness about the
plot and the ending of any work of fic on that contrasts with the
randomness of real life, which can have surprising and uncertain outcomes.
This is a Pirandellian link here between Red Lob and Six Characters in
Search of an Author. In Luigi Pirandello’s work, the Father character shouts
at the Producer about the “lives” of characters: “He doesn’t change. He
can’t change or be someone else because he is already fixed” (Pirandello
[1921] 1969, 63). The final sequence from Doctor Zhivago demonstrates
that merely wishing for order to be restored, desiring the Utopian happy
ending, does not necessarily mean it will happen. By incorpora ng the
character-glance point of view of a television broadcast of a well-known
film into the more general invisible witness perspec ve, finally merging the
screen space of the two films into one, More has also put forward his
idea that the Italian Communists of the contemporary era should have
more realis c aspira ons for the future.
Similar fusions of two screen spaces take place in Dear Diary,
some mes occurring in a cinema where Nanni is watching a film, such as
Henry, Portrait of a Serial Killer (John McNaughton, 1986). At other mes it
is a television screen that is used for the double op cal point of view, for
example when Nanni mimics Silvana Mangano’s performance in Anna
(Alberto La uada, 1951) or Gerardo watches the American television soap
opera The Bold and the Beau ful on the ferry to Salina. The opening of
April offers the spectator not only a merging of the private world of the
family kitchen with the public world of poli cs, but a blending of two
op cal points of view and two screen spaces. Nanni (Nanni More ) and
his mother (Agata Apicella More ) are watching the television broadcast
of the Italian general elec on results in 1994. The television, which is the
focal point of the evening’s viewing, is some mes on screen as a significant
prop in the mise-en-scène of the domes c world, and some mes fills the
en re cinema screen with its own screen. The character-glance op cal
point of view of watching a television program is subsumed into the
invisible witness op cal point of view, pu ng the spectator into the same
posi on as Nanni and his mother vis-à-vis the broadcast. When the
emphasis is on the television screen, Nanni and his mother are posi oned
in an off-screen space away from the public sphere of poli cs. The
spectator sees and experiences what the characters see and experiences,
as the two screens merge (see also Rückenfigur below).
In The Caiman there are several scenes where an op cal point-of-view
shot from a character-glance perspec ve of a television screen later
becomes incorporated into the en re screen. These sequences focus on
broadcasts of and about Silvio Berlusconi, and reveal not only his personal
failings, but also the opinions of the television viewers within the diegesis.
On the first occasion, film producer Bruno’s (Silvio Orlando) secretary,
Marisa (Luisa De San s), confesses that she had actually voted for
Berlusconi, while in contrast Teresa (Jasmine Trinca), the author of the film-
within-a-film of The Caiman, comments that Berlusconi has “a very
personal idea of irony.” The second me that this par cular point-of-view
shot is used is from the viewpoint of Bruno, Teresa, and their backers, actor
Marco Pulici (Michele Placido) and financier Jerzy Sturovski (Jerzy Stuhr),
who are all watching the television broadcast of Berlusconi at the tribunal
in Milan. Once again, their op cal point of view is incorporated into the full
screen of this scene, and the a tudes of the characters is brought to the
fore, as the discussion reveals diverse opinions on the representa on of
Berlusconi on screen. Pulici, for example, sees Berlusconi and his
performance as a posi ve aspect, while Teresa holds the opposite view.
There are lengthy discussions on the autobiographical aspect of
More ’s work in Menarini 2002; Mazierska and Rascaroli 2004; Rascaroli
2004; and Brook 2005, 27–51. A significant aspect of the invisible witness
point of view in More ’s films is the audience observa on of the real
person of More in his various character roles as he grows older. Millicent
Marcus sees More ’s body, as it changes and ages through his films, as a
metaphor or somagraph for the changes that take place among his
contemporaries (Marcus 2002, 286). With each new film, the version of
More the actor is a palimpsest of the previous one. This occurs as a
stratum of present experiences is laid over fading images of the past, as
me, aging, and life processes are revealed on the screen. These
metamorphoses are highlighted in Bianca and The Mass Is Ended in
par cular, as the audience is enabled to make a direct comparison
between the actor More in the present film and photographs of his
younger self, presented as youthful versions of the characters, respec vely
Michele Apicella and Don Giulio. In a similar vein, clips from the short film
The Defeat appear in Red Lob and provide a visual contrast of More ’s
changing appearance between the two films. This merging of me
culminates in the Doctors episode of Dear Diary, where this overlap
between fic on and reality manifests itself in the actual footage of
More ’s chemotherapy session being edited into the reconstructed
sequence of events about his cancer. More ’s own body virtually becomes
loca on, both externally and internally, in the search for a true diagnosis.
The truth is concealed by his very flesh, and only revealed by powers that
can see through living bone and ssue into the center of his being. Here
More suggests, through his own personal experience, that you can treat
the outward signs of a problem (here, the manifesta ons of the cancer,
such as the skin irrita on), but may be totally unaware of what is at its
heart. Accordingly, More is sugges ng that in contemporary Italian
society something seriously and fundamentally wrong may be overlooked,
while surface problems are being dealt with.

RÜCKENFIGUR
The Rückenfigur, literally “back figure,” is a trope taken from Roman c
pain ng and is usually associated with German Roman c ar sts, notably
Caspar David Friedrich (1774–1840). The term is used to describe a lone
figure viewed from behind, contempla ng a landscape that is also spread
out for examina on before the “real-life” spectator or secondary viewer.
This closely associates the spectator of the pain ng with the figure within
the work, drawing the spectator into the realm of the emo ons of the
figure. In more recent mes, the Rückenfigur has been more closely
defined as the contempla on by an isolated figure of a landscape, whether
it is natural or urban, and may be found in photography and film as well as
pain ng. This trope is important in narra ve space in cinema because it
places the film spectator in a similar posi on to the character, so that both
view the same thing. More o en includes the character in the first shot
of the sequence in the Rückenfigur mode, which doubles the force of the
gaze, thus combining the character-glance op cal point of view with that of
the invisible witness in the contempla on of a place or a se ng.
In Here Comes Bombo the Rückenfigur is o en Olga, who operates as
the onlooker to the ac vi es of the male discussion group. In one scene
she enters the bo om of the frame, and seeing her figure from behind, the
spectator observes what she observes. There are several examples of the
Rückenfigur in The Mass Is Ended. The first is seen on the beach at the start
of the film when Don Giulio is fishing. He sits on rocks that form a strong,
grey horizontal line across the space, with the vast blue sea filling two-
thirds of the frame. He looks out to sea and considers the immense gulf
between his present posi on on the island and his future.
The next example of a Rückenfigur appears on Don Giulio’s return to
Rome. A er a panoramic sweep of the capital, the camera encounters the
rear view of Don Giulio regarding the city. The camera remains sta c for a
few moments, then cuts to the reac on shot of Don Giulio’s face, as he
smiles gently at the prospect, before returning to the back of his si ng
figure, which is silhoue ed against the brightly lit cityscape. This brief
sequence is inserted between his leaving the island and his first family
meal. It is a moment of s llness and contempla on of both his new life and
a return in certain ways to his boyhood. The tranquility and medita on
contrast sharply with the many instances of frene c mo on that occur
during the film.
A third example of the Rückenfigur is Don Giulio’s entrance into his
new church. For a brief moment a sta c camera catches the rear view of
his body as he looks up at the altar, which is the only part of the
dilapidated church that remains intact. As well as the pain ng of the
Corona on of the Virgin there is also the depic on of a beau ful
landscape. Here Don Giulio contemplates part of the new world that he is
going to work in, but his no ons of this new world are false, just as the
pain ng is only an ar ficial image. The subsequent instance is on the
mountainside a er Don Giulio’s confronta on with his sister’s fiancé,
Simone. From a medium close-up shot of the two characters, the camera
cuts to a long shot that dwarfs them both within the landscape. The silence
is broken and music returns as Simone starts to pack up his camp. The
camera then zooms slowly in to show the back of Don Giulio’s head as he
sits desolately looking at the rocky outcrops on the hills opposite. The
distant scenery is slightly out of focus, sugges ng that he is uncertain of
what lies ahead for himself and for his family.
The final occasion when the Rückenfigur is seen in The Mass Is Ended
is near the end of the film when Don Giulio makes a phone call in a bar.
Having quarreled with both his father and his sister, in both cases about
the ques on of procrea on, and having been inspired by an old missionary
priest at the monastery he had visited, Don Giulio reengages in plans to
change his life. Once again there is a slow zoom into the back of Don
Giulio’s head, but this me there is no landscape to contemplate, only a
blank wall that connotes the emp ness of his future. The soundtrack of
Franco Ba ato’s “I treni di Tozeur” can be heard. Tozeur is an oasis and a
city in southwest Tunisia. The song describes the trains passing through
villages to Tozeur. The singer considers his past life and the now crumbling
surroundings of abandoned churches and an old mine. He voices his desire
for a different life lived “at a different speed.” The visuals of the scene
indicate an unknown void for Don Giulio’s future, while the music suggests
a yearning for a return to the past that has been encountered in other
parts of the film. In The Mass Is Ended More uses the Rückenfigur at
moments of change and crisis, whenever Don Giulio needs to stop his
hec c movement and reflect on his situa on. The double point of view
takes the spectator into Don Giulio’s thinking zone, allowing the audience
to witness his rumina ons.
In the first “chapter” of Dear Diary, “On My Vespa,” More
showcases his love for his home city. The spectator’s first sight of Rome in
Dear Diary is from what appears to be an invisible witness point of view.
However, the spectator soon revises this first hypothesis, as Nanni (Nanni
More ) rides into the shot, and it is realized that this shot is in fact
subjec ve and mediated through the character perspec ve of Nanni, as a
Rückenfigur on the move on his Vespa. This perspec ve is constantly
repeated in the con nuous forward movement of the vehicle, with the
spectator being led through the streets by a knowledgeable guide, who
shows the spectator, through a Rückenfigur point of view, the parts of
Rome that hold significance for him. A combina on of character-glance
point of view (Nanni) and invisible witness perspec ve (camera) also tracks
along the facades of the buildings that Nanni admires. In the Roman
sunshine Nanni, some mes with his partner, Silvia (Silvia Nono)
contemplates with delight the exteriors of his favorite apartment blocks.
Here More uses a double Rückenfigur, as the couple, with iden cal
stances, gazes up at the buildings. As they do so, the camera lovingly
surveys the architecture, panning up the exterior of buildings to
demonstrate the height of a par cular edifice, such as the house in the Via
Dandolo in the Trastevere area. The different facades, in many designs and
colors, appear rather like a sample book of twen eth-century architectural
styles in Rome. In doing this, More (Nanni) par ally fulfills his dream of
making a film just of building frontages. This is a further example of
apophasis, and in this case, the filmmaker expresses a future desire that is
in fact visualized on the screen.
 Chapter 11
A Certain Point of View
NARRATOR
In addi on to considering the op cal point of view of a par cular
character, film theorists have also examined the point of view of an
enuncia ng figure, akin to a narrator, who may appear in both feature films
and documentaries. This is important for a discussion of narra ve space in
the works of an auteur such as More , who is involved with the wri ng,
produc on, and ac ng in his films, as well as the direc on. The intricate
and somewhat problema c rela onship between More the creator,
More the narrator, and More the actor is seen from I Am Self Sufficient
onward, and of course for certain films, such as Dear Diary and April, some
aspects of his personal life, such as his cancer treatment and the birth of
his son, do become part of the filmic text. More has frequently admi ed
that he shares some of the personality a ributes that he gives to his
characters (interest in poli cs, cinema, and sports) and that he banishes his
fears, inhibi ons, and obsessions through his work, using irony as his most
important weapon (Gili 1987, 15). However, he points out that there are
also many traits that are not held in common between himself and his
protagonists, such as a predisposi on to murder, seen in Bianca, or a
religious calling witnessed in The Mass Is Ended. Some film cri cs suggest
that the characters that More plays are different stages in an individual’s
development (Mazierska and Rascaroli 2004, 17), making More a symbol
for his age, characterizing the post-1968 genera on, whether playing a
1970s’ student in Here Comes Bombo, a 1980s’ teacher in Bianca, or a
1990s’ writer in Dear Diary (Marcus 2002, 286).
The terminologies for categories of narrator in both literature and film
have proliferated to the point that this has become a much nuanced area
of study (see figure 11.1). One of the key figures in the field of narra ve
studies
Terminologies for narrators
[L = Literature, F = Film]

is Gérard Gene e, who synthesized the ideas of a number of scholars

on narra on into a new framework (Gene e 1980).
Gene e’s sources include Brooks and Warren 1943; Pouillon 1946;
Friedman 1955; Booth [1961] 1983, and Todorov 1966 (see figure 11.1). He
coined the term “focaliza on” to dis nguish the ac vity of a character, or
“focalizer,” from whose perspec ve the events of the story world are
observed from the ac vity of the narrator who is telling the events. He
established a systema c dis nc on between “who sees?” (iden fying a
subject of focaliza on) and “who speaks?”(iden fying the subject of
narra on, i.e., the narrator). Gene e further subdivided focaliza on into
three types: zero, internal, and external. In “zero-focaliza on,” events are
narrated from an omniscient and unrestricted point of view. This is the
characteris c of the tradi onal or classical narra ve. “Internal focaliza on”
involves the presenta on of events restricted to the point of view,
percep on, and cogni on of a focal character. This can be, but is not
always, a first-person narra on. This type of focaliza on can be further
defined as “fixed,” where everything is focused on one character, such as in
What Maisie Knew (Henry James, 1897); “variable,” where the focus moves
from one character to another, for example Madame Bovary (Gustave
Flaubert, 1857); and “mul ple,” where the same events may be evoked by
several characters, for instance The Ring and the Book (Robert Browning,
1868). Narra on from several points of view also occurs in film; Gene e
cites Rashômon (Akira Kurosawa, 1951). “External focaliza on” is a
presenta on restricted to repor ng an outside view of fic onal events
(Gene e 1980, 189–90). Gene e’s ideas on the narrator ques on were
debated and reformulated by Mieke Bal, who introduced both new and
redefined categories (Bal 1997, 19–31). For Bal, all texts are focalized and
perceived from a par cular angle. External focaliza on orientates the text
around the point of view and the percep on of the narrator or external
focalizer. Internal focaliza on occurs when the story “lies with one
character” (Bal 1997, 148). Bal dis nguished between percep ble (visible
in the real world) and impercep ble (visible only in a character’s
imagina on) objects of focaliza on or focalizeds. She also discussed the
feature of embedding, where typically a character within the narra ve
becomes the narrator of a second narra ve; thus the presenta on of
another character’s point of view assigns the focaliza on to that character
(Bal 1997, 52). An example of this is found in Wuthering Heights, when the
narra ve of Mrs. Dean takes over from that of Mr. Lockwood (Brontë
[1847] 1995, 30). Mrs. Dean’s narra ve con nues to “Thus ended Mrs.
Dean’s story” (264). This also occurs in film, such as Francis’s story ac ng as
a framing device in Das Kabine des Dr. Caligari / The Cabinet of Dr.
Caligari (Robert Wiene, 1919). Shlomith Rimmon-Kenan added her views
on the narrator by assuming Gene e’s terminology of “focaliza on,” but
further adap ng this concept. In agreement with Bal, she states:

Obviously, a person . . . is capable of both speaking and seeing, and

even of doing both things at the same me—a state of affairs which
facilitates the confusion between the two ac vi es. Moreover, it is
almost impossible to speak without betraying some personal “point of
view,” if only through the very language used. But a person . . . is also
capable of undertaking to tell what another person sees or has seen.
Thus, speaking and seeing, narra on and focaliza on, may, but need
not, be a ributed to the same agent. (Rimmon-Kenan 2002, 73)
 Thus, in the spectrum of elements making up focaliza on, Rimmon-
Kenan has included not only the processes of percep on, but also
psychological and ideological aspects. However, although it is clear that
these aspects are significant indicators of focaliza on, they may be applied
to both focal characters and narrators, thus clouding the difference
between speaking narrators and perceiving characters. Seymour Chatman,
however, argues that the term “focaliza on” and its various ramifica ons
“simply shi s the ground” of the problem of point of view and narra on,
“without solving it” (Chatman 1990, 4). He adds:

Narrators do not “see” things in the story world in the same way that
characters do; hence, any term that is applied indiscriminately to
purveyors of discourse on the one hand and inhabitants of the story
on the other will blur our hard-earned dis nc on between “Who
tells?” and “Who sees?” (Chatman 1990, 4)

Chatman contends that a narra ve logically requires a narrator. He

claims that the thing that nearly all no ons of focaliza on fail to explain is
the different behaviors, a tudes, and interests that exist between narrator
and character. He therefore suggests two separate terms:

slant, to name the narrator’s a tudes and other mental nuances

appropriate to the report func on of discourse, and filter to name the
much wider range of mental ac vity experienced by characters in the
story world—percep ons, cogni ons, a tudes, emo ons, memories,
fantasies, and the like. (Chatman 1990, 143; original italics)

Filter thus refers to the consciousness of a character through which

situa ons are presented, and arguably is represented in film as the
character-glance point-of-view shot. Slant refers to the narrator’s a tude
(psychological, sociological, and ideological) and its implica ons on his or
her recoun ng of situa ons or events, and is more akin to the a tudinal
point of view considered in this book.
André Gaudreault and François Jost ques on the nature of Gene e’s
focaliza on when used in a visual medium such as cinema (Gaudreault and
Jost 2005). Already in 1983 Jost had suggested the term oculariza on to
determine what a character actually sees, whereas, in his terminology,
focaliza on refers to what a character knows (Jost 1983, 192–212). Internal
oculariza on refers to the shots when the camera appears to take the
place of the character’s eye, which is similar to the character-glance point-
of-view shot. This is further defined into primary (the subjec ve camera of
The Lady in the Lake, Robert Montgomery, 1946) and secondary internal
oculariza on (used in shot/reverse shot). External or zero oculariza on
indicates shots of things or events outside the field of vision of the
character. Jost also added an important and completely new category to
the discussion of narrator and point of view: auriculariza on, which refers
to the point of percep on of sound (Jost 1985, 21–34). Various problems
arise here. First, film sound is difficult to locate precisely within the frame;
second, two characters will see the filmic space from different physical
perspec ves, but the sound will be the same for both; third, any a empt to
reproduce a realis c soundscape may result in any dialogue being drowned
out by the ambient noise. Nevertheless, despite these challenges, three
levels of auriculariza on are offered: primary internal, when the sound is
distorted in some way, for example an underwater sequence; secondary
internal, when what is heard is restricted by the visual representa on, such
as someone covering their ears, so as not to hear a sound; and zero
auriculariza on, when the sound is altered to suit the sequence, for
example ambient music is rendered quieter, so that the dialogue can be
heard (Gaudreault and Jost 2005, 134–36). These concepts were taken
even further by William Nelles, who added the other senses to this
schema, giving gusta viza on (taste), olfac viza on (smell), and
tac viliza on (touch) (Nelles 1997).
Some theorists have argued that, in the case of the lack of a character
narrator, Wayne C. Booth’s no on of the “implied author” (Booth [1961]
1983) could be employed. However, this role in the film-world is rejected
by George Wilson on the basis that the spectator perceives his or her visual
access as normally being direct, not mediated (Wilson 1986). Nevertheless,
this “invisible puppeteer” (Bordwell 1985, 62) can some mes explain the
way in which the spectator’s omnipresence and access to mul ple
narra ve spaces is in some ways guided by a figure not within the diegesis.
Albert Laffay describes a similar ghostly presence in le grand imagier, the
master of images who chooses and organizes what is perceived (Laffay
1964, 81). Sarah Kozloff uses the term “camera-narrator” for the
impersonal cinema c narrator who renders the text in a non-verbal form
(Kozloff 1988, passim), while David Black suggests the expression “intrinsic
narrator” for this overarching narrator (Black 1986, 19–26). The
prolifera on of terms here demonstrates how problema c yet essen al
this discussion of the narrator is. Karel Reisz and Gavin Millar, in their
trea se on film edi ng, consider the no on of the narrator and argue that:

The director’s aim is to give an ideal picture of the scene, in each case
placing his camera in such a posi on that it records most effec vely
the par cular piece of ac on or detail which is drama cally
significant. He becomes, as it were, the ubiquitous observer, giving
the audience at each moment of the ac on the best possible
viewpoint. (Reisz and Millar 1968, 215; original italics)

Bordwell, while admi ng the existence of the character narrator such

as Philip Marlowe in Farewell, My Lovely (Edward Dmytryk, 1944), the
voice-over commentary in Jules et Jim (François Truffaut, 1961) and the
flesh and blood narrator in La ronde (Max Ophüls, 1950) ques ons the
implicit, non-personified narrator. He adds that:

Since any u erance can be construed with respect to a puta ve

source, literary theory may be jus fied in looking for a speaking voice
or narrator. But in watching films, we are seldom aware of being told
something by an en ty resembling a human being. . . . As for the
implied author, this construct adds nothing to our understanding of
filmic narra on. No trait we could assign to an implied author of a film
could not more simply be ascribed to the narra on itself. (Bordwell
1985, 62)

Bordwell considers, therefore, that point of view is ar culated

through camera posi on, frequently sugges ng an omnipresent and
omniscient narrator (Bordwell 1985, 125). In Bordwell’s view,

[T]he invisible-witness model became classical film theory’s all-

purpose answer to problems involving space, authorship, point of
 view, and narra on. (1985, 9)

In more a recent work Bordwell persists in this opinion, sta ng that

A film is made so as to elicit inferen al elabora on. Invoking the

implied author would seem to add nothing to our recogni on of the
principles under which the film operates. (Bordwell 2008, 133)

However, as will be discussed below, the author and his perspec ve in

More ’s case is so firmly connected to the narrator that it most definitely
adds something to the spectator’s understanding of the film, and the very
powers of deduc on that Bordwell examines so acutely.
With omniscient or unrestricted narra on, the audience has a very
wide breadth of informa on, o en much wider than any or all of the
characters. However, in a detec ve story the audience may have restricted
narra on, only learning informa on as the detec ve does, to add to the
suspense and mystery. In other circumstances the film may be a mixture of
these two, with the amount of knowledge that the audience and
characters have fluctua ng. A character narrator may not necessarily have
restricted knowledge of events within the film. On the other hand, a non-
character narrator may not necessarily be omniscient. Bordwell and
Thompson suggest that:

The plot’s range of story informa on creates a hierarchy of knowledge

, and this may vary somewhat depending on the film. At any given
moment we can ask if the viewer knows more than, less than, or as
much as the characters do. (Bordwell and Thompson 1997, 103;
original italics)

In the works of More , it can be argued that by piecing together the

mul ple elements that go together to make up the finished work, More
as author carries out on the screen this act of narra on, and thereby fulfills
the role of the omniscient and omnipresent narrator. In this case, as was
described above in chapter 10, a variety of camera angles, including
extreme angles using the camera as narrator from both physically possible
and impossible posi ons, are used. At other mes the filmmaker, through
the aegis of the camera, and from a more restricted point of view, shows
the audience the perspec ve of an invisible witness or observer, who then
takes on the role of the narrator. Here, the various camera angles are taken
from humanly possible posi ons. There are also frequent character-glance
point-of-view shots, where the story is told from within the fic onal world,
which u lize low, neutral, and high angles, always within the range of the
physically human possible. Figure 11.2 illustrates the rela onship between
the op cal point of view, the sound, the narrator, and the narra ve in film.
The omniscient and omnipresent narrator is posi oned outside the story
world, with the camera as an all-seeing eye, with omnipresent hearing and
with the possibility of the use of voice-over. The invisible witness narrator
is equally outside the story world, with concomitant seeing and hearing
abili es, but lesser than the omniscient and omnipresent narrator, and
with the possibility of voice-over. A character narrator, possibly in an
autobiographical narra ve, is within the story world and has a character-
glance point of view and the ability to hear in the circumstances
surrounding him or her, and may also use voice-over. The embedded
character narrator has his or her story told by another character within the
diegesis, so arguably has no sight or hearing within the story world.

ATTITUDINAL POINT OF VIEW

Closely linked to the concept of the narrator is the a tudinal point of view.
The a tudinal point of view is the filmmaker’s philosophical and
ideological standpoint that results from the whole of the narra ve, of
which the visual aspect is a significant part. Added to this is the dialogue,
the use of inter- tles, and voice-over. A tudinal point of view is therefore
closely connected
The narrator in film

to the author of the work, which may be portrayed through the

complex no on of the narrator. One of the first pieces of work in the area
of a tudinal point of view was Nick Browne’s (1982) examina on of a
sequence from Stagecoach (John Ford, 1939). Browne showed the way in
which filmic elements, such as mise-en-scène, edi ng, verbal commentary,
and op cal point of view, contribute to the act of narra on and,
furthermore, may influence the spectator’s a tude to events or characters
in the film world. His approach was in direct opposi on to the no on of
suture, as he argues:

A spectator is several places at once—with the fic onal viewer, with

the viewed, and at the same me in a posi on to evaluate and
respond to the claims of each. (Browne 1982, 12)

Browne’s approach to point of view therefore stresses the narrator’s

techniques for giving a subjec ve rendi on of the character’s emo ons
and state of mind, while at the same me assessing, valida ng, or refu ng
the character’s thoughts, feelings, and outlook. Stam et al. argue:

The rela onship of the narrator to the character is posed in terms of

consciousness and authority: point-of-view is understood in terms of
the narrator’s overarching or limited viewpoint on the agents and the
events of the fic onal world. (Stam, Burgoyne, and Fli erman-Lewis
1992, 85)

In Browne’s view, “the spectator’s place . . . is a construc on of the

text which is ul mately the product of the narrator’s disposi on towards
the tale” (1982, 11). He adds that the study of the narra ve has to func on
as part of the examina on of “the set of rhetorical mechanisms through
which the narrator presents the story to the spectator” (1982, 58). Here,
Browne, Branigan, and Bordwell are all concerned with the recep on
rather than the produc on of a narra ve. For these theorists, the principal
interest in their discussion of point of view is the cogni on of the spectator,
how she or he makes sense of what is seen and how she or he interprets
the film language, in the progressive assembly of a narra ve in his or her
mind. In this book, while audience recep on and the way in which the
spectator understands what More presents is important, the primary
concern is with the produc on of the narra ve and its assembly.
For Fabio Vighi, the narcissism frequently a ributed to More
cons tutes nothing but a theatrical masquerade of constantly shi ing
“forms of the self,” an interplay of masks that ul mately points to nothing
but the fragility of the authorial “I,” and its inability to achieve a degree of
consistency and self-transparency (Vighi 2005, 81). Vighi states that this
perspec ve leads to a fragmenta on of the iden ty and general instability.

In essence, the overwhelmingly redundant and mul farious presence

of More ’s self reflects a fundamental neurosis; the aliena on of the
modern subject who finds it impossible to locate himself in a social
context. (2005, 81)

A tudinal point of view is o en dominated by the poli cal, religious,

ideological, and even gender-biased views of the filmmaker as auteur.
These a tudinal points of view may be expressed through the ac ons or
words of the main protagonist, in what is visually constructed in the frame,
as well as through the dialogue, in par cular if this character is also
considered to be the narrator, and this may be supported or countered by
other, minor characters. A tudinal point of view is demonstrated in the
visual style and in the use made of the screen space for the audience to
interpret, in order to discover the filmmaker’s meaning. On occasion this
func on is not linked to any specific environments, such as a loca on
associated with a certain genre (i.e., Monument Valley and the Western) or
gender (i.e., the domes c kitchen being conven onally a female space).
The func on of a space may therefore be the intangible crea on of the
filmmaker used to depict or promote a par cular no on.

ATTITUDINAL POINT OF VIEW AND THE NARRATOR

QUESTION IN MORETTI’S FILMS
In all More ’s films the enmeshed connec ons between More the
author/writer/director (creator of the filmic text), More the narrator
(enunciator of the filmic text), and More the actor (character within the
filmic text) are complex. This book concerns More as the origin and
source of his films and since these works cons tute a discourse that is
ascribed to a par cular real man, there is arguably a de facto consistency
of worldview and philosophy rela ng to him as the author of his films.
Therefore, the approach to a tudinal point of view in this study assumes
that it is the perspec ve of More , displayed in par cular through his
visual style. On occasion More also ar culates his discourse ironically,
when the visual aspect is at variance with what is being spoken in the
dialogue. However, the line to be drawn between More the auteur,
More the narrator, and also More the protagonist is a very fine one.
More is clearly the author of the ar facts that are his films. As well as
direc ng and ac ng in all of his works, he is the writer and the producer as
well. The essen al point of much of More ’s filmmaking is that he wants
always to raise the consciousness of the Italian public and thereby cause
debate. More as author puts the shots together that deliver the
narra ve. Michele Apicella (or Don Giulio or Giovanni Sermon or Dr.
Brezzi or the fic onalized “Nanni More ”) is used by More to consider
the topics about contemporary Italian life, bring them to the public no ce,
and show them, some mes, in an ironic light to cause a reac on. This links
More with his Neo-Realist predecessors, such as Roberto Rossellini and
Vi orio De Sica, who produced films they hoped would s r up poli cal
engagement. Thus More is the author of the work, who narrates the
story through his selec on of visuals and the dialogue, who opens up the
discussion through the ac ons and words of the characters, who even
shares some of their characteris cs. More proposes various a tudinal
points of view, which some mes result in dubious behavior on the part of
the characters. For example, in Bianca, More is not sugges ng that
people whose moral outlook is different from his should be murdered, but
that the importance of family life and living in faithful married rela onships
should be considered.
However, it would give a false no on of More ’s output if it were
suggested that he debates every facet of contemporary life in Italy. Like
Michele in Sweet Dreams, he does not tackle concepts that he feels he
does not know about or perhaps is just not interested in. More does not
make films about issues such as poverty, bad housing, child abuse,
unemployment, the Mafia, and the North/South divide, as do other
contemporary Italian filmmakers, for example Gianni Amelio, Paolo
Sorren no, and Marco Tullio Giordana. Despite making films that have as
their backdrop educa on (Bianca) and Catholicism (The Mass Is Ended, We
Have a Pope), More does not have a great deal to say about formal
teaching or about religion. He is supposed to be making a documentary
about Italy in April, but apparently ends up making a musical. Of course
this is a reversal of the real message of the film, because what emerges is
mostly a poli cal view of contemporary Italy. Other no ons are absent
from More films. For example, there is li le sense of the ar s c and
historical heritage of Italy, except for his views about cinema. The
patrimony of Italy in art, literature, and architecture is rarely put on display.
The nostalgia More displays is o en very personal, rather than general,
especially in The Mass Is Ended and Red Lob, where he longs for the
comfor ng aspects of maternal care that he received in childhood. The
audience does not see a great deal of the Italian countryside and when it
does, the panorama is treated in a less loving way than are the façades of
buildings in Rome. There is very li le that a foreigner might consider to be
stereotypically Italian. As far as Italian food is concerned, the huge Nutella
jar, the omnipresent cakes, and cappuccini are seen, but very li le else.
Apart from the composed sound track, the only types of music that are
regularly heard are popular songs and world music, rather than opera or
folk music. Italian fashion, style, and the physical a rac veness of the
people are not emphasized. Italian history, apart from some contemporary
issues, is notably absent from his work. In fact, More only deals with
aspects within his own knowledge and sphere. Thus his films are peopled
by educated middle-class characters, with professional jobs, mostly living
in Rome in the last quarter of the twen eth century and beyond. He
usually turns the sa rical viewpoint onto himself and his genera on, within
his social class. His solu on to the problem of the aesthe c conflic ng with
the poli cal and social demands of his work is to use incongruity in the
form of irony and comedy, to fulfill the pleasure func on, while preserving
the other more sober func ons of his commentary on contemporary Italian
society. More as auteur uses the recurrent themes of family
rela onships, order and disorder, sickness and health, life and death, his
na ve city of Rome, the cinema, the contemporary state of Italy, and the
ac vi es of Silvio Berlusconi. Several mo fs run throughout his work,
including love of chocolate and cakes; hectoring volleys of ques ons, o en
on the telephone; outbursts of anger and even violence; personal neurosis
and narcissism; love of shoes and of the sea.
Cri cal opinion has frequently seen More ’s characters as various
disguises of the actor/director himself. Ewa Mazierska and Laura Rascaroli
suggest that the characters that More plays are various phases in a
person’s growth (Mazierska and Rascaroli 2004, 8). They consider that
there is a very thin line between More and the director, Michele, in
Sweet Dreams and state that:

[O]ne of the greatest achievements of this director does not lie in his
ability to present a truthful self-portrait in his films, but to erase the
boundaries between his on-screen and off-screen personas, thus
exploring and challenging the meaning itself of autobiography. (2004,
8)
 More can be seen as an obsessive, puritanical, le -wing poli cal
ac vist, with a taste for chocolate cake and a fixa on about shoes. More
has admi ed that he shares some of the personality a ributes that he
gives to his characters and that he exorcises his fears, inhibi ons, and
obsessions in his work, using irony as his most important weapon (Gili
1987, 15). Nevertheless, More is at pains to clarify that although he, as a
“real person,” does have some characteris cs in common with those
portrayed by the protagonist of his films (interest in poli cs, cinema, and
sports), there are also many traits that are not held in common (propensity
to murder, religious voca on, poli cal public office).
There is a Pirandellian dimension to this conundrum with reference to
the ar fact created and its author (see Luigi Pirandello’s “Sei personaggi in
cerca d’autore” / “Six Characters in Search of an Author,” in Three Plays,
[1921] 1969). The rela onship between More the filmmaker and More
the protagonist can be likened to that between a ventriloquist and his
dummy (Rink 1977). More the writer, director, and producer stands
behind the camera, as a rounded, real historical person, with a full
personal history, traits, psychology, needs, desires, ideologies,
philosophies, choices, and a future. This More is the controller, the
puppet-master, the ventriloquist who narrates the story through
audiovisual means of filmmaking; through choices of mise-en-scène,
cinematography, edi ng, and sound; though selec on, construc on, and
manipula on of the narra ve structure. When More the actor performs
in front of the camera, in the roles of Michele Apicella, Don Giulio,
Giovanni Sermon , Dr. Brezzi, and even Nanni, he is a character, with fixed
emo ons and psychology, a par al history, no choices other than those
wri en in the narra ve, no future, and a fixed story that can be replayed
many mes, but always with the same outcomes. Here he is a controlled
element, the puppet or the dummy. The audience reacts to the dummy
(More as actor in the character, the crea on) and not the ventriloquist
(More the filmmaker, the creator), although he is the voice behind the
dummy.
The confusion between More and the characters he plays occurred
when I Am Self Sufficient was made. Since this was More ’s first feature
film, at its ini al screening there was no preconceived audience
expecta on of what the film was to be about and who would be the
protagonist. More was aware early in his career that the public o en
confused the role he played in a film with his real self. Of I Am Self
Sufficient More maintains:

While the first film is usually the most autobiographical, two central
elements of the story were not autobiographical: I was not the father
of a child and I’ve never worked in a theater group. Everyone was
convinced that I had a five year old child, I was married and separated
from my wife and that I was a stage actor. (Gili 1987, 14)

Later in his career More will state, expanding his comment with his
usual self-irony:

However about my films they always say: “too narcissis c” (it is true
although for me it is a compliment), “nobody abroad is interested” (it
is not true, but it would be pathe c for me to claim prizes, success
and sales outside Italy), “too autobiographical” (and this is also true:
since I am a Communist poli cian, I have a 12 year old daughter, I hit
all Catholics I meet, I o en lose my memory and every Sunday I try to
kill myself by throwing my car down to the Circus Maximus). (Ses
1994, 79)

In fact, since the first shot in the film is of Fabio (Fabio Traversa) and
his mission to persuade people to join his theater group, it is feasible that
this might be Fabio’s story, with this character, in Gene e’s terms, as the
focalizer. The spectator is given a considerable amount of backstory about
Fabio’s character. He has been involved in experimental theater for six
years with varying success. As a leader, Fabio seems quite gentle at first,
but proves to be a harsh taskmaster once the theater group is on the
bonding expedi on. The spectator ini ally iden fies with Fabio, despairing
at his thwarted ambi ons and marveling at his pa ence in trying to
organize his troupe. Soon a erward Michele (Nanni More ) is
encountered, and the audience may then speculate that perhaps Michele
will be the focalizer of the film in terms of a tudinal point of view. Michele
rapidly strikes the spectator as a self-centered and antagonis c character,
and it soon becomes clear that Fabio and Michele hold different opinions
about many things, from the state of Italian cinema to the value of
pornographic films. Their conversa ons therefore func on as a type of
debate. Since More is the author of the text, it is arguable that the whole
film is perceived through More ’s a tudinal point of view, using Michele
as the mediator of this informa on.
The tangle between More , the author of Here Comes Bombo and
Michele Apicella, the protagonist of that film, is more pronounced than in I
Am Self Sufficient. One reason for this is that the Michele of I Am Self
Sufficient was part of a group, and was only one character of several that
were highlighted. However, in Here Comes Bombo Michele is determined
as the focalizer right from the outset. Despite the fact that the opening
scene takes place on a busy film set, the camera as invisible witness quickly
iden fies Michele as the main character, and this is reinforced since he
appears in all of the subsequent scenes. Michele func ons once again as
the mouthpiece of More , expressing many of the opinions that the
author held about the state of Italy at that me: the problems of the
family; the insecurity in the schools; the precarious nature of the film
industry; the anxiety and listlessness of young people. According to the
filmmaker Paolo Taviani, the protagonist of Here Comes Bombo is a mad,
moralis c, ironic, young man who goes in search of answers and the film is
“a fragment of truth” (Susanna Nicchiarelli 2007). However, following the
release of the work, More reiterated that his films were not
autobiographical, save for the fact that they might reflect his state of mind
at the me of the making of the film. In More ’s view, the film merely
presented the people and places that he knew, the situa ons that he had
seen, and the experiences that he had lived through (Giovannini, Magrelli,
and Ses 1986, 31).
In the case of Sweet Dreams, where the protagonist is a successful
young filmmaker, the audience was keener than ever to consider Michele
and More as being one and the same. Michele, the protagonist of Sweet
Dreams, has made several previous films, and More , the director of and
actor in Sweet Dreams, has also already made other films.
In an interview in 1987, Jean A. Gili asked More whether Michele
Apicella is in fact his double. In reply, More states:
 In Sweet Dreams—even if later someone wanted me to completely
take on the full personality of the character—I put on the screen a
wicked, presumptuous, nervous man. However, there was s ll some
distance between him and me. I go along part of the route with the
character but then he’s free. . . . As I am both the author and
performer of my films, people tend to consider that I think and I do all
that my protagonists think and do. People do not always understand
that there is some distance between me and my characters. (Gili
1987, 14)

In his defense at seeming overly egois c More contends:

Sweet Dreams is only self-cri cal. It does not want to blame anyone; it
is only concerned with this society of the spectacle in which everyone,
including myself, is involved daily. In short, everything is a show. So
why should More ’s obsessions not be on show. (De Bernardinis
2001, 55)

As frequently happens in More films, in Sweet Dreams the narra ve

begins in medias res as Michele enters from off screen at the rear of the
auditorium, to the complaints of the public. The se ng is in a cinema seen
from the spectator’s point of view and looking toward the screen. The
audience within the diegesis of Sweet Dreams has just seen Michele’s most
recent film, and he is clearly late for the subsequent debate, hence their
aggressive reac on. In Sweet Dreams there are a number of occasions
when certain ideas are debated, and various a tudinal points of view are
put forward. Each me a pa ern emerges. Michele is isolated at the front
of the venue in the presence of numerous hos le cri cs. He adopts a body
language that is arrogant, antagonis c, and bored. This a tude is
emphasized when he opens his mouth to speak, and supported by any
introductory remarks others make about him. More uses this repe ve
setup to indicate the cri cisms already made of his own first two films,
which show a remarkable resemblance to Michele’s first works.
Furthermore, in a de , self-ironic move, More a acks his own work,
using the words of the debates within the diegesis of Sweet Dreams, to
forestall any further cri cism (Miccichè [1981] 1990, 153).
 In many of these deba ng sequences, cri cisms are voiced by a
character played by Dario Cantarelli, who appears in different guises: as an
unkempt student, as an intellectual, and as a bizarre man in a beret. Each
me he appears he is costumed appropriately for the audiences at the
venues where the debates take place. His cri cisms of Michele’s films are
on their obscurity, unsuitability, and unpopularity and include the apparent
repe veness of the topics dealt with by Michele (young people, the riots
of 1968, problems in the family and in the educa on system) the
narrowness of his focus (only middle-class young people) and the
unintelligible nature of his work (incomprehensible to ordinary people). On
his final appearance, the character represents the Italian theater and film
cri c, Goffredo Fofi, who is placed in his natural se ng within both the
loca on of the cinema, where Michele’s new film, Freud’s Mother, is being
screened, and centrally in the frame. In the end, these deba ng sessions
almost seem to merge into one another, underlining the ubiquitous nature
of the hos lity experienced by Michele, and arguably experienced by
More at the start of his career.
A sequence in the same film, in which More shows the audience the
difficul es involved in the crea ve process of wri ng a film script, involves
a combina on of a tudinal point of view, fantasy, and edi ng. Freud’s
Mother, the film-within-a-film, is visualized as if taking place in Michele’s
mind, as he begins to write. The spectator witnesses the development of
the piece in a visual way. A er the character, “Freud,” has dictated some
notes to Anna, his daughter, he says that he cannot concentrate. There is
an immediate cut to Michele si ng in his room at home, wearily passing
his hand over his face showing the trials and tribula ons experienced by
the author. The film cuts back to “Freud” and Anna, who sit doing and
saying nothing. There are several cuts between a despondent Michele and
the Freuds, who say a couple of lines of pla tudes, before Michele states,
“I don’t know what to make my female characters say.” The frustra on
appears both with the creator and the created, as Michele si s through
several pages of script, while the Freuds sit in silence, gesturing their
dissa sfac on in dumb show. Eventually it is clear that when Michele has
writer’s block, “Freud” has nothing to say. “Freud” refuses to improvise and
the actors playing the roles of “Freud” and Anna leave the imagined film
set. This very much illustrates More ’s own a tude to extemporiza on.
He said, “As an actor I am not capable of improvising. I don’t want to try it
and I don’t believe in improvisa on at all” (Tesson 1987, 9). One cri c
(Yung 1981, 19) suggested that the tempi mor (dead me) in this scene
would have been be er confined to the cu ng room floor, but this stance
overlooks the representa on of the difficulty of the crea ve moment,
which More , almost certainly from his own experience, puts so directly
in front of the audience.
The character of Don Giulio expresses More ’s a tudinal point of
view in The Mass Is Ended. Don Giulio feels there is a unique bond of love
that exists between mother and child that cannot be replicated in any
other form of human love; this is one of the main reasons why he is so
upset when his sister, Valen na, wants to abort the baby she is expec ng.
A er his mother’s suicide, the young priest expresses these feelings
through a monologue at his mother’s bedside. Don Giulio sums up
More ’s perspec ve on family life in one of his sermons. He tells how a
woman at confession had declared to him the significant difference
between the feelings she had for her husband and those she had for her
child, “My son was made by me, my husband, on the other hand, was
made by another woman.” The priest reinforces this by adding, “No man
can ever be loved as he is by his own mother.”
Even though More is not a believer, his a tudinal point of view is
not an -Catholic, and The Mass Is Ended is not a cri cism of religion or of
the Catholic Church. More said:

There is no religious crisis, I am an atheist. But the priest is a person

who interests me, a human being in whom I have chosen to objec fy
myself, my character. Italy is full of people who believe in God but do
not believe in priests, but I believe in priests, because I am interested
in their brave choice, their obliga on to take care of others. (Cordelli
and Costan ni 2006, 76)

In fact, the film has a posi ve and reflec ve view of the role of the
priest. Don Giulio may not be able to help his family and friends with their
problems, but he does make an effort to do so. Any cri cism of believers
that the film offers is of people like Cesare, who see religion as a form of
hobby.
 In Red Lob the whole of the swimming pool becomes a place for the
amnesiac protagonist, Michele’s (Nanni More ), self-explora on and the
retrieval of his own iden ty, just as the Italian Communist Party of that
period had to remember and thus regain its own iden ty. More , through
the mouthpiece of Michele, puts forward his own individual ideas on the
Italian Communist Party and reflects on what it means to be a communist.
Many people in the 1980s wanted the Italian Communist Party to open up
and at that moment everything was being ques oned. This is seen in the
a tudinal point of view in Red Lob, as Michele struggles to recall what his
ideologies were and what was significant about his life. He encounters
many people at the poolside during the water polo match in Acireale. They
try to persuade him into their camp with their different beliefs and
principles, represen ng the debates that were taking place at the me. A
friend from Michele’s school days remembers some controversial past
behavior, with the sugges on that Michele, and hence the Communist
Party, has conveniently forgo en the episode. The referee at the water
polo match is scathing about the Italian Communist Party, saying that it is a
faded en ty that needs to be revived, and thus voicing some widely held
fears at the me. Two obsessed party members constantly ply Michele
with cakes, while at the same me haranguing him about his lack of
poli cal ac on. A trade union man also berates Michele about the Italian
Communist Party. Simone, a young Catholic, sees the Communist point of
view, based on equality and sharing, as being similar to his own
convic ons, but Michele violently and physically rejects him, thus
emphasizing the antagonism between Catholic and Communist in Italy.
Several comical mentors, each suppor ng another character, put forward
More ’s cri cism here of Italian society, sugges ng that people can no
longer have their own opinion but have to filter it through a third party for
their sanc on. Like thought processes or like moments within dreams,
these characters regularly interrupt the water polo game, arriving from
nowhere and disappearing as quickly as they came. They enter Michele’s
unconscious mind, and move every so o en into Michele’s memory.
A television studio is the se ng for a debate in Red Lob, which reveals
something of More ’s a tudinal point of view toward the failing
Communist Party. Here Michele is quizzed about the no on of being a
Communist and the contemporary state of the Italian Communist Party.
Having received a long list of synonyms for the word crisis, Michele refuses
to acknowledge that this could be the state of affairs with the Italian
Communist Party, and suggests that the party would do well to be more
inclusive in the future. In fact, by the 1980s the profile of the Italian
Communist Party ac vists had changed considerably since the 1950s and
1960s. At a congress held in March 1989, out of one thousand or so
delegates over one-third had university degrees. Women were one-third of
all delegates and 70 percent of those were under the age of thirty. In
addi on, roughly a third of the delegates did not believe that the working
class was central to their ideology. There was a rise in the number of
women vo ng for the Communists because of a large number of women
candidates (Sassoon 1997, 252–53). During the 1980s there was a feeling
that the significance of what it meant to be a Communist had been lost. In
various ar cles in L’Unità the constant complaint was that the poli cal
iden ty of the Italian Communist Party had faded and there was an
overwhelming feeling of disorienta on (Gundle 2000, 195). Michele tries in
a variety of ways to reply to his own ques on about iden ty, “What does it
mean to be a Communist?” Like the forge ul Michele, the Italian
Communist Party was in danger of losing its roots, its iden ty, and its
purpose, hence the constant refrain throughout the film that the
Communist Party is the same as the others, but it must also be different
(Gili 1989, 20). More is both author and narrator here, since it is he who
is a emp ng to rouse the Italian public by this pa erned structure of
memories, compelling them to remember who they are and what the
country is all about. This reflects More ’s own sen ments concerning the
need to define the parameters of le -wing poli cs in an atmosphere of
change in the late 1980s, as well as promp ng the Italians into
remembering the significant values of the Italian Communist Party, which
had kept that party in the forefront of the Italian poli cal world in the
1970s. The Italian Communist Party had been successful in the 1970s,
when Enrico Berlinguer had received 34.4 percent of the vote in 1976, but
by the 1987 elec on it had lost ground three mes in a row (1979, 1983,
and 1987), its share of the vote having fallen to 26.6 percent. During this
period, support grew for the Par to Socialista Italiano (PSI) under Be no
Craxi, with the Democrazia Cris ana (DC) improving its share of the vote
for the first me since 1968. For the Italian Communist Party, the areas
where the decline was steepest were the industrial north and the
strongholds in central Italy. The biggest loss was among the working classes
and the young. The Italian Communist Party was now the third party in the
eighteen–twenty-five age group, with only 20 percent, against 23 percent
for the PSI and 32 percent for the DC (Sassoon 1997, 252).
In more recent years, More has shown himself to be even more
vocal in expressing his ideas about le -wing poli cs outside his films. On a
famous occasion on September 14, 2002, in the Piazza San Giovanni in
Rome, More took part in a peaceful demonstra on, La Festa di Protesta
(The Fes val of Protest), which involved more than a million ci zens.
More was one of the main speakers. However, in an interview given
a erward to Gianfranco Mascia, More denied any desire to go into
poli cs. He added, “I found myself in this adventure, so that in a few years I
would not be ashamed that I had not tried to do anything. That’s all”
(Mascia 2002, 9).
In Dear Diary, one of More ’s principal aims is to show the audience
aspects of contemporary Italian society through the filter of his a tudinal
point of view, rather than merely telling them about it. Among the
purposes of Nanni’s journey on his Vespa is to illustrate the changes and
developments in Rome, in par cular in the twen eth century, and by
extension to different sec ons of Italian society. One of the purposes of his
visit to different loca ons within and outside the city is to offer comment
on their social origins and status. In this way La Garbatella, with its
working-class origins and varied architecture, is his preferred area, while
he has only contemptuous remarks for the wealthy dormitory zone of
Casal Palocco, and is somewhat surprised at finding Spinaceto, which is at
the opposite end of the social scale, acceptable. In a similar way, More
expresses his a tudinal point of view about the Æolian Islands, which have
separate iden es that can be expanded to encompass na onal issues.
Each island is used as a representa on of and a cri cism about some of the
societal problems of contemporary Italy. Lipari stands for the noise, traffic,
and overcrowding in ci es. Salina represents obsessive family planning that
results in each family having only one child, who becomes dominant within
the family and with whom the parents are totally obsessed. Panarea is a
symbol of shameless self-indulgence, while Alicudi shows the psychosis
that can develop from primi ve condi ons, isola on, and self-absorp on.
Stromboli expresses the difficul es that arise when over-ambi ous civic
planning with unrealis c aspira ons is in conflict with the feelings of the
local popula on. More ’s perspec ve on the medical profession is seen in
Dear Diary through the doctors who are consulted by Nanni for his illness.
They are visually presented as parts of the medical community of Rome,
but at the same me as individuals who are isolated one from another, and
cannot communicate even with a common purpose, that is, to diagnose his
cancer.
One of the themes running through More ’s cinema is the use of
language: the act of speaking and its rela onship with reality; its
possibili es of distor ng and concealing things; the fact that language
belongs to everyone. The rela onship between thoughts, spoken words,
wri en words, and ac ons interests him and shows his a tudinal point of
view. More demonstrates his a tudinal point of view toward arts cri cs
when he lampoons the arrogance and language of the newspaper
columnist in I Am Self Sufficient, who says:

Even the central part, which is easier to read, if you’ll allow me, could
be read as the difficulty of ac ng, amateurism, improvisa on, it is the
result I would say, how can I put it? an uneasy form, Oedipus not
resolved, a Deleuze-Gua ari rewri en by Fornari. . . . It is this kind of
dialec cal reading which is missing, if you’ll excuse me, also in our
own Marxist tradi on. Rereading Das Capital, I thought it was a li le
bit kitsch.

This was done with a considerable amount of nerve on the part of the
novice filmmaker, in that he used Beniamino Placido, a well-known
journalist and cri c for La Repubblica, to play the role of the drama cri c
that Fabio invites to watch the performance. Placido clearly enjoyed the
ironic, parodied role that he played. This would not be the last me that
More would reproach cri cs for their a tude to pieces of work, nor the
last me he would admonish a journalist for the poor use of language, nor
indeed the last me that he would use an individual professional to deride
an en re grouping. For instance, in Dear Diary, More torments the cri c
of Henry: Portrait of a Serial Killer (John McNaughton, 1986), played by the
director Carlo Mazzacura , in lieu of all the cri cs who have irritated him.
 In Red Lob, a young female journalist interviews Michele. This
poolside sequence becomes important for the discussion of the use of
language, par cularly in the media, showing More ’s a tudinal point of
view. In an interview, More gave an example from the 1970s of how
journalis c language is vulgar and facile. The word “gambizzato” (shot in
the leg) was a punishment meted out by the Red Brigades, the extreme
le -wing terrorist group. Subsequently, this expression was taken up by the
media, thus legi mizing the language and the culture of this terrorist
movement. More added:

It is a fact of resistance: resistance to modernity, to the easy things.

This language works because it is easy. To assimilate a fashionable
language or jargon makes you think in a more trivial way. What
ma ers is the ability to resist the offensiveness which is dominant, but
not to find or want a new morality. Look for it, yes, but find it, never.
(Toubiana 1989b, 23)

With his moralis c outlook and his need for integrity, it is the
rela onship between thoughts, spoken words, wri en words and ac ons
that interests More . Words are important and words can make a
difference to people’s lives. Words can conceal or reveal the truth of
situa ons. During the Red Lob interview, Michele shows abhorrence of
clichés, such as “marriage in pieces,” and foreign loan words like “trend,”
“cheap,” and “kitsch.” The clichéd expressions used by the journalist seem
to cause Michele physical pain, since for him thoughts and words have also
to be correct and orderly, so that life can be lived in the right way. He says,
“Whoever speaks badly, thinks badly and lives badly. You must find the
right words. Words are important. . . . We must fight against journalism,
against the wrong words.”
Michele’s media on of More ’s a tudinal point of view suggests
that once ideas are wri en down they become lies and illusions, since
there is always the difficulty of not being able to translate thoughts into
words. Michele con nues, “I hate the wri en word.” He adds, “You have to
invent a new language . . . a simple formula” that is clearer and more
precise. This need for precision and clarity is a trait that Michele seems to
have passed on to his daughter, Valen na. When the journalist says that
talking about shoes is “deligh ul,” Valen na says (as her father will do later
on) “But what are you saying?” It is to the journalist that Michele makes
the crucial statement about the Italian Communist Party, “We are a force
which is different from the others, even if we want to have the same rights
as the others, because we are the same even if we are different.” Later in
his career, in April, a frustrated Nanni makes the comment: “D’Alema, say
something le -wing, say something!” This is not just an ironic comment on
le -wing poli cs, but an observa on of the lack of words, of new words,
that might open up new lives, new poli cs.
However, it is not just the language of the media and poli cs that
More cri cizes. Equally disturbing to him is the carelessness of everyday
usage. In Here Comes Bombo Michele interrogates Cris na, a some me
girlfriend, to try to find out the reality concealed behind her evasive
replies. The carefree Cris na wanders aimlessly through life and behaves
like a parasite in her rela ons with the people she knows. Her refrain is, “I
go around, I see people, I move about, I know things, I do things.” Her
immense triviality distresses Michele, perhaps because it reflects his own
uncertainty and inac on in life. Her language alludes to a way of life that
seems to have forgo en the principle of reality.
More takes a moralis c view of the world, openly cri cizing what he
feels is wrong with contemporary society, be it in Italy or elsewhere. His
method of impar ng his a tudinal point of view to the audience is always
to take the didac c approach, even though the narra ve may be presented
in a variety of different ways (thriller, melodrama, comedy, diary, etc.). His
view of the world is very clear-cut, and his purpose, whether performing as
a homicidal mathema cs teacher, a troubled priest, or a frustrated film
director, is to sort out the right from the wrong, the order from the
disorder, and show the spectators the line he believes they should take.
Vito Zagarrio describes More as being an obsessive moralist and adds:

More is the person many people would like to have been, the
unhappy conscience of many film-makers, who for years have
pondered wisdom and consistency. (Zagarrio 2003, 378)

Serge Toubiana feels that More is in the mold of Rossellini or

Pasolini, when it comes to a moral viewpoint (Toubiana 1989a, 21), while
Antonella D’Aquino suggests that More ’s cinema describes his own
personal doubts and uncertain es, leaving his social conscience prey to his
own idiosyncrasies, hypocrisies, and ambi ons (D’Aquino 2004, 374).
More said of his rela onship with Michele Apicella:

The thirst for morality that my characters have is clearly something

that I feel as my own. (Gili 1987, 14)

As discussed above, the complex rela onship between author,

narrator, actor, and person in More ’s case is not easily resolved,
especially since he has crea ve control over the whole filmmaking process
and, apart from The Caiman, and to some extent We Have a Pope, he has
always played the part of the protagonist in his films to date. Roberto De
Gaetano (2002) even suggested, before the emergence of The Caiman, that
the strong bond between actor and author has meant that it would seem
almost impossible for anyone else to play the leading role in one of
More ’s films, in the same way that it would be unfeasible to imagine one
of his films without him as both director and screenwriter. De Gaetano
goes on to say:

The author speaks with and through the actor, the mask, the
character; the actor in turn speaks through the author who gave him
the word, and the freedom to express his difference from fic on, the
mask, the character. (De Gaetano 2002, 67)

In The Caiman, More did not play the role of the protagonist. In fact,
the screen persona of More (Nanni) is first encountered briefly a third of
the way through the film, when he dismisses the invita on to play the key
role of Berlusconi (the Caiman) in the proposed film. This is a further
example of apophasis. It is a key sequence, central to the meaning and
purpose of the en re film. As a poli cally commi ed filmmaker, More
clearly feels that there is a need to make a film about Berlusconi. However,
in The Caiman Nanni assumes the opportunis c, depoli cized a tudes of
many Italian film directors, who are also targets for More ’s sa re in this
film. He cannot be persuaded to take on the role of Berlusconi, since, in his
view, it has all been heard before. He is denying the need to make a film
about Berlusconi, when in reality this is a film about Berlusconi. By
showing all the visualized, imagined sequences from new film director
Teresa’s projected, but never completely made film, More does in fact
tell the audience once again about the corrup on in Berlusconi’s rise to
power. Furthermore, with another self-reflec ve and self-ironic twist,
More ’s screen persona con nues that he is already working on the
project for a comedy, since, “It’s always the right moment to make a
comedy, always.” This remark is clearly a gibe at the apoli cal film directors
men oned above. Paradoxically, spectators find themselves watching a
comedy made by the filmmaker More , which is the very film about
Berlusconi that Nanni claims not to want to be involved with.
It therefore comes as a shock at the end of the film when More
takes on the role of his poli cal nemesis, in a chilling and disturbing
sequence. The first thing to astound the audience is the fact that More
was prepared to take on the role of Berlusconi in the first place, although it
makes for a unse ling, almost Manichaean opposi on between individuals
with two conflic ng value systems. More ’s ac ng here is arres ng, with
his glacial, undemonstra ve, controlled delivery. His arrogant and sinister
performance as the Caiman evokes More ’s role as corrupted and
corrup ng Minister Cesare Botero in Daniele Luche ’s film Il portaborse /
The Factotum (1991). Commen ng on this la er role, Gian Piero Brune a
states, “More comes right out of himself and plays a character that is the
concentrated exemplar of all the vices” (Brune a 1998, 395).
The Caiman operates visually by dis lling complex issues into
startlingly memorable imagery. For example, as the film portrays one the
visualiza ons of a scene from the outlined Berlusconi film-within-a-film,
More uses a spectacular visual gag to ar culate the unresolved enigma
of how an ex-salesman and cabaret singer like Silvio Berlusconi became a
billionaire media mogul. A huge suitcase full of money crashes through the
ceiling of Berlusconi’s office and onto his desk, accompanied by a line that
becomes a reverbera ng refrain throughout the early part of the narra ve,
“Where has all this money come from?” (figure 11.3). This phrase is based
on the opening words of the book L’odore dei soldi / The Smell of Money
(Vetri and Travaglio 2001), “Where have you taken the money from?” This
book tackles the ques on of the origins of Berlusconi’s fortune. From the
a tudinal point of view, in The Caiman, More is pu ng forward
informa on about Berlusconi, as much to prevent complacency on behalf
of the le wing, as to persuade the right wing to change their allegiance.

“Where has all this money come from?”

Image reproduced by kind permission of Sacher Film, Rome

VOICE-OVER
A tudinal point of view is at mes demonstrated by the use of voice-over.
Although not a visual aspect of the films, the voice-over is always closely
linked to the image on the screen, and as such impacts on the perspec ve
element of narra ve space. It is important to dis nguish between various
manifesta ons of voice-over and to define what this is. “Over” implies that
the sound of words is not coming from any lips visible onscreen, or within
earshot, such as off screen in another room (Van Peer and Chatman 2001,
130). A voice-over may be in the form of a narra on, when the unseen
speaker is situated in a space and me other than that represented on the
screen. Bernard F. Dick has iden fied five forms of voice-over narra on:
the narra ng I; the Voice of God; the Epistolary Voice, where le ers that
advance the narra ve or proffer a confession are read aloud; the Repe ve
Voice, such as when a sick or insomniac character appears to hear dialogue
repeated from earlier in the film; the Voice from the Machine, which is a
version of the Voice of God, heard at the end of a film to e up any loose
ends (Dick 1998, 26–35). The narra ng “I” is used in a feature film when a
character gives a first-person narra ve with voice-over, either recoun ng
past events or giving the innermost thoughts of the narrator. This was
typically used in the film noir format and in the literary adapta ons of the
1940s. A voice-over narra on nearly always implies that the events
narrated are in the past and are completed, so that the outcome is known.
This is why characters who are revealed to be dead during the unfolding of
the plot can some mes present the voice-over narra on, for example,
Laura (O o Preminger, 1944) and Sunset Boulevard (Billy Wilder, 1950).
The third-person “Voice of God” narra on is typically heard in
documentaries and epics. In a documentary there may be a non-character
narrator or commentator. Usually in a documentary the narrator will be
unseen, voicing over the ac on.
Voice-over is also used to represent interior monologue, in order to
give the audience access to the thoughts of one or more of the characters.
Dick calls this the Subjec ve Voice (1998, 33). In this case the sound of the
words comes from a speaker seen on the screen, but whose lips are not
moving with the speech. The sen ments portrayed in the voice-over are
o en in sharp contrast with what is said out loud, offering a point of irony.
Sarah Kozloff has worked extensively on the voice-over, and in an
a empt to simplify the terminology, uses the straigh orward terms “first-
person narra on” where the character narrator appears as an actor in his
or her own story and “third-person narra on” to describe where the
character narrator does not appear in the story she or he recounts. She
further defines first-person narrators into “frame narrators,” where the
character narrator starts the narra on at the beginning of the film, but
whose act of narra ng is not visualized; and “embedded narrators,” who
begin to narrate a er the story has begun, and who are visualized. For
Kozloff the frame narrators have more authen city and authority than do
the embedded narrators, who may be perceived to be unreliable (Kozloff
1988). She adds:

Voice-over narra on can be used crea vely and effec vely to provide
exposi on or to offer in macy, irony, or the complica on of a limited
or unreliable narrator. (Kozloff 2005, 638)

It should be added that there is an edi ng/montage aspect to voice-

over, in that the “layer” of the soundtrack that contains the voice-over is
given a different acous c quality to the rest of the soundtrack. In other
words, it is explicitly marked as being a product of montage rather than
belonging to the illusion of an unfolding reality neutrally recorded.
Whereas the recording of an unfolding reality may contain narrators telling
stories, voice-over deliberately breaks that illusion by superimposing a
heterogeneous layer onto the rest of the soundtrack. Since it is based on
the wri en text, Gene e’s scheme discussed above does not take into
account the voice-over narrator who is not a character in the film. In this
way, there is not an exact correspondence between the literary first-person
narrator and the filmic character narrator, since the la er, who is part of
the diegesis, belongs in a different audio realm from the rest of what is
being narrated.

VOICE-OVER IN MORETTI’S FILMS

Although More uses voice-over in many of his films with varying
func ons (see figure 11.4), he never uses the “Voice of God,” “the frame
narrator,” or “the embedded narrator” as described above. He mainly
employs two forms of voice-over. The first is the narra ng “I,” when an
unseen speaker is situated in a space and me other than that represented
on the screen. The second represents interior monologue, giving the
audience access to the character’s thoughts. The narra ng voice-over is
either for informa on, as in the documentary sec ons of Dear Diary and
April, or for storytelling that distances or detaches the visuals, seen as
though in the present me, from the spoken word, which suggests that the
images are from the past. In commenta ng mode these voice-overs can be
merely descrip ve, giving the audience a no on of me and place.
Occasionally the verbal observa ons may be in ironic contrast with what is
presented on the screen. When represen ng the inner thoughts, the voice-
over is a key tool in character analysis. However, a tudinal point of view is
not a feature of every occasion when voice-over is used in More ’s work.
Voice-over in More ’s films

Here Comes Bombo, Bianca, and The Mass Is Ended have no voice-
over of any kind, which suggests More ’s perspec ve is demonstrated in
other ways, such as through the mise-en-scène, cinematography, or
dialogue. Bianca and The Mass Is Ended are also the least autobiographical
films, which might account for this lack. The interior monologue usage is
found in The Son’s Room when Giovanni considers his pa ent’s cases, while
at the same me entering into dialogue with them within the diegesis. This
is revelatory about Giovanni’s success, or lack of it, as a psychoanalyst, as
well as providing moments of humor in the incongruity between internal
feelings and external speech. It is also found, again comically, in We Have a
Pope. In the elec on sequence at the start of the film there are close-ups
of several of the cardinals, with mul ple voice-overs wis ully praying that
the par cular individual would not be chosen for the difficult task of being
the pon ff. This starts with just one voice and crescendos into a cacophony,
as the majority of the clerics try to resist the spiritual call.
I Am Self Sufficient, Sweet Dreams, and The Caiman use the
storytelling voice-over with two variants. In I Am Self Sufficient, voice-over
is used as an ironic comment, and therefore a tudinal point of view, on
roman c filmmaking. It is heard in the scene when Michele and his
estranged wife, Silvia, part for the final me. The aesthe c framing of Silvia
within an archway, the silhoue es of Michele and his son against a grey
sky, accompanied by the use of emo onally atmospheric music, sets the
scene for a roman c event. The majority of the sequence is carried out in
mime, with Michele in a privileged central posi on, domina ng the frame.
A er the drama c last embrace, Michele draws scissors from his pocket,
and snips off a lock of his flowing hair. He then dispels any no on of
spontaneity by producing a box into which to put the hair. Michele’s
roman c token is a hollow one, and the gesture is one of self-
aggrandizement. This is an example of bathos in More ’s work, where the
audience expecta on is thwarted by the subversion of the accepted
meaning of a situa on. The scene ends with Michele’s voice-over
describing, in the past tense, how he would not see Silvia again for another
fi een years, thus crea ng his own personal narra ve from a historical
perspec ve. This is similar to Dick’s Voice from the Machine (Dick 1998,
34–35).
A further instance of the narra ng voice-over occurs in Sweet Dreams
in a sequence in a bar. In this scene, the ac on around filmmaker Michele
is frozen, while he speaks directly to the camera, making a declara on,
which verges on the confessional, about how this venue was important to
him because of the personal recogni on he received there. He reveals this
fact as a “horrible secret.” The use of montaggio interno (internal
montage), which is described in detail in chapter 12, with sta c camera and
deep focus here emphasizes Michele’s centrality in the se ng as well as
showing how the variety of people in the frame are all turned toward him.
It is a visual representa on of his egocentricity, as he stands in the very
heart of a crowd and they all assemble around him, fixing their gaze on him
as he speaks. He uses the past tense, as though rela ng events that have
happened in former mes, yet he is speaking in the present, thus
mythologizing himself and adding further to the no on of his narcissism.
The examples from The Caiman offer an unmediated verbal narra on
of a film-within-a-film that is simultaneously visualized for the audience.
This is heard when film producer Bruno is telling his sons a bed me story,
which features a character from several of Bruno’s films, Aïdra. As he
verbally describes the scene where a spiteful food cri c with no sense of
taste ends up being murdered, the imagined film, La schiava d’amore / The
Slave of Love, is envisioned on screen. In a similar way, there are a number
of visualiza ons of Teresa’s screenplay of The Caiman, which include
several scenes depic ng the financial corrup on of the Berlusconi-like
protagonist. The images convey the informa on about the sordidness of
these situa ons, while the cri cal voice-overs from Bruno and Teresa,
which accompany these imaginings, add a subtle, but pointed, a tudinal
point of view. More also frequently makes use of a type of voice-over
that involves the narra ng voice-over func oning not only in two different
me zones but in two different spaces. More describes this technique by
saying:

In the chapter on doctors [Dear Diary], there is also a par cular use of
the narrator’s voice, which I call “the voice off screen on screen” or
even “the voice off/in.” (Chatrian and Renzi 2008, 149)

More ’s term “off/in” has a narra ng voice in the present of the

filmic diegesis that comments in the past tense, while at the same me
being involved in a dialogue currently seen on the screen. More
considers this combina on to be a way of breaking away from the fic on
while remaining within the fic on. There is a further varia on of an “off/in”
voice-over in the Salina episode of Dear Diary, since Nanni is seen on
screen wri ng his observa ons in his diary, and the audience hears his
voice, but there are no lips moving. The scene then proceeds with a
cutaway to a hillside village, with a con nuing voice-over in the true sense
of commentary. This use of voice-over is giving informa on but is also
a tudinal point of view, since a cri que about the only-children situa on
in Salina is offered at the same me. More uses a similar technique in
April, in the opening sequence set on March 28, 1994, where Nanni and his
mother are watching the Italian general elec on results on television.
Employing an on-screen commentary on his behavior, Nanni describes in
voice-over in the present of the film, ac ons that happened in the past.
Nanni then speaks directly to the audience, giving the date and the
outcome of the vote, which was victory for the right wing. He subsequently
reaches off screen to take and smoke a huge joint, commen ng again in
the past tense that this was the first me he had ever done so. This
informa on, spoken out loud in “off/in” mode, seems to distance himself
from the event.
Dear Diary and April include commenta ng and inner monologue
types of voice-over, and because of their autobiographical slant, both films
use voice-over to give More ’s a tudinal point of view. This voice-over
combina on of commentary, interior monologue, and a tudinal point of
view is par cularly no ceable in the sec ons of April where Nanni
vacillates between his ambi on to make a musical and his conscience-
driven compulsion to make a documentary about contemporary Italy. In
this way More is able to offer his perspec ve on the Northern League,
Berlusconi’s conduct, the situa on vis-à-vis Albanian refugees in Italy,
Roman poli cians, and the state of the le -wing par es. He also reflects, in
a third-person monologue, about how having a child to care for is forcing
him to grow up:

Nanni had struggled at the beginning, because he did not understand

why his son wanted to be with his mother and not with his father. . . .
One admirable thing about him was the process by which he tried to
become an adult, to be able to stand apart, but s ll being present,
because the child’s needs come before everything else. And so he
began to learn to separate himself from himself. He began to think of
the baby and finally faced the challenge of a man who has to become
an adult.

His ul mate view on this is that, in fact, there is no need for him to
grow up a er all as he says, “But why must you become an adult? There’s
no reason.” This no on of growing up and growing older is also confronted
in Nanni’s home, when a friend at his birthday party demonstrates with a
measuring tape just how li le life the forty-something Nanni would have
le if he lived, for example, to be eighty years old.

INTER-TITLES
An inter- tle is a piece of printed text edited into the filmed ac on at
intervals during the course of a film. Inter- tles were originally used in
silent films, not just to reproduce dialogue, but also to indicate a specific
se ng, comment on the ac on, give defini ons, and reveal the inner
thoughts of characters (Dick 1998, 18–20). Gaudreault and Jost suggest
seven func ons for inter- tles in silent films. Four are linguis c: guiding the
spectator; giving an ideological point of view; naming items that could not
be shown; progressing the narra ve through dialogue. The remaining three
are narra ve: construc on of the diege c world; summarizing what is seen
on the screen; an cipa ng ac on on the screen (Gaudreault and Jost 2005,
63–71). Similar to the voice-over when it is used in narra ve mode, the
inter- tle nowadays frequently carries the perspec ve of an omniscient
and omnipresent narrator. Gaudreault and Jost contend, “With the inter-
tle it became possible to influence the recep on of the film in a
controlled and unambiguous way” (Gaudreault and Jost 2005, 68). More
recently, the inter- tle has been used by directors such as Mar n Scorsese
(Raging Bull, 1981 and GoodFellas, 1990), Woody Allen (Hannah and Her
Sisters, 1986) and Philip Kaufman (The Unbearable Lightness of Being,
1986). They are used to segment the film, some mes into historically
dated parts, to add to the authen city of the narra ve. Some mes they
employ a line from the dialogue or a character sketch, while at other mes
they use a quote or an ironic comment that is juxtaposed with what
follows on the screen.
Inter- tles, unlike the voice-over, are present in only two of More ’s
films to date: Dear Diary and April. In Dear Diary, handwri en inter- tles
introduce the three separate sec ons of the film, “On My Vespa,” “Islands,”
and “Doctors,” which are all connected by the fic onalized persona of
“Nanni More .” The inter- tles in April are more frequent, and are
generally accompanied by music or a diege c sound, such as the noise of a
poli cal demonstra on. In April the inter- tles fall into three categories.
First there is informa on on dates: “28th March 1994, the evening of the
elec on results”; “A year and a half later”; “Spring ’96. Here come the
elec ons.” Second there are pieces of dialogue an cipa ng the ac on that
will follow: “I’m ready, I’m almost ready”; “How did she manage to breast
feed me?” Finally, More adds commentaries on what the audience is
about to see: “Cu ngs, more cu ngs and covers.” The significance here of
using the wri en word in addi on to dialogue and visual narra on is that
both these films are in diary format, dealing on occasion with
autobiographical elements of More ’s life. Inter- tles combine the
authorial agency with the narrator’s agency and are a direct comment from
More , whose aim is to direct the audience’s thoughts or a en on in a
par cular direc on. Arguably, inter- tles are absent in More ’s other films
because the no on of very specific me and place is less important.
Speaking about The Son’s Room, More said, “I have tried to avoid all the
elements likely to situate the film. All the signs of the present: a
newspaper, a conversa on about a poli cal event, a television program. . . .
I didn’t want anyone to be able to date the story.” (Chatrian and Renzi
2008, 187).
Even though More does not share the lifestyle of some of his
characters, since he is neither a homicidal schoolteacher, nor a priest, nor a
psychoanalyst, nevertheless he does have some similar experiences (water
polo player, film director, new father) and character traits (obsessive
behavior, perfec onism, egocentricity). The fundamental principles that
More believes in, about speaking, thinking, and living aright, appear
throughout the narra on of all his films. The spectator is le in li le doubt
where More ’s perspec ve lies, concerning poli cs, family life, and
everyday ethical judgments, even though this is all filtered through the
educated, middle-class, Roman life he shares with most of his characters.
In the convoluted and shi ing blend between More as author, narrator,
and protagonist there is a situa on, suggested without any inten on of
blasphemy, somewhat akin to the concept of the Trinity, in that More
author/narrator/protagonist is three in one and one in three. As More
the auteur and filmmaker he is the omniscient and omnipresent narrator,
who ini ates all op cal points of view. The a tudinal point of view is put
forward either by the protagonist, in the character roles of Michele
Apicella, Don Giulio, “Nanni More ,” Giovanni Sermon , and Dr. Brezzi, or
by a minor character who promotes More ’s philosophy and worldview.
This may be done by pu ng More ’s ideas into the mouths of the
characters, or through the visual style, character point-of-view shot, voice-
over, or inter- tle, using irony, comedy, or contrast. Whatever method is
employed, More commands the narra ve space and as auteur is the
enduring narrator of his works.
 Chapter 12
An Artist at Work
About a third of the way through April, there is a sequence where
Nanni forms a huge collage of cu ngs from newspapers. In voice-over he
states that a sec on of the documentary he is making will be dedicated to
journalism and he has started literally cu ng and pas ng ar cles together
into “one huge newspaper.” He picks up the edge of this vast blanket of
ar cles and wraps himself in it (figure 12.1). More is sugges ng in this
sequence that all Italian newspapers are the same and that for him they
are like one single newspaper. He is implying that there is no true freedom
of informa on in Italy and that all newspapers are ed to poli cal and
economic interest groups and they only pretend to be independent.
However, the way in which he has represented these ideas visually to the
audience holds more impact, interest, and sway than any amount of
dialogue on the subject. Furthermore, his method of assembling these
fragments of news is similar to the way in which More constructs his
films, gleaning informa on from oddments alluding to different loca ons,
various films, and diverse inspira ons, blending them into a whole. Indeed,
More is a maker of cinema c patchwork quilts.
More creates works of art that give pleasure to the spectators, not
just because they may share some of his ideologies and personal
philosophy, not just because the films are appealing, with amusing
characters, wi y dialogue, and an engrossing plot, but because above all
they entail a sa sfying organiza on of ninety minutes’ visual and aural
experience, through a well-cra ed use of narra ve space. The aesthe c
and specifically visual aspect of More ’s work is one that merits fuller
explora on. Many film cri cs have neglected the ar facts that are his
works, in favor of the considera on of his philosophy, poli cs, and
ideology.
The magazine collage

Image reproduced by kind permission of Sacher Film, Rome

VISUAL STYLE IN MORETTI’S MISE-EN-SCÈNE

Meaning(s) are produced in the filmic text through the placing and
juxtaposi on of line, shape, pa ern, color, angles, ligh ng, focus,
movement, direc on, and contrast. In this way, the filmic image allies itself
with the image produced in the other visual arts, with the addi on of
movement.

Line and Shape

Lines can be formed within the frame by architecture, landscape,

furnishings, and so forth. Horizontal lines, going across the width of the
frame, are considered to be solid and stable. Horizons, fallen trees, oceans,
and sleeping people all have a quality that suggests permanency,
melessness, or rest. Ver cal lines, reaching the height of the frame, evoke
no ons of power and strength (skyscrapers), growth (trees), and energy
(rockets). Diagonal lines are thought to be dynamic and imply movement.
They work well in drawing the spectator’s eye through an image. They
create points of interest at their intersec ons with other lines, and o en
give images depth by sugges ng perspec ve (Wildi 2006, 28). Numerous
diagonal lines, leading in different direc ons and intersec ng with one
another can, however, make an image seem chao c and confusing. So ,
organic lines, especially in the landscape, can evoke a sensa on of
openness. In a landscape, naturalis c shapes, such as trees, usually
predominate in contrast to manmade, geometric shapes, such as houses.
Lines that are repeated throughout an image can create very effec ve
pa erns, as seen in the ridges of a plowed field or a sand dune, for
example in The English Pa ent (Anthony Minghella, 1996). The lines of a
door or window frame may be used for the entrapment of a character, or
may suggest claustrophobia, while lines between characters may signify
separa on or aliena on, for instance in the opening sequence of L’eclisse /
Eclipse (Michelangelo Antonioni, 1962).
Narra ve space is created by More ’s use of contras ng lines within
the frame in his mise-en-scène in The Mass Is Ended. At the bedside of his
dead mother, Don Giulio (Nanni More ) addresses his mother’s body and
creates verbally the se ng from his childhood. On a lovely spring day he
had played out with his friends. The quality of the light on that day, the
feelings of happiness and security that he felt in childhood, and the
closeness of his rela onship with his mother are vividly described in his
speech. The somewhat bleak and clinical real-world se ng of his mother’s
bedroom, where this one-sided conversa on takes place, is in complete
contrast to the luminosity and joy of the memory se ng that he has
created in words alone. Her corpse forms a strong horizontal line at the
bo om of the frame, which implies durability and steadfastness, revealed
in the mother whom he loved and who was so fundamental to his youth.
Don Giulio’s figure, on the other hand, is a central ver cal line standing
above her, indica ng the restless dynamism of the priest.
Shapes within the frame may be naturalis c, such as in a landscape,
where the outlines of plants and trees predominate in contrast to
manmade, geometric forms, such as buildings. Mul ple or repeated use of
geometric shapes increases and enhances their decora ve effects. In Le
crime de Monsieur Lange / The Crime of Monsieur Lange (Jean Renoir,
1936) circular shapes, together with circular camera movement, support
and enhance the no ons of the solidarity of the working classes under the
Popular Front in France in the early 1930s. Shapes may arrange themselves
into pa erns within the frame, and thus add meaning to the narra ve
space. The pa ern of the interlinking cobblestones, seen in the courtyard
of the publishing house in The Crime of Monsieur Lange, indicate the need
for collabora on in the working class and increase the idea of the co-
opera ve that is set in mo on a er the supposed death of the capitalist,
Batala (Jules Berry). Sharp and predominantly angular or pointed features
within the frame, such as skylines, may create a feeling of disharmony,
antagonism, aliena on, or even disorienta on. In Dear Diary, during Nanni
and Gerardo’s stay on the remote island of Alicudi, Nanni goes on a
nigh me quest to find some window blackout covering. As he ventures
outside the building, the ligh ng throws bizarre shadows, with shapes
reminiscent of the German Expressionist décor and sharp roof contours of
Das Kabine des Dr. Caligari (The Cabinet of Dr. Caligari, Robert Wiene,
1920). This increases the no on of eeriness that fills the island.

Color
The polysemy of color, in both daily life and in art, is firmly established
(Wilson 1998; Kristeva 1981; Andrew 1998; André et al. 1995). The use of
the color red in Trois Couleurs: Roug / Three Colors: Red (Krzysztof
Kieślowski, 1994) suggests a mul plicity of meanings, including warmth,
passion, anger, and danger, all of which feature in the narra ve of that film.
The choice of black and white, rather than color, in the frame o en serves
to highlight significant contrasts. In La Haine / Hate (Mathieu Kassovitz,
1995) black and white gives the film a gri y documentary feel and creates
a dark, serious atmosphere where a clear-cut world of binary opposites is
presented. When bright colors are used, such as Technicolor in the great
Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer musicals of the 1940s and 1950s, a sense of
op mism and well-being are created (Neale 2001). Where colors are
desaturated, the space depicted in the frame may appear to be bleak or to
lack vitality. This can be seen in films such as Blade Runner (Ridley Sco ,
1982), where the lack of vivid color suggests the anxiety about cultural
values in an affluent but spiritually vacant society. Angela Dalle Vacche and
Brian Price maintain:

Color is thus no incidental characteris c of film stock; it is an element

carefully considered by set designers, cinematographers, and
directors, all of who must remain sensi ve to the way in which color
 can create meaning, mood, sensa on, or perceptual cues. (Dalle
Vacche and Price 2006, 2)

All More ’s films have been made in color and his choices of color are
important for the development of meaning(s) in his work. Many of his
works have blue as the predominant hue, because water, whether in a
natural or manmade se ng, features in many of the films. Although Pierre
Sorlin, in his comments on the influence of television on Italian film,
suggests that the use of bright colors, in par cular blue, in The Mass Is
Ended, Red Lob, and Dear Diary is similar to those of television
commercials, in fact, the colors and the atmosphere of the pool in Red Lob
were deliberately made to reflect the aesthe c of Italy in the 1950s
(Toubiana 1989a, 21). Later in the film there is a very sudden passage from
the bright blue of the day to a more subtle shade at night. The effect of the
blue illuminated pool was such that More decided to shoot a significant
part of the film at night, despite all the difficul es he had with the water
temperature and the bats that hovered around the water. More ’s
ra onale for this change of color intensity to create a narra ve space was
that the unexplained transi on from day to night intensified the drama c
situa on (Gili 1989, 21).

Costume and Color

What people wear gives informa on about their status, mood, and
character, both in real life and in a film, and makes up an important aspect
of narra ve space. Costume as part of the mise-en-scène is chosen by the
filmmaker to have meaning, and whether everyday contemporary clothing
or ou its specially created for the film are used, they will have layers of
significance like all proper es of narra ve space. Costume can act as a
disguise, provide a mask behind which to hide, or be used as a marker of
role or posi on. It can make an individual into part of a group. Some a re
has conven onal meaning in the outside world, such as the clerical
costumes in The Mass Is Ended and We Have a Pope and clearly the period
costumes used in the filming of Nanni’s pastry-cook musical in April, or the
Roman produc on of Anton Chekhov’s The Seagull in We Have a Pope,
indicate a past me and a different loca on.
 More ’s use of color in se ng and costume in The Mass Is Ended
plays an important part of his manipula on of the narra ve space. Black is
used for the somber formal clothing for funerals and for the uniforms of
both a judge and a medical professional. Black is also used to intensify both
Saverio’s (Marco Messeri) and Cesare’s (Roberto Vezzosi) depression, the
one at his failed rela onship, the other at the renuncia on of his voca on.
White, as a symbol of purity and innocence, fulfills its tradi onal func ons
as wedding clothes, clerical vestments, and the infant’s white garment for
bap sm. Infrequent touches of pink (the house and church on the island,
the dress of a li le girl) offer points of human warmth for Don Giulio in
places where he feels content, while yellow (flowers, tablecloth, and tent)
reinforce op mis c feelings and highlight friendship and togetherness. A
point of contrast to the cityscapes, which generally form the major part of
More ’s se ngs in this film, is found in the rare glimpses of green in the
countryside. The three “fallen” women, Lucia (Luisa De San s) wife of the
ex-priest, Antonio, Astrid (Antonella Fa ori) ex-partner of the recluse
Saverio, and Arianna (Carlina Torta) mistress of Don Giulio’s father, all wear
red when they are first seen, sugges ng their “sinful” status (Delaney 2004,
324; Hawthorne [1850] 2007; Heller 2009, 55). Red is the color most
commonly associated with seduc on, sexuality, ero cism, and immorality,
possibly because of its close connec on with passion and with danger. This
color is s ll commonly associated with pros tu on, as in the past
pros tutes in many ci es were required to wear red to announce their
profession, and houses of pros tu on displayed a red light. However, as
Astrid repairs her rela onship with Saverio at the end of the film, she is
dressed in blue.
The la er color is the most notable to be used in the mise-en-scène,
for both costume and se ng. At the very start of the film, the frame is
nearly completely filled with the sea, the horizon as a darker blue
horizontal line, and a ny por on of an islet protruding on the right-hand
side of the frame. As Don Giulio rises from the bo om of the frame and
prepares for a swim to the islet, the blue tones of the sea are reflected in
his shirt so that he almost blends into the surroundings. From the sea at
the start of the film to the carpet in the church at the end of the film, blue
denotes tranquility and calm. Cesare and his fellow pupils in the catechism
class are all in shades of pale blue. Even Andrea wears blue in prison,
because of the integrity of his poli cal convic ons, and Don Giulio pulls out
Saverio’s blue collar from beneath his dark sweater in an a empt to
salvage something from deep within his depression.
In The Mass Is Ended there are three types of a re worn by Don
Giulio: the vestments he wears in various ceremonials; the cassock that
represents a man of the church when he is out in the street in his
professional capacity; the civilian clothes he wears when relaxing. These
three denote his three func ons: priest in church, priest in society, and
priest as man. Don Giulio first appears in civilian clothes, so the man is
seen before he is acknowledged as a priest, and this has significance for
the rest of the film as he ba les against the tensions between his emo ons
as an ordinary man and his du es and responsibili es as a man of the
cloth. Liturgical garb may be seen as part of a ceremonial performance in a
public place. The violet color of Don Giulio’s chasuble acts as an indicator
of the me of year that the story takes place (around Easter), as well as the
various ceremonies, thus green for ordinary me, violet for Lent, and white
for the weddings and the bap sm. These vestments are seen least
frequently, as the film concentrates less on his ceremonial func on as a
priest than on his role in the community, where he is seen wearing his
badge of office, the clerical collar. Notably, Don Giulio wears his civilian
clothing in the scene immediately a er some crucial and trauma c
incident has occurred when he is in the dress of his priestly persona, thus
a er the failure of his appearance as character witness in the court
sequence, a er the violent encounter in the car park, and a er his
passionate quarrel with his sister, Valen na.
Color and costume are also important in We Have a Pope where the
majority of the characters, not just the protagonist, undergo a major
change of clothing in the film that corresponds to the change in their roles,
their degrees of formality, and their circumstances. As the real-life footage
of the funeral of Pope John Paul II merges impercep bly into the fic onal
narra ve, the audience has its first spectacular view of the two lines of
cardinals in their scarlet robes. As they work through the many rounds of
the papal ballot, the detail of their costume, with the mozze a (cape),
bire a (hat), and lace-trimmed rochet (white vestment) can be seen. As
the film progresses they subs tute this official, grandiose ceremonial a re
for more casual everyday clerical clothing, un l, persuaded by the
psychoanalyst, Dr. Brezzi (Nanni More ) to take part in a volleyball
contest, they cover their cassocks with tabards that iden fy them as team
players within con nental groupings, rather than as elite clergymen. Only
in the final moments of the film, when the catastrophic situa on of the
Pope’s (Michel Piccoli) escape from his appointed role appears to be
restored, do they once again put on the formal clothing. This decline in
formality reflects the abnormality of the situa on, where one member of
their group has been marked out to be the successor to St. Peter, but is
reluctant to take the office. Historically, few candidates for the papacy have
refused the role, although notably Pope Celes ne V (1215–1296) at first
ran away, then abdicated a er only five months and was finally imprisoned
and possibly murdered by his successor, Pope Boniface VIII. Brezzi, and the
young Swiss Guard (Gianluca Gobbi), whose job it is to impersonate the
figure of Pope-elect Melville, also move through a cycle from formal to
informal as the irregular situa on in the Va can progresses. Brezzi
transforms from a smartly a red doctor into informally dressed sports
organizer. The guard removes his uniform while in the papal apartments.
However, in both cases the audience never sees the restora on of the
original clothing. In the last shot of Brezzi, he is in shirtsleeves without a
e, looking disappointed and disheveled as the volleyball tournament
comes to an abrupt halt. The guard’s final scene finds him in a casually
unbu oned tunic, as he secretly watches the volleyball compe on. The
lack of resolu on of their costume indicates an unfinished quality and
suggests that, although audience expecta on is for a restora on of the
equilibrium of the narra ve, this is not going to happen.
The costume “cycle” of the actors whom Melville meets in the Rome
hotel goes in the opposite direc on. The first sight of them is in their
nightclothes, as they try to calm a member of their troupe (Dario
Cantarelli) whose mania makes him take on all the roles in Chekhov’s The
Seagull. Later they are seen rehearsing wearing a mixture of everyday
clothing and period a re. Finally, in the drama c scene where the
cardinals sweep into the theater to bring Melville back to the Va can, they
are in performance and clad in the disguise of late-nineteenth-century
costume. This narra ve arc suggests that Melville will in the end put on the
papal robes, overcome his bout of “stage fright,” go back on stage, and
discharge his duty. However, More subverts this neat ending, using
instead a more believable one where Melville s ll feels unable to fulfill the
role of pon ff, despite his contact with the warmth and humanity that he
has found on the streets of Rome.
Melville in his cardinal’s robes is unexcep onal. More does not mark
his presence in any of the early scenes in the papal conclave. Indeed,
Melville’s name is not heard un l several minutes into the film. Once the
cardinals choose him, the scarlet vestments are replaced by the white
papal garments and Melville is recognized as Pope when in this a re and
when in the se ng of the Va can. Once outside the restricted se ng of
the Va can, Melville appears as an un dy and possibly deranged old man
roaming the streets in an ordinary black raincoat instead of being dressed
in resplendent white robes and residing in a magnificent apartment. This
dark apparel, like a magic cloak, renders him almost invisible and he
becomes unknown as he wanders around the Italian capital. By the end of
the film his costume returns to the ceremonial garb of the pon ff, but any
op mism that he will actually carry out his papal duty is foiled by his
speech of humility when he states that he is not a leader, but one who
needs to be led.

Cinematography and Editing

Three aspects of More ’s visual style in par cular contribute to the
assembly of narra ve space in his films: his recurrent use of a sta c
camera, internal montage (montaggio interno), and deep focus. Each of
these components, frequently used concurrently, concentrates the
spectator’s gaze without the distrac on of movement within the sequence.
On occasion a filmmaker may gradually assemble a group of
characters or objects within the frame, which fills the filmic space with
specific pieces of informa on for the spectator. A er the unemployed men
have won the lo ery in La belle équipe / They Were Five (Julien Duvivier,
1936), they discuss what they can do with their money. The oldest member
of the group, Charles (Charles Vanel), is seated on the right-hand side of
the frame, and one by one the other four, Jean (Jean Gabin), Tin n
(Raymond Aimos), Jacques (Charles Dorat), and Mario (Rafael Medina),
move forward in the frame, some standing, some kneeling, so that
eventually all five friends are in the same shot, thus reinforcing the no ons
of working-class solidarity and suppor ng Jean’s words in the dialogue,
that they are be er off in partnership than apart.
In More ’s early work he uses a sta c or slow-moving camera and
deep focus, so that the characters move into the on-screen space and
assemble themselves in significant juxtaposi ons in front of the camera.
Instead of using a cut, or other transi onal device, the sequence is built up
within the frame, leading to very careful placing of objects and characters
within the frame. He described this process as internal montage
(montaggio interno):

I preferred to make movies using a fixed camera (which is much more

difficult) rather than moving it haphazardly. And, in a scene, maybe
take a long shot and focus on internal montage, i.e. the movements of
the characters in the scene (in the background, in the foreground,
making them go out of range), rather than do a lot of shots with short
cuts and edi ng that o en end up in a pedan c and didac c guide for
the spectator. (Giovannini, Magrelli and Ses 1986, 28)

More ’s characters may move into or across the empty frame, may
rise up into the frame from the bo om off-screen space, or may cluster in
the center of the frame from several points off screen. The use of a fixed
camera means that the spectator can only witness what happens in the
space covered by the camera’s range (Brune a 1998, 361). The spectator is
forced to see only what More wishes him or her to see, usually from the
point of view of the omnipresent narrator.
More ’s edi ng technique, which predominately involves cuts, rather
than fades or dissolves, together with the many short scenes, adds not
only to the visual style, but also to the narra ve structure. This kind of
edi ng rejects the standard, so-called invisible, con nuity edi ng where
conven ons such as dissolves, for example, signal temporal ellipses.
More ’s method of edi ng is a demonstra on of the way he constructs a
film by pu ng together narra ve fragments to make up a narra ve whole.
Scenes also o en begin in medias res, with no establishing shot, so that
spectator has to work to resolve and decode both the loca on and the
context. José Miguel Valdecantos describes the structure of More ’s work
as:
 [A] succession of scenes that are not strictly what you usually call a
narra ve. We are rather confronted with a series of situa ons that
cover a number of common themes and which share as a cohesive
element a concrete personal and me-based goal. (Valdecantos 2004,
44)

More constantly challenges the spectator’s no ons of narra ve

space in every way, so that in each new scene she or he has to make
reassessments of the situa on, because of the lack of predictable cause-
and-effect connec ons. In an interview for Posi f, More describes his
preferences in edi ng and narra ve structure:

It is true that in my sequences there is neither beginning nor end. It is

my choice in wri ng, some mes, enhanced in the edi ng. As a
spectator, I do not like introduc ons or conclusions to sequences. My
tastes as a spectator influence, through similarity or through contrast,
my choices as director. (Codelli 2001, 9)

In a considera on of whether the shoo ng or the edi ng was the

more important process in his filmmaking, More argues:

I, like everyone else, give a lot of importance to the montage, as there

are some films where I worked more in edi ng because the
screenplays were less detailed. . . . Some solu ons to telling the
narra ve were found in edi ng. (Coco 2006, 121)

The way that More puts the various scenes together can be
described as a paratac c structure. Parataxis is a literary technique in
wri ng or speaking that favors short, simple sentences, o en without the
use of conjunc ons. This type of structure, with the sta c camera and
montaggio interno, allows “the spectator independent a en on to the
various parts and a constant return to the star ng point” (Brune a 1982,
510).
Several filmmakers, notably Jean Renoir and Orson Welles, favored
the use of deep focus in their work. In The Crime of Monsieur Lange Renoir
frequently has several planes within a space in sharp focus, so that
simultaneous ac vity through doors and windows and across courtyards
could be seen. This enhanced the no ons of coopera on and collec vity in
the Popular Front in France in the 1930s. Orson Welles used deep focus to
a different end in Ci zen Kane (1941). In one famous dining scene
everything from the ice sculptures, which are near the camera, to the
furniture piled up at the rear of the room, and all the dinner guests in
between are in sharp focus. This demonstrates many narra ve elements,
including Kane’s (Orson Welles) extravagance, wealth, and seeming
popularity all in one shot. Pierre Sorlin comments on the use of deep focus
as a notable trait in Italian cinema from its very beginnings (Sorlin 1996,
24). Shallow focus, on the other hand, directs the spectator to a par cular
point within the filmic space in the frame. However, it may also show a
character or an object out of focus, but s ll recognizable, in the
background, which may have a menacing quality. This is the case in C’era
una volta il West / Once Upon a Time in the West (Sergio Leone, 1968),
where a blurred character is seen in the memory flashback of the gunman,
Harmonica (Charles Bronson), and is later to revealed to be his enemy,
Frank (Henry Fonda).
In Sweet Dreams, there are many examples of More ’s use of deep
focus, which allows the spectator to perceive events taking place
simultaneously in me, but in con guous spaces, captured within one
frame, elimina ng the need for cu ng and other edi ng techniques. In
filmmaker Michele’s (Nanni More ) apartment the spectator can note
ac ons taking place at the front and the back of the frame, in par cular to
give the view along a corridor. Thus, while Michele’s mother (Piera Degli
Espos ) is talking on the phone, the audience is aware of Michele walking
in and out of doors at the rear of a long corridor. This shows his
restlessness and frustra on as he paces the floor of the apartment. Deep
focus is par cularly important when Michele is trying to shoot important
sequences for his film, Freud’s Mother. More films the scene facing the
director, not the actors, with the camera and crew in the background. The
filming is constantly interrupted by members of the crew having private
conversa ons or sending around notes. Instead of showing these incidents
by cu ng away and close-ups, More reveals them taking place
simultaneously to the main ac on by the use of a fixed camera and deep
focus, giving an overall perspec ve of the film set.
 In a similar way, the use of deep focus in Red Lob allows the ac on
and reac ons of the crowd to be clearly seen, while the game of water
polo progresses. More uses deep focus throughout The Son’s Room, and
this par cularly adds to the meaning of the narra ve when characters on
different planes are juxtaposed in the frame. This happens in many of the
encounters between psychiatrist Giovanni and his pa ents, when More
prefers a two-shot in depth, rather than side by side or a shot/reverse shot
sequence. This allows the audience to see the reac on on Giovanni’s face
as the pa ent talks, without revealing this expression to the pa ent. A
further example of this is when Giovanni and his wife, Paola, are
eavesdropping on the conversa on between Irene and her boyfriend. The
young people are seen through the open door leading from one room to
another. The parents’ reac ons to the dialogue are clearly witnessed by
the audience.

Place and Time

More ’s use of crosscu ng between different places is a technique
he has used throughout his career to add a temporal dimension to his
work. In his films, crosscu ng is less to do with a development of tension,
as it is frequently used in classic Hollywood cinema, and more to do with
simultaneously showing various narra ve spaces. More says of this style,
“I like to tell interlocking stories, following a character, then leaving him,
then taking him up again and deepening his character and the situa ons in
which he moves” (De Bernardinis 1987, 8).
Bordwell and Thompson argue that “Crosscu ng . . . creates some
spa al discon nuity, but it binds the ac on together by crea ng a sense of
. . . temporal simultaneity” (Bordwell and Thompson 1997, 298). In I Am
Self Sufficient, More intercuts sequences rela ng the storylines of more
than one character, which suggests that they are taking place in different
loca ons, but within the same me frame. This device is further supported
by the use of music in several sequences that con nues to play over the
various sec ons. For example, when Giorgio goes to the railway sta on to
await the train for his new job, apparently, at the same me, Michele and
Fabio are discussing the state of Italian cinema in Michele’s apartment. The
two scenes are edited together, although there is nothing of a causal
nature between them, to form a point of narra ve contrast. In the outside
world, Giorgio is at last ac ng as a mature adult, and taking on a
responsible job. Michele, on the other hand, is indulging in a self-centered
diatribe about Italian cinema and the loss of interest of young people in
poli cal situa ons. A further example in I Am Self Sufficient of this type of
composi on involves three places. However, once again, it is the
spectator’s no on of story logic that es them into the same me frame. In
this sequence the audience sees Fabio making a phone call from a booth,
Michele and Silvia in a park, and Giorgio being distracted from his books
and gazing at his neighbor. This me the Giorgio sequence has more spa al
coherence, being shot by a fixed camera in his apartment, whereas the
Michele/Silvia sequence and the Fabio sequence have more varied
cinematography. The narra ve func on of edi ng these three sec ons
together is to demonstrate the universal problems of non-communica on.
The drama cri c, who is on the phone to Fabio, talks in jargon that is
beyond Fabio’s comprehension. Silvia and Michele a empt to talk but have
different agendas, and at one point Michele’s a en on dri s off. This takes
the form of a voice-over when Michele speaks derisively about Lina
Wertmüller and the film he so despises, Pasqualino Se e Bellezze / Seven
Beau es (1975). Giorgio never manages to connect with the woman he
desires.
More employs this same technique, crosscu ng between the four
family members in four different loca ons, in The Son’s Room just prior to
Andrea’s accident. The non-diege c music builds up the tension and
suggests to the audience that something bad is going to happen to at least
one member of the family. The crosscu ng technique used in this
sequence unites them in the tragedy of Andrea’s death, as ul mately
something disastrous happens to all of them. Crosscu ng between
numerous places is used for a different narra ve purpose in The Caiman.
Toward the end of the film failed film producer Bruno (Silvio Orlando)
decides to go to the concert hall where the choir of his estranged wife
Paola (Margherita Buy) is giving a rendi on of Händel’s Dixit Dominus.
Paola is seen in the middle of a group of female singers in the darkened
auditorium. In a sequence of nearly four minutes, several other places are
interposed with the concert hall: Paola and Bruno’s home, where their
sons Giacomo (Giacomo Passarelli) and Andrea (Daniele Rampello) are
playing; Bruno’s office, where his secretary Marisa (Luisa De San s) is
switching off all the lights; young film director Teresa (Jasmine Trinca) and
her partner Luisa’s (Cecilia Dazzi) home, where the couple play happily
with their baby. The ensemble is brought together by the con nuous
concert music. Each of the interwoven strands has its own internal
narra ve, which comes to a decisive conclusion. Giacomo and Andrea
show their personality differences in the way in which they play with the
Lego bricks. Giacomo, who is the more relaxed of the two, is happy to find
the brick he was looking for, but the more highly strung Andrea is
frustrated with the pieces and finally destroys the toy he was building.
Marisa, having put the office in order, turns out the final light, signifying an
apparent end to Bruno’s produc on company. Luisa and Teresa, who have
in the past had some moments of argument about the way to care for their
child, are now in harmony, as is shown by their figure movement. Bruno
drama cally, publically, and embarrassingly confronts his wife, giving the
final, fatal blow to their marriage. By using the crosscu ng technique
between mul ple places in this sequence, More not only shows that
these events are taking place within the same me frame, he also indicates
that these events are closely linked. All demonstrate the end of something
(a business, a toy, a quarrel, and a marriage) and each event is connected
to Bruno, as the main character.
Occasionally, More uses mul ple views of the same place rather
than mul ple views of different spaces simultaneously. In The Caiman,
when Bruno is alone in his office ea ng a takeout meal and phoning his
son, Giacomo, he is seen mid frame and in medium long shot si ng at his
desk, illuminated against a dark background. The conversa on with
Giacomo is edited with straight cuts between the two loca ons, so that the
spectator sees and hears both sides of the conversa on. As Bruno hangs
up at the end of the conversa on, there is a sustained tense note of music
and a further, sideways image of Bruno appears in the lower right-hand
side of the frame. The first image now disappears gradually and is fully
replaced by the image of Bruno si ng high up in his office from the
perspec ve of the studio below. The dissolves in this sequence emphasize
Bruno’s isola on in the frame, in the office, and in his life.

NARRATIVE STRUCTURE
In this examina on of narra ve space, three narra ve structures have been
iden fied in More ’s films. These are linear, episodic, and mul -track.
Linear is similar to classical Hollywood narra ve, with the three-part
structure of Equilibrium/Disrup on/New Equilibrium, as outlined in
chapter 6 (Todorov 1977). Linear narra ve structure is seen in Bianca, The
Mass Is Ended, The Son’s Room, and We Have a Pope. This corresponds to
the audience expecta ons of the genres associated with these films
(suspense, melodrama, and comedy) as demonstrated, at least in part, by
their use of se ng (the voyeuris c terrace, the home, the incongruous
basketball court in the Va can).
I Am Self Sufficient, Here Comes Bombo, Dear Diary, and April are all
examples of episodic narra ves, which are composed of a series of brief
sketches revolving around the central protagonist. Unlike a classic film
narra ve, there are seldom any cause-and-effect links between most of the
scenes. This compels the spectators to constantly reassess the me and
loca on of each sequence. However, despite the fragmented nature of
these narra ves, there is also a sense of both forward progression and
closure. In I Am Self Sufficient, a theater show is rehearsed and performed;
in Dear Diary, journeys are embarked upon and completed and an illness is
diagnosed; in April, the stages of a pregnancy are followed and the child is
born. This is less the case with Here Comes Bombo, which relies on the
feature of repe on to produce coherence. The structure of the plot is
very detailed and highly organized and the short sketches are put together
in cycles of micro-plots, each focused on university student Michele:
Michele and his friends, Michele and his family, Michele and his girlfriends.
Beyond these are recurring examples of the use of media in the world in
which Michele lives: the cinema, the local free radio, the independent
television. The sense of a paratac c structure emerges from this succession
and pa ern of short, simple episodes. Place, in par cular cityscape,
countryside, inside, and outside, is the element of narra ve space that
comes most to the fore in the episodic narra ve structure.
In Dear Diary the memoir format leads to the work being divided into
“chapters,” where there is no me rela onship between the three main
sec ons. “On My Vespa” is truly episodic. The sequences are linked by
Nanni’s presence on the vehicle and by the spa al element of Rome. The
sec on “Islands” has a more linear narra ve in that it involves a journey
over a period of me from one place to others consecu vely. Each of the
island visits has an internal logic, a reason for arriving and a reason for
leaving. There is also the character development of Nanni’s erudite friend,
Gerardo. The chapter “Doctors” is more of a docudrama, made up of
sequences in various clinics and surgeries, but it has a linear narra ve,
following a flashback. It has internal logic and the no on of a quest, in that
Nanni is searching for a diagnosis and a cure for his skin condi on. In one
sense the flashback reveals some of the path taken, but the spectator does
not know un l the end that the disease was in fact correctly diagnosed and
cured.
The third type of narra ve structure in evidence in More ’s films is
mul -track. This should not be confused with other narra ve structures
that use more than one storyline: mul -plot, involving several completely
different plots, located in different mes and spaces, such as Intolerance
(D. W. Griffith, 1916); plot and subplot, including secondary or minor
characters, associated with the protagonist(s) who have a plot line of their
own; mul -path, which is more typical of literature or video games than
films as it gives the spectator choices of different ac ons at certain crucial
moments; mul -choice, where two or more versions of the plot are
presented to the spectator, usually with very different outcomes, for
example Lola Rennt / Run, Lola, Run (Tom Tykwer, 1998) and Sliding Doors
(Peter Howi , 1998); fragmented, where the plot or plots are revealed to
the spectator out of logical order, for example Pulp Fic on (Quen n
Taran no, 1994); mul point of view, when the same events are seen from
the points of view of various characters, some of whom may be unreliable
narrators, for example Rashômon (Akira Kurosawa, 1950) and La comare
secca / The Grim Reaper (Bernardo Bertolucci, 1962).
Mul -track, which includes Sweet Dreams, Red Lob, and The Caiman,
differs from the episodic in that it has several intertwining plots, with each
one centering on the protagonist. Sweet Dreams has three tracks: the
past/dream sequences with Silvia; the present, with Michele Apicella as
filmmaker; and the film within a film, Freud’s Mother, which connects with
the present. Red Lob has six tracks: the protagonist’s childhood, his
adolescence, his recent past, his present, a fantasy world, and extracts
from the film, Doctor Zhivago (David Lean, 1965). The Caiman has three
tracks, this me thema c as well as me based, which are the rela onship
between the main character, Bruno Bonomo, and his family; the state of
the Italian cinema; an ironic cri que of the poli cal life of Silvio Berlusconi.
These themes are reflected in the tagline of the film: “A love story, a
homage to the cinema, a film about Berlusconi.” These films have a
forward progression and each individual track has a conclusion. In other
words, these narra ves are not sub-plots, dealing with tangen al
characters, but are all based in some way on the principal character. There
is usually cause and effect between the sequences that concern the same
plot. One of the main features of mul -track, which may be to offer some
kind of explana on for the behavior of the main character, is that the
narra ve moves between different me planes, with flashbacks, fantasy,
and dream sequences being an important part of the plot.

Venn diagram of narra ve structures

The narra ve structure of April lies somewhere between the episodic

and mul -track film. The track dealing with making the musical film is the
most fragmented, appearing only at the start and the finish. The
documentary track is driven by very specific me constraints, which makes
this film quite unlike other More films, where he normally avoids specific
me references. The track concerning the birth of Nanni’s son, Pietro, has a
clear sequen al trajectory, from ini al pregnancy, through confinement, to
early years. Like Dear Diary, April is episodic in that it has a diary format,
which is emphasized by voice-overs and inter- tles. It also relates to mul -
track in that it has fantasy and flashbacks and also in the three very clear
plotlines, and it shows both the public and the private life of the
protagonist, as do Sweet Dreams and The Caiman. Figure 12.2 is a Venn
diagram to show the interrela onships between the three types of
narra ve structure in More ’s work. Figure 12.3 summarizes the essen al
features of the types of narra ve structure.

RHETORICAL DEVICES
Par cular rhetorical devices are used in the construc on of narra ve space
in More ’s films. In Dear Diary, April, and The Caiman there are examples
of apophasis, where the filmmaker expresses a desire to do a par cular
ac on (send important le ers, make a par cular type of film), but denies
the ability to do so. Yet, in the visualiza on of the denied exploit, the
desired-for outcome is actually achieved. More says of this technique
used in April:

Probably the result of the film is different from what I actually say. The
result is that I pretended with my insecuri es, my mania—the
cappuccini, the la macchia —my escapes from filming to not make
this documentary, to divert me from my subject. But in reality, I told
the spectators about a few years in this country, in my own way, and
especially I expressed my feelings about this country during these
years. (Gili 1998, 10–11)

Pathos appears, in par cular, in the last scene with Olga in Here
Comes Bombo, as the camera holds on the frozen forms of Michele and the
girl. Irony, especially autoironia, is widely used, such as in the car park
sequence in The Mass Is Ended and the arrival of the mythic three working-
class members in Sweet Dreams. Bathos also appears regularly; for
instance, the “roman c dinner” in Here Comes Bombo, the incident at the
outdoor cinema in The Mass Is Ended, and the ludicrous conversa on over
the volcanic landscape in Dear Diary. In these examples of bathos,
audience expecta ons are o en thwarted by a by a swi pull-back from a
medium shot that demonstrates that all is not in fact as it first appears.

METAPHORICAL NARRATIVE SPACES

In More ’s films there is generally a key scene or key site that acts as a
metaphorical reference for the film as a whole and its en re philosophy,
using the mise-en-scène to construct metaphorical places for the
construc on of discourses. More ’s procedure for making metaphors out
of places is to choose a loca on that is closely associated with the
protagonist and that has logical links in the diegesis: thus, a church for a
priest, a swimming pool for a water polo player, or a film set for a director.
This locale will then become the focus for specific func ons within the
narra ve. In I Am Self Sufficient, the theater represents the merging of the
public and private lives of the young

Narra ve structure in the films of Nanni More

performers, whereas in Here Comes Bombo, the scene of

disappointment at the sunrise at Os a is at the heart of the narra ve about
disillusion. This key site is used only once, but the narra ve returns
constantly to this thema c and decisive locus for disenchantment. Sweet
Dreams focuses on the film set, where the parallel lives unfold of two
troubled men, in a similar rela onship to their mother, Michele and Freud.
The terrace in Bianca is the site for voyeurism and observa on, themes
that are central to the film. The restructuring of the dilapidated church in
The Mass Is Ended works as a metaphor in reverse for Don Giulio’s lack of
success with his family and friends. In other films, for instance Red Lob, the
en re film is set in one significant situa on, in this case the swimming
pool, in which the en re narra ve is expressed in terms of the ac ons that
develop there. The swimming pool is a loca on where a discourse on the
state of the Italian Communist Party is ar culated, which on another level
of metaphor is depicted as the reacquisi on of memory, both private and
public. In Dear Diary, places in Rome and in the Æolian Islands stand for
aspects of the social and poli cal life in contemporary Italy. The vacilla ons
between filming the documentary and the musical, in April, construct the
en re film as the tension between the public filmmaker and the private
individual as new father, between the desire to remain as a child and the
need to grow up. In The Son’s Room the corridor connec ng Giovanni’s
apartment to his office is also significant as a visual link between his
professional and family life. Bruno’s office, with its glossy interior and
derelict exterior, in The Caiman, stands for elements of the conflict in the
aspects of Berlusconi’s Italy, which is meretricious and shabby in turn. The
maze in the Va can gardens in We Have a Pope focuses the film’s a en on
on the no on of searching for a pathway and an iden ty, something that
Cardinal Melville is endeavoring to do throughout the film.

CONCLUSION
The purpose of this study has been to discover the ways in which More
constructs a coherent whole, through the selec on, organiza on, and
manipula on of elements of narra ve space, specifically Place, Se ng, and
Perspec ve. The aim has been to ascertain how he assembles these
elements in his works of art into one body that transcends the individual
fragments, and which consequently will give meanings and pleasures to
the audience. This book has been based on close textual analysis of
More ’s eleven major feature films to date, using the formal film language
of mise-en-scène, cinematography, edi ng, and sound. The method has
involved a systema c dismantling of the films with a view to seeing how
they operate, with a subsequent reassembly, to make clear the en re form
of these works. The process of this examina on answers, but also raises,
some ques ons and offers the possibility for further study either on
narra ve space in the work of other filmmakers, or of other ways to
approach More ’s work in the future.
 If the purpose of crea ng an artwork is to convey a thought, a
philosophy, a belief, or an emo on to another person, then, in all created
works, it should be possible to discover structures and strategies within the
work, in order to show how the piece conveys its meanings and pleasures
to an audience. In any given medium, whether ar s c, literary, musical, or
filmic, narra ve is both what is communicated and how this
communica on is achieved. Narra ve space is closely connected with the
narra ve structure of the film, since the ways in which the spaces in a film
are linked also communicates meaning(s) to the audience. More is a
filmmaker who has no ons he wants to communicate to others, to express
his ideas on morality, poli cs, family life, and cinema. He could have used a
variety of art forms to express these ideas: the novel, the short story, a
journal ar cle, a pain ng, a poem, a photograph, or a sculpture, but he
chose to make films. These films are the visual and aural signs of what he
wishes to express and communicate. He does this through the construc on
of a filmic narra ve that exists in me and space, and that differs
considerably in form from the cause-and-effect structure of the classic
Hollywood narra ve. The narra ve is inextricably wrapped up in the aspect
of space, formed through film language into Place, Se ng, and
Perspec ve, both to express his ideas and also to convey meanings and
pleasures to the audience. Furthermore, Place, Se ng, and Perspec ve are
intricately interconnected. If Se ng is taken as an example, everything in
the narra ve space on the screen, whether used for a par cular genre, or
showing a dis nc ve gender bias, or in the realms of fantasy, is always
perceived by the spectator from one or other Perspec ve, be it from an
omniscient narrator viewpoint, or from the outlook of an invisible witness,
or from a character-glance point of view. Similarly, various physical
loca ons in Place all have to be observed from a viewpoint either within or
from outside the diegesis. Narra ve space, and the way that meaning(s)
are constructed through space in a film, is never the result of the
filmmaker’s use of just one element. It is in the combina on of the Place,
Se ng, and Perspec ve, together with the overall narra ve structure, the
dialogue, and other sounds that the whole concept of a film is given
significa on. There is a constant interplay between the elements that make
up Narra ve space, with certain aspects predomina ng at different
moments. Any one of More ’s films is individually a collec on of narra ve
spaces, a compila on of Places, Se ngs, and Perspec ves, an assembly of
narra ve fragments drawn together to give a cohesive whole. At the same
me, each film is in its en rety a narra ve space in itself—a canvas of
moving photographic images that unfurl before the spectator, displaying
itself as an ar fact to provide the spectator with audiovisual gra fica on.
More ’s films work as a balance between the aesthe c sa sfac on given
to the audience, who has willingly subjected itself to, and has paid for the
privilege of, experiencing ninety minutes of entertainment, derived from
the selec on, organiza on, and manipula on of the elements of narra ve
space, namely, Place, Se ng, and Perspec ve.
 Filmography

Informa on for this filmography has been taken from the Internet
Movie Database. The synopses are my own.

IO SONO UN AUTARCHICO / I AM SELF SUFFICIENT: 1976

95 minutes Super 8 (later expanded to 16 mm) Color

Director: Nanni More

Producer: Nanni More

Distributor: ARCI

Writer: Nanni More

Editor: Nanni More

Music: Franco Piersan

Cinematography: Fabio Sposini (Kodachrome)

Assistant Director: Andrea Parlatore

Cast

Nanni More - Michele

Simona Frosi - Silvia

Fabio Traversa - Fabio, the director

Luciano Aga - Giuseppe

Benede a Bini - Benede a

Alberto Flores d’Arcais - Pio

Franco More - The Buddhist

Luigi More - In audience

Beniamino Placido - Theatrical Cri c

 Andrea Pozzi - Andrea

Lucio Ravasini - In audience

Lori Valerini - The girl at the window

Guido Valesini - The Doctor

Giorgio Viterbo - Giorgio, the teacher

Paolo Zaccagnini - Paolo

Synopsis

Michele is abandoned by his wife, Silvia, and is le in charge of his

young son, Andrea. He is unemployed and relies on his father for money.
His friend, Fabio, persuades him to join an avant-garde theater group. The
group goes for a bonding session in the mountains but this is unsuccessful.
Various aspects of the lives of the friends are shown: Giorgio, secretly in
love with a neighbor, eventually takes a teaching post outside Rome; Fabio
makes contact with a famous cri c; Michele hopes to reestablish his
rela onship with his wife. A er the theatrical piece has been staged, there
is an unsuccessful a empt at a debate. The group splits up in an
atmosphere of disillusionment. Michele sees Silvia one more me and
Andrea returns to his mother’s care.

ECCE BOMBO / HERE COMES BOMBO: 1978

100 minutes 16 mm Color

Director: Nanni More

Producer: Mario Gallo, Enzo Giulioli, Filmalpha/Alphabeta

Distributor: CIDIF

Writer: Nanni More

Editor: Enzo Meniconi

Sound: Franco Borni

Music: Franco Piersan

 Cinematography: Giuseppe Pinori (Eastmancolor)

Produc on Design: Massimo Razzi, Gianni Sbarra

Costume Design: Fabrizia Magnini, Lina Nerli Taviani

Cast

Nanni More - Michele

Luisa Rossi - Michele’s mother

Lina Sastri - Olga

Piero Galle - Goffredo

Susanna Javicoli - Silvia

Cris na Manni - Cris na

Lorenza Ralli - Michele’s sister Valen na

Maurizio Romoli - Flaminia’s husband Cesare

Carola Stagnaro - Flaminia

Fabio Traversa - Mirko

Giorgio Viterbo - Reporter for Telecalifornia

Paolo Zaccagnini - Vito

Simona Frosi - Simona

Vincenzo Vitobello - Ethiopian’s friend

Glauco Mauri - Michele’s father

Agenore Incrocci - Professor

Luigi More - Unemployed Actor

Andrea Pozzi - Goffredo as a child

Other Music
 Gino Paoli - song “Amare Inu lmente”

Synopsis
Michele, Mirko, Vito, and Goffredo are four student friends who
spend listless days and nights together si ng in bars. They decide to try to
improve their situa on by holding male consciousness-raising groups.
Michele lives with his family: father, mother, and sister, Valen na. Valen na
is planning a school sit-in, which causes family conflict. Michele has a
difficult personality, being selfish and possessive and has a succession of
disastrous rela onships, including Silvia, who works in the film industry,
Flaminia, the wife of a friend, Cris na, a hippie, and Francesca, an old
flame. The group of friends goes to the beach at Os a to see the sunrise,
but fail to witness it. Michele coaches two students for their maturità
exam. This ends in disaster. He spends the summer alone in Rome. The
consciousness-raising group ends through lack of interest. He invites all his
friends to visit Mirko’s mentally fragile friend, Olga, but although everyone
agrees, he is the only one who goes.

SOGNI D’ORO / SWEET DREAMS: 1981

105 minutes 35 mm Color

Director: Nanni More

Producer: Renzo Rossellini, Operafilm/RAI Uno

Distributor: Gaumont

Writer: Nanni More

Editor: Roberto Perpignani

Sound: Franco Borni

Music: Franco Piersan

Cinematography: Franco di Giacomo (Eastmancolor)

Produc on Design: Gianni Sbarra

Costume Design: Lia Francesca Morandini

 Makeup: Gloria Fava

Hair: Iole Cecchini

Assistant Director: Inigo Lezzi

Cast

Nanni More - Michele Apicella

Dario Cantarelli - Film Cri c

Nicola Di Pinto - Nicola

Alessandro Haber - Gaetano

Laura Morante - Silvia

Gigio Morra - Gigio Cimino

Remo Remo - Freud

Claudio Spadaro - Claudio

Miranda Campa - Freud’s mother

Sabina Vannucchi - Freud’s daughter

Piera Degli Espos - Michele’s mother

Synopsis

Michele Apicella is a successful young film director. He has a very

arrogant and offensive personality. At a film debate he is accused of
making “difficult” films, which do not engage the average person,
suggested in the form of a shepherd from the Abruzzo, a laborer from
Basilicata, and a housewife from Treviso. Michele’s current film, La mamma
di Freud / Freud’s Mother, is about a man who believes that he is Sigmund
Freud. Michele lives with his mother with whom his has a tempestuous
rela onship. He is accosted by two brothers, Nicola and Claudio, who want
to work with him. Michele has constant problems on set with the crew, the
actors, and the producer. He also knows Gaetano, a fellow director who
has fallen into a serious depression a er several years without work.
Another director, Gigio Cimino, is making a musical about the war in
Vietnam and the class struggle. They meet in a televised contest that
Michele loses. The shepherd, the laborer, and the housewife all turn up at
the première of Michele’s film and support him. He constantly dreams
about a situa on where he is a schoolteacher who falls in love with a pupil
called Silvia. At the end of the film his everyday life and his dream world
merge. He meets Silvia in a restaurant and gradually turns into a werewolf.
She runs off screaming and he follows her into the woods.

BIANCA: 1984

95 minutes 35 mm Color

Director: Nanni More

Producer: Achille Manzo , Faso Film / Reteitalia

Distributor: CIDIF

Writers: Nanni More , Sando Petraglia

Editor: Mirco Garrone

Sound: Franco Borni

Music: Franco Piersan

Cinematography: Luciano Tovoli (Eastmancolor)

Produc on Design: Giorgio Luppi, Marco Luppi

Costume Design: Lia Francesca Morandini

Makeup: Stefano Fava

Assistant Director: Inigo Lezzi

Produc on Manager: Alessandro Calosci

Cast

Nanni More - Michele Apicella

 Laura Morante - Bianca

Roberto Vezzosi - Police Commissioner

Remo Remo - Siro Siri

Claudio Bigagli - Ignazio

Enrica Maria Modugno - Aurora

Vincenzo Salemme - Massimiliano

Margherita Ses to - Maria

Dario Cantarelli - Head Teacher

Virginie Alexandre - Mar na

Ma eo Fago - Ma eo

Giovanni Bu afava - Despised Teacher

Luigi More - Psychologist

Giorgio Viterbo - History teacher

Mario Monaci Toschi - Edo, school secretary

Mauro Fabre - Policeman

Gianfelice Imparato - Pioggia, Bianca’s boyfriend

Synopsis

Michele Apicella is a teacher of mathema cs who is new to the

Marilyn Monroe School. This very progressive ins tu on has a game room
and a bar for the pupils and a psychologist for the staff. He has just moved
into a new apartment, where he spies on his neighbors. He notes that
several couples around him are unhappy and even unfaithful. These people
are murdered and Michele becomes the prime suspect. Meanwhile he
meets and falls in love with Bianca, the French teacher at the same school.
She leaves her boyfriend and starts a rela onship with Michele. He
encourages a young couple in his class to get married, but his affair with
Bianca turns sour and he finds it impossible to commit to her. However, she
supplies an alibi for him when the police arrest him. In the end he makes a
full confession about the murders to the police commissioner, sta ng that
he has become disappointed with his friends. He likes happy couples. He is
taken away by the police.

LA MESSA È FINITA / THE MASS IS ENDED: 1985

94 minutes 35 mm Color

Director: Nanni More

Producer: Achille Manzo , Faso Film

Distributor: Titanus

Writers: Nanni More , Sando Petraglia

Editor: Mirco Garrone

Sound: Franco Borni

Music: Nicola Piovani

Cinematography: Franco di Giacomo (Eastmancolor)

Produc on Design: Giorgio Bertolini, Amedeo Fago

Costume Design: Lia Francesca Morandini

Assistant Director: Daniele Luche

Cast

Nanni More - Don Giulio

Ferruccio De Ceresa - Father of Don Giulio

Marco Messeri - Saverio

Enrica Maria Modugno - Valen na

Dario Cantarelli - Gianni

Luisa De San s - Lucia

Pietro De Vico - Friar

Eugenio Masciari - Antonio

 Vincenzo Salemme - Andrea

Roberto Vezzosi - Cesare

Margarita Lozano - Mother of Don Giulio

Mauro Fabre - Simone

Antonella Fa ori - Astrid

Luigi More - Judge

Carlina Torta - Arianna

Synopsis

On his return home a er several years in an island parish, the priest,

Don Giulio, finds his family and friends in crisis. His father wants to leave
the family home to set up with a younger woman and have a baby. His
sister, Valen na, is unhappy with her fiancé, by whom she is pregnant, and
wants to be free. His mother, old and red, is oblivious of what is going on
around her, but when she does become aware, it is all too much for her.
Don Giulio’s friends have all taken varied pathways since their youth
together: Andrea is in prison for terrorist offences; Gianni runs a book
shop, but has a secret double life as a homosexual; Cesare has a manic
wave of faith; Saverio is a recluse a er his breakup with his partner. The
church that Don Giulio takes over is rundown and there are few
parishioners since the previous priest, Don Antonio, gave up the cloth and
got married. Don Giulio wants to help, but nobody wants to be helped.
A er his father’s betrayal, his mother takes her own life. The friends do not
resolve their problems and Valen na wants to have an abor on. Don Giulio
finds it hard to forgive his father for his behavior, his mother for leaving her
son, and his sister for wan ng to end another poten al life. A er his own
personal crisis Don Giulio announces at Cesare’s wedding his plan to leave
for a parish in Tierra del Fuego.

PALOMBELLA ROSSA / RED LOB: 1989

89 minutes 35 mm Color
 Director: Nanni More

Producer: Nella Banfi, Angelo Barbagallo, Nanni More , Cecilia

Valmarana, Sacher Film, Palmyre Film, RAI Uno, So.Fin.A

Distributor: Titanus

Writer: Nanni More

Editor: Mirco Garrone

Sound: Franco Borni

Music: Nicola Piovani

Cinematography: Giuseppe Lanci (Kodak Technicolor)

Produc on Giancarlo Basili, Leonardo Scarpa

Design:

Costume Design: Maria Rita Barbera

Cast

Nanni More - Michele Apicella

Silvio Orlando - Coach of Rari Nantes Monteverde

Mariella Valen ni - Reporter

Alfonso Santagata - First Pestering Man

Claudio Morgan - Second Pestering Man

Asia Argento - Valen na

Eugenio Masciari - Referee

Mario Patanè - Simone, the Catholic

Antonio Petrocelli - Fascist

Fabio Traversa - Michele’s old friend

Luigi More - Member of trade union

Non-Original Music by
 Franco Ba ato - song “E vengo a cercare”

Bruce Springsteen - song “I’m on Fire”

Synopsis

Michele Apicella is a leader in the Italian Communist Party who loses

his memory in a road accident. He is also a water polo player. His team,
Monteverde, goes to Acireale in Sicily to play the last match in the
championship. During the course of the match, which con nues all day
long, Michele seeks to recall his iden ty through mee ngs with, among
others, an old friend, two angry Communists, a trade union member, a
journalist, a fervent Catholic, and his own daughter. Gradually he
remembers who he is and what he has done. The match is interspersed
with scenes from Doctor Zhivago (David Lean, 1965). There are also clips
from More ’s own short film La sconfi a / The Defeat, 1973. At the end of
the contest he takes the final penalty and loses. On his way back to Rome
with his daughter he has another road accident. He emerges unscathed
and joins the rest of the cast as they smile and point at a papier-mâché
sun.

CARO DIARIO / DEAR DIARY: 1993

101 minutes 35 mm Color

Director: Nanni More

Producer: Nella Banfi, Angelo Barbagallo, Nanni More ,

Sacher Film

Distributor: Lucky Red

Writer: Nanni More

Editor: Mirco Garrone

Sound: Franco Borni

Music: Nicola Piovani

Cinematography: Giuseppe Lanci

 Produc on Design: Marta Maffucci

Costume Design: Maria Rita Barbera

Produc on Gianfranco Barbagallo

Manager:

Cast

Nanni More - Himself

Jennifer Beals - Herself

Alexandre Rockwell - Himself

Renato Carpen eri - Gerardo

Antonio Neiwiller - The Mayor of Stromboli

Conchita Airoldi - Inhabitant of Panarea

Riccardo Zinna - Inhabitant of Alicudi

Moni Ovadia - Lucio di Alicudi

Mario Schiano - Prince of Dermatologists

Non-Original Music by

Juan Luis Guerra - song “Visa para un sueño”

Keith Jarre - from The Köln Concert

Angélique Kidjo - song “Batonga”

Synopsis

Chapter 1: In Vespa / On My Vespa

Nanni (More ) rides around Rome on his Vespa on a hot summer’s

day. He bemoans the state of the Italian film industry, berates a film cri c,
expresses his delight in the facades of Rome and in La n American
dancing, briefly meets the American actress, Jennifer Beals, and finally
goes on a pilgrimage to the site where Pier-Paolo Pasolini was murdered.

Chapter 2: Isole / Islands

Nanni visits his friend, the Joyce scholar, Gerardo, on the Æolian island
of Lipari with the inten on of wri ng a new film. Finding Lipari too noisy
they leave for Salina, an island where only children predominate. Next they
visit Stromboli, whose mayor has vast ambi ons for urban planning.
Gerardo gradually becomes obsessed with television. Avoiding Panarea,
they go to Alicudi, a primi ve place with no electricity. Gerardo’s addic on
to television is such that he has to depart hurriedly.

Chapter 3: Medici / Doctors

Nanni recounts the true story of his long journey of discovery to

determine the real nature of his illness and find a cure. Along the way he
encounters doctors of all kinds and is given a huge amount of medica on
for internal and external use, as well as a great deal of advice. He discovers
the truth almost by chance and his final thoughts are that doctors should
talk less and listen more to their pa ents.

APRILE / APRIL: 1998

78 minutes 35 mm Color

Director: Nanni More

Producer: Angelo Barbagallo, Nanni More , Jean Labadie,

Sacher Film, Bac Film, RAI, Canal Plus

Distributor: Tandem

Writer: Nanni More

Editor: Angelo Nicolini, Daniele Sordoni

Sound: Angelo Amatulli, Filippo Bussi, Danilo Moroni,

Alessandro Zanon
 Music: Ludovico Einaudi

Cinematography: Giuseppe Lanci

Produc on Marta Maffucci

Design:

Costume Design: Valen na Taviani

Produc on Nicola Giuliano, Luigi Lagrasta

Manager:

Cast

Nanni More - Nanni

Silvio Orlando - Silvio

Silvia Nono - Silvia

Pietro More - Pietro

Agata Apicella More - Agata

Daniele Luche - Himself

Andrea Molaioli - Andrea

Non-Original Music by

Nusrat Fateh Ali Khan - song “Yaad-e-nabi gulsham mehka”

Jovano - song “Ragazzo fortunato”

Dámaso Pérez Prado (as Pérez - songs “Why Wait” and “Mambo
Prado) Jambo”

Synopsis

In this film Nanni More blends his public life as a filmmaker and
poli cal ac vist with his private life as a family man. He revives an old
ambi on to make a musical, while star ng to film a documentary on the
current state of Italy, which he feels is his duty. As these two projects
interweave, the audience follows the progress of the pregnancy of Nanni’s
wife, Silvia Nono, and the eventual birth of his son, Pietro. Easily distracted,
Nanni vacillates between the two pieces of work. Pietro’s birth coincides
with the success of the le wing in the General Elec on in 1996. On
reaching his forty-fourth birthday Nanni is overwhelmed by the apparently
brevity of the remainder of his life and decides to do what pleases him
best. He abandons the documentary to finish the musical.

LA STANZA DEL FIGLIO / THE SON’S ROOM: 2001

98 minutes 35 mm Color

Director: Nanni More

Producer: Angelo Barbagallo, Federico Fabrizio, Vincenzo

Galluzzo, Lorenzo Luccarini, Nanni More , Sacher Film

Distributor: Sacher Distribuzione

Writers: Nanni More , Linda Ferri, Heidrun Scleef

Editor: Esmeralda Calabria

Sound: Alessandro Zanon

Music: Nicola Piovani

Cinematography: Giuseppe Lanci

Produc on Giancarlo Basili

Design:

Costume Design: Maria Rita Barbera

Produc on Gianfranco Barbagallo

Manager:

Cast

Nanni More - Giovanni

Laura Morante - Paola

Jasmine Trinca - Irene

 Giuseppe Sanfelice - Andrea

Sofia Vigliar - Arianna

Alessandro Ascoli - Stefano

Silvio Orlando - Oscar

Non-Original Music by

Brian Eno, Dieter Moebius, Hans-Joachim Roedelius - song “By This River”

Michael Nyman - from Water Dances

Synopsis

The Sermon s live in Ancona and are apparently a happy, a rac ve,
and well-balanced family. The father, Giovanni, is a psychoanalyst, married
to Paola, who works in publishing. They have two teenage children, Andrea
and Irene. Andrea causes some family concern when a fossil goes missing
from school and he is suspected of the . Although his mother believes him
when he denies having anything to do with the crime, his father has
doubts, which are later vindicated. One Sunday Giovanni is called to visit a
pa ent instead of going for a run with Andrea. The boy goes diving with his
friends and is involved in a fatal accident. This sudden death affects the
whole family and their unity starts to disintegrate. Giovanni seems to be
the most seriously disturbed and is unable to con nue with his prac ce.
Unexpectedly the family receives a le er from a girl, Arianna, whom
Andrea had known briefly. She visits with her current boyfriend and they
are taken to France on an overnight journey. As she and her boyfriend
leave the family at the border, the healing process seems to begin for
them.

IL CAIMANO / THE CAIMAN: 2006

112 minutes 35 mm Color

Director: Nanni More

 Producer: Angelo Barbagallo, Gianfranco Barbagallo

Distributor: Sachere Distribuzione

Writer: Nanni More , Francesco Piccolo, Federica Pontremoli,

Heidrun Schleef

Editor: Esmeralda Calabria

Sound: Alessandro Zanon

Music: Franco Piersan

Cinematography: Arnaldo Ca nari

Produc on Giancarlo Basili

Design:

Costume Design: Lina Nerli Taviani

Produc on Stefano Benappi

Manager:

Cast

Silvio Orlando - Bruno Bonomo

Margherita Buy - Paola Bonomo / Aidra

Jasmine Trinca - Teresa

Michele Placido - Marco Pulici / Silvio Berlusconi

Giuliano Montaldo - Franco Caspio

Elio De Capitani - Silvio Berlusconi

Ta Sanguine - Beppe Savonese

Jerzy Stuhr - Jerzy Sturovsky

Anna Bonaiuto - Public Prosecutor

Cecilia Dazzi - Luisa

Luisa De San s - Marisa

Nanni More - Himself / Silvio Berlusconi

 Giacomo Passarelli - Giacomo

Daniele Rampello - Andrea

Non-Original Music by

Orchestra Roma Sinfonie a under the direc on of - “Dixit Dominus” by

Maestro Francesco Lanzillo a, with the Coro Goffredo Georg Friedrich Händel
Petrassi (1707)

Synopsis

Bruno Bonomo, a producer of “B” movies, is in a crisis in both his

professional and his family life. He has not produced a successful film for
years and his marriage to Paola is failing. A novice filmmaker, Teresa,
involves him in the produc on of a film she has wri en, called Il caimano /
The Caiman. Without reading the screenplay properly, Bruno does not at
first realize that this film will be about Silvio Berlusconi and how he
obtained his money. Following many difficul es, he manages to get funding
for the film and starts to employ a cast and crew. Meanwhile he has had to
leave the family home as Paola has asked for a separa on. A er much
angst, the couple comes to an amicable agreement. When the principal
actor abandons the film, the funding fails and Bruno only has enough
money to make one scene, the final courtroom sequence where Berlusconi
is sentenced for his crimes.

HABEMUS PAPAM / WE HAVE A POPE: 2011

102 minutes Color

Director: Nanni More

Producer: Nanni More , Domenico Procacci, Jean Labadie

Sacher Film, Fandango, Le Pacte, France 3 Cinéma, Rai
Cinema

Distributor: ARCI

Writers: Nanni More , Francesco Piccolo and Federica

Pontremoli
 Editor: Esmeralda Calabria

Music: Franco Piersan

Cinematography: Alessandro Pesci

Costume Design: Lina Nerli Taviani

Produc on Paola Bizzarri

Designer:

Sound: Alessandro Zanon

Cast

Michel Piccoli - Cardinal Melville, Pope elect

Jerzy Stuhr - Va can Spokesman

Renato Scarpa - Cardinal Gregori

Franco Graziosi - Cardinal Bolla

Camillo Milli - Cardinal Pescardona

Roberto Nobile - Cardinal Cevasco

Ulrich von Dobschütz - Cardinal Brummer

Gianluca Gobbi - Swiss Guard

Nanni More - Dr. Brezzi, the psychoanalyst

Margherita Buy - A psychoanalyst

Dario Cantarelli - Actor

Other Music

Wri en by Julio Numhauser, Performed by Mercedes Sosa - “Todo Cambia”

Synopsis
 Following the death of the pope, the cardinals meet to choose his
successor. A er many votes they decide on Cardinal Melville, who had not
been one of the front runners for the posi on. At the moment when he is
about to be presented to the crowd from the Va can balcony, he runs off
howling. A er his general health has been checked and deemed
sa sfactory, a psychoanalyst, Dr. Brezzi, is brought in to help. However, the
first session is hampered by the presence of all the cardinals. Melville is
sent secretly to another psychoanalyst in Rome. A er the consulta on he
escapes into the streets of the capital. The Va can spokesman has to
dissemble to the media and the cardinals, saying that the pope elect needs
some me for reflec on. Brezzi and all the cardinals are forced to stay in
the Va can and a Swiss Guard is engaged to imitate the shadow of the
pope at the window in the papal apartments. Brezzi organizes a volleyball
tournament for the cardinals. Melville meanwhile explores the city, hears
an enlightening sermon, and meets a troupe of actors who are about to
perform Anton Chekhov’s The Seagull. He joins them, but is later
discovered in the theater and is brought back to the Va can. As he is
presented once again to the crowd, he admits that he is not able to fulfill
the role of pope.

OTHER FILMS MENTIONED

À bout de souffle / Breathless, Jean-Luc Godard, 1959
Acca one / The Scrounger, Pier-Paolo Pasolini, 1961
Amarcord, Federico Fellini, 1973
Anna, Alberto La uada, 1951
L’arroseur arrosé / The Waterer Watered, Louis and Auguste Lumière,
1895
La belle équipe / They Were Five, Julien Duvivier, 1936
Blade Runner, Ridley Sco , 1982
Blazing Saddles, Mel Brooks, 1974
Bonnie and Clyde, Arthur Penn, 1967
Brief Encounter, David Lean, 1945
Brighton Rock, John Boul ng, 1947
Catene / Chains, Raffaello Matarazzo, 1949
 C’era una volta il West / Once Upon a Time in the West, Sergio Leone,
1968
Un chien andalou, Luis Buñuel, 1928
The Chronicles of Narnia: The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe,
Andrew Adamson, 2005
Ci zen Kane, Orson Welles, 1941
Cléo de 5 à 7 / Cléo from 5 to 7, Agnès Varda, 1962
A Clockwork Orange, Stanley Kubrick, 1971
La comare secca / The Grim Reaper, Bernardo Bertolucci, 1962
Il conformista / The Conformist, Bernardo Bertolucci, 1970
Le crime de Monsieur Lange / The Crime of Monsieur Lange, Jean
Renoir, 1936
Il deserto rosso / Red Desert, Michelangelo Antonioni, 1964
Doctor Zhivago, David Lean, 1965
La dolce vita / The Sweet Life, Federico Fellini, 1960
Dracula, Terence Fisher, 1958
L’eclisse / Eclipse, Michelangelo Antonioni, 1962
Les enfants pêchant des creve es / Children Shrimp Fishing, Louis and
Auguste Lumière, 1896
The English Pa ent, Anthony Minghella, 1996
Farewell, My Lovely, Edward Dmytryk, 1944
Flashdance, Adrian Lyne, 1983
Les 400 coups / The 400 Blows, François Truffaut, 1959
The French Lieutenant’s Woman, Karel Reisz, 1981
Germania Anno Zero / Germany Year Zero, Roberto Rossellini, 1948
Gone with the Wind, Victor Fleming, 1939
GoodFellas, Mar n Scorsese, 1990
La Haine / Hate, Mathieu Kassovitz, 1995
Hannah and her Sisters, Woody Allen, 1986
Henry, Portrait of a Serial Killer, John McNaughton, 1986
Intolerance, D. W. Griffith, 1916
In Which We Serve, David Lean and Noël Coward, 1942
It’s a Wonderful Life, Frank Capra, 1946
Le jour se lève / Daybreak, Marcel Carné, 1939
Jules et Jim / Jules and Jim, François Truffaut, 1961
Junebug, Phil Morrison, 2005
 Das Kabine des Dr. Caligari / The Cabinet of Dr. Caligari, Robert
Wiene, 1919
Ladri di bicicle e / Bicycle Thieves,Vi orio De Sica, 1948
Il ladro di bambini / The Stolen Children, Gianni Amelio, 1992
The Lady in the Lake, Robert Montgomery, 1946
Låt den rä e komma in / Let the Right One In, Tomas Alfredson, 2008
Laura, O o Preminger, 1944
Li le Miss Sunshine, Jonathan Dayton and Valerie Faris, 2006
Lola Rennt / Run, Lola, Run, Tom Tykwer, 1998
Meet Me in St Louis, Vincente Minnelli, 1944
Metropolis, Fritz Lang, 1927
Miracolo a Milano / Miracle in Milan, Vi orio De Sica, 1951
Les Misérables / The Wretched, Billie August, 1998
La no e / The Night, Michelangelo Antonioni, 1961
Nuovo Cinema Paradiso / Cinema Paradiso, Giuseppe Tornatore 1988
Oliver Twist, Roman Polanski, 2005
On the Waterfront, Elia Kazan, 1954
O o e mezzo / 8½, Federico Fellini, 1963
Paisà / Paisan, Roberto Rossellini, 1946.
Pasqualino Se e Bellezze / Seven Beau es, Lina Wertmüller, 1975
Il portaborse / The Factotum, Daniele Luche , 1991
Prima della rivoluzione / Before the Revolu on, Bernardo Bertolucci,
1964
Pulp Fic on, Quen n Taran no, 1994
Raging Bull, Mar n Scorsese, 1981
Rashômon, Akira Kurosawa, 1950
Rear Window, Alfred Hitchcock, 1954
Regenera on, Gillies MacKinnon, 1997
Repas de bébé / Baby’s Meal me, Auguste and Louis Lumière, 1895
Rocco e i suoi fratelli / Rocco and his Brothers, Luchino Viscon , 1960
The Rocky Horror Picture Show, Jim Sharman, 1975
Roma, ci à aperta / Rome Open City, Roberto Rossellini, 1945
Roman Holiday, William Wyler, 1953
La ronde, Max Ophüls, 1950
Rorret, Fulvio Wetzl, 1988
La Roue / The Wheel, Abel Gance, 1923
 Lo sceicco bianco / The White Sheikh, Federico Fellini, 1952
Sliding Doors, Peter Howi , 1998
So Is This, Michael Snow, 1982
Some Like It Hot, Billy Wilder, 1959
Splendor, E ore Scola, 1989
Stagecoach, John Ford, 1939
Steel Magnolias, Herbert Ross, 1989
La strada / The Road, Federico Fellini, 1954
Sunset Boulevard, Billy Wilder, 1950
Suspiria, Dario Argento, 1977
Sweet Movie, Dusan Makavejev, 1974
A Taste of Honey, Tony Richardson, 1961
La terra trema / The Earth Trembles, Luchino Viscon , 1948
Thelma and Louise, Ridley Sco , 1991
Three Coins in the Fountain, Jean Negulesco, 1954
Trois couleurs: bleu / Three Colors: Blue, Krzysztof Kieślowski, 1993
Trois Couleurs: rouge / Three Colors: Red, Krzysztof Kieślowski, 1994
The Unbearable Lightness of Being, Philip Kaufman, 1986
The Untouchables, Brian De Palma, 1987
Via Paradiso, Luciano Odorisio, 1988
La vita è bella, Life is Beau ful, Roberto Benigni, 1997
The Wizard of Oz, Victor Fleming, 1939
Young at Heart, Gordon Douglas, 1954

BROADCASTS
The Bold and the Beau ful, television program broadcast 1987–present,
CBS
The Film Programme, radio program broadcast October 23, 2009, 4:30
p.m., BBC Radio 4
Happy Days, television program broadcast 1974–1984, American
Broadcas ng Company (ABC) and others
The Two Ronnies, television program broadcast 1971–1987, BBC1

DVD INTERVIEW
Ecce Bombo / Here Comes Bombo, DVD extra, interview with Nanni More
in Rome on July 2, 2007, made by Susanna Nicchiarelli and Eleonora Cao
(Susanna Nicchiarelli, 2007)

THEATER
The Seagull, Anton Chekhov, first produced 1896
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 Index

À
À bout de souffle/Breathless, 1 , 2

A
Acca one/The Scrounger, 1 , 2
Acireale, 1 , 2 , 3 , 4 , 5 , 6 , 7 , 8 , 9 , 10 , 11

Æ
Æolian Islands, 1 , 2 , 3 , 4 , 5 , 6

A
aesthe cs, 1 , 2 , 3 , 4 , 5
affect, 1
Albania, 1 , 2
Alicudi, 1 , 2 , 3 , 4 , 5 , 6
Alighieri, Dante, 1
Allen, Woody, 1 , 2 , 3 , 4
Amarcord, 1 , 2
Ancona, 1 , 2 , 3 , 4 , 5 , 6 , 7 , 8
Anna, 1 , 2
anthropology, 1 , 2
Antonioni, Michelangelo, 1 , 2 , 3 , 4 , 5 , 6 , 7 , 8
Apicella, Agata, 1 , 2 , 3
apophasis, 1 , 2 , 3 , 4 , 5
April, 1 , 2 , 3 , 4 , 5 , 6 , 7 , 8 , 9 , 10 , 11 , 12 , 13 , 14 , 15 , 16 , 17 , 18 , 19 ,
20 , 21 , 22 , 23 , 24 , 25 , 26 , 27 , 28 , 29 , 30 , 31 , 32 , 33 , 34 , 35 , 36 , 37
, 38 , 39 , 40 , 41
Aprile. See April
architecture, 1 , 2 , 3 , 4 , 5 , 6 , 7
Aristotle, 1
L
L’arroseur arrosé/The Waterer Watered, 1 , 2

A
Artaud, Antonin, 1
a tudinal point of view, 1 , 2 , 3 , 4 , 5 , 6 , 7 , 8 , 9 , 10 , 11 , 12 , 13 , 14 ,
15 , 16 , 17 , 18 , 19 , 20 , 21 , 22 , 23 , 24 , 25 , 26 , 27 , 28 , 29
audiovisual, 1 , 2 , 3 , 4
auteur, 1 , 2 , 3 , 4 , 5 , 6
autobiographical, 1 , 2 , 3 , 4 , 5 , 6 , 7 , 8 , 9 , 10 , 11 , 12
autoironia(self-irony), 1 , 2 , 3 , 4
authorship, 1 , 2 , 3 , 4 , 5 , 6 , 7 , 8 , 9 , 10 , 11 , 12 , 13 , 14 , 15 , 16 , 17 , 18
, 19 , 20 , 21 , 22 , 23 , 24 , 25 , 26 , 27 , 28 , 29 , 30

B
Bakh n, Mikhail, 1 , 2 , 3
barriers, 1 , 2 , 3 , 4 , 5
Bataille, Georges, 1
bathos, 1 , 2 , 3 , 4 , 5 , 6 , 7 , 8 , 9
Ba ato, Franco, 1 , 2 , 3
Bazin, André, 1 , 2 , 3 , 4 , 5
Beals, Jennifer, 1 , 2 , 3 , 4
Becke , Samuel, 1

L
La belle équipe/They Were Five, 1 , 2

B
Benigni, Roberto, 1 , 2 , 3 , 4
Berlinguer, Enrico, 1
Berlusconi, Silvio, 1 , 2 , 3 , 4 , 5 , 6 , 7 , 8 , 9 , 10 , 11 , 12 , 13 , 14 , 15 , 16 ,
17 , 18 , 19 , 20 , 21
Bertolucci, Bernardo, 1 , 2 , 3 , 4 , 5 , 6
Bianca, 1 , 2 , 3 , 4 , 5 , 6 , 7 , 8 , 9 , 10 , 11 , 12 , 13 , 14 , 15 , 16 , 17 , 18 ,
19 , 20 , 21 , 22 , 23 , 24 , 25 , 26 , 27 , 28 , 29 , 30 , 31 , 32 , 33
Bianca (character), 1 , 2 , 3 , 4 , 5 , 6 , 7
Blade Runner, 1 , 2 , 3
Blazing Saddles, 1 , 2
Boccassini, Ilda, 1

T
The Bold and the Beau ful, 1 , 2 , 3

B
Bonnie and Clyde, 1 , 2
Bossi, Umberto, 1
Branigan, Edward, 1 , 2 , 3 , 4
Brief Encounter, 1 , 2
Brighton Rock, 1 , 2
Brindisi, 1

C
cake, 1 , 2 , 3 , 4 , 5 , 6 , 7 , 8 , 9 , 10

I
Il Caimano. See The Caiman

T
The Caiman, 1 , 2 , 3 , 4 , 5 , 6 , 7 , 8 , 9 , 10 , 11 , 12 , 13 , 14 , 15 , 16 , 17 ,
18 , 19 , 20 , 21 , 22 , 23 , 24 , 25 , 26 , 27 , 28 , 29 , 30 , 31 , 32 , 33 , 34 , 35
, 36

C
caméra-stylo, 1
Cantarelli, Dario, 1 , 2 , 3 , 4 , 5 , 6 , 7 , 8 , 9
car interiors, 1 , 2 , 3 , 4 , 5
Caro Diario. See Dear Diary
Carpen eri, Renato, 1 , 2 , 3
Casal Palocco, 1 , 2 , 3
Catene /Chains, 1 , 2
Catholic Church, 1 , 2 , 3 , 4 , 5 , 6 , 7 , 8 , 9 , 10 , 11 , 12
C’era una volta il West/Once upon a Time in the West, 1 , 2

U
Un chien andalou, 1 , 2

C
Chinese Box Effect, 1 , 2
chocolate, 1 , 2 , 3 , 4 , 5

T
The Chronicles of Narnia: The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe, 1 , 2

C
chronotope, 1 , 2 , 3
Cineci à, 1
Cinémathèque Française, Paris, 1
cinema c space, 1 , 2 , 3
cinematography, 1 , 2 , 3 , 4 , 5 , 6 , 7 , 8 , 9 , 10 , 11 , 12 , 13 , 14 , 15 , 16 ,
17 , 18 , 19 , 20 , 21
Ci zen Kane, 1 , 2
cityscape, 1 , 2 , 3 , 4 , 5 , 6 , 7 , 8 , 9 , 10 , 11 , 12 , 13 , 14 , 15 , 16 , 17 , 18 ,
19 , 20

A
A Clockwork Orange, 1 , 2

C
Cléo de 5 à 7/Cléo from 5 to 7, 1 , 2
color, 1 , 2 , 3 , 4 , 5 , 6 , 7 , 8 , 9 , 10 , 11 , 12 , 13 , 14 , 15 , 16 , 17 , 18 , 19 ,
20 , 21 , 22 , 23 , 24 , 25 , 26
L
La comare secca/The Grim Reaper, 1 , 2

C
Come parli, frate?/What’s That, Brother?, 1 , 2
comedy, 1 , 2 , 3 , 4 , 5 , 6 , 7 , 8 , 9 , 10 , 11 , 12 , 13 , 14 , 15 , 16 , 17 , 18 ,
19 , 20 , 21 , 22 , 23 , 24 , 25
commedia all’italiana, 1 , 2 , 3 , 4 , 5
commedia dell’arte, 1
communist, 1 , 2 , 3 , 4 , 5 , 6 , 7 , 8 , 9 , 10 , 11 , 12 , 13 , 14

I
Il conformista/The Conformist, 1 , 2

L
La cosa/The Thing, 1

C
costume, 1 , 2 , 3 , 4 , 5 , 6 , 7 , 8 , 9 , 10 , 11 , 12 , 13 , 14 , 15 , 16 , 17
crime, 1 , 2 , 3 , 4 , 5 , 6 , 7 , 8

L
Le crime de Monsieur Lange/The Crime of Monsieur Lange, 1 , 2 , 3

C
crime movies, 1
cultural geography, 1
cultural theory, 1

D’Alema, Massimo, 1
daydream, 1 , 2 , 3 , 4 , 5 , 6 , 7 , 8 , 9 , 10 , 11 , 12
Dear Diary, 1 , 2 , 3 , 4 , 5 , 6 , 7 , 8 , 9 , 10 , 11 , 12 , 13 , 14 , 15 , 16 , 17 , 18
, 19 , 20 , 21 , 22 , 23 , 24 , 25 , 26 , 27 , 28 , 29 , 30 , 31 , 32 , 33 , 34 , 35 ,
36 , 37 , 38 , 39 , 40 , 41 , 42 , 43 , 44 , 45 , 46 , 47 , 48 , 49 , 50 , 51 , 52

I
Il deserto rosso/Red Desert, 1 , 2

D
De Sica, Vi orio, 1 , 2 , 3 , 4 , 5
diagonal, 1 , 2 , 3 , 4
Doctor Zhivago, 1 , 2 , 3 , 4 , 5 , 6 , 7 , 8
documentary, 1 , 2 , 3 , 4 , 5 , 6 , 7 , 8 , 9 , 10 , 11 , 12 , 13 , 14 , 15 , 16 , 17 ,
18

L
La dolce vita/The Sweet Life, 1 , 2 , 3

D
Don Quixote, 1
Dracula, 1 , 2
dreams, 1 , 2 , 3 , 4 , 5 , 6 , 7 , 8 , 9 , 10 , 11 , 12 , 13 , 14 , 15 , 16 , 17 , 18 ,
19 , 20 , 21 , 22 , 23 , 24 , 25 , 26 , 27 , 28 , 29 , 30 , 31 , 32 , 33 , 34 , 35 , 36

E
E vengo a cercare, 1 , 2
Ecce Bombo. See Here Comes Bombo

L
L’eclisse/Eclipse, 1 , 2 , 3

E
edi ng, 1 , 2 , 3 , 4 , 5 , 6 , 7 , 8 , 9 , 10 , 11 , 12 , 13 , 14 , 15 , 16 , 17 , 18 ,
19 , 20 , 21 , 22 , 23 , 24 , 25 , 26 , 27 , 28 , 29 , 30 , 31 , 32 , 33 , 34 , 35 , 36
Eisenstein, Sergei, 1

L
Les enfants pêchant des creve es/Children Shrimp Fishing, 1 , 2

T
The English Pa ent, 1 , 2

E
exteriors, 1 , 2 , 3 , 4 , 5 , 6 , 7 , 8 , 9 , 10 , 11 , 12 , 13 , 14 , 15 , 16 , 17 , 18 ,
19 , 20 , 21 , 22 , 23 , 24 , 25 , 26 , 27 , 28

F
fabula, 1
familiar gaze, 1 , 2 , 3 , 4 , 5
family, 1 , 2 , 3 , 4 , 5 , 6 , 7 , 8 , 9 , 10 , 11 , 12 , 13 , 14 , 15 , 16 , 17 , 18 , 19
, 20 , 21 , 22 , 23 , 24 , 25 , 26 , 27 , 28 , 29 , 30 , 31 , 32 , 33 , 34 , 35 , 36 ,
37 , 38 , 39 , 40 , 41 , 42 , 43 , 44 , 45 , 46 , 47 , 48 , 49 , 50 , 51 , 52 , 53 , 54
, 55 , 56 , 57 , 58 , 59 , 60 , 61 , 62 , 63 , 64 , 65 , 66 , 67 , 68 , 69 , 70 , 71 ,
72 , 73
fantasy, 1 , 2 , 3 , 4 , 5 , 6 , 7 , 8 , 9 , 10 , 11 , 12 , 13 , 14 , 15 , 16 , 17 , 18 ,
19 , 20 , 21 , 22 , 23 , 24 , 25 , 26 , 27 , 28
Farewell My Lovely, 1 , 2
Fellini, Federico, 1 , 2 , 3 , 4 , 5 , 6 , 7 , 8 , 9 , 10 , 11 , 12 , 13
female, 1 , 2 , 3 , 4 , 5 , 6 , 7 , 8 , 9 , 10 , 11 , 12 , 13 , 14 , 15 , 16 , 17 , 18 ,
19 , 20 , 21 , 22 , 23 , 24
feminist, 1 , 2 , 3 , 4 , 5
film cartolina, 1 , 2
film noir, 1 , 2 , 3 , 4 , 5 , 6 , 7

T
The Film Programme, 1 , 2

F
film-within-a-film, 1 , 2 , 3 , 4 , 5 , 6 , 7 , 8 , 9 , 10
flânerie, 1
flâneur, 1 , 2
Flashdance, 1 , 2
football, 1 , 2 , 3 , 4 , 5 , 6 , 7 , 8
Ford, John, 1 , 2
Foucault, Michel, 1

L
Les 400 coups/The 400 Blows, 1 , 2

F
frame, 1 , 2 , 3 , 4 , 5 , 6 , 7 , 8 , 9 , 10 , 11 , 12 , 13 , 14 , 15 , 16 , 17 , 18 ,
19.1-19.2 , 20 , 21 , 22 , 23 , 24 , 25 , 26 , 27 , 28 , 29 , 30 , 31 , 32 , 33 , 34 ,
35 , 36 , 37 , 38 , 39 , 40 , 41 , 42 , 43 , 44 , 45 , 46 , 47 , 48 , 49 , 50 , 51 , 52
, 53 , 54 , 55 , 56 , 57 , 58 , 59 , 60 , 61 , 62 , 63 , 64 , 65 , 66 , 67 , 68 , 69 ,
70 , 71 , 72 , 73 , 74 , 75 , 76 , 77

T
The French Lieutenant’s Woman, 1 , 2

F
French new wave, 1
Freud’s Mother, 1 , 2 , 3 , 4 , 5 , 6 , 7 , 8 , 9
Freud, Anna, 1
Freud, Sigmund, 1 , 2 , 3 , 4 , 5 , 6

La Garbatella, 1 , 2 , 3 , 4

G
Gene e, Gérard, 1 , 2 , 3 , 4
gender, 1 , 2 , 3 , 4 , 5 , 6 , 7 , 8 , 9 , 10 , 11 , 12 , 13 , 14 , 15 , 16 , 17 , 18 ,
19 , 20 , 21 , 22 , 23 , 24
geography, 1 , 2 , 3 , 4 , 5
Germania Anno Zero /Germany Year Zero, 1 , 2
giallo, 1 , 2 , 3 , 4 , 5
Giordana, Tullio, 1
Godard, Jean-Luc, 1 , 2 , 3
Gone With the Wind, 1 , 2
GoodFellas, 1 , 2
Grand Tour, 1

Habemus Papam. See We Have a Pope

L
La Haine/Hate, 1 , 2

H
Hannah and her Sisters, 1 , 2
Happy Days, 1 , 2
Harvey, David, 1
Henry, Portrait of a Serial Killer, 1 , 2 , 3
Here Comes Bombo, 1 , 2 , 3 , 4 , 5 , 6 , 7 , 8 , 9 , 10 , 11 , 12 , 13 , 14 , 15 ,
16 , 17 , 18 , 19 , 20 , 21 , 22 , 23 , 24 , 25 , 26 , 27 , 28 , 29 , 30 , 31 , 32 , 33
, 34
horizontal, 1 , 2 , 3 , 4 , 5 , 6 , 7
horror, 1 , 2 , 3 , 4 , 5 , 6 , 7 , 8
human geography, 1
humor, 1 , 2 , 3 , 4 , 5 , 6 , 7 , 8 , 9 , 10 , 11 , 12 , 13 , 14 , 15
Hyde Park Corner, 1

I am Self Sufficient, 1 , 2 , 3 , 4 , 5 , 6 , 7 , 8 , 9 , 10 , 11 , 12 , 13 , 14 , 15 , 16
, 17 , 18 , 19 , 20 , 21 , 22 , 23 , 24 , 25 , 26 , 27 , 28 , 29 , 30
I’m on Fire, 1
inside, 1 , 2 , 3 , 4 , 5 , 6 , 7 , 8 , 9 , 10 , 11 , 12 , 13 , 14 , 15 , 16 , 17 , 18 , 19
, 20
interior monologue, 1 , 2 , 3 , 4
interiors, 1 , 2 , 3 , 4 , 5 , 6 , 7 , 8 , 9 , 10 , 11 , 12 , 13 , 14 , 15 , 16 , 17 , 18 ,
19 , 20 , 21 , 22 , 23 , 24 , 25 , 26 , 27 , 28 , 29 , 30 , 31 , 32 , 33 , 34 , 35 , 36
, 37
inter- tles, 1 , 2 , 3 , 4 , 5 , 6
Intolerance, 1 , 2
In Which We Serve, 1 , 2
Io Sono Un Autarchico. See I Am Self Sufficient
irony, 1 , 2 , 3 , 4 , 5 , 6 , 7 , 8 , 9 , 10 , 11 , 12 , 13 , 14 , 15 , 16 , 17 , 18 , 19 ,
20 , 21 , 22 , 23 , 24 , 25 , 26 , 27 , 28 , 29 , 30 , 31 , 32 , 33 , 34 , 35 , 36 , 37
, 38 , 39 , 40 , 41 , 42 , 43 , 44 , 45 , 46 , 47 , 48
It’s a Wonderful Life, 1 , 2
Italian cinema, 1 , 2 , 3 , 4 , 5 , 6 , 7 , 8 , 9 , 10
Italian ci es, 1
Italian Communist Party, 1 , 2 , 3 , 4 , 5 , 6 , 7 , 8 , 9 , 10 , 11 , 12 , 13 , 14 ,
15 , 16
Italian Neo-Realism. See Neo-Realism

L
Le jour se lève/Daybreak, 1 , 2

J
Joyce, James, 1 , 2
Jules et Jim/Jules and Jim, 1 , 2
Junebug, 1 , 2
Jung, Carl Gustav, 1

Das Kabine des Dr. Caligari/The Cabinet of Dr. Caligari, 1 , 2 , 3 , 4

K
Keaton, Buster, 1 , 2
Kubrick, Stanley, 1 , 2

L
Ladri di bicicle e/ Bicycle Thieves, 1 , 2

I
Il ladro di bambini/The Stolen Children, 1 , 2

T
The Lady in the Lake, 1 , 2

L
landscapes, 1 , 2 , 3 , 4 , 5 , 6 , 7 , 8 , 9 , 10 , 11 , 12 , 13 , 14 , 15 , 16 , 17 ,
18 , 19 , 20 , 21 , 22 , 23 , 24 , 25 , 26 , 27 , 28 , 29 , 30 , 31
language, 1 , 2 , 3 , 4 , 5 , 6 , 7 , 8 , 9 , 10 , 11
Låt den rä e komma in /Let the Right One In, 1 , 2
Laura, 1 , 2
Lazio, 1 , 2
Lean, David, 1 , 2 , 3 , 4 , 5 , 6 , 7 , 8
Lefebvre, Henri, 1
le -wing, 1 , 2 , 3 , 4 , 5 , 6 , 7 , 8 , 9
Lega Nord (Northern League), 1 , 2
Lewis, Jerry, 1
line, 1 , 2 , 3 , 4 , 5 , 6 , 7 , 8 , 9 , 10 , 11 , 12 , 13 , 14 , 15 , 16
Lipari, 1 , 2 , 3 , 4
Li le Miss Sunshine, 1 , 2
Lola Rennt/Run, Lola, Run, 1 , 2
London, 1 , 2 , 3 , 4 , 5 , 6

La mamma di Freud. See Freud’s Mother

M
Manchester, 1
Mangano, Silvana, 1 , 2
Marxist, 1 , 2 , 3
masculine, 1 , 2 , 3 , 4 , 5 , 6 , 7 , 8 , 9 , 10

T
The Mass Is Ended, 1 , 2 , 3 , 4 , 5 , 6 , 7 , 8 , 9 , 10 , 11 , 12 , 13 , 14 , 15 , 16
, 17 , 18 , 19 , 20 , 21 , 22 , 23 , 24 , 25 , 26 , 27 , 28 , 29 , 30 , 31 , 32 , 33 ,
34 , 35 , 36 , 37 , 38 , 39 , 40 , 41 , 42 , 43 , 44 , 45 , 46

M
Mazzacura , Carlo, 1
Meet Me in St. Louis, 1 , 2
melodrama, 1 , 2 , 3 , 4 , 5 , 6 , 7 , 8 , 9 , 10 , 11
memoirs, 1 , 2 , 3
memory, 1 , 2 , 3 , 4 , 5 , 6 , 7 , 8 , 9 , 10 , 11 , 12 , 13 , 14 , 15 , 16 , 17 , 18 ,
19 , 20 , 21 , 22 , 23
memory triggers, 1

L
La Messa è Finita. See The Mass Is Ended

M
metaphorical narra ve spaces, 1
Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer (MGM), 1 , 2
Metropolis, 1 , 2
Metz, Chris an, 1
middle class, 1 , 2 , 3 , 4 , 5 , 6 , 7 , 8 , 9
Milan, 1 , 2 , 3 , 4 , 5 , 6 , 7
Miracolo a Milano/Miracle in Milan, 1 , 2
mise-en-cadre, 1
mise-en-scène, 1 , 2 , 3 , 4 , 5 , 6 , 7 , 8 , 9 , 10 , 11 , 12 , 13 , 14 , 15 , 16 , 17
, 18 , 19 , 20 , 21 , 22 , 23 , 24

L
Les Misérables/The Wretched, 1 , 2

M
Morante, Laura, 1 , 2 , 3 , 4 , 5 , 6 , 7 , 8
More , Franco, 1 , 2
More , Luigi, 1 , 2 , 3 , 4 , 5 , 6
More , Pietro, 1 , 2 , 3 , 4 , 5
Mulvey, Laura, 1
musical, 1 , 2 , 3 , 4 , 5 , 6 , 7 , 8 , 9 , 10 , 11 , 12 , 13 , 14 , 15 , 16

N
Naples, 1
narra on, 1 , 2 , 3 , 4 , 5 , 6 , 7 , 8 , 9 , 10 , 11 , 12 , 13 , 14 , 15 , 16 , 17 , 18
narra ve space, 1 , 2 , 3 , 4 , 5 , 6 , 7 , 8 , 9 , 10 , 11 , 12 , 13 , 14 , 15 , 16 ,
17 , 18 , 19 , 20 , 21 , 22 , 23 , 24 , 25 , 26 , 27 , 28 , 29 , 30 , 31 , 32 , 33 , 34
, 35 , 36 , 37 , 38 , 39 , 40 , 41 , 42 , 43 , 44 , 45 , 46 , 47 , 48 , 49 , 50
narra ve structure, 1 , 2 , 3 , 4 , 5 , 6 , 7 , 8 , 9 , 10 , 11 , 12 , 13 , 14 , 15 , 16
, 17 , 18 , 19 , 20 , 21 , 22
episodic, 1 , 2 , 3
linear, 1 , 2 , 3 , 4
mul -track, 1 , 2 , 3 , 4 , 5 , 6
narrator, 1 , 2 , 3 , 4 , 5 , 6 , 7 , 8 , 9 , 10 , 11 , 12 , 13 , 14 , 15 , 16 , 17 , 18 ,
19 , 20 , 21 , 22 , 23 , 24 , 25 , 26 , 27 , 28 , 29 , 30 , 31 , 32 , 33 , 34 , 35 , 36
, 37 , 38 , 39 , 40 , 41 , 42 , 43 , 44 , 45 , 46 , 47 , 48 , 49 , 50 , 51 , 52 , 53 ,
54 , 55
nature, 1 , 2 , 3
Neo-Realism, 1 , 2
Neo-Realist, 1 , 2 , 3 , 4
Niche , Maurizio, 1 , 2
nightmares, 1 , 2 , 3 , 4 , 5 , 6 , 7
Nono, Silvia, 1 , 2 , 3 , 4 , 5
nostalgia, 1 , 2 , 3 , 4

L
La no e/The Night, 1 , 2

N
nouvelle vague. See French new wave
Nuovo Cinema Paradiso/Cinema Paradiso, 1 , 2
Nuovo Sacher cinema, 1 , 2
O

observa on, 1 , 2 , 3 , 4 , 5 , 6 , 7 , 8 , 9 , 10 , 11 , 12 , 13 , 14 , 15 , 16 , 17 ,
18 , 19 , 20 , 21 , 22 , 23 , 24 , 25 , 26 , 27 , 28 , 29 , 30 , 31 , 32 , 33 , 34 , 35
, 36 , 37 , 38 , 39 , 40
Ocche o, Achille, 1
off-screen space, 1 , 2 , 3 , 4 , 5 , 6 , 7 , 8 , 9 , 10 , 11 , 12 , 13 , 14 , 15 , 16 ,
17
Oliver Twist, 1 , 2
On the Waterfront, 1 , 2
on-screen space, 1 , 2 , 3 , 4 , 5 , 6 , 7
op cal point of view, 1 , 2 , 3 , 4 , 5 , 6 , 7 , 8 , 9 , 10 , 11 , 12 , 13 , 14 , 15 ,
16 , 17 , 18 , 19 , 20
Orlando, Silvio, 1 , 2 , 3 , 4 , 5 , 6 , 7 , 8 , 9 , 10 , 11 , 12 , 13
Os a, 1 , 2 , 3 , 4 , 5 , 6
O o e mezzo/8½, 1 , 2
outside, 1 , 2 , 3 , 4 , 5 , 6 , 7 , 8 , 9 , 10 , 11 , 12 , 13 , 14 , 15 , 16 , 17 , 18 ,
19 , 20 , 21 , 22 , 23 , 24 , 25 , 26 , 27 , 28 , 29 , 30 , 31 , 32 , 33 , 34 , 35 , 36

Paisà/Paisan, 1 , 2 , 3
Palombella Rossa. See Red Lob
Panarea, 1 , 2 , 3 , 4
parallel universes, 1 , 2
Par to comunista italiano (PCI) See Italian Communist Party
Pasolini, Pier-Paolo, 1 , 2 , 3 , 4 , 5 , 6 , 7
Pasqualino Se e Bellezze /Seven Beau es, 1 , 2
Pâté de bourgeois/Bourgeois Pâté, 1 , 2
pathos, 1
perspec ve, 1 , 2 , 3 , 4 , 5 , 6 , 7 , 8 , 9 , 10 , 11 , 12 , 13 , 14 , 15 , 16 , 17 ,
18 , 19 , 20 , 21 , 22 , 23 , 24 , 25 , 26 , 27 , 28 , 29 , 30 , 31 , 32 , 33 , 34 , 35
, 36 , 37 , 38 , 39 , 40 , 41 , 42 , 43 , 44 , 45 , 46 , 47
philosophy, 1 , 2 , 3 , 4 , 5 , 6 , 7 , 8 , 9 , 10 , 11
Piccoli, Michel, 1 , 2 , 3 , 4 , 5 , 6
Piersan , Franco, 1
Piovani, Nicola, 1
Pirandello, Luigi, 1 , 2 , 3
place, 1 , 2 , 3 , 4 , 5 , 6 , 7 , 8 , 9 , 10 , 11 , 12 , 13 , 14 , 15 , 16 , 17 , 18 , 19 ,
20 , 21 , 22 , 23 , 24 , 25 , 26 , 27 , 28 , 29 , 30 , 31 , 32 , 33 , 34 , 35 , 36 , 37
, 38 , 39 , 40 , 41 , 42 , 43 , 44 , 45 , 46 , 47 , 48 , 49 , 50 , 51 , 52 , 53 , 54 ,
55 , 56 , 57 , 58 , 59 , 60 , 61 , 62 , 63 , 64 , 65 , 66 , 67 , 68 , 69 , 70 , 71 , 72
, 73 , 74 , 75 , 76 , 77 , 78 , 79 , 80 , 81 , 82 , 83 , 84 , 85 , 86 , 87 , 88 , 89 ,
90 , 91 , 92 , 93 , 94 , 95 , 96 , 97 , 98 , 99 , 100 , 101 , 102 , 103 , 104 , 105 ,
106 , 107 , 108 , 109 , 110 , 111 , 112 , 113 , 114
Placido, Beniamino, 1 , 2
Placido, Michele, 1 , 2 , 3
poli cal science, 1
poli cally commi ed filmmaking, 1 , 2 , 3 , 4 , 5
poli cs, 1 , 2 , 3 , 4 , 5 , 6 , 7 , 8 , 9 , 10 , 11 , 12 , 13 , 14 , 15
Ponte Flaminio, 1
Prima della rivoluzione/Before the Revolu on, 1 , 2

I
Il portaborse /The Factotum, 1 , 2

P
Posi f, 1
postwar, 1 , 2 , 3 , 4
private places, 1 , 2 , 3 , 4 , 5 , 6 , 7 , 8 , 9 , 10 , 11 , 12 , 13 , 14 , 15 , 16 , 17 ,
18 , 19 , 20 , 21 , 22 , 23 , 24 , 25 , 26 , 27 , 28 , 29 , 30 , 31 , 32 , 33 , 34
pro-filmic space, 1 , 2
public and private life, 1 , 2 , 3 , 4 , 5 , 6 , 7 , 8 , 9 , 10
public places, 1 , 2 , 3 , 4 , 5 , 6 , 7 , 8 , 9 , 10 , 11 , 12 , 13 , 14 , 15 , 16 , 17 ,
18 , 19 , 20 , 21 , 22 , 23 , 24 , 25 , 26 , 27 , 28 , 29 , 30 , 31 , 32 , 33 , 34 , 35
, 36 , 37 , 38 , 39
Pulp Fic on, 1 , 2

quest, 1 , 2 , 3 , 4 , 5 , 6
R

Raging Bull, 1 , 2
Rashômon, 1 , 2 , 3
Rear Window, 1 , 2
Red Lob, 1 , 2 , 3 , 4 , 5 , 6 , 7 , 8 , 9 , 10 , 11 , 12 , 13 , 14 , 15 , 16 , 17 , 18 ,
19 , 20 , 21 , 22 , 23 , 24 , 25 , 26 , 27 , 28 , 29 , 30 , 31 , 32 , 33 , 34 , 35 , 36
, 37 , 38 , 39 , 40
Regenera on, 1 , 2
Renoir, Jean, 1 , 2 , 3 , 4
Repas de bébé / Baby’s Meal me, 1 , 2
rhetorical devices, 1 , 2 , 3 , 4
Riverside Studios, London, 1
road movie, 1 , 2 , 3 , 4 , 5
Rocco e i suoi fratelli/Rocco and his Brothers, 1 , 2
Rockwell, Alexandre, 1 , 2

T
The Rocky Horror Picture Show, 1 , 2

R
Roma, ci à aperta / Rome Open City, 1 , 2 , 3
Roman Holiday, 1 , 2 , 3
romance, 1 , 2 , 3 , 4 , 5 , 6 , 7 , 8
Rome, 1 , 2 , 3 , 4 , 5 , 6 , 7 , 8 , 9 , 10 , 11 , 12 , 13 , 14 , 15 , 16 , 17 , 18 , 19
, 20 , 21 , 22 , 23 , 24 , 25 , 26 , 27 , 28 , 29 , 30 , 31 , 32 , 33 , 34 , 35 , 36 ,
37 , 38 , 39 , 40 , 41 , 42 , 43 , 44 , 45 , 46 , 47 , 48 , 49 , 50 , 51 , 52 , 53 , 54
, 55 , 56 , 57 , 58 , 59 , 60 , 61 , 62 , 63 , 64 , 65

L
La ronde, 1 , 2

R
Rorret, 1 , 2
Rossellini, Roberto, 1 , 2 , 3 , 4 , 5 , 6 , 7 , 8 , 9
L
La roue/The Wheel, 1 , 2

R
Rückenfigur, 1 , 2 , 3 , 4 , 5 , 6 , 7 , 8 , 9 , 10

S
Sacher Film, Rome, 1 , 2 , 3 , 4
Sachertorte, 1 , 2
Salina, 1 , 2 , 3 , 4 , 5 , 6 , 7 , 8
sa re, 1 , 2 , 3 , 4 , 5 , 6

L
Lo sceicco bianco/The White Sheikh, 1 , 2
La sconfi a/The Defeat, 1 , 2 , 3 , 4 , 5

S
sea, 1 , 2 , 3 , 4 , 5 , 6 , 7 , 8 , 9 , 10 , 11

T
The Seagull, 1 , 2 , 3 , 4 , 5

S
se ng, 1 , 2 , 3 , 4 , 5 , 6 , 7 , 8 , 9 , 10 , 11 , 12 , 13 , 14 , 15 , 16 , 17 , 18 ,
19 , 20 , 21 , 22 , 23 , 24 , 25 , 26 , 27 , 28 , 29 , 30 , 31 , 32 , 33 , 34 , 35 , 36
, 37 , 38 , 39 , 40 , 41 , 42 , 43 , 44 , 45 , 46 , 47 , 48 , 49 , 50 , 51 , 52 , 53 ,
54 , 55 , 56 , 57 , 58 , 59 , 60 , 61 , 62 , 63 , 64 , 65 , 66 , 67 , 68 , 69 , 70 , 71
, 72 , 73 , 74 , 75 , 76 , 77 , 78 , 79 , 80 , 81 , 82 , 83 , 84 , 85 , 86 , 87 , 88 ,
89 , 90 , 91 , 92 , 93 , 94 , 95 , 96 , 97 , 98 , 99 , 100 , 101 , 102 , 103 , 104 ,
105 , 106 , 107 , 108 , 109 , 110 , 111 , 112
shape, 1 , 2 , 3 , 4 , 5 , 6
Sliding Doors, 1 , 2 , 3
sociology, 1
So Is This, 1 , 2 , 3
Sogni D’oro. See Sweet Dreams
Soja, Edward, 1
somagraph, 1
Some Like it Hot, 1 , 2 , 3

T
The Son’s Room, 1 , 2 , 3 , 4 , 5 , 6 , 7 , 8 , 9 , 10 , 11 , 12 , 13 , 14 , 15 , 16 ,
17 , 18 , 19 , 20 , 21 , 22 , 23 , 24 , 25 , 26 , 27 , 28 , 29 , 30 , 31 , 32 , 33 , 34

S
Sordi, Alberto, 1 , 2
soundtrack, 1 , 2 , 3 , 4 , 5 , 6 , 7
space, 1 , 2 , 3 , 4 , 5 , 6 , 7 , 8 , 9 , 10 , 11 , 12 , 13 , 14 , 15 , 16 , 17 , 18 , 19
, 20 , 21 , 22 , 23 , 24 , 25 , 26 , 27 , 28 , 29 , 30 , 31 , 32 , 33 , 34 , 35 , 36 ,
37 , 38 , 39 , 40 , 41 , 42 , 43 , 44 , 45 , 46 , 47 , 48 , 49 , 50 , 51 , 52 , 53 , 54
, 55 , 56 , 57 , 58 , 59 , 60 , 61 , 62 , 63 , 64 , 65 , 66 , 67 , 68 , 69 , 70 , 71 ,
72 , 73 , 74 , 75 , 76 , 77 , 78 , 79 , 80 , 81 , 82 , 83 , 84 , 85 , 86 , 87 , 88 , 89
, 90 , 91 , 92 , 93 , 94 , 95 , 96 , 97 , 98 , 99 , 100 , 101 , 102 , 103 , 104 , 105
, 106 , 107 , 108 , 109 , 110 , 111 , 112 , 113 , 114 , 115 , 116 , 117 , 118 ,
119 , 120 , 121 , 122 , 123 , 124 , 125 , 126 , 127 , 128 , 129 , 130 , 131 , 132
, 133
Speakers’ Corner, 1
Spinaceto, 1 , 2 , 3 , 4
Splendor, 1 , 2 , 3
sport, 1 , 2 , 3 , 4 , 5 , 6 , 7 , 8 , 9 , 10 , 11
Stagecoach, 1 , 2 , 3

L
La Stanza Del Figlio. See The Son’s Room

S
Steel Magnolias, 1 , 2 , 3

L
La strada/The Road, 1 , 2 , 3 , 4 , 5
S
Stromboli, 1 , 2 , 3 , 4 , 5 , 6
Sunset Boulevard, 1 , 2 , 3
Suspiria, 1 , 2
suture, 1 , 2 , 3
Sweet Dreams, 1 , 2 , 3 , 4 , 5 , 6 , 7 , 8 , 9 , 10 , 11 , 12 , 13 , 14 , 15 , 16 , 17
, 18 , 19 , 20 , 21 , 22 , 23 , 24 , 25 , 26 , 27 , 28 , 29 , 30 , 31 , 32 , 33 , 34 ,
35 , 36 , 37 , 38 , 39 , 40 , 41 , 42 , 43 , 44 , 45 , 46 , 47
Sweet Movie, 1 , 2
swimming pool, 1 , 2 , 3 , 4 , 5 , 6 , 7 , 8 , 9 , 10 , 11 , 12 , 13 , 14 , 15 , 16
syuzhet, 1

A
A Taste of Honey, 1 , 2

T
Ta , Jacques, 1
Taviani, Paolo and Vi orio, 1 , 2

L
La terra trema/The Earth Trembles, 1 , 2

T
textual analysis, 1 , 2
Traversa, Fabio, 1 , 2 , 3 , 4 , 5 , 6 , 7 , 8 , 9 , 10 , 11 , 12 , 13 , 14 , 15
Troisi, Massimo, 1
Truffaut, François, 1 , 2 , 3 , 4
The Two Ronnies, 1 , 2
Thelma and Louise, 1 , 2 , 3
Three Coins in the Fountain, 1 , 2 , 3 , 4
three-dimensional, 1
thresholds, 1 , 2 , 3 , 4 , 5
me, 1 , 2 , 3 , 4 , 5 , 6 , 7 , 8 , 9 , 10 , 11 , 12 , 13 , 14 , 15 , 16 , 17 , 18 , 19 ,
20 , 21 , 22 , 23 , 24 , 25 , 26 , 27 , 28 , 29 , 30 , 31 , 32 , 33 , 34 , 35 , 36 , 37
, 38 , 39 , 40 , 41 , 42 , 43 , 44 , 45 , 46 , 47 , 48 , 49 , 50 , 51 , 52 , 53 , 54 ,
55 , 56 , 57 , 58 , 59 , 60 , 61 , 62 , 63 , 64 , 65 , 66 , 67 , 68 , 69 , 70
Todorov, Tzvetan, 1 , 2 , 3 , 4 , 5 , 6
Totò, 1
Tourist Gaze, 1 , 2 , 3 , 4
Trastevere, 1 , 2
Trois couleurs: bleu/Three Colors: Blue, 1 , 2
Trois couleurs: rouge/Three Colors: Red, 1 , 2
two-dimensional, 1

The Unbearable Lightness of Being, 1 , 2

The Untouchables, 1 , 2

Va can, 1 , 2 , 3 , 4 , 5 , 6 , 7 , 8 , 9 , 10 , 11 , 12 , 13
Venice, 1 , 2 , 3 , 4 , 5
ver cal, 1 , 2 , 3 , 4 , 5
Via Paradiso, 1 , 2
Viscon , Luchino, 1 , 2 , 3 , 4
visual style, 1 , 2 , 3 , 4 , 5 , 6 , 7 , 8 , 9 , 10 , 11
visualiza on, 1 , 2 , 3 , 4 , 5 , 6 , 7 , 8 , 9 , 10

L
La vita è bella/Life is Beau ful, 1 , 2

V
Viterbo, Giorgio, 1 , 2 , 3 , 4 , 5 , 6
voice-over, 1 , 2 , 3 , 4 , 5 , 6 , 7 , 8 , 9 , 10 , 11 , 12 , 13 , 14 , 15 , 16 , 17 , 18
, 19 , 20 , 21 , 22 , 23 , 24 , 25 , 26 , 27 , 28 , 29 , 30 , 31
voyeurism, 1 , 2 , 3 , 4 , 5 , 6 , 7 , 8 , 9 , 10 , 11

W
water polo, 1 , 2 , 3 , 4 , 5 , 6 , 7 , 8 , 9 , 10 , 11 , 12 , 13 , 14 , 15 , 16
We Have A Pope, 1 , 2 , 3 , 4 , 5 , 6 , 7 , 8 , 9 , 10 , 11 , 12 , 13 , 14 , 15 , 16
Wertmüller, Lina, 1 , 2 , 3

T
the Western, 1 , 2 , 3 , 4 , 5 , 6 , 7

W
whodunit, 1 , 2 , 3 , 4

T
The Wizard of Oz, 1 , 2

Young at Heart, 1 , 2
 About the Author

Eleanor Andrews is Senior Lecturer in Italian and Course Leader for

Film Studies at the University of Wolverhampton, UK. Her academic
background is in French and Italian language, literature and linguis cs, to
which she added Film Studies over a decade ago. She teaches European
Cinema, in par cular French Cinema from the Golden Age of the 1930s to
the present day, and Italian Cinema, including Neo-Realism, the Spaghe
Western, and the work of the director Nanni More . She has also taught
and wri en about cinema and the Holocaust, as well as myth and the fairy
tale on screen. She has published on family life and authorship in More ’s
films, as well as producing short features about Rome and Florence on film.
In her spare me she likes to cook and play the flute. She is married and
has two sons, Alex and John. She lives in Shropshire, UK, with her husband,
Alec.