5 6143092380598796929

SEX, THE SELF, AND THE SACRED:
WOMEN IN THE CINEMA OF PIER PAOLO PASOLINI

This page intentionally left blank
COLLEEN RYAN-SCHEUTZ
Sex, the Self, and the Sacred

Women in the Cinema of
Pier Paolo Pasolini
UNIVERSITY OF TORONTO PRESS

Toronto Buffalo London
www.utppublishing.com
© University of Toronto Press Incorporated 2007
Toronto Buffalo London
Printed in Canada
ISBN 978-0-8020-9285-4
Printed on acid-free paper
Toronto Italian Studies
Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication
Ryan-Scheutz, Colleen
Sex, the self and the sacred : women in the cinema of Pier Paolo
Pasolini / Colleen Ryan-Scheutz.
(Toronto Italian studies)
Includes bibliographical references and index.
ISBN 978-0-8020-9285-4 (bound)
1. Pasolini, Pier Paolo, 1922–1975 – Criticism and interpretation –
Textbooks. 2. Women in motion pictures – Textbooks. I. Title.
II. Series.
PN1998.3.P367R93 2007 791.4302c33092 C2006-906758-9
This book has been published with the financial assistance of the Institute
for Scholarship in the Liberal Arts at the University of Notre Dame.
University of Toronto Press acknowledges the financial assistance to its

publishing program of the Canada Council for the Arts and the Ontario
Arts Council.
University of Toronto Press acknowledges the financial support for its

publishing activities of the Government of Canada through the Book
Publishing Industry Development Program (BPIDP).
For Clara
Contents
Acknowledgments ix
Introduction 3
1 Susanna Pasolini and the Female Universe 14

2 Mothers 45
3 Prostitutes 76
4 Daughters 102
5 Saints 135
6 Sinners 165
7 Salò and Petrolio 200
Appendix: Filmography of Pier Paolo Pasolini 227

Notes 229
Bibliography 273
Index 285
Acknowledgments
This project could not have been completed without the guidance and
support of numerous people and institutions. First, I would like to thank
Giuseppe Iafrate from the Fondo Pier Paolo Pasolini in Rome, who gave
his invaluable assistance during the early phases of research for this
book, and the late Professor Lino Miccichè, who engaged me in prelimi-
nary yet foundational discussions about women in Pasolini’s cinema. I
would also like to thank Ron Schoeffel and his colleagues at the Univer-
sity of Toronto Press for their trusted advice and reliable communica-
tions throughout the various stages of review and publication. Likewise, I
am grateful for the incisive commentary and questions of anonymous
readers that urged me to clarify my thoughts and bring this work to its
full potential. In New York, the Museum of Modern Art provided me
with access to its Pasolini archive and allowed me to reproduce several
photographs in this book. And in Italy, Nico Naldini, Silvana Mauri
Ottieri, and the late Laura Betti kindly shared memories and opinions
about Pasolini’s concept of women that played an important role in my
work. Moreover, this research was made possible to a large extent by the
generous support from the Institute for Scholarship in the Liberal Arts,
College of Arts and Letters, at the University of Notre Dame.
Certainly no book project would be possible without the eyes, ears, and
input of key colleagues and friends who thankfully critique the work in
progress in a rigorous and productive fashion. I am greatly indebted to
Peter Bondanella, Millicent Marcus, Theodore Cachey, and Zygmunt
Baranski for their selfless mentorship and critical insights at various
important crossroads. I am also filled with gratitude for L.M. Harteker’s
unwavering professionalism and expert guidance throughout the differ-
ent stages of writing. Another special thanks goes to Thomas Mayer,
x Acknowledgments
whose curiosity about Pasolini and whose artist’s eye helped me zero in
on certain details of great consequence in these films.
At the University of Notre Dame, I would like to acknowledge and
thank the numerous outstanding students who, year after year, enrich
my life and inspire me to share my research queries and findings. I thank
John Welle for introducing me to the world of Italian cinema as an
undergraduate and Christian Moevs and Dayle Seidenspinner-Nuñez for
their friendship and support throughout the years. In addition, I thank
Lauren, Stephanie, Michelle, Tricia, Erica, Vanessa, Kelly, Mary, Theresa,
Sherry, Erin, Silvia, Patrick, Laura, Giovanna, and Alessia for contribut-
ing to my peace of mind and allowing for lengthy periods of concentra-
tion and writing.
My family and friends in the United States and abroad have also played
a vital role in this project by cheerfully supporting my professional
endeavours all along. I am most grateful to my grandparents, parents, in-
laws, and siblings, but especially to Matthias, who patiently taught me
about many things – from self-reference to formatting manuscripts – and
who encouraged deeper critical thinking in every phase of this work.
Ultimately, however, this book is for Clara – the main female figure in my
life.
SEX, THE SELF, AND THE SACRED:
WOMEN IN THE CINEMA OF PIER PAOLO PASOLINI
Introduction
... Il mio amore

è solo per la donna: infante e madre.
Solo per essa, impegno tutto il cuore.
Pasolini, ‘La realtà,’ Bestemmia, 653
[... My love
is only for woman: infant and mother.
Only to her do I give my whole heart.]1
Born in Bologna in 1922, Pier Paolo Pasolini was one of the most
controversial European intellectuals of his time. First and foremost a
poet, he explored the lyric potential of his mother’s Friulian dialect and,
throughout his early years, wrote poems in both Friulian and Italian.2 By
the late 1940s, he had broadened the scope of his literary production to
include a short drama, works of fiction, and critical essays. Although
Pasolini never stopped writing poetry and narrative, in the late 1950s, he
turned a large part of his artistic energy to the cinema. For several years,
he worked on and off as a screenwriter and dialogue consultant for
renowned directors such as Fellini and Bolognini, even acting in one of
Lizzani’s films.3 In 1961, he became a filmmaker in his own right, rising
immediately to a position of notoriety with Accattone, his first feature.
Every year thereafter, until his untimely death in 1975, Pasolini devel-
oped or completed new film projects.4
Pasolini’s films are famous for many things, among them his male
characters, such as Accattone, Totò and Ninetto ‘Innocenti,’ Oedipus,
and Christ. Infused as they are with references to the artist’s political
4 Sex, the Self, and the Sacred
views, to his early novels about the Roman subproletariat, and to his own
life in general, Pasolini’s male characters have received much critical
attention. Yet his films also abound with female characters – Mamma
Roma, Marilyn, the Virgin, Jocasta, Medea – who appear with rich and
varied purpose and who deserve the same level of critical interest. The
portrayals of these women and the relationships they have with their
male counterparts and their societies comprise an important thematic
that grants access to the primary poetic of authenticity at the heart of
Pasolini’s cinematic works.
Pasolini believed the ‘authentic’ Italy, with its many languages and
subcultures, its ancient roots and idiosyncrasies, to be disappearing be-
fore his eyes, and he used his films to denounce the social and ideologi-
cal forces he felt were responsible for this detrimental change. Yet rather
than campaign with overtly political films, Pasolini vested ideological
impetus in key film characters immersed in real or mythical settings.
While numerous male figures were central to the expression of his world
view, women and the female sphere were equally and uniquely important
for understanding and solving the dilemma he perceived. Through his
female figures onscreen, he was able to critique the ruling class from a
decisively different perspective and propose a range of alternatives to the
increasingly sterile and capitalistic world of Italy and the West. This study
explores the ways in which Pasolini’s representations of women unravelled
his concerns about the pure and genuine in modern society and the ways
in which he used these representations to achieve authenticity for him-
self – as artist and autobiographical subject.
In his fifteen years as director, Pasolini made films that were diverse in
genre and intent. They included realistic accounts of slum life in postwar
Rome, autobiographical adaptations of classical myths, and both fic-
tional and documentary reflections on the spread of neo-capitalism in
Italy and the Western world. While Pasolini’s ideological message always
remained secondary to his artistic goals, each of his films clearly demon-
strated a civic dimension that resonated with the broader viewing public.
In nearly all his pictures, Pasolini depicted class consciousness, social
diversity, and the invisibly homogenizing forces of the dominant bour-
geois culture.5 In the wake of the First World War, renowned political
theorist Antonio Gramsci (1891–1937) maintained that the ideology of
the dominant economic class reflected only its own moral beliefs and
material goals. For Pasolini an important aspect of Gramsci’s political
theory was its central concern for the subaltern classes, whose cultural
identity was being effaced or subsumed by the petite bourgeoisie. Greatly
Introduction 5
influenced by Gramsci, Pasolini’s interest in the postwar period and

reconstruction period in Italy similarly concentrated on critiquing the
ways in which the new found industrial wealth had allowed and even
encouraged middle-class consumerism to pervade almost every social
stratum.6 In Pasolini’s view, the new cultural model – characterized by
false consciousness and surface-level morality – was infiltrating the minds
and mannerisms of all and gradually overshadowing the diminishing
remnants of genuine subcultures in Italy.
Gramsci believed that intellectuals would play a key role in either
sustaining or destabilizing cultural hegemony. In his view, certain intel-
lectuals working through the apparatus of the party could be ‘“organi-
cally” linked to the working class, able to give it a homogeneity by voicing
its needs and adding to its growth.’7 A ‘national’ literature that was
consistently rooted in ‘the rich “humus” of popular culture’ could de-
bunk the dominant culture and reassert the values of the non-dominant
many, that is, the ‘Others’ (the poor farmers, street waifs, prostitutes, day
workers in whom Pasolini was most interested).8 Moreover, because Italy
had a largely illiterate population, it seemed that cinema in particular
had the potential to create a counter-ideology that could revolutionize
the cultural future of the West.
Although Pasolini agreed that art and literature were powerful forums
for debate and social change, he set out neither to be a ‘“mediating
lynchpin” between classes’ nor to transform Italian society with his films.9
Instead, in the wake of his two Roman novels – Ragazzi di vita (1956) and
Una vita violenta (1959) – whose political message was embedded in the
picaresque adventures of numerous subproletarian boys, his first films
(Accattone, Mamma Roma, Comizi d’amore, and Uccellacci e uccellini) simi-
larly made ideological statements about fading subcultures through the
adventures of petty pimps, whores, and thieves. For Pasolini, these were
the human subjects who embodied, thus conveyed, the authentic roots
of Italian society. Constituting a forgotten social stratum, they uncon-
sciously resisted the moral authority emanating from the symbolic state
centre (Rome). However, rather than strive for a new national cinema
that directly promoted the voice of the disenfranchised, Pasolini ap-
proached the lowly subjects of his films through a very personal lens with
the intent of showing the ‘epic-religious’ nature of the most humble
beings and human relations.10
The era of postwar reconstruction in Italy constituted a decade of
transition and transformation in many ways, particularly from political,
social, and economic points of view, and Pasolini’s artistic production,
whether poems, narratives or films, would forever reflect the cultural

tensions that grew out of this era. After Germany surrendered and the
Second World War ended, coalition governments that balanced repre-
sentation from both the Right and the Left governed the newly liberated
country until a 1946 public referendum did away with Italy’s monarchy
and formed the first Italian Republic. In 1948, a constitution was drafted,
again by proponents of centre-left and centre-right parties. This docu-
ment was deemed highly democratic and even provided for power in
regional government. Thus, at first, it seemed that the free and unified
country would still recognize regional differences and grant some au-
tonomy in light of their cultural and geographical traits. However, the
coming to power of the centre-right DC (Democrazia Cristiana – Chris-
tian Democrats) in 1948, and the economic recovery that ensued –
thanks not only to Marshall Aid that combated international commu-
nism but also the discovery of fuel sources in Italy – led to a contradictory
state for the new Italy.11 While industry and exportation recovered quickly,
making Italy a leading economic force in the European community in
little over ten years, unemployment and organized crime were on the
rise, and the north was soaring ahead of the south, leading to mass
migration within Italy and emigration to other countries and continents.
Everyone desired something more or something better it seemed.
Nonetheless, the 1950s and 1960s were important decades for the
Left, which picked up momentum in 1960 when Prime Minister Tambroni
garnered support from the MSI (Missione Socialista Italiana – Italian
Socialist Mission), or neo-fascists. Under Palmiro Togliatti’s leadership,
the PCI (Partito Communista Italiana – Italian Communist Party) had
grown to hold the largest card-carrying membership and had developed
a whole subculture of its own through its newspaper and town fairs.12
Still, it was the only major party which had not shared in government
since 1947.13 And after Togliatti’s death (1964) and the centre-right’s
official ‘opening to the left’ (1963–8), the PCI gradually developed a
more moderate stance, leaving the starker positions to terrorist groups
on both the Right and the Left, and proving that the economic miracle
had indeed ‘led to the advent of a secular consumer society whose stress
on individualism challenged the collective subcultures underlying both
Communism and Christian Democracy.’14
Pasolini’s practice of identifying and portraying this profound cultural
transformation in Italy during the late 1950s and early 1960s was neither
an innocent nor an unproblematic enterprise. His films were visual
denunciations of a world gone awry – of a society that had blindly given
Introduction 7
itself over to the corruption of the middle classes. As a result, his films
were often condemned by the centre-right government and, in some
cases, were even seized and tried. This made Pasolini a newsworthy but
difficult citizen. Scomodo – troubling or inconvenient – was the word most
commonly used to describe him. Pasolini himself embodied a number of
the contradictions and hypocrisies that his films brought to screen,
which led to an uneasy relationship with society at large. First, he be-
longed to but despised the contemporary bourgeoisie. Second, he par-
ticipated in mainstream culture as a daring, front-line intellectual but
remained marginalized for his homosexuality. He also criticized the
official Left for bigotry and moralism while upholding many of its funda-
mental tenets.
Pasolini’s relationship with the PCI was further troubled by his non-
conformist, often subjective, approach to Marxism. Even though he
believed that as an intellectual he had a decisive role and responsibility
in driving social change, his condemnation of the dominant culture was
too often eclipsed by a personal attachment to ‘ancient’ or ‘pre-historic’
modes of living.15 Pasolini used the term ‘pre-history’ to refer to a time
before the pervasive spread of neo-capitalism among the lower classes
and impoverished regions (aided and abetted to a large extent by televi-
sion). The new neo-capitalist era reflected a new materialist ‘history,’
and, in Pasolini’s view, it had had homogenizing effects at every level of
society. Although Pasolini shared the party’s conviction that social change
had to begin with the masses and rise up from the broadest, working-
class stratum, his real love for humankind lay beyond or ‘prior’ to this
level of reasoning and economic organization.16 Pasolini embraced the
subclasses who did not live according to a precise work ethic and social
structure but according to the instincts and rituals that fostered mere
survival. For this reason alone, his Marxism would be forever different.
Pasolini’s lack of orthodoxy with respect to the Left was further under-
scored by the fact that he consistently used powerful Christian refer-
ences. Although Pasolini claimed to have stopped believing in God
around the age of fifteen, his films have several Christ-type figures
(Accattone, Ettore, Stracci, the Guest, and Julian) in addition to Christ
himself (in Il Vangelo secondo Matteo). These Catholic images, however,
were always adapted for Pasolini’s purpose and delivered a troubling
message. Ballila’s reversed sign of the cross at the time of Accattone’s
death or Stracci’s crucifixion (caused by gluttony and perceived as a
spectacle by bourgeois viewers) shows how the filmmaker tainted con-
ventional Christian rituals in order to express his concept of authenticity
vis-à-vis the mass desecration of genuine subcultures, both throughout

Italy and the neo-capitalist West.
Pasolini confronted his ideological differences with respect to both
the Left and the Right through a series of opposing themes – past and
present, centre and margins, passion and reason – that characterized his
work across genres and often hinged on the presence and agency of
female characters in his films. His emotional and aesthetic affinity for
young mothers (as for poor, curly haired boys and impoverished rural
and urban settings) often blurred the distinction between his Leftist
agenda and his personal longing for the past, and, though seemingly
paradoxical, his portrayal of and identification with female characters
onscreen neither conflicted with nor inhibited his political mandate as
male writer, critic, and director. Not surprisingly, the quasi-decadence of
this sensuality, nostalgia, and predilection for the irrational disconcerted
communist critics. His engagé contemporaries expected filmmakers, like
all artists, to raise consciousness and move the public to action without
couching their political thrust in abstractions or personal myths. How-
ever, his own ideological fervour notwithstanding, what drove Pasolini’s
filmmaking to a large extent was a quest for authentic living that inevita-
bly merged the private and public dimensions of his life.
Most of Pasolini’s films enjoyed critical recognition both in Italy and
abroad.17 Retrospectively hailed by many as his masterpiece, Accattone
(1961) garnered success for its stark portrayal of subproletarian survival
rituals. Critics primarily appreciated Pasolini’s filming techniques and
directorial style, which mixed discursive registers in unique ways. He
achieved his signature stylistic ‘contamination’ in Accattone, for instance,
by using sacred music to accompany scenes of instinctive, irrational
behaviour, or by alluding to Christian redemption during the lowest
moments of a character’s existence. Pasolini’s next two films, Mamma
Roma (1962) and La ricotta (1963), appealed somewhat less. Critics found
them to be redundant. But Il Vangelo secondo Matteo (1964) constituted
another, if controversial, hit. Both right- and left-wing proponents de-
bated the film. While for some it was reactionary, for others it was
visionary, since Pasolini celebrated Christ’s work in terms of cultural
subversion and contemporary issues of diversity and social justice.
Later films portrayed the director’s convictions about the ubiquitous
political Right and the dying Left in mid-1960s Italy (Uccellacci e uccellini,
1966); about psychological complexities stemming from childhood and
the processes of subject formation (Edipo re, 1967); and about the disap-
pearance of the sacred in a religious or quasi-religious sense (Teorema,
Introduction 9
1968; Medea, 1969; Appunti per un’Orestiade africana, 1970). Some films
from the late 1960s and early 1970s explored the shock value of canni-
balism, zoophilia, coprophilia, and terror (Porcile, 1969; Salò, 1975).
Others sought to recapture the joy of simple, instinctive living, if only
through sexual gratification and trickery (Il Decameron, 1971; I racconti di
Canterbury, 1972; Il fiore delle Mille e una notte, 1974). Throughout these
works, Pasolini criticized the mainstream and its dominant culture and
sought to recover the signs and exemplars of the social groups and
subcultures that had characterized Italian society through the first post-
war decade.
More than thirty years after his death, Pasolini’s films continue to
generate a rich and steady flow of scholarship. The field of Pasolini
studies is vast indeed, and each year it is enhanced by new analytical
material.18 However, thematic and theoretical gaps still persist. For in-
stance, there is neither enough work on Pasolini’s female figures nor on
his female discourse in general.19 Of course, critics and scholars have
selectively and in greater and lesser depth treated his female characters
or the actresses he used (Snyder, Viano, Bondanella, Marcus, Rumble),
but, generally speaking, the study of women in Pasolini’s cinema consti-
tutes a brief excursus from such issues as class struggle, homosexuality,
and social realism. Indeed, a broader look at Italian film studies shows
that we still have to look beyond the Italian canon to conduct a thorough
analysis of women onscreen. With the exception of a few landmark texts
devoted entirely to the study of women’s roles or women directors
(Bruno, Bruno e Nadotti, Pietropaolo and Testaferri, Marrone), the
field still lacks a significant body of works on women and gender repre-
sentations in cinema. Nonetheless, in recent years, a handful of impor-
tant volumes have appeared that treat individual figures, films, or genres
(among others, Riviello, Landy, Reich, Gunsberg), thus paving the way for
a richer, more comprehensive branch of Italian film studies.20
The present study builds upon the important work done by several
Pasolini scholars in North America and abroad, especially that by Viano,
Ward, Gordon, and Conti-Calabresi, who examine Pasolini’s practices of
self-representation in various artistic genres.21 Following their discursive
leads and analytical threads, this study extends previous treatments of
subversion and resistance, myth and iteration in order to show the
centrality of women and the female universe in Pasolini’s films. This
approach offers a fresh and farther-reaching perspective in two ways.
First, it revisits Pasolini’s filmography according to the fundamental
gender divide that influenced his individuation as a child and his subse-
quent development as artist and intellectual. Second, the focus on/

presence of women in his films joins Pasolini’s primary ideological objec-
tive (the preservation of authentic cultures) and his main personal
objective (the affirmation/preservation of the self) within the mythical
and endlessly regenerative domain of human vitality and art.
Granted, each of Pasolini’s films depicts unforgettable male charac-
ters who, in part, convey a political stance and, in part, the desires of an
‘innocent’ son (Ettore, Edipo, Ninetto) or ‘guilty’ father (Laio, Paolo,
Jason). In certain ways, the existence of these male characters mirrors
the loss of genuine subcultures and modes of interaction as they wander,
move, and continuously search, living in conflict with others or with
society as a whole. But female characters are the primary focus of this
study for two main reasons: first, because, in the belief that men more
aptly convey the author’s message, or more directly reflect the artistic
value of the work, Pasolini scholars have most often focused on his male
protagonists and male subjects, thus neglecting their female counter-
parts; and, second, because Pasolini’s use of female agency to express his
ideals constitutes a subtle but powerful countercultural strategy that
effectively unsettles the expectation that the male filmmaker generally
expresses his autobiographical voice through male characters and male-
gendered instances of subjectivity (public roles, social advancement, and
a controlling heterosexual gaze).
At the same time, this study also employs a more traditional approach
to auteur cinema – one that is based on biographical facts and recurring
motifs (linguistic, political, aesthetic) and that uses both to explain the
director’s ideological message or artistic intent. Many of the analyses
centre around detailed examinations of a given character’s physical
attributes, personality traits, desires, and actions, in addition to that
character’s relationships with certain people, events, and environments.
But given Pasolini’s provocative and forward-thinking stance, and given
his penchant for employing diversity as a means of critiquing social
codes and defying oppression in all of its manifestations, I have also
adopted a less common method of analysis by using contemporary femi-
nist theory to pinpoint and explain the patterns and scope of Pasolini’s
discourse on women as seen in his female characters.22 To this end, I
drew regularly upon the principal biographies on Pasolini (Naldini,
Siciliano, Schwartz) and on Pasolini’s own countless interviews, autobio-
graphical statements, and confessional novels (Atti impuri, Amado mio), as
well as his theoretical essays on film and society. Pasolini’s vast corpus of
personal reflections and critical writing is invaluable for understanding
Introduction 11
the aesthetic and ideological motivations for his work. So, too, is his
poetry, which offers a vast and fertile terrain for comparative analyses
with his screenplays and cinematic imagery. Indeed, because Pasolini’s
intellectual journey began with poetry, it seemed not only helpful but
also necessary to grasp his earliest concepts of women, sexuality, and the
self in these works, in order to gauge how they evolved and intertwined
throughout his career. For similar reasons, I also worked closely with his
screenplays, which are both informed by and infused with the political
conflicts, personal sentiments, and aesthetic interests first manifested in
his poetic and narrative writing.23
Each of Pasolini’s films has at least one female character who embod-
ies the connecting point between marginalized political subjects and the
author’s personal desires. I discuss the different, positive meanings Pasolini
attributed to female figures in most of his major works, from Accattone to
Salò, as well as in some of his documentary and compilation films. After a
brief biographical introduction to Pasolini’s life, which accompanies a
discussion of the nature and origins of the female universe from which
he drew such great inspiration, I look at the five predominant female
character types found in his films: mothers, prostitutes, daughters, saints,
and sinners. Although the poetic and ideological value of these charac-
ter types changed over time and certainly allowed for individual permu-
tation, in my view, these groupings reflect the importance Pasolini
attributed to each category of women. They also reflect the fact that he
consistently and coherently approached the portrayal of female charac-
ters through their potential as signifiers of the essence, origins, view-
point, or embodiment of something indelibly genuine. Mothers, for
instance, encountered a different set of issues and played out a different
set of roles and scenarios than did daughters, saints, or sinners, but they
equally illuminated certain aspects of the thesis on cultural authenticity
that Pasolini developed throughout his life.
In closing, I visit Salò (Pasolini’s last film) alongside his posthumous
novel Petrolio for the insight each work offers on the narrative extremes
he had reached in what unexpectedly became his last works. Although
this final discussion involves a brief excursion from the topic of cinema,
such a detour is essential to a comprehensive study of Pasolini’s female
figures (and more so than any other novel he wrote), because, in Petrolio,
the autobiographical male protagonist can only know and attain the
authentic roots of human life by becoming a woman, both in body and
in spirit. His acts of union with the earth and with humble young people
are so monumental that they create the world anew. While for some the
inclusion of Petrolio might beg a more comprehensive analysis of women

in Pasolini’s novels, here it is considered not for its qualities as a narrative
but for its status as a final, hence, culminating work. Much in the way that
his poetry serves as a starting and reference point for his portrayals of
women onscreen, Petrolio is an end or arrival point on the continuum of
Pasolini’s career and a counterpoint to his last film.
For Pasolini, women were a means to a specific artistic and ideological
end, namely, the conceptualization and representation of a cultural ideal
that he deemed sacred from both personal and political points of view.
On a personal and poetic level, this sacred cultural notion indicated
either an elementary and utterly simple way of life, or an enlightened
but still humble way of being. On a political and social level, it signalled
modes of human interaction and relations unspoiled by the materialist
mentality of Italy’s new consumerist culture. At times, Pasolini’s ideal of
authenticity reflected the faith-based and religious disposition of an
individual or community, whether traditionally Christian or not. And at
other times, it more simply and broadly reflected honesty and integrity in
human relations, beyond any specific religious, geographical, or histori-
cal context. For Pasolini, the tragedy of contemporary society was encap-
sulated by the fact that people no longer recognized their own potential
for authenticity. Even worse than not actively desiring or embracing
more genuine ways of being, most people seemed increasingly blind or
immune to their existence.
But despite the pervasiveness of neo-capitalist culture, Pasolini none-
theless perceived women as living signs of innocence and integrity in the
most basic and universal of senses. Initially, women’s connection to the
life cycle and other symbols of purity (water, children, light) formed
the basis of his cinematic depiction of women. With time, his female
characters gained broader civic significance by embracing and embody-
ing the negative and contradictory emotions and social realities that life
in the present continually generated. They retained ‘pure’ traits from
their cultural pasts while striving for a better future; they demonstrated a
growing sense of social consciousness; they manipulated sexuality and
language in service of authenticity; and they kept watch on and safe-
guarded the sacred, in extreme circumstances even choosing death
rather than assimilation. Thus, no matter what their social status or
occupation, no matter how degraded, hypocritical, or coerced their
activities, Pasolini considered women – their actions and existential
domains – an undying source of goodness both for himself, as individual
and artist, and for the world around him. Attracted to life and emotion-
Introduction 13
ally invested in the hope of recovering genuine human relations, Pasolini

used female figures and their modes of self-expression to articulate his
personal longings, to express his political convictions, and to engage
directly and metaphorically with the uncorrupted roots of Italian society.
Ultimately, Pasolini codified women as positive signifiers across time or
in a very specific set of circumstances and appropriated the female
sphere to sustain his call for authenticity as the primary sentiment in his
work and to perpetuate his own vitality there within.
1 Susanna Pasolini and the Female Universe
La mia casa, con la solitudine di mia madre. Siamo due sopravvissuti, senza mai
probabile pace, terrorizzati da tutto quello che ci può sempre succedere: dalla
morte di Guido alla tragedia degli ultimi anni di mio padre, alla tragedia mia,
sopita e neutralizzata, per qualche periodo, ma sempre pronta a riesplodere,
spietata, scontata, senza speranza.
Pasolini, ‘La vigilia: Il 4 ottobre,’ Accattone, Mamma Roma, Ostia, 35
[My house, with my mother’s solitude. We are two survivors, without hope for
peace, terrorized by anything and everything that could happen: from the time
of Guido’s death to my father’s tragedy in recent years, to my tragedy, sup-
pressed and neutralized, for some time, but always ready to re-explode, unforgiv-
ing, expected, without hope.]
Although Pasolini certainly shared moments of closeness with his father,

Carlo Alberto, his mother, Susanna, was unquestionably the most impor-
tant person in his life. They shared a household throughout his lifetime,
and she always took great interest in his work and accomplishments,
even participating in some of his films. Pasolini and his mother also
experienced similar emotional states, as is clear from the epigraph.
Here, on the eve of Accattone’s release – the moment at which the world
would come to know Pasolini as a director for the first time – Pasolini
reflects on their life together and describes it as a ‘survival without
peace.’1 Forced to reckon with numerous episodes of family tragedy and
shame, mother and son were two lonely creatures living in a general
state of apprehension. Yet, at the same time, Susanna’s presence com-
forted Pier Paolo, and her central role in his life never changed. The
Susanna Pasolini and the Female Universe 15
simplicity of their existence and the loyalty of their bond remained

keystones of his intellectual enterprise. Indeed, Pasolini’s cinema devel-
ops the foundational concepts of humility and cultural authenticity as
directly experienced in his life with Susanna.
Pasolini merged the private and public dimensions of his life in nearly
every aspect of his work, and his films were no exception. This binary yet
holistic approach to his endeavours was likely inspired by his early child-
hood and upbringing, since, from early on, he perceived a net distinc-
tion between the maternal and paternal universes – the one being
marginal, subjective, and intimate, the other central, ideological, and
public. This family-based gender division greatly affected his emotional
development as a child; later, it influenced his aesthetic vision and
informed his political beliefs. To understand the far-reaching effects of
the original parental divide, and Pasolini’s consequent predilection for
Susanna, the roots of his gendered universes should be examined in
greater depth, and the influences that other family members, friends
and living/work environments might have had on his principal dichotomy
should be taken into account. For it was from his experiences with these
real-life people – particularly women – that he drew his ideas about the
social, political, and poetic resources that women had to offer.
In his films, Pasolini extended his personal struggle for ‘survival’ to
people and places sharing similar fates of oppression, disappointment,
and marginalization in society. By drawing upon his own life, Pasolini
created an unsettling and contentious dialectic between the personal
and the political, in which female characters often played a mediating
role. In this way, the deep-seated divide between parental domains,
which carried both affective and ideological value, conjoined Susanna
and Casarsa della Delizia in Friuli (considered by Pasolini to be his
authentic place of origin) with a broader and more enduring poetics.
From as early as Pasolini himself could remember, his childhood and

household dynamics influenced his well-being and shaped his world
view. His parents’ backgrounds and personalities instilled in him a keen
sense of opposition, and he assimilated their tension rather profoundly.
His mother, Susanna Colussi, came from a modest background – a
peasant family that had risen to petite bourgeois status, thanks to her
father’s successful production of grappa. By contrast, his father, Carlo
Alberto Pasolini, came from the ancient nobility of Ravenna. However,
by the time Carlo married Susanna, he had squandered his wealth.
Susanna was the second of six children and grew up in an extended
family that accounted for a large part of Casarsa’s population.2 Carlo

came from a smaller family in Ravenna and, during his youth, trans-
ferred to Bologna with his family. When Pasolini’s parents first met,
Susanna was a school teacher in Friulian villages near her home in
Casarsa della Delizia, a job she gave up when Carlo Alberto’s career
required the family to move.3 It is well known that Susanna did not marry
Carlo for love but because of social pressure. The local community knew
the two were having an affair and that they had lost a child to miscar-
riage. What is more, Susanna was near thirty and wanted to avoid the fate
of the zitella (an old maid or unmarried woman).4 Whatever her reasons
for marrying Carlo, their relationship was troubled from the start, and
their emotional distance from one another would leave indelible marks
on their son.
Pasolini and his main biographers depict Susanna as a quiet and
agreeable woman.5 She could be frightened yet strong, delicate yet
independent, but she was always kind, loving, and unassuming, particu-
larly with her boys. Nice clothes and make-up seem to have been her only
extravagances.6 After she left her job, she remained a homemaker, and
although she was raised as a Catholic, she did not practise religion in a
conventional fashion. Rather, Susanna had a ‘natural and poetic reli-
gious sentiment’ and upheld with great value the personal traits such as
loyalty, work, and altruism that her modest upbringing had taught her.7
Above all, Susanna loved Pier Paolo and diligently followed his schooling
and growth. Because she was youthful and attractive, fun and affection-
ate, Pier Paolo loved Susanna very much in return. He wanted to protect
her and share in her goodness. In his eyes, Susanna was clearly the
innocent party in the frequent struggles with Carlo Alberto. For Pier
Paolo, she was a simple and humble role model, thus one of the earliest
and most reliable sources of beauty and innocence in his life. Her
determination to avoid oppression in her marriage, and her constancy,
compassion, and moral support were personal traits on which Pier Paolo
would forever rely.
Susanna fostered her son’s talents and intellectual growth as much as
she could. She loved poetry and taught Pier Paolo what she knew about
rhyme and metre. During his elementary school days, Susanna intro-
duced him to literature in her own modest way by reading and writing
short poems. At age seven, Pier Paolo reciprocated his mother’s gesture
by writing her a poem of his own. Later in life, he recalled imagining his
future jobs that same year: he would become a navy captain and a poet.8
While this declaration innocently embraces both parental spheres, it

also reveals the division he already perceived as existing between his
mother’s loving demeanour and aesthetic sensitivities and his father’s
military career and authoritative presence. Over time, this emotional-
perceptual distinction in the private sphere would coincide with the civic
division between the male and female domains in his larger poetic
vision.
Carlo Alberto Pasolini was a fascist supporter, a more public figure,
and had a volatile personality with respect to Susanna. To those who
knew the couple, it was clear that Carlo loved his wife very much.
However, it was equally apparent that Susanna was distant and detached,
which incited violent outbursts of jealousy on Carlo’s part. As a child,
Pier Paolo often witnessed his parents’ altercations and began to associ-
ate his father’s presence with irascibility and oppression. As is often the
case with children caught in family conflicts, Pier Paolo chose his mother’s
side, and he primarily identified with her calm, unpretentious ways.9 By
contrast, Carlo Alberto’s world assumed the predominantly negative
connotations of possession and control. In time, he came to represent
‘the father’ and ‘authority’ on a broad ideological scale and to symbolize
the pillars of bourgeois culture and its repressive social codes.
From early on, Pasolini’s relationship with his father was deeply
afflicted, and, throughout his life, these difficulties went largely unre-
solved. For as long as he could remember, Carlo Alberto’s unpredictable
behaviour and potential for violence caused him profound anxiety. As
Pasolini later conveyed in his film Edipo re (1967), as a child he lived with
the sensation that his father perceived him as a competitor for Susanna
and a threat to her love for him. A chance series of early childhood
incidents seems only to have worsened young Pier Paolo’s instinctive
caution concerning his father. The first occurred at age three, around
the time his brother Guido was born. In order to medicate an infection
in Pier Paolo’s eye, Carlo Alberto held him down to a table by force. This
instance of total physical oppression proved unforgettable. Though it
turned out to be a simple case of conjunctivitis, Pasolini later poeticized
the episode as a turning point, after which ‘all his life revolved around
her [Susanna].’10
In the same general time frame, Pasolini also experienced both his
first sexual impulse and his first awareness of death. As he later recalled,
while watching a group of boys play soccer in front of his house, he had
felt physically attracted to the hollow areas in the backs of their knees:
Ora so che era un sentimento acutamente sensuale. Se lo riprovo sento con

esattezza dentro le viscere l’intenerimento, l’accoratezza e la violenza del
desiderio. Era il senso dell’irraggiungibile, del carnale – un senso per cui
non è stato ancora inventato un nome. Io lo inventai allora e fu ‘teta
veleta,’ qualcosa come un solletico, una seduzione, un’umiliazione.11
[Now I know it was an acutely sensual feeling. If I think about it, I feel
exactly the same tenderness, suffering, and violence of desire in my guts. It
was a feeling of the unattainable, of the carnal – a feeling for which no
name existed. So I made one up and it was ‘teta veleta,’ something like a
tickle, a seduction, a humiliation.]
Later, when speaking of the same incident with friend and writer Dacia
Maraini, he added, ‘Questo stesso sentimento di teta-veleta lo provavo
per il seno di mia madre’ (I felt this same sentiment of ‘teta veleta’ for
my mother’s breast).12
Not long after this sexual episode, a precocious sense of death also
pervaded Pier Paolo. According to him, it was shortly after his brother
Guido’s birth that he experienced ‘la sensazione, se non di dover morire,
certo di non destarmi più, di sprofondare in un buio infinito’ (the
sensation, if not of dying, then certainly of never waking again and
falling into an infinite darkness).13 Though this sensation was likely
caused by the eye episode mentioned above, Pasolini kept his pain a
secret and equated his feeling of abandonment with death. Later in life,
Pasolini reconsidered the father–son relationship in a more positive
light, but these early if coincidental experiences of authority, pain,
eroticism, and death combined with the general atmosphere of family
strife to instill an emotional foundation of dichotomy in his poetic vision,
all of which later seeped into his politically charged works.
Not only Susanna but also her rural birthplace had a decisive effect on
Pasolini’s emotional and intellectual development. Together, they formed
the roots of his poetic concepts of marginality and social difference.
Casarsa della Delizia in Friuli represented his terra materna; like Susanna,
it was one of few constants in his childhood, since he moved and
changed schools so often. Pasolini regularly spent the summer months in
Casarsa with Susanna and Guido, and, during the Second World War, he
moved there permanently. In general terms, the beloved microcosm
encompassed Susanna, his brother, a handful of relatives, and a rich
variety of indelible experiences ranging from movie-going and long bike
rides to sexual encounters with local teenagers. In time, Casarsa and its
inhabitants would also denote broader concepts having great political

value. During wartime, for example, because Casarsa was a safe haven for
Susanna and her sons, it came to signify a positive form of marginalization
in that there they were out of the crossfire. But even when the throes of
war reached their remote region, Casarsa and the surrounding towns
maintained their sense of integrity. After the war, the local people and
their simple, rural lifestyle continued to be primary signifiers of a genu-
ine and vital existence – certainly one that was pure and ‘Other’ with
respect to the demolished war zones and capitalist control mechanisms
that gradually characterized the recovering state.
It comes as no surprise to learn that Pasolini later called Casarsa ‘il
primo luogo della vita.’ It was the place where the combined experiences
of his intellectual growth, political action, sexual freedom, and linguistic
experimentation formed the basis for a lifelong poetics concerned with
recovering what was genuine and authentic in human life. Though he
was neither born in Casarsa nor spoke the native tongue, he embraced
the cultural practices pertaining to work and family life, religion and
social contracts that resisted the test of time and remained intact after
the war.14 In addition, the local language endowed the town with mythi-
cal dimensions and stirred his desire for a connection with such pure
and vital things.15
In his early twenties, Pasolini was living in the land of his childhood
summers, and he truly blossomed as he devoted himself to numerous
scholarly endeavours. With the help of his mother and friends from
Bologna, he ran a makeshift school for local children. He also studied
the local language and wrote literature in dialect, namely, I Turcs tal Friul,
a short drama, and a volume of poetry, Poesie a Casarsa.16 During wartime,
Pasolini completed his thesis on Pascoli, the nineteenth-century poet
who also wrote in a maternal dialect.17 Later, Pasolini would find great
resonance in Pascoli’s poetica del fanciullino, since it celebrated childhood
as a magical-mythical period when the human senses are
not subject to social conditioning.18 Similarly, Pasolini believed that
‘youthhood’ or gioventù was a place in time in which faith in one’s
instincts was a modest and permissible way of being. Undoubtedly, then,
it was in Casarsa in the immediate post-war period that Pasolini experi-
enced life at its fullest: intellectually, through visits and correspondences
with university friends; politically through his involvement with local
workers and the PCI; linguistically, through poetic experimentation; and
sexually, through his relations with teenage boys.
However, in addition to its many positive connotations, Casarsa also
denoted certain painful realities, making it yet another source of deep

contradiction. For instance, in 1943 Casarsa became a hiding place for
Pasolini. That year, he had been drafted and, during his first official
exercise in Livorno, his company was captured by Germans.19 Fearing
death, Pasolini immediately deserted and fled to Susanna in Casarsa.
Thus, the maternal domain acquired even greater significance as a place
of refuge, safety, and anti-belligerence. Another point of contradiction is
the fact that although Casarsa and surrounding areas offered the Pasolinis
protection during most of the war, it was not exempt from devastation.
The towns suffered from bombardment and destruction at the end of
the war. On another negative note, Casarsa was also the place from which
Guido had left to fight the partisan war. He died in nearby mountains
shortly thereafter.20 The end of the war and the early postwar years also
coincided with Carlo Alberto’s imprisonment in Africa. Finally, after the
war was over, the once-welcoming Casarsa and nearby villages rejected
Pasolini on account of his sexual orientation. In 1949, he lost his teach-
ing job and was removed from his political position with the local Com-
munist Party chapter. While town leaders claimed that illicit sexual
activities were the reason for this action, it appears that underlying
political motivations drove their decision.21 Overwhelmed with grief,
Pasolini and his mother moved to Rome, leaving Casarsa behind forever.
Looking back, it is clear that, throughout his formative years, Pasolini
clung to what was vital and uplifting in the primary, maternal universe of
Casarsa in Friuli. Without a strong and constant male presence during
his teens, Pasolini’s concepts of beauty, goodness, and authenticity boiled
down to Susanna, her people, and his many memorable experiences
in this female sphere. With the exception of a few aunts and cousins,
Susanna had been the only regular female presence in Pasolini’s life
until his early university years, which were spent between Bologna and
Casarsa. During this time, he collaborated with numerous budding writ-
ers and thinkers, among whom were several women who became good
colleagues and friends.22 Giovanna Bemporad, Pina Kalcm, and Silvana
Mauri were among the handful of women who profoundly influenced
Pasolini’s life, particularly in the wartime years. They were never simply
casual relationships, recounts Enzo Siciliano: ‘[erano] rapporti sempre
vivaci, a volte esclusivi. Erano rapporti nei quali l’amicizia andava a unirsi
a un fascio d’emozioni che l’amicizia trasfiguravano.’ (They were lively,
at times exclusive relationships in which friendship reached a level of
emotions that transformed the relationship.)23 In her own way, each
woman helped Pasolini clarify his stance on fascism, come to terms with
his sexuality, and explore his poetic mandate as a leftist drawn to an

aesthetics of realism.
By the end of the 1938–9 academic year, Pasolini had been motivated
by a professor and the poetry of Rimbaud to explore his anti-fascist
sentiments.24 Though he was the son of a career officer and, like most
teenage boys, participated in war exercises for youths, his disapproval of
the regime mounted in subsequent years. In truth, his anti-fascism truly
solidified and took shape through his friendship with Giovanna Bemporad,
a young poet and translator whom he met in 1939. A spirited young
woman of Jewish descent, Giovanna prompted Pasolini’s political reflec-
tions with frank questions such as: ‘don’t you realize that it [fascism] has
ruined Italy?’25 She planted the seeds of doubt and condemnation that
later solidified into Pasolini’s pro-Gramscian political stance.26
Giovanna also inspired profound contemplation on the notion of
death. Having moved to Casarsa during the war to teach with Pasolini,
she frequently spoke about death, which was ‘una presenza ossessiva,
obbligata, e manieristica in lei’ (an obsessive, obligatory, and mannerist
presence in her).27 As she herself recalled:
Insegnavamo tutto il giorno insieme, ... e stavamo tutto il pomeriggio

insieme; andavamo a passeggiare per la campagna, oppure nei cimiteri
perchè io ero molto funebre, funerea, e tiravo Pier Paolo sempre verso la
morte, a parlar di morte. E quindi, andavamo a fare le nostre conversazioni
letterarie passeggiando fra le tombe ...28
[We used to teach all day, and then spend the afternoons together; we went
walking in the countryside or in the cemeteries, because I was very morbid,
funereal, and I always led Pier Paolo towards death, to talk about death.
And so, we went to have our literary conversations while strolling among
tombstones ...]
Giovanna’s presence and influence did not only mix politics with
existential concerns, though. A lesbian, Giovanna was one of the few
people with whom Pasolini could speak openly about sex. Unfortunately,
when in 1944 their little school in Casarsa was closed down, Giovanna left
Friuli, and their friendship faded.
That same year, Pasolini and Susanna moved to the more remote
village of Versuta and continued to teach basic school subjects in their
home. Here, they lived peacefully and productively despite the war,
thanks to the collaboration of numerous friends that made their make-
shift school a success. Among them was the bright Slovene violinist, Pina
Kalcm. Pasolini was drawn to Pina for her talent and intelligence. They had
numerous talks about classical music, especially Bach, and about psycho-
analysis, the main literary trend at the time. Pina would read Freud in
the original German, then explain his theories and discuss them with
Pasolini. As their intellectual bond developed during that year spent in
isolation from the war and larger world, Pina fell in love with Pasolini.
Aptly perceiving his homosexuality, she even told him she was willing to
accept this in marriage. But Pasolini did not feel the same way.29 Thus,
when the war ended a year later, Pina returned to Slovenia and their
deep friendship came to an end.30
Pasolini’s relationship with Silvana Mauri (later Mauri-Ottieri) was of a
slightly different nature. It began before the war and lasted for several
years afterwards, nurtured not only through personal visits but also
through important epistolary exchanges and Silvana’s attempts to help
Pier Paolo find work when he moved to Rome in 1950.31 Pier Paolo met
Silvana in 1941, while he was working with her brother on a literary
journal named Setaccio. As with the other young women in his life,
Pasolini’s special friendship with Silvana took form through conversa-
tions about literature and art. In the case of Silvana, their main theoreti-
cal interests revolved around the question of reality. Mauri described the
concept of reality as ‘the highest and most specific point of their friend-
ship,’ and said that it grew from their ‘ingordigia di accumulare “insieme”
il “reale,” gli infiniti aspetti del reale, culture, creature, e nature, è stato il
punto più alto e specifico del nostro incontro’ (greediness to accumulate
the real, the infinite aspects of the real – culture, creatures, and na-
ture).32 Like Pina before her, Silvana too fell in love with Pier Paolo, but
he could not reciprocate her feelings. He explained the reasons in a
letter (1947) that alluded to his homosexuality and sealed his special
trust (vitale confidenza) in Silvana:
Ricordati ancora una cosa, Silvana, e poi avrai finalmente capito: rivedi noi
due in quel ristorante di piazza Vittorio davanti ai ‘calzoni,’ e ricorda il
calore con cui ho difeso quella tua amica omosessuale. Non allarmarti, per
pietà, Silvana, a quest’ultima parola: pensa che la verità non è in essa, ma in
me ...33
[Remember another thing, Silvana, and then you’ll understand: think back
to the two of us in that restaurant in piazza Vittorio in front of ‘the pants
boys,’ and remember my heated defence of your homosexual friend. Don’t
be alarmed, please, Silvana, by this last word: think that the truth is not in
the word, but in me ...]
His unique regard for Silvana made her the only woman for whom he
ever felt something very close to love.34 Some fifty years later, Mrs Mauri-
Ottieri shared the following thoughts on their relationship in a letter
to me:
Col passare del tempo, mentre il ricordo di Pier Paolo è sempre una ferita
aperta nel mio cuore, il mio rapporto con lui è diventato una cosa molto
privata, molto mia, che appartiene ai sentimenti della mia giovinezza.35
[With the passing of time, while the memory of Pier Paolo is still an open
wound in my heart, my relationship with him has become something very
private, very much my own and it belongs to the sentiments of my youth.]
It seems clear, then, that in Pasolini’s late teens and early twenties, a
small group of women in addition to Susanna had assumed important
roles in his life and had contributed to his still developing poetics. If only
for certain windows of time during his formative years, these real-life
women helped Pasolini grow in self-knowledge by engaging in deep
discussions about art, literature, music, fascism, war, death, love, and sex.
In short, they helped solidify the primary sentiments and political con-
victions that would characterize his early poetry from Casarsa and later
evolve in his novels, essays, and films. Curiously, however, the female
figures in his work (regardless of genre) rarely displayed the same
intellectual flair as Bemporad, Kalcm, and Mauri. While Pasolini’s female
friends were similar to his fictional figures in their role as the ‘Other’ to
whom he could compare the self, his fictional figures most often re-
flected the simple goodness of Susanna and the earthy vitality of Casarsa
and its people.
At this point, it would be opportune to examine the beginnings of
Pasolini’s literary production in order to trace the earliest instances of
representations of women in his works. His poetry not only marks the
starting point of his artistic trajectory but also introduces and develops
themes and tropes used in his novels and films in later decades. It is
apparent that, over time, the contrasting forces from the microcosmic
family domain garnered broader civic significance. It is also apparent
that no matter what the epoch, Pasolini’s poetic vision revolved around
an ideal that held Susanna and the rural setting of Casarsa at its heart.
The first collection of poems, Poesie a Casarsa (1942), depicts several

female figures that may be seen as the communal ‘many’ or as the
universal ‘one.’ They are symbolic figures, rustic archetypes if you will, of
the woman or young girl. Generally speaking, they are youthful figures
immersed in the semi-idyllic environment that Casarsa represented for
Pasolini and that he found authentic. These figures may be pregnant or
bear other signs of life such as bucolic serenity, child-like innocence, and
human vitality. In ‘Il fanciullo morto’ (‘Il nini muart’),36 the woman is
specifically pregnant, which conveys the promise of life despite the
immanence of death. Her proximity to light and water reflects and thus
confirms the poet-subject’s existence:
Sera luminosa, nel fosso cresce l’acqua,

una donna incinta cammina per il campo.
Io ti ricordo, Narciso, avevi il colore della sera,
quando le campane suonano a morto.37
[Bright evening, the water is rising in the ditch,

a pregnant woman is walking in the field.
I remember you, Narcissus, you had the colour of evening
when the bells rang out with death.]
While the pregnant woman denotes new life emerging, the direct ad-
dress to Narcissus, who lost his life through vain self-reflection, counters
and perhaps diminishes the energizing force of light, water, and woman.
Thus, while the female figure is steadfast in her representation of vitality,
she is intrinsically connected to its opposite – death. Pasolini expresses
this oxymoron by juxtaposing the waters of life with the evening bells
calling out death, thus foreshadowing his use of a similar poetic practice
in his films.
In other verses from Poesie a Casarsa, Pasolini portrays women’s inno-
cence through the simplicity of this woman’s gestures, her likeness to
elements of nature, or her association with certain times of day: ‘Giovinetta,
cosa fai sbiancata presso il fuoco, come una pianticina che sfuma nel
tramonto?’ (Young girl, what are you doing pale near the fire, like a plant
that fades in the sunset?). Throughout his work, the madre fanciulla, or
‘maiden mother,’ was an important archetype because she was a symbol
of life and as such – together with her earthy, semi-idyllic settings – she
countered all signs of death. In La meglio gioventù (1954), she continues to
appear throughout the different poems, always chaste in demeanour and
modest in appearance. She personifies the mystery of life, and her

presence permits the male subject to be born time and time again.
The poem, ‘Suite furlana’ (1944–9), for example, depicts the relation-
ship between life and death through the presence of a young woman. In
this four-part verse, a young man contemplates himself as a ‘shape’ or
image in a mirror. When he suddenly feels there is something behind
him (the past), which contradicts the truth of his image as he sees it now
(the present and/or future), he turns to look (‘ma non contento guardo
in rovescio per vedere se è qualcosa a dolermi’). But all that is visible is a
flash, a glimmer, a ray of light (‘Un barlume, è, un barlume, solo il
bianco di un barlume’). Yet this light is a symbol of hope, directly joining
his life (‘luce è la mia vita’) with the maiden mother (‘luce è la madre
fanciulla’). In stanzas three and four, Pasolini continues to use light as a
way of contrasting the past and the present through woman. Looking in
a mirror/memory, the I-narrator is content with the self-image he sees
reflected among the signs of light and life, while symbols of death (dead
countryside, church bells, dry path) also abound and remind him of
life’s finite nature. In this vision, the maiden mother, with her simple
beauty (coral necklace) and youthful vitality (she ... runs happily among
the trees), comprises a flashback to an even more remote past (1902)
that lasts only as long as a sigh.38
Vitalizing and maternal, the madre fanciulla figure was an essential
concept that Pasolini continued to develop in the non-dialect collections
that followed. The simplicity and integrity she conveyed with her mere
presence was a truth to be preserved at all costs. It was as if the young
mother’s survival could guarantee the poet’s own safekeeping in a world
growing immune to his sentiments. In ‘L’annunciazione,’ the poet’s
dependency on this image is evident.39 Assuming the plural voice of the
children (i figli) in order to render the mother’s significance universal,
he evokes her youthful image and returns to her origins in his mind.
That is, in order to keep a firm hold on his own vital identity, the poet
counters the powerful passage of time through memories of the mother’s
genuine roots – the Sundays, the incenses, the springtimes past:
I figli: Madre, cos’hai

sotto il tuo occhio?
Cosa nascondi
nel riso stanco?
Domeniche antiche,
fresche di cielo,
antichi maggi
rossi negli occhi
delle tue amiche,
antichi incensi ...
Ora al tuo letto
tremiamo per te,
madre, fanciulla,
per le domeniche,
gli incensi, i maggi.
Tu eri tanto
bella e innocente ...
Madre ... chi eri
quand’eri giovane?
E Lui, chi era?
Madre, che muoia ...
Ah, sia fanciulla
sempre la vita
nella severa
tua vita fanciulla ...40
[The Children: Mother, what is

behind your eye?
What are you hiding
in your tired smile?
Ancient Sundays,
fresh with the sky,
ancient Mays
red in the eyes
of your girlfriends,
ancient incenses ...
Now at your bedside
we tremble for you,
mother, maiden,
for the Sundays,
the incenses, the Mays.
You were so
beautiful and innocent ...
Mother ... who were you
when you were young?
And He, who was he?
Mother, may you die ...

Ah, may life
always be a girl
in your severe
life as a girl ... ]
After the children ask about the mother’s identity (‘Madre ... chi eri
quand’eri giovane?’) in this dialogue that reads more like a prayer, they
also inquire about an unnamed man. ‘E Lui, chi era?’ they ask, as if the
identity of both went hand in hand. While the pronoun ‘Lui’ might
allude to the family father in a general sense, or to Carlo Alberto in
particular, the Catholic context of the poem (future voices are those of
Maria and the Angel) suggests we should consider the uppercase letter
as a reference to God. The one capital letter gives the you/He relation-
ship of the poet’s personal musings a universal meaning as well as a more
traditional Christian value. Indeed, by the end of the poem, the mother
figure is none other than Mary, who promises to remain pure, saying:
‘Angelo, il grembo /sarà candore. / Per i figli vergini / io sarò vergine’
(Angel, the womb/ will be purity. / For the virgin children / I will be a
virgin).41 Mary’s simple affirmations capture her humility and her au-
thority as the source of hope in the children’s lives and – symbolically –
in the lives of the innocent at large.
Long after Pasolini left Friuli for Rome, he remained the figlio or son
in his own poetic vision, and his notions of life or vitality continued to
centre on the mother figure. However, in his next collections of poetry,
L’usignolo della Chiesa Cattolica (1958) and La religione del mio tempo (1961),
the madre fanciulla began to assume new traits: for one, she gained a
broader political significance. In ‘A un figlio non nato’ (‘To an Unborn
Child,’ 1958), Pasolini channelled political commentary into his descrip-
tion of an ‘innocent’ prostitute:
In fondo a quel candido ponte nuovo sul Tevere

finito dai cattolici per non smentire i fascisti,
tra i fregi, i cippi, i falsi frammenti, i finti ruderi,
un gruppo di donne aspettava i clienti al sole.
Tra queste c’era Franca, una venuta da Viterbo,
bambina, e già madre, che fu la più svelta ...42
[At the end of that bright new bridge on the Tiber

finished by the Catholics to not prove the fascists wrong,
amid the ornaments, memorial stones, false fragments and fake ruins,
a group of women awaited clients in the sun.
Among them was Franca, who had come from Viterbo,
a child, yet already a mother, she was the fastest ...]43
While the central notion of an unborn child may refer to the fact that
she simply did not conceive during this one encounter with the narrator,
to an illegal abortion, or to the poet-narrator’s homosexuality, the real
ideology of this poem lies in the image of the bridge in Rome that serves
as Franca’s beat. Here, a new urban landscape substitutes for the pas-
toral setting of Casarsa, and, although the prostitute is a new female
prototype for Pasolini, she is no less innocent than the maiden mother.
To the contrary, women like Franca symbolized a stark reality that in-
trigued Pasolini and profoundly affected his work throughout the 1950s.
For him, the pimps and whores of the Roman subproletariat radiated
purity in their very being. In his view, their gestures, interactions, and
survival-based existence were as innocent as those of the Friulian farmers
he had known, precisely because they were excluded or forgotten by the
‘centre.’ Therefore, as in previous poems, Pasolini the poet calls upon
natural elements – light (sole), water (Tevere), and motherhood (e già
madre) – to express Franca’s genuine vitality with respect to the new
stone bridge.
A collaborative project of the Catholics and fascists (as Pasolini saw
them) in the DC (the Christian Democrats) of that time, the bridge
represented ‘authority’ and false grandeur in comparison to Franca’s
genuine, though lowly existence. The bridge is also a symbol of the
present, and Franca, that of the past, with all of the political and cultural
connotations each involved. Thanks to this miserable contrast between
the two, the poet/narrator can say to the unborn child that he does not
regret he never came to exist. (‘Eppure, primo e unico figlio non nato,
non ho dolore / che tu non possa mai essere qui, in questo mondo.’)44
Indeed, ‘this world’ troubles the narrator so much that he seems to be
relieved that the child – perhaps his child – can never be. This poetic
reflection on the (hypothetical) birth of a new being once again joins
life and death in a single image, wherein the female figure acts as
intermediary between two realities, two generations, and two worlds.
The memory of Franca – or, more generally, the past – is positive; it
recalls days of fulfilling work (‘la mia vita, il mio lavoro erano pieni’),
emotional balance and good health (‘nessuno squilibrio, salute e
entusiasmo’), and social consciousness (‘una luce di pensiero, forza e
coscienza’), all of which blatantly contrast with questo mondo, or the

oppressive present.45
By the end of the 1950s, Pasolini was well established in his career. In
addition to his poems, he had written two important novels about the
Roman subclasses – Ragazzi di vita and Una vita violenta – and he had
made friends with local inhabitants, artists of all kinds, and leftist think-
ers like himself (Citti, Penna, Betti, Morante, Moravia). He lived with
Susanna in a nice neighbourhood, and he also thrived on regular erotic
encounters with young men. But the emotional contradictions of his
hidden promiscuity, and the ideological contradictions of his intellectual
status – a full-fledged bourgeois who consecrated the subproletariat in
his works – deepened the effects of his afflicted existence. Much like the
subaltern characters he later portrayed in his films, Pasolini perceived
himself as a victim of a strategically and hypocritically conformist society,
and he viewed his life as a long survival within it. Indeed, in an important
poem from this period, ‘Appendice alla “Religione”: Una luce’ (1959),
we read:
Pur sopravvivendo, in una lunga appendice

di inesausta, inesauribile passione
– che quasi in un altro tempo ha la radice –
– so che una luce, nel caos, di religione,

una luce di bene, mi redime
il troppo amore nella disperazione.
[Still surviving, in a long extension

of unexhausted, inexhaustible passion
– that almost has its roots in another time –
– I know that a light, amidst the chaos, of religion,

a light of goodness, redeems my
excessive love in desperation.]
At this time, Pasolini already felt that his whole life betokened an
outdated mode of existence. His passion-based instincts – ‘inesauribile
passione’ and ‘troppo amore’ – represented a way of life that society no
longer accepted nor understood. Therefore, being a ‘survivor’ meant
being alone, or at least interminably and unbearably ‘Other’ from the
norm. The only ‘light’ or genuine source of hope in this world was to be
found in the sight of a single old woman. So, the poet remained faithful
to her as to a religion, for her courage gave him strength, her love
pardoned his excesses, and her scent from the past saved him from
annihilation.
Though by the early 1960s she was almost seventy years old, Susanna
could still revive the madre fanciulla ideal. Not only had Pasolini begun to
create mother figures that were unequivocally depictions of Susanna in
his poems, but, around this time, he also began employing Susanna
Pasolini directly in some of his films. After Guido’s death, Carlo Alberto’s
war troubles, and Pasolini’s and Susanna’s move to Rome, mother and
son’s love had grown ever more exclusive. Even after Carlo Alberto
joined them in the mid-1950s, living with them until his death in 1958,
Pier Paolo and Susanna formed the main household pair, and the poet
reflected on this life through the poignant image of his aging mother:46
È una povera donna, mite, fine,

che non ha quasi coraggio di essere,
e se ne sta nell’ombra, come una bambina,
coi suoi radi capelli, le sue vesti dimesse,

ormai e quasi povere, su quei sopravvisuti
segreti che sanno, ancora, di violette;
con la sua forza, adoperata nei muti

affanni di chi teme di non essere pari
al dovere, e non si lamenta dei mai avuti
compensi: una povera donna che sa amare

soltanto, eroicamente, ed essere madre
è stato per lei tutto ciò che si può dare.47
[She is a poor, mild, delicate woman,

who barely has the courage to be,
and remains in the shadow, like a little girl
with her thin hair, her modest clothes,

by now almost poor, on those lingering
secrets that smell, still, like violets;
with her strength, she used in silent

endeavours like one who fears she is not up to
the task, and who doesn‘t complain about compensation
never received: a poor woman who only knows how to love

heroically, and for whom being a mother
has been all she can give.]
But, although in his mind and heart, the poet wanted to sustain the
image of his mother from days gone by, in reality, he had to grapple with
the fact that her vitality had diminished, and her youth had disappeared.
La casa è piena delle sue magre

membra di bambina, della sua fatica:
anche la notte, nel sonno, asciutte lacrime
coprono ogni cosa: e una pietà così antica,

così tremenda mi stringe il cuore,
rincasando, che urlerei, mi toglierei la vita.48
[The house is full of her thin

girlish limbs, of her fatigue:
even at night, when sleeping, dried tears
cover each thing: and such an ancient

and great pity breaks my heart,
as I return home, that I could scream, I could take my own life.]
Because Susanna symbolizes ‘old’ life, in terms of an essential goodness

from the past, the mother figure in this poem is no longer a revitalizing
force in the present. This means that the poet can only experience the
mother’s regenerative qualities by returning through her to the past.
However, feeling the weight of sadness and responsibility at the mere
sight of her ‘little bones,’ the poet comes to a new level of consciousness
through the prospect of the mother’s death. She is no longer a girl, he is
no longer the son, and everything good must come to an end (‘tutto
intorno ferocemente muore’). So, if Susanna’s goodness can live on at
all (‘mentre non muore il bene che è in lei’), it will only be in his
memory, because death, which puts an end to the painful present, will
also make the madre fanciulla disappear (‘non resta che sperare che la
fine / venga davvero a spegnere l’accanito / dolore di aspettarla’).49
By the time Pasolini published his next collection, Poesie in forma di rosa
(1964), his life had changed in several ways. He had directed four films,
had travelled extensively in Italy, India, and the Middle East, and, on and
off, had written a daily news column in Vie Nuove.50 Whatever the genre,
his works increasingly denounced middle-class conformism and con-
sumer culture for homogenizing the nation. Despite the differences
persisting between the north and south and between social classes,
Pasolini viewed the mentality and objectives of most Italians as being
dominated by material goals and petite bourgeois ideals. As a result, he
grew increasingly sceptical about the Left’s ability to eschew neo-
capitalism’s snare. And since he was also now less hopeful that the
authentic roots of Italy’s cultures and subcultures might survive in this
reductive climate, a more pessimistic tone characterizes the poems in
Poesie in forma di rosa. Even the more intimate compositions about Susanna
portend death and show signs of the struggle involved in keeping the
madre fanciulla alive.
In his most compelling tribute to Susanna ever, ‘Supplica a mia madre’
(Prayer to My Mother, 1961), Pasolini synthesized this tension in his plea
to her to stay alive.
È difficile dire con parole di figlio

ciò a cui nel cuore ben poco assomiglio.
Tu sei la sola al mondo che sa, del mio cuore,

ciò che è stato sempre, prima d’ogni altro amore.
Per questo devo dirti ciò ch’è orrendo conoscere:

è dentro la tua grazia che nasce la mia angoscia.
Sei insostituibile. Per questo è dannata

alla solitudine la vita che mi hai data.
E non voglio esser solo. Ho un’infinita fame

d’amore, dell’amore di corpi senza anima.
Perchè l’anima è in te, sei tu, ma tu

sei mia madre e il tuo amore è la mia schiavitù:
ho passato l’infanzia schiavo di questo senso

alto, irrimediabile, di un impegno immenso.
Era l’unico modo per sentire la vita,

l’unica tinta, l’unica forma: ora è finita.
Sopravvivamo: ed è la confusione
di una vita rinata fuori dalla ragione.
Ti supplico, ah, ti supplico: non voler morire.

Sono qui, solo, con te, in un futuro aprile ...51
[It’s so hard to say in a son’s words

what I’m so little like in my heart.
Only you in all the world know what my heart

always held, before any other love.
So, I must tell you something terrible to know:

From within your kindness my anguish grew.
You’re irreplaceable. And because you are,

the life you gave me is condemned to loneliness.
And I don’t want to be alone. I have an infinite

hunger for love, love of bodies without souls.
For the soul is inside you, it is you, but

you’re my mother and your love’s my slavery:
My childhood I lived a slave to this lofty

incurable sense of an immense obligation.
It was the only way to feel life,

the unique form, sole color; now, it’s over.
We survive, in the confusion

of a life reborn outside reason.
I pray you, oh, I pray: Don’t die.

I’m here, alone, with you, in a future April ...]
In this confessional piece, Pasolini explains how Susanna’s love lay at the
heart of many unresolvable contradictions. While, on the one hand, her
love fulfilled him, on the other, it isolated and pained him, leading to an
exclusivity that ‘condemned him to loneliness’ and bound him like
slavery. Yet, contrary to the previous poem (‘Appendice a una Religione:
Una luce’), in which the poet contemplates the potential relief of death,
in ‘Supplica a mia madre,’ Pasolini implores Susanna to live on. (‘Ti
supplico, ah, ti supplico: non voler morire.’) The intense series of
opposites in the final rhyme of each couplet joins the two subjects in
similarity (figlio/assomiglio) and opposition (tu/schiavitù). Likewise, the
series of opposites in the last two lines of the poem (I/you; alone/with
you; die/future) suggest that since Pasolini’s existence was inextricably
bound to his mother’s ability to live, that for both of them death was as
desirable as a ‘future April’ – that is, another lifetime, another senti-
ment, another spring. Foreshadowing the intersubjective modes of
mother-and-son pairs in later films, the identities of the subjects in this
poem mesh, and the poet’s plea to Susanna constitutes a simultaneous
appeal to himself not to lose sight of his origins and not to lose hold of
what is untainted and good.
At the start of the 1960s, Pasolini turned to film to experiment with

broadening the communication and impact of his message.52 Almost
forty at the time, Pasolini’s life had settled down in many ways. As noted,
he lived comfortably with his mother in a respectable part of Rome, and
both his social life and intellectual life were flourishing. Nonetheless, the
sixties proved a tumultuous decade for Pasolini. Emotionally, he was
torn by praise and criticism for his films on different fronts. Ideologically,
he grew ever more impatient with his fellow citizens, continually
denouncing the omnipotence of bourgeois culture and the evanescence
of what was earthy, sentimental, and pure.
Because Pasolini wrote ‘Supplica a mia madre’ in the same year he
made his first film, it seems only logical that the contradictions inherent
in his upbringing and resonant throughout his poems would influence
his portrayal of women on screen. But as middle-class values changed
and human authenticity disappeared, poetic symbols such as the madre
fanciulla became less tangible sources of artistic inspiration. As a result,
many of Pasolini’s screen women reflect the problematic influence of a
new cultural hegemony that disregarded the socially marginal and
humble. Naturally, Pasolini’s move from the Friulian countryside to post-
war Rome inspired some changes in his depiction of women in film.
That is, his geographical relocation had had both emotional and ideo-
logical implications that gave new dimensions to his characters, namely,
the reality of social marginalization and oppression. Prostitution, dishon-
esty, sexual prowess, manipulation, and even hypocrisy could now feasi-
bly define his female figures onscreen. Though the vast majority of
Pasolini’s women remained inherently good beings with an inherent
innocence grounded in hard work and tradition, these characters were
not one-dimensional maiden mothers who simply embodied life and
death. To the contrary, their looks and behaviours often contradicted the
simple ways of the madre fanciulla and reflected the harsh realities lying
beneath the surface of things. As will be discussed in subsequent chap-
ters, the female universe he conceived during childhood now became an
ideological reference point and stronghold for successive civic concerns
of both a social and political nature.
In the early 1960s, with Susanna aging before his eyes and clearly
symbolizing a more distant past, Pasolini began to draw upon other ‘real’
women in the present, such as Marilyn Monroe (in La rabbia), and, along
with some of his intellectual and feminist peers, various anonymous
women from all walks of life (in Comizi d’amore). La rabbia and Comizi
d’amore are two films from 1963–4 that show how Pasolini had, by this
time clearly moved beyond strictly subjective associations to connecting
women as historical subjects with a gender-specific discourse on cultural
authenticity. These two films show how the economic miracle had per-
meated Italy’s social fabric, but not to the extent of effecting clear-cut,
positive changes for all groups at all levels in society. So Pasolini por-
trayed women precisely for their difference, but he did so in a way that
did not detach their plight from broader questions of sexual orientation,
social diversity, and cultural oppression. In La rabbia, for instance, he
shrewdly used a segment devoted to Marilyn Monroe to engage viewers
in a meditation on Hollywood’s exploitation. In Comizi, he probed the
subjects of marriage, divorce, work, and prostitution from both male and
female points of view.
Though La rabbia and Comizi d’amore broached women’s issues and
critiqued them in different ways, feminism was never in itself a driving
force in Pasolini’s work. Beyond the fact that these films pre-dated most
feminist criticism from the late 1960s, 1970s, and 1980s, there is no
evidence to suggest that his expanding female discourse marked a
specific attempt to support the feminine cause in the nascent gender
debates of his time.53 Despite his friendships with feminist intellectuals
such as Adele Cambria, Oriana Fallaci, and Dacia Maraini – each of
whom openly denounced patriarchal codes and conventions – Pasolini’s

screen women were not directly influenced by their concerns.54 Rather,
he treated the ‘real’ women in these films as he did the fictional ones:
as a means of discerning what, if any, remnants of Italy’s ancient sub-
cultures still existed. Pasolini’s attention to women in the context of
contemporary society was but one component of the larger social por-
trait of oppression and desecration. Therefore, we need not question his
motives for depicting ‘real’ women or women’s issues per se, but, rather,
what he said about Italy and Western society as a whole through these
characters and whether this differed substantially from what he con-
veyed with his fictive screen characters.
Marilyn Monroe’s struggle seems to have been largely that of an emo-

tionally wrought individual who fell prey to Hollywood’s control. Her
story quite naturally reflects Pasolini’s dichotomy between authentic and
inauthentic modes of living, and her image alone captured the intrinsic
conflict between the madre fanciulla and the Hollywood diva. Her beauty
and innocence, visibly enhanced by her blond hair, white skin, and
irresistible smile, bespoke her genuine, girlish nature. Yet these same
traits also defined a sexy female archetype. Likewise, her shapely body
lent itself to divergent interpretations, for those curves could typify
fertility and maternal splendour just as well as they could sexual vitality
or promiscuity. In short, Marilyn was at once the small-town girl of poor,
humble origins and America’s number-one sex kitten. She simultaneously
embodied the angel and the whore, both central archetypes in Pasolini’s
artistic representation of women.
Within the context of 1950s Hollywood, La rabbia’s images of Marilyn
Monroe refer to the widespread phenomenon of innocence lost to the
seductive and corrupting ‘machinery’ of the present. Pasolini conveys
the contrast between purity and desecration through the poetic voice-
over commentary and the choice of camera shots he employs. For
instance, in addition to full-length poses and facial close-ups of the star
before and after her Hollywood debut, Pasolini uses panoramic shots to
show her body in detail. In fact, he travels over Marilyn’s body (extended
sideways on a couch) four separate times to reveal her identity slowly,
and the camera purposefully moves from foot to head each time. Consid-
ered in conjunction with the poem read in voice-over during in those
moments, which claims she disappeared like ‘a golden dust’ or ‘a white
bird,’ these shots serve as a caress or a loving hand and intimate compas-
sion and identification with Marilyn’s hardships. Yet Pasolini’s technique
here also seems to reinforce the dominant male heterosexual gaze that
possesses, oppresses, and slowly imbibes every inch of her body.55 How-
ever, the direction of the camera movements (from foot to head and
right to left) proves somewhat counter-intuitive and actually works against
such a reading in that, with each pass, the camera reverses the instinctive
reading order: first, to make the viewer process certain details of her
physical reality before her identity is revealed; and, second, to make her
an anonymous symbol of ‘innocent’ beauty before clinching her ‘real’
identity as a Hollywood icon.
In La rabbia, Pasolini went beyond Marilyn’s physical reality and sex
appeal to interweave her image with a more general discourse on social
and cultural diversity. Just as he treats the notion of ‘blackness’ and the
‘problem of colour’ to suggest the growing reality of ethnic and racial
difference in the West, Pasolini uses colour to describe Marilyn’s inno-
cence. He explains that her candor was not the hypocritical ‘white’ of the
‘classes deserving riches and beauty,’ but, rather, the ‘colour’ of the poor
and disenfranchised.56 In other words, despite her international fame,
she was never truly of the dominant class; she was only a product of its
cultural machinery. It is likely for this reason that Pasolini could identify
with her so easily. In ways similar to the Friulian dayworkers, or the
common prostitutes in Rome, Marilyn was exploited by the system of her
society. And although she was often at the centre of public attention, she
lived a lonely and marginal existence at home.57
The poem ‘Marilyn’ (read by writer and friend Giorgio Bassani)
depicts the contradictions of her life as if they were the juxtaposition
between two worlds, one ‘ancient’ and one ‘future.’ The poet’s ‘little
younger sister’ is one of numerous sons and daughters making their
way through a tumultuous decade, half in the dark. But Marilyn’s lack
of political conscience is innocent, and, for this, her spirit remains
pure.
Marilyn
[1] Of the ancient world and of the future world,

only beauty remained, and you,
poor younger sister,
who ran after her older brothers,
and who laughs and cries with them, to imitate them,
and who wears their small scarves,
secretly touches their books, their small knives,
you little younger sister,

you wore that beauty humbly
and your spirit of common people
you never knew you had it,
because otherwise it would not have been beauty.
[13] The world taught you it.

So your beauty became the world’s.
[15] Of the frightening old world and of the frightening future world
only beauty remained, and you,
you brought it with you like an obedient smile.
Obedience requires too many swallowed tears,
giving oneself to others, too many cheerful looks
that ask for pity! So
you took away your beauty.
It disappeared like a golden dust.
[23] Of the stupid ancient world

and of the ferocious future world
a beauty remained that was not embarrassed
to allude to the small breasts of the younger sister,
to the small belly so readily nude.
And for this it was beauty, the same kind
that the sweet girls of your world have,
the daughters of coloured immigrants,
the daughters of the poor Europe,
the daughters of salesmen
winners of beauty contests in Miami or London.
It disappeared like a little golden dove.
[35] The world taught it to you

And so your beauty was no longer beauty.
[37] But you continued to be a child,

silly like antiquity, cruel like the future,
and between you and your beauty possessed by Power
all the stupidity and cruelty of the present seeped in
You always brought it with you, like a smile among tears
Shameless for passivity, indecent for obedience
It disappeared like a white golden dove.
[44] Your beauty, having survived from the ancient world,

requested by the future world, possessed
by the present world, thus became an mortal evil.
[47] Now your older brothers, finally, turn around,

they stop playing their cursed games for a moment,
they come out of their relentless distraction
and ask themselves: ‘Is it possible that Marilyn,
little Marilyn has showed us the way?’
Now you, you are the first, you, younger sister,
the one who didn’t count, poor girl, with her smile,
you are the first to go beyond the gates of the world
that has been abandoned to its destiny of death. 58
Lines 44 to 46 get to the heart of this composition, stating that

Marilyn’s beauty, having survived from the past, is a coveted ‘object’ or
desired reality for the many of the future. Yet, as the outside world
imposes its concept of beauty on Marilyn, it successfully objectifies the
young woman and appropriates her beauty for itself. It is precisely at this
point that the older group of siblings or comrades (fratelli in the civic
sense, lines 47 to 55) turn around and take notice of her. They stop their
games, put an end to their distraction (i.e., lack of consciousness), and
ask: ‘Has Marilyn, little Marilyn, shown us the way?’ In other words, is
Marilyn a heroic figure whose death offers a message of regeneration to
others? Is she like the brave partisan who put his or her life on the line in
order to sustain an ideal and perhaps even save others? No. This is
neither hagiography nor epitaph. Nor is it a truly political poem. Rather,
‘Marilyn’ is a subjective rendering of Pasolini’s collective memory, which
he routinely expressed with ideological flair. Marilyn is a ‘little sister’ to
him – a genuine, marginal creature, who encapsulated the innocence of
his female model with a simple look or a smile. Throughout the poem,
the recurrent images of doves and magic dust convey the fleeting nature
of Marilyn’s loveliness and emphasize Pasolini’s profound concern over
the disappearance of authenticity as whole nations blindly embraced
American capitalist trends.
As the writer Bassani reads Pasolini’s commemorative verse, Pasolini
alternates shots of different objects and settings with those of Marilyn. In
this way, he shows similarity or difference through juxtaposition, and
thus, visualizes the contents of the poem. He cuts, for instance, from an
anonymous beauty contest to a painting by Renato Guttoso, in which
three people are walking on an unmarked road. In the soundtrack, we
hear: ‘È possibile che Marilyn ci ha mostrato la strada?’ (Is it possible

that Marilyn showed us the way?). La strada, meaning ‘road,’ was a
popular term among communists, who referred to one another as com-
panions on a long and difficult revolutionary journey. This thought-
provoking question is followed by pictures of ‘Norma Jean Baker,’ the
early, ‘prehistoric’ or pre-Hollywood girl, through which Pasolini sought
retrospectively to recover her innocence, first by showing her as a teen
playing with farm animals, and then by showing her around the age of
three. So, posed here between shots of the European Realist painting
and the early Marilyn, Pasolini’s questions posit that the star’s life indi-
cated a path of opposition and resistance, if only in the personal domain.
Soon after, however, the squiggly lines of an atomic cloud reappear, and
we hear: ‘Ah figli! ... Non c’è più nulla, nulla, nulla. Noi non siamo mai
esistiti. Le realità sono queste forme nella sommità dei cieli’ (Ah chil-
dren! ... Nothing, nothing, nothing is left. We have never existed. What
exists are these shapes up high in the sky). Here, the combination of
commentary and image reflects the disappearance of humanity’s authen-
tic roots, whereby ‘life’ becomes equated with ‘non-existence’ and de-
spair.59
In La rabbia, Pasolini experimented with Monroe’s signifying potential
in relation to his thesis on cultural authenticity and codified the images
of her accordingly. For him, she personified the scandalous clash be-
tween one’s original reality and what one becomes as a result of cultural
domination. Although Marilyn did not represent the post-war sub-
proletarian figure of previous films, or the mythical mother of successive
ones, her reality as a poor teen who became an object of Hollywood
machinery exemplified the larger notion of a System’s ability to trans-
form human identity and ideals. Therefore, even though she became
rich and famous, in Pasolini’s view, Marilyn embodied his concerns
about the ideological ‘centres of control’ from which a dominant culture
operated and successfully assimilated innocent nations and individuals.
As was unanimously noted by the critics, as well as by Pasolini himself,
the Marilyn Monroe sequence is the highest achievement in La rabbia.60
The viewer is almost taken by surprise, so striking are her images and the
montage of the visual and aural components. In effect, Marilyn offers a
sublime example of refusal; her death ‘showed us the way,’ that is, the
way to a radical rejection of the mechanisms co-opting that which was
potentially pure – the body and human desires. A rebellious, shooting
star in a celluloid firmament, Monroe is, according to Pasolini, an
unwitting martyr in the etymological sense of ‘witness.’ In the imaginary
tribunal of the ‘new prehistory’ that Pasolini was theorizing in these

years, Monroe’s martyrdom bears witness to the wreckage of the culture
industry.
Just as La rabbia develops Pasolini’s trope of (female) vitality and
goodness by referring to real women worldwide, so does Comizi d’amore,
but it zeros in instead on the women of Italy. The film, which takes a
close look at the oppression or exploitation of women and other mar-
ginal social groups, is an important work in Pasolini’s filmography for
different reasons. First, it is unique for the interview format through
which ‘real’ Italians of all ages, classes, and occupations speak out.
Second, Pasolini used the film to probe public views on controversial
subjects such as sexual freedom, homosexuality, divorce, and prostitu-
tion.61 In addition to openly discussing sexuality and even incorporating
psychoanalysis into the work (through onscreen conversations with Cesare
Musatti e Alberto Moravia), Comizi was one of few films at the time to
solicit and ponder women’s views.62 The film is consequential for the
study of women in Pasolini’s cinema because it portrays women as impor-
tant, thinking citizens whose views and aspirations merit our attention.
Comizi does not depict women solely in the service of husbands, pimps,
or sons, and it also recognizes women’s work, rights, and desires as
legitimate concerns, particularly in the cultural climate of Italy’s ‘eco-
nomic miracle.’ In this film, Pasolini joins women’s onscreen icono-
graphic value with their historical reality in 1960s Italy.
Comizi d’amore acknowledges women as an afflicted group and suggests
that the limitations on them constitute a real social concern. In the film,
we see how, in many parts of Italy in the 1960s, women remained a
symbolic construct; their traditional roles were still valid, and their
‘honesty’ a value. However, the film also portrays women as historical
beings whose agency, or lack thereof, shaped love/sex relations both at
home and in public. Since most were still subject to patriarchal com-
mand, positive instances of female subjectivity surfaced in select words
and gestures that revealed the women’s uncorrupted nature within a
relatively oppressive environment. In this sense, the ‘real’ women of
Comizi bear characteristics of the maiden mother. In all of their confu-
sion, embarrassment, and even hypocrisy, women of all ages exhibit an
aura of candor that stem from the sheer joy or novelty of being the
protagonist in a public debate. Therefore, the women on screen in
Comizi are less vehicles of a latent feminist message than they are real-life
characters who show signs of genuineness and virtue in their everyday
existence and give lucid answers to Pasolini’s questions. Indeed, Pasolini’s
message of hope was anchored in the young female generation: ‘Listen,

little one with the braid,’ he says to an adolescent on the Calabrian
beach, ‘Senti, Treccina, voglio proprio dirti che la bella sorpresa della
mia inchiesta sono le ragazzine come te. Nel generale conformismo, voi
ragazze siete le uniche ad avere le idee limpide e coraggiose’ (Listen,
little Pigtails, I really want to tell you that the nice surprise in my research
has been young girls like you. In the generally conformist climate, you
girls are the only ones with clear and courageous ideas).63 His words
celebrate the girl’s spontaneous disagreement with the maternal figure
beside her as she expresses her desire for basic freedoms, such as going
to a bar for coffee, if she wishes.
Comizi d’amore was Pasolini’s attempt to uncover and show Italians the
‘real Italy’ with respect to sexual mores and social values. However, the
real Italy proved to be a mix of conservative and confused people
displaying drastically different levels of knowledge and sincerity. As a
result, the film unveiled a national façade of tolerance – a theme Pasolini
would later treat at length in his journalistic writings of the late 1960s
and early 1970s.64 But, in 1963, with Italy in the midst of profound
economic and cultural change, Pasolini remained focused on finding
and showing those aspects of Italian culture that were genuine, uncondi-
tioned, and meaningful. As with La rabbia, then, we need not question
Pasolini’s motives for depicting real women or women’s issues. Instead,
we should look at how he developed his lucid and mostly positive notion
of women through these figures and whether this ideal then differed
substantially from fictional characters in his other films.
In shifting his focus from fictional characters to real people, Pasolini did
not suddenly imbue women with Marxist traits. On the contrary, women
remained symbols of an untainted human existence that could easily be
dismissed as nostalgic, even decadent. However, whether subjects of
their own trajectory or objects in the lives of others, Pasolini’s real
female figures exposed women’s double status as poetic and political
entities. While forever recalling the madre fanciulla of Casarsa and the
innocence Pasolini associated with these origins, Marilyn in La rabbia
and the women in Comizi d’amore were contending head-on with the
social codes of patriarchy and the conformist ideologies of mainstream
culture. The resulting emotional and ideological tensions were then
ultimately situated within a broader political framework about class
struggle and power relations. In this way, Pasolini successfully extended
his discourse on women and gender in the 1960s and 1970s by going
beyond his original sources (Susanna, Casarsa in Friuli, and personal
friends) to incorporate additional female figures, symbols, and spaces.
Naturally, there were numerous real women in Pasolini’s life in these
later years who directly influenced his films, too. During the 1960s,
Pasolini nurtured several important friendships with women in Rome;
among his closest companions were Laura Betti and Elsa Morante. He
met with them often – more frequently in some periods than others – to
socialize, travel, or work on one of his films.65 Later that decade, Pasolini
also relied on the regular collaboration of Silvana Mangano, and, during
1969–70, he developed a deep friendship with Maria Callas, which gener-
ated a ‘love legend.’66 Yet, to no surprise, despite the passing of time and
the additional presence of his young cousin Graziella Chiarcossi in his
home, Susanna never lost ground as the one irreplaceable woman his
life. But, clearly, what had begun a half-century earlier as an emotional
attachment to the mother and a personal, poetic ideal, grew to define
a more general set of character traits and social values that inspired a
whole life’s work.
The vitalizing qualities Pasolini attributed to his female figures across
genres and across time begs the question whether the women in his films
were unique with respect to the other social groups that regularly at-
tracted the filmmaker’s attention. Were they just one of many social
categories he studied and celebrated because they were subject to op-
pression? Or did women comprise a category of their own, particularly in
Pasolini’s cinema? My answer in both cases is yes. In some ways, women
were just like the other underprivileged or marginal groups in Friuli,
Rome, and other developing nations, who, despite the hegemony of the
Western cultural apparatus, proceeded to live life in an uncodified
fashion. Although the women in his films were clearly subject to the
social norms of patriarchy, they similarly retained a pure and humble
essence through their perceptive, spontaneous, and corporeal modes of
expression. Furthermore, like their numerous male counterparts, women’s
innocence was forever mirrored by the humble spaces they inhabited.
However, at the same time, Pasolini’s female figures also constituted a
category of their own because they betokened ‘origins’ – that is, the
untainted starting point of life – in a way that, for Pasolini, no male
figure could or did.67 Susanna and everything else female that pointed to
the emotional, intellectual, geographical, and sexual ‘beginnings’ in
Pasolini’s life were the pillars of his poetics. No matter how bleak this
picture, how apocalyptic his vision, or how desperate Pasolini himself

grew, women, the womb, and the female universe could restore hope to
the poet’s existence.
While an artist’s private life must not be the sole source of insight for
understanding his works, its far-reaching significance in Pasolini’s case
must not be overlooked. Susanna Pasolini was undoubtedly a cardinal
presence in his life and an archetype for the depiction of women in his
films. Her unconditional love was the basis of his self-knowledge as a
child and a catalyst for his nascent world view. Consequently, throughout
his career, Pasolini upheld the youthful mother figure as an incorrupt-
ible source of vitality. Over time, he developed the trope of female
innocence further in order to denounce and resist neo-capitalist culture,
which, for the authentic human being, was a form of death. The poetic
sentiments that took root in the home, and the political insights that
took shape through key relationships with friends, significantly but per-
haps inconspicuously positioned a female ideal at the heart of his poet-
ics. As Susanna changed with time from a sign of the present to one of
the past, Pasolini saw himself irremediably part of the latter: ‘I am a force
of the past,’ he wrote in 1962, ‘my love lies only in tradition ...’68 As a
filmmaker, Pasolini took the past in his hands and continually used it to
two different ends. He used it personally to reveal his disappointments
and aspirations, and he used it publicly to condemn the changes that
had occurred in the West. What began in the late 1930s as the poetic
itinerary of self-discovery through his mother’s love and her native land
became the enduring foundation for profound social criticism, both on
page and onscreen.
2 Mothers
La più grande attrazione di ognuno di noi

è verso il Passato, perché è l’unica cosa
che conosciamo e amiamo veramente.
Tanto che confondiamo con esso la vita.
È il ventre di nostra madre la nostra meta.
Pasolini, ‘Pilade,’ Teatro, 314
[The greatest attraction of each one of us

is towards the Past, because it is the only thing
that we truly know and love.
So much so that we confuse it with life.
Our ultimate goal is our mother’s womb. ]
Given the central role that his own mother played throughout his life, it
comes as no surprise that mothers are a primary female character type in
many of Pasolini’s films. This does not mean that the women identified
and studied here as ‘mothers’ could not be daughters, whores, or saint
figures, too. It simply means that in the films discussed in this chapter
Pasolini gave greater emphasis to the female character’s maternal or
parental role. The films that focus on mothers – Mamma Roma, Edipo re,
and Medea – explore the attributes and contradictions that Pasolini
associated with these women. Mamma Roma, Jocasta, and Medea are
formidable female figures who, on the one hand, nurture, love, and
guide, and, on the other, impose, steer, and destroy. Whether young or
grown, biological or symbolic, the sons in these films are profoundly
influenced by the mother’s double existence – i.e., her simultaneous
connection to two cultures or worlds. Conceptually, Pasolini’s screen

mothers join the past and the future through the figure of the son. They
simultaneously connote the inalienable truth of origins and the restless
spirit of survival in the present. But even though the son is instinctively
attracted to the fundamental innocence and integrity his mother repre-
sents, he must also engage with her as his ‘Other’ in order to individuate
properly. Unfortunately, in doing so, the mother’s life-giving qualities
become inaccessible to the son, and this loss literally or metaphorically
secures his demise.
Mamma Roma (1962)
Surprisingly perhaps, Accattone, Pasolini’s first feature film, gives little

attention to maternal figures or the notion of maternal origins at all.
Though it features several women and even two young mothers – Nannina,
who has five clinging children, and Ascenza, Accattone’s estranged wife,
who always carries their son – the film is not about families or genera-
tions. Instead, Accattone treats the lives of Roman moochers and down-
trodden whores in order to offer a glimpse of daily survival in postwar
Rome. However, Mamma Roma, Pasolini’s second feature-length film,
adds the subjects of motherhood and generation gaps to the previous
class-based thematic. In a rough-and-tumble tale about a mother-and-son
household in late-1950s Rome, Pasolini concentrates on the conflicting
nature of the past and present as mirrored in the two characters’ coexist-
ence.
The mother, Mamma Roma, is a middle-aged woman whose life as a
boisterous and high-spirited prostitute is about to change for the better.
Or so she thinks. She has finally saved enough money to leave her pimp,
Carmine, buy a small fruit stand, and set up a modest household on the
outskirts of Rome. There, she will live with her teenage son, Ettore, who,
until now, had been raised by poor relatives in a small town outside
Rome. However, all too soon, Mamma Roma’s social aspirations clash
with the reality of Ettore’s temperament and his situation as a newcomer
in the outer-city sphere. Despite her efforts to help him adapt to school,
a job, a girlfriend, and a motorbike, Ettore’s cultural roots ultimately
inhibit his survival in this new environment. By the end, physically ill and
almost delirious, he steals, gets caught, and goes to prison. He dies alone
in his cell as his mother’s dreams dissolve in a vacuum of despair.
Although Mamma Roma is the main figure of interest, there is a
second mother figure in this film: Bruna. Bruna is the madre fanciulla of
Mothers 47
the marginal yet transitioning borgata culture in Rome, and, as such, she
reflects Pasolini’s poetic ideal of young, charmingly simple, and rustic
women. Bruna is the symbolic younger mother whose life and influence
on Ettore parallels that of Mamma Roma. While Mamma Roma moves
close to the city centre and continually aspires to its values, Bruna
occupies an ancient, anonymous space outside of Rome, not unlike
Guidonia, the town in which Ettore grew up. Ettore first meets Bruna
there by chance as he walks through the abandoned fields behind the
housing project where Mamma Roma first brings him to live. Bruna
quickly becomes Ettore’s love interest and only real friend. Throughout
the film, she provokes in Ettore thoughts and feelings that are grounded
in the past and that then influence mother–son relations in the present.
Whether as a biological or symbolic mother, both women try to help
him assimilate into his new environment. However, their simultaneous
influences are so overwhelming that Ettore, who proves unable to dis-
cern a separate and functional notion of his identity, self-destructs.
Mamma Roma desires the progress and social elevation that the central
culture holds in store, and Bruna lives at a nostalgic standstill outside
Rome. Together, their influence structures Ettore’s thought processes
and experiences into a dichotomy that pits life prior to Casal Bertone
(Bruna) against life in Casal Bertone (and later Cecafumo), with eyes
turned towards Rome (Mamma Roma). Because Ettore has no notion of
self in this new world, he is like a feto-adulto (adult fetus) or newborn.1 He
experiences life through the desires and actions of the mother/‘Other’
until he starts to suffer, separate, and then fully rebel. It is not immedi-
ately clear why at a certain point Ettore resists his mother’s influence and
then Bruna’s, too, but it seems likely that the conflict between the two
women compels Ettore either to awaken and differentiate or deteriorate
and die. However, because Mamma Roma represents both the safe start-
ing point of his journey and the conflicted endpoint of his new social
consciousness, Ettore is ultimately unable to affirm a sense of self that
exists independently from his mother and her desires.
The troubled fate of the mother–son rapport not withstanding, the
maternal figures in this film are still important symbols of innocence.
Looking first at Mamma Roma, the mother’s authenticity is apparent in
more ways than one. Perhaps the most immediate and inviolable ex-
ample is the fact that she is Ettore’s biological mother, hence the literal
origins of life in both its broadest and most individual sense. Just as
Ettore’s biological existence began with her years ago, his new family life
and introspective journey as a teenager will also begin with her, this time
in Rome. Indeed, Pasolini signals the rebirth of Ettore and their relation-
ship during the opening sequence, when Mamma Roma bids farewell to
her former life. On the pimp Carmine’s wedding day, Mamma Roma
officially renounces prostitution in a song: ‘Fior de merda, / io me so’
lliberata de ‘na corda, / adesso tocca a ’n’altra a fà la serva!’ (Shit flower,
/ I freed myself from a noose, / now it’s another woman’s turn to be your
slave!).2 Subsequently, she announces her ‘new’ identity as mother by
breaking away from the crowd of low-life characters to go to the centre of
the room and embrace a little boy. ‘I figli! Ma che so’ i figli!’ (Children,
what are children?) she shouts, as if the small child were her own.3 Then,
in her cheerful, semi-drunken stupor, she alludes to her new life with
Ettore by asking the unknown toddler if he loves his mother. Forebod-
ingly, the little boy slaps her in playful repudiation. But Mamma Roma
insists with her question – ‘Je voi bene a tu’ madre?’ – until he smiles and
agrees. In this prelude to her meeting with Ettore, then, Mamma Roma
recovers her identity as mother and sets the stage for a family life and an
existence that is honest, thus pure.
Evidence of Mamma Roma’s ancient and primordial innocence also
issues forth from the different words and actions that recall her squalid
family life and disreputable past. She comes from a base culture that,
even though vital, was also oppressive, since it left her few alternatives
and no sense of the future. Mamma Roma makes clear her original
plight when, one evening on the beat, she reflects on how she became a
prostitute. Speaking spontaneously to random passers-by, Mamma Roma
recounts how she began life as a marginal creature, seeking to escape
poverty and her parents. As a teenage girl, she chose prostitution as a way
out from an oppressive family and a forced marriage to an old man. At
forty, Mamma Roma is still very much a struggling child. She is a madre
fanciulla who retraces her identity in order to understand her ongoing
susceptibility to difficulty and oppression. For, after years of service, and
despite her new-found liberation, Mamma Roma is still subject to the
demands of her pimp, Carmine, who finds ways to put her back on the
streets and who cyclically destroys her hopes for an honest life.
Mamma Roma’s lowly background and underprivileged status in the
present give Pasolini’s concepts of genuineness and purity even broader
significance because her struggle reflects the fate of her whole subclass
or marginal community. In Pasolini’s eyes, Mamma Roma demonstrates
a developing sense of social consciousness, as seen from her material
aspirations. But she has not yet completely acquired the false moral
consciousness that characterizes the bourgeoisie. True, she has had a
Mothers 49
glimpse of it through her initial freedom from Carmine, a decent job,

and some small material gains, but she has not been entirely initiated
into the world of the city centre. For Pasolini, it was this inability either to
be completely co-opted by the present or completely freed from the past
that classified her as innocent. Indeed, Pasolini perceived nearly all
subaltern groups, young or old, male or female, Western or not, to be
genuine for two main reasons. First, these groups were routinely subject
to different forms of exclusion in society. And second, their lives re-
flected genuine modes of being and ways of interacting with others that
pre-dated the highly conformist, consumer behaviours characterizing
Western cultures in the post-war decades. No subproletarian figure, not
even those like Mamma Roma, who toiled to move up and out, had any
real escape from oppression. In the film, every step that Mamma Roma
takes towards the future is countered by a weighty reminder (i.e., Car-
mine, her pimp, or Ettore, her son) of her subjugated identity from the
past.
Therefore, even though she exudes independence and boldly pursues
her petite bourgeois dreams, Mamma Roma’s identity is firmly grounded
in her cultural roots and in the past. Several elements recalling her lowly
origins persist in the present in the outskirts of Rome. This explains why,
when she keeps company with unemployed loafers and farmers at
Carmine’s wedding, she is rowdy, funny, and simply one of the crowd.
And this reveals why, even within Rome, she occupies spaces that are
humble and marginal with respect to the centre of society. Mamma
Roma lives at the outer limits of the city, in a tiny apartment with few
possessions. Although her view of Rome from the window makes the
‘promised land’ or city centre seem tangible and near, in reality, it is a
distant goal she will never attain. Mamma Roma never loses her unre-
fined character traits – her Romanesque street talk, her generally boister-
ous behaviour, and even her brash bodily stances and gestures. We need
only recall how she sells fruit at the market place, how she stumbles
home from her prostitution beat the second time, or how she sits hunched
over her table breaking bread on the day Ettore dies. These simple facts
of her daily life confirm Mamma Roma’s decency and virtue, thus her
codification as a positive signifier, both at the level of the individual and
the community.
Aside from these narrative details, Pasolini also expresses Mamma
Roma’s innocence stylistically by capturing her in close, frontal shots
during key moments of the film. For Pasolini, this type of shot had the
effect of lifting the subject away from a painful experience or wretched
environment to suggest that she actually belonged to another time and

place, or to indicate that the significance of her thoughts and actions in a
particular moment transcended the base reality of her setting.4 This kind
of close, frontal filming is one of Pasolini’s signature techniques, and he
purposefully employed it throughout his career. Consider, for instance,
the close shots of Stella in Accattone, or the young Madonna in Il Vangelo
secondo Matteo, who stands silently before Joseph when he learns she is
pregnant. Another example of this kind of symbolic close shot takes
place at the opening wedding scene in Mamma Roma, when Mamma
Roma sings about her freedom from Carmine. Further examples include
the moment she first sees her son; the time she goes to church to ‘scout’
social opportunities for Ettore; the time she asks the priest to find Ettore
a job; the time she cries while watching Ettore at work; and, finally, the
moment in which she learns that Ettore has died, and she stares from her
window, crazed with despair.5
In addition to representing the ‘ancient’ goodness that characterized
pre-war and pre-neocapitalist Italy, Pasolini’s mothers also make this vital
past available to their sons. Whether literally or metaphorically, they
grant the sons access to origins and authenticity by integrating them-
selves into their sons’ lives and influencing the younger males’ agency.
This means that, in key moments, the desires and actions of mother and
son become enmeshed, if not unified to the point that it becomes hard
to distinguish one subject from the other – that is, the motivations,
objectives, and needs of the one as compared to those of the other.
According to Jessica Benjamin, when mothers are granted positive and
nourishing powers, such as those associated with raising an infant, they
can seem omnipotent to those around them. This omnipotence can then
develop into a fantasy that eventually prohibits the child or the mother
from recognizing the ‘Other’ as separate.6
In Mamma Roma, we witness a very moving example of this type of
intersubjective connection when mother and son meet for the first time.
On her way to retrieve Ettore, Mamma Roma spots him from a distance
as he rides on a carousel in a deserted park. Pasolini first joins mother
and son technically and emotionally (on Mamma Roma’s side) through
cross-cut shots of Mamma Roma observing and Ettore riding alone in
this circle. As the carousel turns, symbolically indicating the years that
have passed, and perhaps foreshadowing the circular nature of Ettore’s
trajectory, Mamma Roma studies his face. She then notes his hands,
which are folded on his lap. As written in the screenplay, his hands lie on
his grembo, creating a metaphorical connection with the womb and ori-
Mothers 51
gins of life, as if he anticipated his mother’s arrival.7 Although through-

out his career, Pasolini used the term grembo to refer to a variety of things
– the lap area, the womb, even the male groin or erogenous zone – here
it clearly represents both old and new life and connects the mother and
son, whose identities will soon intertwine.
At first, Ettore instinctively resists Mamma Roma’s sudden presence
and her desire to change his life through hers. ‘E che ce vengo a fà a
Roma, io?’ (What the heck am I gonna do in Rome?) he asks, indicating
his wish to remain unchanged.8 Nonetheless, Ettore goes with his mother,
and before long, their subjectivities begin to merge, but not as a result of
any natural circumstance or harmonious confluence of desires. Quite
the contrary, albeit with only the best of intentions in mind, Mamma
Roma imposes her will on Ettore and consequently unleashes a profound
psychological and cultural conflict that she will never be able to resolve.9
That said, mother and son do share a few vital moments of physical and
emotional closeness. These moments are likely due to their initial opti-
mism and excitement before the reality of their cultural divide sets in. As
long as Mamma Roma and Ettore remain closed in their humble apart-
ment, there appears to be hope for accord. We see a glimmer of this
shortly after Ettore arrives, when he dances a little
cha-cha in his room, and Mamma Roma looks on smiling. Or when, to
celebrate his arrival, Mamma Roma plays an old record and shows Ettore
how to dance a tango. In this moment, Mamma Roma tells Ettore that
the song – ‘Violino tzigano’ – reminds her of Ettore’s father. So, for only
a moment she lets the music carry her away and create a sense of family
in their minds. And when Mamma Roma and Ettore stumble and fall
during a dip, their wholehearted laughter gives the impression they will
get along.
From time to time, Ettore tries to make his mother happy – by
attempting school, accompanying her to church, going to work, or
dating the woman of her choice – but he never truly assimilates her
desires. At its best, their merging subjectivity is still ambivalent because,
for every instance alluding to their combined emotional state, there are
hints of an indelible divide. With the help of friends, Mamma Roma
successfully sets up and blackmails a restaurant owner in order to get
Ettore a job. As he waits tables in a modest establishment with outdoor
seating, Mamma Roma stands across the street to watch him. Almost
immediately, Ettore notices her presence. He sees her beaming with
pride from afar and returns her greeting with a smile. From his smile, we
cut back to Mamma Roma, now in tears of relief as she is released from
the tension she had experienced in nurturing hope and in getting Ettore
this job. At the same time, several details underscore their difference:
their physical separation; Ettore’s appearance only in long shots (as
opposed to Mamma Roma’s close shots); and the fact that, as in the early
carousel scene, Ettore is shown once and then virtually disappears.
To reward Ettore for his first day on the job and to inspire further
effort on his part to fulfil her materialist vision, Mamma Roma buys him
a new red Vespa. Through this gift, she wants to celebrate his new life as
an adult and an honest citizen. With the appreciation and excitement of
any teenage boy (for the gift, not the job), Ettore immediately accepts
the motorbike and, in a return gesture, takes his mother for a ride. As
Mamma Roma embraces Ettore on this symbolic journey, she also voices
her dreams about the future, at which point the ulterior motive for her
generosity comes out. The motorbike is a sign of benessere or wealth. It is
an important status symbol for both. Mamma Roma wants Ettore to taste
and feel the rewards of hard work and material goals as an incentive to
want and earn more. In fact, during the ride, Mamma Roma tells her son
that he will soon own more things and be the envy of others. ‘E fra qualche
anno me porti pure in macchina ... Te fà vede chi te fà diventà tu madre!
Te fà invidià da tutti! Te piace a esse un signoreno, eh?’ (In a few years
you’ll take me around in a car too ... Your Mom will show you who you will
become! Everyone’s envy! You like being a little gentleman, don’t you?)10
But this is where their cultural difference once again becomes clear.
When Ettore retorts by saying that gentlemen are all stupid, and he can’t
stand them because they are spoiled brats who think, with a little money,
they own the world (‘I signorini so’ tutti stupidi, nun li posso vede, sti fiji
de papà che perché ciànno un po’ de grana in saccoccia se credoono
chissà che sono!’), we see how their desires collide. Indeed, Mamma
Roma accuses him of being a miserable leftist and says if he becomes a
comrade they just won’t get along. (‘’A carongè, che sei de sinistra?
Guarda che mica annamo d’accordo, sa’, se te metti a fà er compagno!’)
Fortunately, the passion of the moment takes over, and their political
discussion ends. And although Ettore shows signs of an autonomous
political awareness, that awareness is clearly still ‘adolescent’ and devel-
oping. Nevertheless, it is precisely moments of emotional and physical
closeness such as these that both join and divide Mamma Roma’s mate-
rial objectives (her eye on the future) and Ettore’s stagnancy (his eye on
the past).
In Mamma Roma, then, the intersubjective moments between mother
and son prove deeply problematic. They cause torn relationships and
Mothers 53
alienated feelings and make the mother’s simultaneous connection to

the present and the past seem ambiguous, if not wholly destructive.
Mamma Roma’s potential for goodness lies in her ability to integrate
Ettore into a positive environment characterized by forthright modes of
human interaction and a bright future, thanks to hard work and dedica-
tion. Mamma Roma wants to leave her life of poverty, ignorance, and
deprivation behind, and she imposes the same wish on her son. But it was
only yesterday that Ettore was plucked away from his poor, ignorant, and
deprived setting, and he is simply not ready for this change. Conse-
quently, Mamma Roma’s petite bourgeois ideals hit Ettore like a ton of
bricks. First, he experiences the ideological conflict internally. In an
earlier version of the screenplay, Pasolini treated Ettore’s subconscious
turmoil in a dream in which Ettore envisioned his mother being killed by
a group of elephants. Although at one point he tries to stop them, he
does not succeed, and his mother dies before his eyes. In this Jungian
suppression of the maternal influence, the son is unable or unwilling to
safeguard her presence.11 In the film, though, the exact opposite occurs:
Mamma Roma and the new society she has embraced are the ‘elephants’
or superior forces that squash Ettore and his cultural difference.
The maternal omnipotence that tacitly dominates the son’s psyche
also inhibits his agency to some extent. However, this does not preclude
the son’s ability to recognize the mother’s desires as something other
than his own.12 Indeed, throughout the film, Ettore exposes the prob-
lematic nature of Mamma Roma’s subjectivity through certain acts of
resistance and denial. Early on, for example, Ettore repudiates the close-
ness they established when he first came to Rome, and they danced,
laughed, and mentioned Ettore’s father. To detach from this primary
experience of emotional union with Mamma Roma (and also to strike
back at her for refusing to give him spending money that day), Ettore
discards the memory of their closeness. He goes to the flea market and
sells the very record to which they danced. This gesture not only rejects
the brief memory of his biological origins but also the symbolic start of a
new life with Mamma Roma. And it foreshadows further division in the
future. Other instances in which Ettore resists his mother’s wishes in-
clude the decision to drop out of school, to choose his own friends, and
to stay with Bruna, despite the fact that Mamma Roma adamantly disap-
proves. These objections culminate at the end of the film when, after
learning that Mamma Roma is a prostitute, Ettore shatters his mother’s
dreams completely. Asserting his autonomy, he steals, goes to jail, and
dies a death more squalid than the burino (hick) environment in which
he was raised. In the end, his emerging subjectivity instinctively shuns

the morally upstanding, ‘honest’ future to which his mother so fervently
aspires.
But although Ettore instinctively counters his mother’s wishes from
the very start and consistently resists her materialist goals, their inter-
subjectivity is not easy to dissolve. On the contrary, the more Ettore
resists his mother’s will, the more he is weakened by the material life that
she desires and, in part, symbolizes. In this film, with no real father figure
to counterbalance Ettore’s process of identification as a new subject born
into the expanding mainstream of Rome, the Father is a purely symbolic
notion – it is the city centre, the capitalist laws, and the social codes that
eventually repress and annihilate dissenters. We see this in Ettore’s case
when he decides to break free from his mother’s hold. Nonetheless,
although Ettore rebels against his mother, he actually dies with Mamma
Roma on his mind and lips. He cries out for her help and protection; he
asks to be released from his cold prison bed (‘A ma’ cio’ freddo, A ma’.
Diji che mi sciojessero ...’); and he asks to return to the humble town
from which he came (‘Voglio ritornare a Guidonia, dove stavo prima,
quando ero piccoletto’).13 At the time of his death, then, Ettore remains
profoundly connected to Mamma Roma – to the womb, the past, and to
the genuine cultural roots of the impoverished existence she originally
personified.
Thus, rather than diminishing with Ettore’s rebellion, mother and
son’s intersubjectivity reciprocally intensifies in the end, making the
final sequence of the film quite tragic. As the semi-delirious Ettore lies in
his prison cell, Mamma Roma trudges to work. It seems clear that she
knows of her son’s dire condition and instinctively senses his pain.
Though she cannot see him, she suffers with him and for him. As Ettore
lies crucified with ankles and wrists tied to a metal bed, she walks curved
over her cart of fruit, carrying out Ettore’s calvary as if it were her own.
When Ettore dies, Mamma Roma runs home, where her friends prevent
her from jumping from the window. Mother’s and son’s parallel journeys
and near-parallel deaths reveal that, despite Ettore’s subconscious resis-
tance to his mother’s will, he remains unable to differentiate, thus
appropriate, her goodness in a beneficial way. As Benjamin points out,
the child’s process of differentiation is crucial to his insertion into the
dominant culture and integration with society. But if intersubjectivity
persists beyond his early years of development (relived here during his
first months in Rome), ‘the deeply rooted cultural bifurcation of all
experience under the poles of gender can perpetuate the fantasy of
Mothers 55
[maternal] omnipotence.’14 Ettore’s struggle reflects this perpetuation,

and his death shows Mamma Roma’s origins and past to be severely at
odds with the dominant ideology of the day.
In Mamma Roma, the mother–son relationship does not merely ad-
dress the son’s troubled individuation and inability to appropriate the
mother’s original goodness. This family tragedy also includes an im-
portant civic dimension that encompasses Ettore’s entire generation or
class. The public aspect of their relationship centres on the ways in which
Mamma Roma and Ettore either accept or deny social codes and on the
fact that their differences lead to profound conflict and despair. Mamma
Roma herself is both a public and private figure, as her compound name
suggests. She is Ettore’s mother and ‘Mother’ Rome, especially for ‘sons’
like Ettore, who grow up on the border between past and present worlds.
When paired, the words ‘Mamma’ and ‘Roma’ automatically make the
family relationship a social one, and they join the notion of a single
female subject and biological origins with the broader notion of the city/
community, thus origins and vitality for all. Society’s well-being is thus
implicated in Mamma Roma’s identity. Therefore, as she pursues her
petite bourgeois dreams, she puts society at stake, and just as Ettore
cannot create or recover cultural authenticity for himself through her,
society cannot achieve authenticity. Its most genuine substratum – the
poor and the marginalized – are being subsumed and co-opted, and
Mamma Roma herself stands for the subproletariat caught in the process
of a lasting ideological transformation.
Mamma Roma’s two-part name also connotes other conceptual
dichotomies, ranging from historical periods (present versus past) to
social classes (subproletariat versus the petite bourgeoisie) to different
spaces and urban cultures (the mainstream versus the marginal). First,
we note a contradiction in Mamma Roma’s identity: she symbolizes both
an innocent past (madre fanciulla, lack of political conscience) and a
corrupt present that is made manifest by her petite bourgeois ideals
(house, church, respectable friends, material possessions). Second, she
embodies class struggle through her desire and drive to get away from
the past and move up socially. The third dichotomous aspect involves
Mamma Roma’s relationship to two distinct yet spatial realities that
correspond to two opposing ideologies or cultures – the central culture
of the city and its expanding bourgeoisie (represented by social connec-
tions, jobs for Ettore, going to church, apartments closer to the centre)
and the marginal culture of her subproletarian roots (her associates, her
mannerisms, and use of bribery to make social gains). Moving between
these spaces, Mamma Roma personifies the border between the present
and the past, between the city and its outskirts, and between the family
microcosm and postwar society as a whole.15
Unlike Mamma Roma, the secondary mother figure, Bruna, does not
straddle two worlds. Rather, as an urban madre fanciulla of sorts, her life is
still grounded in the past. Nevertheless, Bruna is an additional, parallel
mother/‘Other’ with whom Ettore engages and contends. For Pasolini,
Bruna’s mere existence connotes the same romantic primitivisim as
Mamma Roma because she is innocent in many respects. First, she is a
young member of an underprivileged class. She has little-to-no social
awareness, and she expresses no outward knowledge of or desire for the
different life the city centre has to offer. Second, she inhabits the lowly or
undeveloped outskirts of the city centre. At age twenty-four, with no-
where to go, Bruna spends her days among the ancient ruins and
overgrown fields behind the housing project where both she and Ettore
live. Because she has been taking care of a little boy, when Ettore first
meets Bruna, she is cast in a maternal light – a Madonna con bambino
image of sorts.16 Bruna then interacts with Ettore in a semi-maternal
fashion, which comes somewhat naturally given that she is eight years his
senior. Bruna shows signs of maternal nurturance through her questions
about school (‘Nun te piaceva [la scola]?’) and Ettore’s family and
emotions: ‘Ma te nun je voi bene a tu’ madre, ’a E’?’ (But you love your
mother, don’t you, Ettore?).17 Although the two eventually have sex,
which confuses her potential for emotional nurturance with libidinal
physicality,18 Ettore’s gift to Bruna of a Madonna and child pendant
underscores the young woman’s fundamental integrity and connection
to the origins of life.19 Bruna is not a mother in the biological sense, but
her traits, settings, and relationship to Ettore suggest that she shares the
ancient purity of Mamma Roma’s kind.
Although Bruna bears a vital connection to ‘ancient’ modes of life in
ways similar to Mamma Roma, the effect she has on Ettore is somewhat
different because she is not avidly infusing him with her desires or visibly
pulling him in her direction (towards the past). Rather, she is a static or
non-dynamic mother; therefore, she is a foil for Mamma Roma. Bruna
represents the subproletarian mother before her awakening to class
consciousness. As a result, she does not experience the conflicting reali-
ties of past and present in the way that Mamma Roma does, or in the way
that Ettore, by default, eventually does. Another mark of Bruna’s differ-
ence with respect to Mamma Roma is that her desires and actions are not
driven by precise goals, a life plan, or even dreams. At a standstill, she
Mothers 57
lives from day to day in the open fields, as if immune to the concept of
the city centre and time.
Compared with Mamma Roma’s petite bourgeois dynamism, Bruna’s
laid-back style and emotional detachment have no better or lesser effect
on Ettore’s life and prove no more vitalizing or beneficial. On the
contrary, even sexual relations with Bruna, which at the onset repre-
sented a potentially life-giving exchange, eventually carry the threat of
annihilation since Ettore eventually gets beaten up by her companions.20
By presenting Bruna as a maternal alternative to Mamma Roma, Pasolini
implies that her subjectivity is equally influential and, therefore, equally
dangerous for the son. But instead of pushing Ettore forward before he
has awakened to social conscience, Bruna threatens to stop his matura-
tion by keeping him roaming in a stagnant past and lingering in an
undifferentiated state. To the viewer, her mode of life may at first seem
more natural and authentic, but the Bruna/Mamma Roma binary liter-
ally places Ettore on the border between both worlds and forces him into
conscious action. However, he can side with neither woman because
Bruna would inhibit or prevent his healthy individuation just as much as
would his mother’s dreams.
Ettore cannot establish a consistent and meaningful subjectivity with
either mother figure and eventually, he repudiates them both. This
occurs one day when the spontaneous and unscrupulous Bruna tells
Ettore that his mother is a whore. In this instance, Bruna’s words and
actions join the image of the mothers in Ettore’s mind, which incites
Ettore’s final confrontation with both women. The next time they meet,
upon noticing Ettore slumping and in disarray, Bruna reaches out,
tenderly touches his forehead and asks if he has a fever. In response,
Ettore snaps and pulls away. ‘Che me frega ...’ (I don’t give a damn), he
retorts.21 Somewhat taken aback, Bruna asks Ettore if he is mad because
of what she said about his mother the last time they met. At this mention
of Mamma Roma, Ettore responds more vehemently still, shouting, ‘E
vattene! E che me frega de mi’ madre, a me!’ (Go away! What the hell do
I care about my mother?).22 The reminder of his mother apparently puts
Ettore over the edge. He lashes out in response, pushing Bruna to the
ground in a single move that rejects both women. Although after this
scene Ettore sees neither woman again, his differentiation materializes
too late. As a young adult coming to subjecthood for the first time, Ettore
is exhausted from his struggle. Unable to access a vital connection to
life’s pure origins through either mother figure, his physical condition
rapidly deteriorates, and he dies.
Edipo re (1967)
The conflict inherent in mother–son relationships also lies at the heart

of Edipo re, which draws upon the mythological past of King Oedipus of
Thebes and the biographical past of Pasolini the filmmaker to portray
the emotional and ideological complexities of the son’s process of differ-
entiation. The film has four segments. The two central portions recount
the Sophoclean tale of Edipo’s adventures as a young adult: his depar-
ture from Corinth to visit to the Oracle of Delphi; his travels through the
desert; his battle with the Sphinx; his marriage to Queen Jocasta of
Thebes; and his search for the ‘truth’ or cause of the plague that
devastates Thebes.23 As per the original, Edipo eventually learns from
the prophet Tiresias that he himself is the cause of evil in Thebes
because Jocasta is his mother, and their relationship incestuous. Jocasta
first discounts, then openly resists, the information that comes forth
from the investigations about Laio’s death and Edipo’s identity. When
she is forced to acknowledge the possibility that Edipo is her son – that
she and not Merope of Corinth is his mother – Jocasta commits suicide.
Upon finding her dead, Edipo blinds himself and returns to the desert
whence he came. Framing the central and mythical portions of the film
are the prologue and epilogue, which take place in 1920s and 1960s Italy,
respectively. In the former, baby Edipo/Pasolini is born to a beautiful
young woman whose husband lives apart in the military barracks. In the
epilogue, the self-blinded Edipo wanders out of his mythic past and into
contemporary Bologna with the guidance of an angel (Ninetto Davoli).
Edipo (Franco Citti) has three different mothers in this film: in the
prologue, the mysterious autobiographical mother (Silvana Mangano);
during his youth in Corinth, the adoptive mother, Merope (Alida Valli);
and in the central segments, his biological mother, Queen Jocasta (Silvana
Mangano), whose hand he wins after slaying the Sphinx. As was the case
in Mamma Roma, no matter how grave the consequences of her actions,
the traits, gestures, and settings of each mother figure posit her connec-
tion to something primal and original that is both desirable and pure. In
the prologue, we note straight away the allusion to Susanna Pasolini.
Poised and quiet, the young, beautiful prologue mother sits with her
infant son, contentedly feeding him at her breast. Alone in an open field
in the midst of spring, mother and son are happily immersed in an
evocative, rural setting. In between feedings, a few female friends inter-
vene; the mother frolics lightheartedly with these girlish companions,
who represent an important presence, even if they remain entirely
Mothers 59
anonymous. In fact, Pasolini emphasizes the mystery and allure of the

maidens’ presence by showing them only in part (shoes, dress hems,
giggling voices) and alluding by association to the components of the
mother’s youth and innocence. The maidens’ body parts and voices
metonymically convey childlike purity and freedom of spirit. Close shots
of the mother’s and son’s faces and repeated panoramic shots of the
lustrous grass, skies, and trees (all taken from the child’s point of view)
combine to underscore the authenticity of the baby’s primal relationship
and the maternal universe. Moreover, because Pasolini believed Silvana
Mangano resembled his mother in certain physical traits and expressions
(high cheekbones, mysterious look, and so on), the autobiographical
significance of the prologue is complex and profound.24 At different
levels, the prologue mother effectively establishes a connection between
women, the female sphere, and the autobiographical self.
The second mother, Merope of Corinth, appears in the first mythical
segment of the film, and represents the surrogate origins to which Edipo
will never return. She is the wife of King Polibo, who adopts Edipo (a
foundling who was otherwise destined to be eaten by birds of prey). With
respect to the prologue mother, Merope denotes continuity in several
ways. She first appears in a marginal location with respect to her husband
and to the central part of her community. She is shown collecting shells
during a quiet seaside walk with a group of female friends and is startled
and surprised when her husband and servants come running to present
her with a baby. In this scene, Merope’s white dress connotes her pure
maternal spirit as well as her barren or childless state. These two details
are reinforced by Merope’s emotional reaction to the sight of the child,
towards whom she shows only an instant of disbelief or reserve before
calling him sweet names and making her maternal desires crystal clear.
In addition to her white dress and nurturing ways, Merope also has a soft,
penetrating glance that instantly reveals care and concern. Eyes wide
open, she looks directly and intensely at her husband and then at the
boy. It is as if she exposes the most intimate part of herself to all looking
on before embracing the child, and the same intense look defines her
years later when Edipo decides to leave Corinth. Merope’s facial gestures
and maternal demeanour bespeak the honest and selfless nature of her
bond. Although she senses she will lose her son forever, she allows him to
differentiate and grow. She does not stand in his way or impose on him
her own wish that he would stay.
Despite her incestuous relationship with Edipo, Jocasta nonetheless
shares certain qualities with the other mothers, and these qualities de-
fine her – initially, at least – as innocent, too. First, Jocasta displays

physical features and character traits that liken her to the mother in the
prologue. The same actress (Silvana Mangano) plays both, so not only
does this choice conflate biography and myth but it also generates the
visual illusion that the prologue mother and Jocasta are one and the
same person. Second, Jocasta’s innocence stems from her subordinate
role in the ancient society in which she lives. No matter how candid or
persuasive her will, she is subject to the authority of her husband and his
law (the law of the land). It is decided for her that she will marry the man
who can defeat the Sphinx plaguing Thebes. The fact that she does not
intentionally choose or knowingly keep her son as her lover affirms at
least an original innocence on her part. For all she knows, her son was
killed as an infant. Finally, Pasolini reinforces the notion of Jocasta’s
original innocence by having her wear either white garments (on many
occasions, including at her first appearance) or robes of deep blue, a
colour that, in this film, alludes to the maternal waters of the womb.
Other indicators of Jocasta’s inherent decency, which stems from her
maternal identity, involve particular settings, behaviours, mise-en-scène
details, or recurring filming techniques. For example, similar to the
mother in the prologue, who engaged in garden games when left to her
own devices, Jocasta keeps company with young maids who pass the time
outdoors. Jocasta’s characteristic silence communicates the virtue that
Pasolini attributed to the oppressed, in that it signals her subordinate
status in society and her difference with respect to the law-making
‘centre.’ Much like a child in the presence of a great authority, her
demeanour is obedient – most notably when Edipo whisks her away to
have sex. Furthermore, numerous close shots of her white face against a
solid, contrasting background have the same effect as the close shots of
Mamma Roma against a black night sky or a stone wall. If only tempo-
rarily, they lift Jocasta from the squalid reality of her incest and allow her
to transcend the implications of her actions. The fact that Jocasta is
firmly enclosed in her heavy royal garments, which have a huge brass
latch, also suggests that she is, or that she contains, something buried,
impenetrable, and potentially powerful. Indeed, Edipo will try time and
time again symbolically to access what lies beneath the robes. And when
the grown Edipo confides in Jocasta that he fears the truth of his origins,
Jocasta’s reassuring words and gestures allude to the blameless and
nurturing prologue mother. The primary example occurs when Edipo
asks to hear the story of Laio’s death, and Jocasta recounts it to Edipo as
he lays his head in her lap. During this dialogue, Pasolini alternates close
Mothers 61
shots of the two as a means of recalling the purity of their original

situation as mother and son, which the grown and dispossessed Edipo
cannot now draw upon for goodness.
In Edipo re, mother and son experience the extremes of physical and
emotional closeness, and these connecting moments fuse (and confuse)
their subjectivity, combining their desires and actions as if one. This
subjective unity or lack of appropriate differentiation begins in the
prologue, where mother and baby are immersed in the maternal sphere.
The baby presumably identifies solely with his mother as he looks at her
with happy bewilderment. To convey their connection, Pasolini repeats
the medium shot that first captures them together and then shows the
baby alone gazing up at her. That is, the camera assumes the baby’s point
of view by showing the mother’s face from a lower angle. Even when the
baby looks up at the sky and trees and then down to the grass, he is
identifying with the mother and her universe. They are integral parts of
his knowledge of the world, which he has yet to distinguish from himself.
Likewise, even if the mother can perceive her child as ‘Other,’ she
identifies with him and his harmonious state by embracing both his and
her role. Simultaneously, however, Pasolini signals that her world or
identity also contains an unknown and perhaps troubling dimension, for
she is often quite visibly perturbed. She looks up, forward, and away from
the baby as a sombre musical motif plays.25 It is as if she were aware of
another world or truth – perhaps the father’s world or her son’s tragic
fate, and her expressions of fear forebode a threat to mother’s and son’s
well-being. This first sign of oppression or danger disrupts the mother–
son rapport and catalyses the differentiation process that follows.
After the portrayal of mother-and-son closeness in the prologue, it
comes as no surprise to see Jocasta and Edipo drawn to one another in a
profoundly instinctive manner. However, in the mythic portion of the
film, Pasolini substantiates their subjective connection less through inno-
cent contact and exchanges than through the powerful vehicle and
metaphor of sex. Indeed, from the first moment Edipo and Jocasta lay
eyes on one another, their looks convey something deeper and more
mysterious than physical attraction. We know this because their mutually
penetrating glances cause a sense of shame or modesty that makes each
quickly and blatantly lower their eyes.26 In the screenplay, the emphasis
on Jocasta’s white breasts connects us back to the prologue and the
mother’s distinctly white breasts, at which the baby Edipo feeds. But
here, the exchange of glances demonstrates the mother’s and son’s
instant loss of innocence, meaning that each is aware, if only instinc-
tively, of a connection existing between them that is beyond the excite-

ment of physical attraction and potential freedom from the Sphinx.27
After their initial meeting, Jocasta and Edipo join physically on six
separate occasions, during which Edipo routinely seeks out Jocasta, kisses
her, and leads her away to their room. In general, the profound psycho-
logical implications of their physical union are conveyed by the dark,
womb-like bedchamber to which they always retreat and by the ritualistic
quality of the sex act itself. With torches lit at either foot of the bed, one
might easily confound the empty bedroom, which is shown from afar,
with a religious altar space. However, once Edipo and Jocasta enter the
room, Pasolini captures the subjects in medium and close shots as Edipo
pushes Jocasta onto the bed and begins to make love to her. Impatient
and desirous, he lies on top, always in the position of control and
command. All the while, the attracted but more passive Jocasta lies
below. Moreover, the recurrent nature of their prelude to sex imbues the
scene with a ritualistic aura. Each time, Edipo must break through
Jocasta’s symbolic outer seal (her dress) to unite with her, physically and
emotionally. The emblem of Jocasta’s outer identity is a large metal
broach that holds her heavy garments in place, and the dress encloses
her original truth, that is, her maternal past or biological identity as
Edipo’s mother. Consequently, by opening her dress and penetrating her
essence through sex, Edipo gains access (albeit unknowingly) to his
origins, all of which discloses the radically intertwined nature of their
rapport.
Edipo and Jocasta’s psychological connection also surfaces during
Edipo’s formal speeches. These public talks constitute a unique moment
of intersubjectivity between the two because they are not simply physi-
cally separated; they are also isolated from one another by a considerable
distance in terms of space. However, just as their first meeting was
characterized by mutual attraction (as denoted by an intense exchange
of penetrating glances), the close cross-cut shots of their faces and
expressions show how bound up their emotional states and subjectivity
are with one another, even across a significant physical distance.
The film portrays each subject in parallel in order to highlight the key
moments in which their desires intertwine. After an establishing shot of
the palace and a tiny window, we see Jocasta tucked away in a private
room that looks like a woman’s boudoir. Although he is still speaking
from the public square in front of the palace, Edipo’s voice penetrates
Jocasta’s room in an acousmatic fashion. That is, whether Edipo’s words
are actually audible to her or not, they enter her room and affect her
Mothers 63
emotional state. As Michel Chion explains, ‘acousmatic’ refers to a

sound that is heard without its cause or source being seen and, in
cinema, the use of this kind of non-visual sound changes the relationship
between what we see and what we hear.28 Although parallel editing
allows the viewer to see Edipo from time to time, Jocasta does not.
Instead, Edipo’s disembodied voice functions as an ‘acoustic mirror’ that
fuses their subjectivity and reflects their desires mutually. As he says the
words ‘Io voglio vendicare il Re ucciso, sappiatelo, come se fosse stato mio
padre ...’ (I want to avenge the slain King, let it be known, as if he had been
my father ...), for example, Edipo is both a speaker and a listener of the
message as it travels to Jocasta.29 As Kaja Silverman notes, ‘not knowing
whether the voice is “outside” or “inside,” the boundary separating
exteriority from interiority is [thus] blurred.’30 Certainly, from her reac-
tions it appears that Jocasta knows what Edipo knows, and that she feels
what Edipo feels, and, consequently, is complicit in keeping their secret.
When he authoritatively gives orders to find Laio’s assassin as a way of
saving Thebes, Jocasta smiles and emits a sigh of triumph or relief.
Jocasta and Edipo’s interconnected desires are both troublesome and
destructive. Their lack of differentiation as subjects confuses their past
and present identities and instils Jocasta with omnipotence over the
emotions and agency of Edipo the king. Most importantly, and whether
intentionally or not, Jocasta hinders Edipo’s discovery of the truth about
his origins. At first, she does so implicitly through her passivity with
regard to Laio’s assassination. She does not, in fact, discuss the horrible
fate of her dead husband until Edipo makes her recount the event.
During this scene, Pasolini juxtaposes the past and the present as Edipo
and Jocasta walk to a remote outdoor setting that recalls the prologue.
He films the two from behind as Edipo clutches his mother’s hand, and
they walk back in time and space, physically connected and emotionally
intertwined. Once they reach their destination, Edipo continues to
re-enact the physical unity of the prologue by lying with his head on
Jocasta’s lap. She strokes Edipo’s head gently and calmly recounts Laio’s
death as if it were no more than a bedtime story.
In an effort to dissuade his pursuit of an unwelcome truth, Jocasta
dominates the spoken discourse in this scene. Through a combination of
tenderness and authority in word and gesture, she exerts control over
Edipo’s emotions and beliefs. Edipo is frightened by her words (‘tu non
sai quanto le tue parole mi spaventano’), by the possibility that he is
Jocasta’s son, and by the potential effect this would have on his relation-
ship with both his mother and Thebes. Jocasta, however, discounts any
possible connection between Edipo and Laio and cannot understand

Edipo’s fear. Why fear his desire to sleep with his mother? (‘... e perché
hai tanto spavento all’idea di essere l’amante di tua madre? Perché?’)31
Even if she were his mother, she asks, was his desire for union with her
not normal to some extent? (‘Quanti uomini, non hanno fatto l’amore,
in sogno, con la loro madre?’)32 Whether in complete denial or purpose-
fully repressing the truth, Jocasta clearly resists Edipo’s pursuit of origins
because she senses it will lead to upheaval and destroy their closeness.
To a certain extent, Jocasta’s potential for omnipotence (as revealed
by her instinctive resistance to the truth) rewrites the Oedipal triangle in
the mythical segment. For it is Jocasta’s will not to know the truth that
eventually prevents the son from differentiating properly. In the pro-
logue, it is clear that the father figure and his austerity are the principle
sources of anxiety for the son. The child feels threatened, and rightfully
so, by the father’s presence and actions, particularly when he pulls at the
baby’s feet and the intertitles confirm that the father is extremely jeal-
ous. In response, the child covers his eyes in a gesture of withdrawal and
self-protection. Denying the father–son relationship in this way, the son
identifies solely with the calm and nurturing presence of the mother, to
the extent that he prolongs the differentiation of self and ‘Other.’
When, some time later (a year perhaps), the child sees through a distant
window the silhouette of the mother and father embracing, he confuses
his reality with that of his mother. In this scene, the window functions as
a mirror. According to Lacan, Edipo the toddler should be able to
distinguish the mother as ‘Other,’ but here we see that his emotions are
still inextricably tied to the mother’s reality and fate. He covers his eyes
with the same self-preserving gesture he used before to gain distance
from the father. But in the mythological segments, there is no threaten-
ing father figure or military environment to keep Edipo emotionally
bound to his mother. So, when the truth begins to surface, and Edipo
begins to sense it, Jocasta herself embodies two distinct realities for
Edipo, and her will becomes the threatening entity in his life.33
To survive, Edipo must separate from Jocasta and claim his own iden-
tity, even at this late stage. Naturally, the process comprises conflict and
tension and culminates when they have sex for the last time. As Edipo
desperately recounts the newly gained knowledge of his origins, which
directly implicates her in their crime, Jocasta interrupts Edipo to shout
out that she does not want to see or to know (‘Non voglio sapere!’). But
Edipo has gained control of his will, and he insists on the truth, stating
that he is Laio’s son and assassin. Then he utters ‘Madre!’ as he unbuck-
Mothers 65
les her dress and penetrates her hidden truth one last time. Here, it is
interesting to note how the film version differs from the screenplay, or
presumably Pasolini’s original intention. Whereas in the film, the two
make love after learning the truth – even if Jocasta wishes to deny it – in
the screenplay, Jocasta stops Edipo from unclasping her broach this last
time. She instead stares at him blankly, then breaks free.34 Another
difference has to do with the intensity of Jocasta’s will to maintain the
status quo despite the ongoing devastation of Thebes. In the film, after
knowingly having sex with his mother, Edipo seeks to exhaust one last
possibility of innocence by interviewing the servant alleged to have killed
him as a baby. The screenplay, however, excludes the final sexual en-
counter and grounds mother’s and son’s differentiation in a final dia-
logue of opposition. Whereas Jocasta begs Edipo to ignore everything
and, in the name of God, if he loves life, to stop seeking the truth at all
costs (‘È meglio, mille volte meglio, ignorare ogni cosa, invece ... In
nome di dio, non fare ricerche ... se ami la vita ... Non fare ricerche,
Edipo!’), Edipo tells her she is wrong and insists on knowing who he is.
(‘Hai torto! Io voglio sapere, finalmente, chi sono!’) He wants to see
clearly once and for all. (‘È necessario veder chiaro.’)35
Edipo wants to satisfy his personal desire for self-knowledge by seeing
clearly and by knowing the truth about his origins. Throughout the film,
though, he is equally driven by his responsibility as king to know the
truth, and the contrast between the personal and the public aspects of
his life suggests that there are crucial civic implications to his success or
failure. One of the ways in which Pasolini underscores the private versus
public dimensions of the mother–son relationship and dilemma is through
his use of internal and external spaces. Let us first consider Jocasta. With
regard to Edipo, she primarily represents the notion of intimate, inter-
nal, and even buried truth. She embodies the uncorrupted essence of
biological origins and motherhood gone awry, whether due to ill fate or
the will of the gods. We note the association between Jocasta and the
internal domain during numerous encounters with Edipo. Typically, the
two meet in covered hallways or connecting parts of the palace, from
which Edipo brings Jocasta into the palace proper and, more specifically,
to their dark and isolated bedroom. At other times, Pasolini makes this
spatial transition even more distinct by having Edipo bring Jocasta in
from the outdoors. But even when Jocasta is already seated indoors (such
as during Edipo’s public speeches or his final confrontation with Creonte),
her facial expressions and simple gestures allude to another layer of
internal truth and intimacy, namely, the maternal mystery enclosed
within her body. At the end of the tale, Jocasta hangs herself in this
private bedroom space. Jocasta’s world is thus largely defined by indoor
spaces such as bedrooms and boudoirs. These removed, closed, and
intimate settings invite introspection and suggest the elusive and per-
haps illicit nature of her desires.
In contrast, Edipo lives his life in a more public fashion. With the
exception of his sexual encounters with Jocasta, he mainly appears
outdoors, in communal spaces near the palace. These open areas alter-
nately host the one and the many: brother-in-law Creonte, the high
priest (played by Pasolini himself), the prophet Tiresias, as well as crowds
of both commoners and counsellors. It is in the public space that Edipo
vows to search for Laio’s assassin, and, in so doing, unwittingly pledges to
investigate his past and expose himself. It is also in this open space that
Edipo’s private story becomes a community concern, and Pasolini em-
phasizes the fact that the private and the public are not wholly separate
domains. For example, cross-cut editing combines Jocasta’s internal liv-
ing spaces with Edipo’s external public orations, and, by extension, the
couple’s sexual union with the unhealthy status of Thebes. Also, he
follows each instance of their sexual union with poignant shots of death.
Evocative string music fills the air as lengthy and detailed panoramic
shots show deserted villages and abandoned corpses, and the juxtaposi-
tion of internal and external spheres, characterized respectively by physi-
cal vitality and death, implies that the once guiltless truth of Jocasta’s
maternal origins is now the ultimate cause of mass destruction. For
Edipo, the devastation in Thebes is so chilling that it continuously
motivates his desire to see. He must see and say the truth before the
crowd to prove that he respects their laws and traditions. The state of
Thebes is thus the external reality that urges him to remain actively
committed to uncovering the inner truth.
Similarly, Jocasta must see the truth and re-establish her state of
blamelessness and grace before the people of Thebes. After stating that
she will pray for Edipo, whose soul is full of anguish (‘Vado a pregare ...
Edipo ha l’animo gonfio di troppe angosce ...), Jocasta leaves, never to
return.36 Though the screenplay includes another sequence in which
Jocasta begs Edipo to renounce his inquiries, her final act in both script
and film are the same: she commits suicide in order to restore life to
Edipo, who appears totally consumed by his query and by his commit-
ment to the peace-loving people of Thebes. By killing herself, she frees
Edipo from their emotional bond and exonerates him politically. It is as
if by cancelling her identity as mother and wife – the only act that will
Mothers 67
allow Edipo the child to differentiate – she can change Edipo’s fate as
king. Where woman and womb were once the untainted point of depar-
ture, they have now come to symbolize a scandalous love – a love,
observes Naomi Greene, ‘that destroys.’37 Indeed, with her death, Jocasta
destroys the value of her origins and indicts herself as the real Sphinx or
hidden evil plaguing Thebes.
In Edipo, the son (Edipo) was instinctively bound to the mother
(Jocasta), who consciously or not, held the truth at bay beneath a mask
of ‘contagious calm.’38 Jocasta does not intentionally lure her son back to
an ‘original’ state of psychological interdependency, but her own desires
and repressions of truth prove dominating and debilitating. Although he
is rejoined with his mother, he cannot (unlike the suckling babe at the
beginning of the film) imbibe her maternal goodness. Unfortunately for
both, the genuine roots of life can now only be known or attained
through sex, which only confuses Jocasta’s identities as wife and mother
and puts Edipo’s adult identity at stake. As Thebes’s leader, though, a
clear sense of self and subjectivity is a necessity, and Edipo’s public role
forces him to individuate. To achieve this individuation, he must over-
turn his mother’s original purity, destabilize her omnipotence, and re-
nounce her closeness in the present. But, in doing so, he cripples himself
as both son and king and never truly appropriates the goodness that
Jocasta’s original identity carried.
In the last segment of the film, the self-blinded Edipo wanders out of
his mythic past and into contemporary Bologna. Here, the tragic poet-
prophet plays his flute (which falls on deaf ears) until he reaches the
lush green fields of his infancy, the original maternal sphere. However,
this return to origins implies that, in Edipo, the son can only achieve true
individuation through the mother in the private, subjective, and female
domain, where intersubjectivity is still free from social value. Once the
mother–son union gains public acknowledgment and a civic role,
the son can no longer exist through her. He must instead establish an
authentic identity of his own or be destroyed by the corrupt forces of
the present.
Medea (1970)
Pasolini’s Medea faithfully revisits a mythic tale from the fifth century BC.
As in Euripides’s original, the film begins with an overview of Jason’s
birth, his childhood education with the mythical Centaur, and his early
adventures as a young conqueror and explorer.39 After the introduction
of Jason, the film moves to the first presentation of Medea, who will
embark on a spiritual journey of renunciation and conversion that ends
in reversion to her original sacred state. Tragedy unfolds when, one day,
Medea renounces her position as a high priestess of Colchis (the barbar-
ian community over which she and her family rule), and she leaves her
life behind to follow the foreigner Jason to Corinth. Though, at first,
Medea adapts quite effectively to Jason’s secular culture, he eventually
betrays her. Whether caused by selfish oblivion or conscious repudiation,
Jason clashes severely with Medea – to the point that he will never know
the goodness of her origins, only the shock and destruction of murder
when she uses her powers to retaliate.
Medea is both biological mother (she has two sons with Jason) and, as
a high priestess, spiritual mother to all, including the generation of sons
represented by Jason. As in the case of his other screen mothers, Pasolini
conveys the virtue of this character through the desires, actions, and
settings that initially define her. For instance, like Mamma Roma, Medea
belongs to a primitive and marginal culture, that is, the rocky realm of
Colchis. Like Mamma Roma, Medea is visibly attracted to a new life – in
this case, the world Jason comes from, which for her is completely
unknown. More substantiating than these humble origins, however, is
the fact that, as the high priestess of Colchis, Medea represents the
sacred to others. Whether she creates or destroys, Medea always acts in
accordance with beliefs that sustain life and vitality through profound
spiritual connections. When we first see her, she is presiding over an
extensive fertility rite that centres on human sacrifice. By the same
token, Medea’s desire to aid Jason and flee with the Golden Fleece is not
a fanciful whim but, rather, an extension of her desire for association
with the divine. All her deeds (the betrayal of her people, the murder of
Absirto, the poisoning of Glauce, and, eventually, the murder of her
children) serve to salvage the sacred.
Pasolini affirms the inherent goodness of Medea’s origins through the
stylistic choices he uses to present her. The most expressive of these is
once again the close shots of the woman’s face and eyes. Yet, unlike the
other mothers, Pasolini adds an intense and recurrent use of profile
shots to grant Medea’s innocence a particularly mysterious or unknow-
able dimension. In these instances, Medea’s eyes immediately posit a
direct and intense relationship with the gods.40 Whether seeking direct
contact with the voices of nature or silently communicating with various
divine entities, Medea’s continuous, focused look and her regal, almost
statuesque stance imply a peaceful state of unity with her world. During
Mothers 69
the fertility rite, Pasolini alternates medium and close shots of Medea
and, to underscore her relentless vigilance, often captures her in profile.
Pasolini privileges the same profile shots again shortly thereafter, when a
sleeping Medea envisions Jason’s arrival at the Golden Fleece. These
penetrating profile shots reveal her twofold nature: while one part of
Medea is firmly grounded in the spiritual reality of Colchis and its
people, the other side of her is open to the unknown and to phenomena
that might lead her away from her rock-solid origins.
Another technique that effectively joins Medea with her environment
is the use of long shots that make her one with each setting, as first
occurs in Colchis. Long shots portray Medea as immersed in the agricul-
tural environment and central to the rituals that guarantee the whole
community’s life and well-being. From her slightly detached position
above the crowds of people, she symbolically fertilizes the land, scatter-
ing the seeds for the new planting season and commanding: ‘Dai vita al
seme e rinsasci con il seme.’ (Give life to the seed and be reborn with the
seed).41 Similarly, at the end of the Colchis segment, Pasolini shows the
priestess firmly embedded in the noble family’s home. In this long shot,
Medea and her family are so fixed and still that they merge visually and
conceptually with the austere stone of the dwelling. A third way in which
Pasolini depicts Medea’s authenticity through her settings is by showing
her difficult immersion in the new world of the Argonauts. Upon reach-
ing land after a long sea voyage with the strangers, Medea feverishly
searches for a sign of the sacred that she can both consecrate and use to
communicate with the gods: ‘Ahaaah! Parlami, Terra, fammi sentire la
tua voce! Non ricordo più la tua voce! Sole!’ (‘Ahhh! Speak to me Earth,
let me hear your voice. Can I no longer recognize your voice? Speak to
me Sun!).42 Here, the use of long shots effectively places her in the new
setting. But, this time, the shots do not connote communion with, and
immersion in, that world. Rather, they suggest disorientation, dis-
comfort, and difference with respect to the foreign and desecrated
land.43
In Colchis, Medea had a central and pivotal role that conjoined the
physical and metaphysical in her community. Once she is outside her
native land, the people of her family and household comprise a much
smaller realm of influence. Still they become the spiritual centre on
which her survival depends. Although Jason may be oblivious to this,
Medea’s inherent desire for a profoundly spiritual existence automati-
cally obliges Jason to assume a central position in her way of seeing and
experiencing life. When she first sees Jason in a vision or dream, Medea
perceives him as a new divinity, thus wholeheartedly embraces his arrival

and objectives. Subsequently, when he comes to Colchis for real, she
readily gives him the Golden Fleece – the consecrated symbol of her
family and community – then joins this new ‘god’ on his adventures and
travels. In addition, Medea further unites the metaphysical and the
physical aspects of her life through sex with Jason.44 During their
lovemaking, she has one, observant eye open at all times, and her realm
of vision is entirely consumed by Jason’s presence in the intimate space
of the tent.
Once she leaves the geographical location of her cultural origins and
upbringing, Medea no longer has a central role in society. Yet the
essence of her life and spirituality remain unchanged, since she invests
her energy in building an enduring and sacrosanct relationship with
Jason. At no time is this more apparent than when she studies his body
after having had sex with him for the first time. As mentioned above,
Medea had travelled with the Argonauts to a new land whose supernatu-
ral entities were wholly unrecognizable to her. Thus, when Jason takes
her to his tent to make love, she is inspired by the physical closeness and
fulfilment to consecrate him instead. During the night, she sits up to
watch Jason sleep. From her point of view, the camera slowly pans down
the length of his body, from head to foot, which gives the effect of an
adoring caress. Beyond the homoerotic content of this sequence (it is
well known that Pasolini himself filmed this scene), Medea’s silent obser-
vation of Jason reflects the expression of her spiritual subjectivity in
earlier scenes. Through this private ritual, she designates Jason’s body as
her new spiritual centre, and the emotion is so powerful that she rouses
him from sleep to make love (i.e., make contact with the sacred) once
more.
But Jason is not interested in Medea’s spiritual life or her religious
beliefs. And because his connection with her is purely utilitarian, he
resists the merging of their subjectivities by being aloof or disinterested
from the start. Medea is merely a means to power and a convenient
sexual partner. It is a materialist approach to their physical union, which
in truth shows no concern at all for the authentic modes of living
exemplified by Medea’s barbarian mysticism. In the film’s prologue
(focused on Jason’s early life with the Centaur), Pasolini foreshadowed
the boy’s secular detachment. At different stages in his growth and
education, Jason dozes, laughs, plays, and acts bored as the Centaur
insists that everything is sacred: ‘Tutto è santo, tutto è santo, tutto è
santo. Non c’è niente di naturale nella natura, ragazzo mio ... Quando la
Mothers 71
natura ti sembrerà naturale, tutto sarà finito – e comincerà qualcos’altro’

(Everything is sacred, everything is sacred, everything is sacred. Nothing
is natural in nature. When things in nature start to seem natural, it
means that everything will end and something else will begin).45 Radi-
cally conditioned by his secular and adventurist culture, in later life Jason
retains none of the Centaur’s teaching from his youth. Neither in his
personal life nor in his marriage to Medea does Jason feel, respect, or
desire the metaphysical dimension on which the priestess’ life was
founded.
Little does Jason know that his and Medea’s physical union is actually
the most profound way for Medea to connect with him and literally make
him the centre of her existence. For his part, after attaining the Golden
Fleece, Jason never focuses his attention on the barbarian priestess, and
she will never be central to his existence. Consider the sea voyage, during
which Medea fixes her eyes on Jason and studies him like a foreign
object. Not once does his glance meet hers. He is not seeking to connect,
and he is not concerned with the sacred. Jason communicates his non-
chalance further when he and his companions laugh at the sight of
Medea’s various pagan rituals and when she tells them not to set camp
because there is no spiritual centre there. Furthermore, Jason never
looks at her during sex, when her eyes are wide open, seeking connec-
tion. Rather, as has already been mentioned, he looks up, out of their
space, and away from Medea. And even though they have two children
and share a household, Jason lives an entirely separate public life in
Corinth, where he eventually obtains permission from King Creonte to
marry Princess Glauce.
While in the short term, Medea and Jason live harmoniously, in the
long term, Jason’s indifference to Medea’s divine essence proves as
problematic as the son’s differentiation in previous films. With time, his
aloofness and disregard elucidate a cultural divide that is not only irrepa-
rable but also obliterates any possibility for the future of their family.
Admittedly, Ettore’s and Edipo’s inability to overcome the dominant
maternal influence in their lives also destroys their sense of self and their
sense of control over their lives. Yet their attraction to their mothers’
original world and past identity makes the coexistence in the present of
these mothers and sons fruitful for the study of pure cultural origins and
human authenticity in Pasolini’s films. It is as if, through their struggles,
Pasolini were suggesting that we need to see and feel the subjectivity of
the ‘Other’ in order to live fully and authentically, even if this union
leads to tragic ends. Jason, however, neither doubts his own subjecthood
nor wavers in his goals, and the weight of emotional dependency in his
and Medea’s relationship is gravely unbalanced on Medea’s side. She
experiences her intersubjective relationship with her son/object believ-
ing he has assumed a certain role and responsibility as the spiritual
stronghold in their lives. It is only upon discovering his inauthenticity
(his plans to leave her for Glauce) that she musters her strength and
imposes her vision and her will. Unlike the other mothers discussed,
Medea does not exercise tacit control over Jason’s psyche. But she does
eventually inhibit Jason’s agency and eliminate his ability to control his
own future. He simply cannot contend with the omnipotence of this
spiritual mother.
Though largely dormant in Corinth, Medea’s powers prove dangerous
and destructive to the young male subject who has no eye for the sacred.
Medea disclosed her capacity for violent and spiritually driven omnipo-
tence during the fertility rite at the beginning of the film. She remained
unaffected by the sight of blood and sacrifice as the young victim was
hacked to pieces before her eyes. In addition, she cold-bloodedly killed
her younger brother, dismembering and dispersing the body in order to
escape with the Golden Fleece. While, for Jason, the murder of Absirto
can be read as part of his utilitarian spirit – a spiritual means to a material
end – for Medea, the brutal act of killing her brother was a practical
means to a genuine spiritual end.
Medea’s ‘reversed’ conversion (conversione alla rovescia) is for her a real
spiritual catastrophe; she converted away from an exceptionally public
role as high priestess to an entirely private and marginalized existence in
which she consecrates Jason as a central, divine entity, only to find out
that he is not divine at all. His actions, in fact, epitomize the illusory and
profaned nature of society and prove inimical to Medea.46 The final
tragedy in Medea, then, is not the result of excessive psychological immer-
sion between mother and son. Rather, it is the result of a profound
cultural clash through which Medea reclaims her maternal omnipotence
and salvages her primary spiritual identity in order to punish Jason and
his world for their desecration. Medea’s exclusion from the mainstream
of Corinthian society is principally symbolized by the fact that her home
lies outside the city walls. She and her servant must even conceal her
identity to gain access to the city, and she makes direct reference to her
marginalized status when King Creonte comes to banish her completely
from Corinth. Whatever the reason for her isolation, Medea’s failure to
integrate with Jason’s society implies that she never assimilated his cul-
ture into her being and never wholly lost or replaced her own.
Medea’s final words and actions leave nothing to debate. She kills her
Mothers 73
two sons and sets the family house on fire before telling Jason that all is
useless; nothing is possible any more (‘Non insistere, ancora, è inutile!
Niente è più possibile, ormai’).47 In the larger cosmogonic scheme of
things, Jason and his world are meaningless and corrupt. Even his
innocent sons (being his direct descendants) will have to be killed, for
they cannot persist in this desecrated environment, and they cannot live
well with its teachings. For this reason, Medea claims their innocent lives
while she still can. Whereas Euripides would have us believe that she
sends them back to the Sun to be reborn in a new, uncorrupted domain,
Pasolini leaves the conclusion open to interpretation. His Medea ends
with a close shot of the woman’s face dissolving behind a wall of flames,
followed by a still shot of a setting sun. While the sunset may reflect the
demise of Jason and his legacy, it may also suggest that the rising sun –
that is, Grandfather Apollo – carries Medea’s boys home on his magical
chariot so that their lives may start again.
Whatever the interpretation of the final sequence and shot, the civic
implications of Medea’s final actions are clear: there is no place for
Medea’s sacrality and cultural authenticity, whether in the private or
public sphere. In order to survive as a sacred and genuine subject in the
present world, she must rebel against the oppressive forces delimiting
her existence and holding her true essence at bay. She then leaves for a
time or place that can embrace her cultural significance. All along, the
private and public have been one and the same for Medea; she does not
privilege one sphere of existence over the other. As high priestess of
Colchis, her role is necessarily and simultaneously both. When she nur-
tures the spiritual powers within herself, she does so in the interest of the
whole community.48 The royal family home in Colchis also reflects this
sense of continuity and fluidity between private and public spheres, or
between the internal (emotional-spiritual) and external (social-
political) realities of Medea as subject. Highly symbolic are its large
archways and lack of doors, which naturally lead one sphere into an-
other. Also symbolic are its many large, uncovered windows, which look
directly onto the outdoors and night sky. It is through these same
windows that Medea communicates with Apollo. Most importantly, Medea
is consistent in her identity. As she moves between both spaces – public
and private, internal and external – her life is devoted to silent reflection
and community-oriented consecrated deeds.
Over the course of the 1960s, Pasolini’s films demonstrated both conti-
nuity and change in the portrayal of mothers. One notable form of
continuity is the basic set of the traits, emotions, conditions, and settings
that exemplify Pasolini’s notions of humility, innocence, and grace.

Whether poor and marginalized, central and powerful, these women all
have pure beginnings and bear the potential for new life in some form.
Another common characteristic is the fact that each woman has a broader,
universal significance beyond the specific mother–son relationship.
Mamma Roma is the lower-class, common mother with the social value of
the postwar ‘Mother Rome.’ Jocasta is the dominant ‘Other’ with whom
the son contends in order to individuate in both his private and public
personas. Medea is the spiritual mother of all men and toils to salvage
the sacred in contemporary society at all costs. A third commonality is
the way at least two of these mothers align with other women, thereby
displaying a female spirit of solidarity and cohesion. Mamma Roma
actively enlists the help of her friend Biancofiore, a younger, less embit-
tered prostitute from her beat, to blackmail a restaurant owner into
giving Ettore a job.49 And in Medea, Medea’s maids spur her into action.
Knowing of Medea’s cultural roots and believing in her divine function,
they encourage Medea’s vendetta against Jason’s world.
But, in the course of the 1960s, the civic message Pasolini sent by way
of the mother’s presence and role gained greater depth and breadth. In
Mamma Roma, Ettore’s life and Mamma Roma’s dreams were at stake,
and their dilemma clearly spoke to her whole class and community,
which were symbolically affected by the failed mother–son relationship.
Yet, the fate of society in a larger sense is only implicit in what happens to
Ettore. Similarly, the stark autobiographical key of Edipo re effectively
tempers the ideological message of the film, namely, the health and
future prosperity of Thebes. But by the time we get to Medea, Pasolini
sees the whole Western world as desecrated, so the social consequences
of the son’s indifference are more direct and explicit. Medea’s final acts
are devastating not only for her biological sons but also for new genera-
tions of sons and for humanity at large; the present was so profoundly
corrupt that any remnant of the sacred or any genuinely spiritual and
vitalizing force had to entirely remove itself from the human world in
order to go on existing.
While Mamma Roma, Bruna, Edipo’s prologue mother, Merope, Jocasta,
and Medea do not exhaust Pasolini’s list of complex mother figures (we
need only think of the ‘Marys’ in Il Vangelo secondo Matteo and Lucia in
Teorema), together they epitomize the emotional and ideological con-
trasts that Pasolini saw as inherent in the mother–son relationship.50
Pasolini used these mother figures to express different aspects of his
notion of cultural authenticity, which was at odds with the dominant
Mothers 75
consumer ideology of his day. First and foremost, he prized the mothers’
innocent qualities and connections to origins, which, for him, marked
their primary difference with respect to mainstream society. At the same
time, he showed mothers to be troubled and paradoxical figures. Even
though they connoted purity in terms of their cultural backgrounds,
their desires often led to their sons’ social or physiological demise. Each
of the mothers in these films imposes her will on the son through
moments of omnipotence and intersubjectivity. However, any effort to
truly merge their desires and establish a new way of life routinely proves
destructive because the mother cannot directly transmit her virtue to the
son. And given the son’s symbolic role as potential or burgeoning Father,
his inability to respond correctly to the mother – whether from innate
resistance or selfish indifference – implies danger for his own well-being
and for that of society at large.
Mothers were thus central to the filmmaker’s discourse on authentic-
ity in both the private and public spheres. These screen figures challenge
the pre-war and fascist celebration of mothers for their primary role as
producers and nurturers of the nation’s soldiers, and they also champion
human vitality through their poetic value as pure and genuine origins.
Mothers embody the untainted and socially unconditioned starting point
– a ‘pre-life’ or ‘fore-life’ with regard to the desecrated present. And no
matter what her social status or how amoral her activities, the mother’s
goodness and vitality remain largely inviolable.
3 Prostitutes
La donna rappresenta la vitalità. Le cose muoiono e noi ne proviamo dolore, ma

poi la vitalità ritorna: ecco che cosa rappresenta la donna.
Halliday, Uccellacci e uccellini, 97
[Woman represents vitality. Things die and we feel pain, but then the vitality
returns: that’s what woman represents.]
Prostitutes joined Pasolini’s cast of characters in the 1950s, when he

moved from Friuli to Rome and became familiar with its lower-class
inhabitants. The filmmaker had gotten to know the Roman subproletariat
first-hand, thanks to the modest areas in which he and Susanna first lived
and to his daily commute to Ciampino for work. In these early Roman
years, Pasolini befriended Sergio Citti, a street kid who later assisted him
with films and eventually became a director his own right.1 Citti provided
Pasolini with an insider’s perspective on local slum folk, including the
pimps and whores, whose language and interactions deeply intrigued
him.2 Pasolini published two landmark novels about survival in the
slums: Ragazzi di vita (1955) and Una vita violenta (1959).3 In addition to
the young male protagonists (who resembled the real-life teenagers he
had met), these books also portrayed a handful of degraded mothers
and prostitutes. Pasolini refined this emerging trope in his screenwriting
and other film collaborations of the late fifties. He helped create charac-
ters and dialogues for Bolognini’s La notte brava and Emmer’s La ragazza
in vetrina; he was Fellini’s dialogue consultant for the prostitution scenes
in Le notti di Cabiria and La dolce vita; and he wrote the treatment and
screenplay for Bertolucci’s La comare secca, which was filmed in 1962.4
Prostitutes 77
Not surprisingly, Pasolini’s early films contain many prostitutes. The

most prominent in terms of their poetic and ideological significance are
those in Accattone (1961) and Mamma Roma (1962), but another impor-
tant prostitute appears in Uccellacci e uccellini (1966).5 Through depic-
tions of the relationship between pimps and whores, or lowly street
characters and the city’s fast-moving culture, each of these films delin-
eates the profound social conflicts that characterized Rome in the post-
war decades. No matter how big or small her role, the prostitute embodies
and symbolizes cultural and ideological borders. That is, her personal
predicament on the streets of Rome addresses the broader questions of
social oppression and marginalization. Whereas mothers represent ori-
gins in an emotional and, often, biological sense, prostitutes do so in a
cultural and historical sense. Their lives exemplify an authentic, if unwit-
ting, form of resistance to the conformist nature of capitalist cultures in
the West. They embody the untainted roots of society, where civil codes
do not emerge from a monolithic central culture but, instead, come
from the survival instinct of marginal communities.
Accattone (1961)
Prostitution – often referred to as the world’s oldest profession – consti-

tutes an important literary trope spanning almost every nation, time
period, and artistic genre.6 Pasolini’s cinema was no exception. Particu-
larly in his earlier works, prostitutes emphasized the stark reality of class
difference and the powerlessness of the lowest social strata. In the same
vein as De Sica’s Filumena Marturana or Fellini’s Cabiria character,
Pasolini’s prostitutes are in many ways ‘average’ women.7 For one thing,
they are neither especially beautiful nor especially young. The prosti-
tutes in Accattone, Mamma Roma, and Uccellacci e uccellini range in age
from their late twenties to their early forties, and they show the strain of
survival on their faces. Second, few of Pasolini’s prostitutes are particu-
larly sexy, flashy, or provocative in style. Instead, their knee-length skirts,
moderately high-heeled shoes, and modest handbags signify their ‘work-
ing girl’ status.8 Of course, different kinds of prostitution existed in
postwar Italy, including legal brothels, call girls, and streetwalkers.
Pasolini’s prostitutes are largely the streetwalking type, so they are
often exposed to violence, organized crime, police repression, and ex-
ploitative pimps. However, their illicit occupation generally remains more
implicit than explicit. Though from time to time Pasolini shows them
with clients, he more often alludes to their work or worth through the
various characters’ verbal exchanges (‘Per questo io me so’ messa a fà la

vita!’), or through locations such as the curbsides or peripheral roads
where they stand or sit and wait.9 Contrary to what one might expect, the
prostitutes are never shown nude or even partially exposed. Nor are they
shown physically engaged with a man beyond the level of an approach
or embrace. Together with the limitations of Italian
censorship in the 1960s, these choices convey that, for Pasolini, the
prostitute’s actual sex act was of secondary importance. He was inter-
ested in the ways in which she exemplified a crude vitality lingering
from ages past.
Accattone depicts a lesser-known aspect of Italy’s postwar reality:
subproletarian life in the borgate (shack slums or shantytowns at the
margins of Rome). More specifically, it is a film about pimps, whores, and
petty thieves whose lives consist of getting by from day to day and who
don’t show signs of social conscience or progress with respect to the city
centre. The plot focuses on the precarious existence of lowly characters
from the Roman underworld where prostitution paradoxically brings
hope and portends death.10 The main protagonist, Accattone (Franco
Citti), is a pimp who has just lost his breadwinner, Maddalena, to a minor
accident that puts her out of work. Anxious to secure a new source of
sustenance, Accattone seeks out his estranged wife, Ascenza, who refuses
to help him. While pursuing Ascenza, Accattone by chance meets the
virginal Stella, whom he eventually tries to lead into prostitution. Unex-
pectedly, however, Stella fails to perform when put to the test with a
client, and Accattone is taken with compassion. Deciding to keep her off
the street and maintain their miserable household himself, Accattone
attempts a day at work. But being physically unsuited to manual labour,
he abandons his post the first day out and resorts to petty theft instead.
While trying to escape from the police, he falls from a moped and dies.
Despite their strength and determination, Pasolini’s prostitutes repre-
sent the disenfranchised poor and lead a hellish existence. Exploited
and forgotten, they denote a humility-based innocence. Their purity
derives from their suffering and subordination, their miserable homes
and oppressive settings, and their constant subjection to the demands of
others. Accattone’s first woman, Maddalena, is the victim of rival pimps.
While she voluntarily squeals on one (Ciccio) in order to be with the
other (Accattone), she nonetheless lives at the mercy of both men.
Accattone ruthlessly and selfishly sends her out on the streets with a
sprained ankle, and Ciccio simultaneously controls her from jail. A
group of his friends (Salvatore and the Neapolitans) whisk her off in
Prostitutes 79
their car to a distant field, where they take turns having sex with her,
then beat her up. They then mercilessly drag her body, which hangs from
their moving car.
In this scene, Maddalena reaches the lowest depths of human exist-
ence. But for Pasolini, it is precisely the pain and humiliation of this
sordid event that signal her purity. Beyond the fact that her name recalls
the biblical Magdalene, who was also redeemed through suffering and
humiliation, Pasolini employs stylistic techniques to emphasize Mad-
dalena’s innocence. When she is beaten and thrown to the ground, he
captures her in frontal shots that show her face against a dark back-
ground, thus lifting her, if only temporarily, from her degraded reality. At
the end of this violent sequence, Pasolini also isolates her handbag and
high-heeled shoe, which metonymically shows the broken, scattered, and
forgotten parts of the whole. These fragments of Maddalena expose the
extent to which she is a victim and to which she can be abused and
destroyed as if she were an object. Moreover, in what critics have recog-
nized as being one of Pasolini’s most effective techniques, he uses sacred
music (Bach’s St Matthew Passion) in the extradiegetic track to convey the
transcendent value of this brutal episode.11
Another key reference to the prostitute’s victimization and suffering
comes in the form of an allusion to Dante’s Inferno. One night, as the
innocent newcomer Stella falls prey to Accattone’s manipulative ways,
the seasoned Amore cynically remarks: ‘Anche tu ce sei cascata ... E
ancora non lo sai. Eh! Lasciate ogni speranza, voi ch’entrate’ (So you’ve
fallen into the trap too ... and you don’t even know it ... Abandon all
hope, those of you who enter!’).12 Amore’s sarcastic comment is a clear
indication that the prostitutes’ life is a hell from which it is impossible to
break free. However, in contrast to Dante’s sinners, who go to hell for
their own wrongdoings, the first part of Amore’s observation (‘ce sei
cascata’) suggests that women end up in hell due to the manipulation
and selfish enterprise of others. Indeed, Stella is a victim of Accattone’s
devices and will spiral downward because of his instinctive drive towards
survival at any cost. Before meeting him, her life is squalid but simple.
She cleans bottles for a living, and it seems that her only ambition in life
is to earn money to help her family. But, after a few dates, and especially
after accepting a few material possessions as gifts, Stella feels obliged to
obey her new boyfriend’s wishes, even if they go against her beliefs. She
had said that she despised her mother for being a prostitute (‘Io a mia
madre je porto odio, per questo ...’), but, in the end, she too complies
with the unwritten codes of courtship and authority in the borgata, and it
is her victimization with respect to the law that, in Pasolini’s eyes, purifies
her existence, and celebrates her lowly status.13
Pasolini also finds a base-level integrity in the prostitutes’ profoundly
humble workplaces and homes. These spaces connote a primitive way of
life that is immune to mainstream civilization. Maddalena lives in the
borgata, in a makeshift shack that she shares with Nannina (the wife of
the imprisoned pimp Ciccio) and the poor woman’s five children.
Maddalena owns only a bed and a few other belongings – nothing else, as
far as we can tell. Her financial situation is so dire that she cannot afford
to take a night off, as we can see when Accattone ruthlessly sends her out
with a bandaged leg. Out on the beat, her workplace or space is equally
marginal and bleak. Maddalena and her associate, Amore, stand along a
deserted road at the outer limits of the city, and, from here, clients typically
drive them deeper into the periphery to have sex in open fields among
overgrown plants and shrubs. Such spaces resemble the marginal environ-
ments characterizing the lives of pure or genuine creatures.
Likewise, the other prostitutes in Accattone live and work in equally
ignoble locations. For example, we see Ascenza, carrying a small child at
the hip, walk to and from her job at a dilapidated bottle factory. When
Accattone follows her home one day, we see that she lives with her father,
brother, and children in a small shack like Maddalena’s, among a com-
munity of peers where children play in the dirt road with a rock or a stray
bottle. As for Stella, although we never see her at home, we assume she is
equally poor and downtrodden (after all her mother was a prostitute,
and Stella herself works to help keep the family). However, we do see the
section of the same bottle factory where she keeps a fire to boil water and
wash bottles. Being only a miserable hut surrounded by weeds and
random pieces of junk, this space resembles the borgata, and it symbolizes
a life that is not only lived outside but also unaware of the neo-capitalist
dreams encapsulated in the city centre.
But no matter how poor or depraved they are, these women routinely
connote life and livelihood because of the economic sustenance they
provide. Given their ability to regularly work and earn, prostitutes have a
central and life-giving role within the impoverished culture of mooching
and exploitation in which they live. These women do what they do – walk
the streets and exchange sex for money – not only to survive as individu-
als but also to maintain others. Despite the dangers and immorality
associated with prostitution, their job is a dependable one in terms
of society’s demand and their own ability to render service. It yields
a better, steadier income than the more honest work opportunities
Prostitutes 81
(i.e., junk collecting or bottle washing) available within the borgata. At

the very least, prostitution offers more stability than the unpredictable
hustling of their lazy or unemployed male peers.
As dependable wage earners and providers, then, the prostitutes in
Accattone – and in Pasolini’s other films, for that matter – are a central
component of kinship relations. Because their men can barter, exchange,
and sell them as they would a product, their work provides a basis for
social cohesion and minimal economic security. In fact, rarely do Accattone
and his companions talk among themselves without making reference to
their ‘women.’14 Think, for example, of the opening sequence in which
Accattone risks his life in a dare. His friends ask, only half-jokingly
perhaps, to whom he will bequeath his woman if he dies. Thanks to the
financial support she offers, the woman/prostitute signifies life in terms
of sustenance, but she is also intrinsically connected to death. For the
pimp, she is an intermediary between the two. Not surprisingly, then,
Accattone’s life unfolds in a sinuous pattern of ‘pursuit, possession, and
loss’ of women and the stability they provide.15 He seeks, captures, and
traffics in them for their economic worth, instinctively mooching what
he needs to get by. Like bread or water, women are necessary for his
survival.
Of all the prostitutes, or would-be prostitutes, Stella exhibits a purity
that is hard to come by in the borgata. A madre fanciulla figure, she
combines subsistence and the origins of life with the more cosmic notion
of light suggested by her name, which means ‘star.’16 From the begin-
ning, we know that Stella’s virtue exceeds that which she might promise
or symbolize in terms of sex, because she is not a prostitute when
Accattone first meets her. Although Stella’s alluring shape and golden
hair reflect the vital potential of her sexual dimension, her voice, speech,
and mannerisms characterize her as timid, naive, and good. Accattone
notes her bright appearance, her unusual candour, and her unique,
childlike innocence. She is clearly not part of the underworld and its
inner circle of whores, ruffians, and pimps. Ingenuous and bashful, she
at first refuses a car ride from Accattone’s friends and is then bewildered
by the sight of a group of prostitutes they pass on the street. ‘Iiih, che sta
a fà, quella? ... È ’na donnaccia quella, ve’?’ she asks. (Oooh, what is that
woman doing? ... Is she a whore?)17 It is as if within the subproletarian
universe, she occupies a humble corner hitherto unexposed to the kind
of manipulation and violence with which the other prostitutes live. ‘Tu lo
sai che io nun so’ ’na ragazza smaliziata, she says to him, ‘che ho
conosciuto soltanto dolori e miseria ... Nun so’ come l’altre.’ (You know
I’m not shrewd, that I’ve only known hardship and pain ... I’m not
like the others.)18 Accattone himself is aware of her difference: ‘Ma
dimme un po’... me pari così ingenua ... così ragazzina ... così bona,
senza cattiveria ... boh, nemmeno io te lo so spiegà ... Ma non sei de
Roma?’ (Tell me, will you ... you seem so innocent ... like a girl ... so good,
without evil ... who knows, I can’t explain it ... You’re not from Rome are
you?).19
Throughout the film, Stella remains steadfastly different, but she is
not stupid or entirely naive. Her integrity shines strong and bright, even
when she catches onto Accattone’s game: ‘Ho capito il punto dove me
vuoi portà te ... Già me l’aspettavo, che te credi ...’ (I know where you
want to lead me ... Don’t you think I saw it coming ...).20 Like Accattone
and Maddalena, Stella belongs to the lowest ranks of Roman society,
where the materialist aspirations of Italy’s growing middle class have not
yet penetrated. Yet Stella represents a powerful force of decency and
virtue with which Accattone has no previous experience and, as a result,
their union entails confrontation. The first signs of difference between
the two are visual: Stella’s light skin, eyes, hair, clothes, and upright
posture contrast with Accattone’s dark shirt, hair, skin, and rather slummy
and thievish demeanour. Pasolini uses cross-cut editing to render further
chiaroscuro distinctions between the two: initially, when they converse
during their first meeting, and then again on their first date, when they
lay side by side in a field, and Accattone’s dark hair and shirt press the
light, blond Stella to the ground for a kiss.
Pasolini conveys Stella’s moral significance in a scene that conjoins
both protagonists with angels – vehicles of providence or fate.21 During
Accattone’s first date with Stella, Pasolini prompts us to make a direct
association between Stella and an angel when, after buying some new
clothes for Stella (with help from her working friend Pio), the two stop to
converse in front of a church. Here, Pasolini captures Accattone and
Stella with angel figures behind their heads and shoulders to connote
Stella’s exceptional innocence, of which Accattone is still unaware. At
the same time, the angels also suggest that the young couple is being
observed in some way or that a mysterious force is influencing their
actions. Furthermore, the angels seem to signify that Accattone is at a
kind of crossroads – that he has an opportunity to make some kind of
choice (i.e., redeem himself or descend further into hell), and that
Stella is the vehicle of that decision. In addition to everything else, the
angels at the church very likely symbolize the bourgeois morality that
typified state religion and that defined women’s purity in terms of
Prostitutes 83
virginity. Indeed, to have his way with Stella, Accattone takes her away
from the church. Once outside the purview of the angels, he reverts to
his borgata instincts, as implied by his justification of prostitution as a
‘trade.’22 And it is here in a deserted field, scattered with junk and full of
weeds, that Accattone officially ‘claims’ her.
Although Accattone seeks to appropriate Stella’s goodness for his own
benefit and will never truly change, her presence does affect him.23
More so than Maddalena – or even Ascenza – Stella is a symbol of fortune
in Accattone’s eyes. From the start, he is aware on some level of her
purifying significance, which he reveals with a reference to Dante’s
Inferno. At their first chance meeting, he casts her as a Beatrice-like
guide: ‘Eh, Stella, Stella! Indecheme er cammino!’ (Eh, Stella, Stella!
Show me the way!). Whether from resistance or simply from his inability
to conceive of anything truly different from the squalid life he knows, he
immediately contaminates the noble reference with his next remark:
‘Insegna a ‘st‘Accattone qual è la strada giusta ... pe‘ arrivà a un piatto de
pasta e facioli!’ (Teach this beggar the right path ... to a plate of pasta
and beans!).24 Paradoxically, Stella first plays the opposite role, in that
she follows Accattone down the path to hell before inspiring in him a
moment of redemption at the end. Nevertheless, signs of her vital
influence show along the way.
Despite his violent outbursts, manipulation, and mistreatment of Stella,
Accattone experiences a change within himself. When he brings her
‘home’ to the shack where the now-imprisoned Maddalena used to live,
he appears to smile genuinely, and he asks Stella if she is happy. When
she replies that only his happiness counts, Accattone inadvertently con-
firms his own altered state (even if he is as of yet unaware of its true
significance), which has presumably been caused by her presence in his
life: ‘Due, so le cose: o so’ diventato matto o m’è tornato er cervello!’
(One of two things has happened: either I’ve become crazy or my brain is
back!). At this point, he, Nannina, and Stella share their small stock of
wine and toast to a new life, after which Accattone states that he has
taken the first step. (‘Er primo passo è fatto.’)25
On the night of Stella’s initiation into prostitution, her inability to
perform is so sincere and poignant that Accattone is caught off guard.
Her brightness strikes him subconsciously and blinds him with the un-
known sentiments of love, compassion, and, perhaps, a glimmer of
moral consciousness he has not yet known. Though he is following
instinct to make money and survive, he is continually reminded of
Stella’s difference and, consequently, undergoes a crisis. More perturbed
than pleased as the client takes possession of his woman, Accattone runs
to a bridge where he prepares to jump. When his friends hold him back,
he runs instead to the beach, where he plasters his face with sand,
creating a black mask and enacting a symbolic death. With this mask,
Accattone changes his face from white to black, thereby producing a
negative of himself. The dark mask against a dark night sky brings
particular attention to Accattone’s eyes which, when shown in up close in
detail, suggest that he has ‘seen’ or has become aware of something new,
different, or ‘other’ than himself. Stella is clearly bringing light (hope)
and whiteness (purity) to Accattone’s dark existence, and their relation-
ship shows how the germinating notion of moral responsibility is poten-
tially fatal for the lowly subject caught unprepared for this difference.
Soon after, Accattone decides to find work.
Perhaps the most telling scene with regard to the light or redemption
offered by Stella comes at the end of the film, during Accattone’s dream.
Sleeping beside Stella one night, Accattone dreams about his own
funeral; it is the subconscious manifestation of a moral awakening, as
revealed by his final request within the dream to be buried in or ‘brought
to’ the light. Standing among his friends in this dream (who silently
partake in his funeral), Accattone can neither be seen nor heard, and he
can neither enter the cemetery nor participate in the funeral. However,
once the sombre group leaves the cemetery, he manages to climb over
the wall and communicate with the gravedigger: ‘A sor mae’, perchè nun
me la fate [la tomba] un pochetto più in là? Nun lo vedete ch’è tutta
scura qui, la tera? ... Fatemela più in là ... poco poco ... Per favore, ‘a sor
mae’ ...’ (Oh Mister, why don’t you make mine [my grave] a little in that
direction? Don’t you see that the earth is all dark here? ... Make it over
there ... just a little in that direction ... Please, mister).26 The dream is
evidence of the profound yet unspoken effect that Stella’s life and
goodness has had on Accattone. Like Buonconte, who sheds one tear
before dying in the Inferno (which is cited at the opening of the film),27
with this desire for light, Accattone expresses a flash of consciousness,
maybe regret. While his request for light at the time of his death may still
be instinctive rather than intentional, it does reflect the resonance or
penetration of Stella’s ancient goodness, even if it comes too late to save
him.
Though all the prostitutes in Accattone’s life represent goodness in
different ways, the vitality they offer cannot save him from the all-
powerful arm of the law that eventually nabs him in the city centre. And
although his journey to confrontation with mainstream morality is gradual,
Prostitutes 85
sinuous, and, for the most part, inadvertent, Accattone must reckon with
the social forces that oppress him. Ultimately, the prostitutes cannot save
Accattone because he remains ignorant of the type of goodness they
have to offer until the very end. His initial relationship with Maddalena
is not affected by the morality imposed by mainstream society. He sets up
house with the woman that works and provides for him, and he com-
mands in his microcosm according to the unwritten laws of the borgata’s
kinship relations.
Even when Maddalena goes to jail, and the forces of authority (i.e., the
state police) promise her justice and protection, Maddalena and Accattone
act and react in the prison environment according to their own codes
and traditions. For instance, when Accattone appears in the police line-
up for the offenders that beat Maddalena to a pulp, Maddalena does not
denounce her pimp but some bothersome teens instead. She does not
have the heart or courage to take advantage of the opportunity and
denounce her exploitation. Not yet inculcated with the dominant cul-
ture and its sense of morality, she still belongs to the prehistoric universe
(‘prehistoric’ in Pasolini’s sense, that is, with respect to the neo-capitalist
era of the post-war ‘boom’) wherein instinct and unspoken loyalties
prevail. However, when a short time later she learns about Stella,
Maddalena is overtaken with jealousy and finds the courage for a ven-
detta. Driven by the same instincts and emotions that originally led her
to protect him, she now denounces him to the police. What is more, her
playing into the law to hurt Accattone has the indirect effect of causing
his death. Now she no longer sustains him through her work and, thanks
to her, the authorities hunt him down. Throughout the last days and
weeks of Accattone’s life, an anonymous undercover policeman follows
his trail. This isolated and symbolic eye misses no detail as it tracks
Accattone. It scrupulously notes all his actions until he gets caught
stealing meat and dies during his escape, which leaves Maddalena as the
catalyst for his tragic end.
Mamma Roma (1962)
Similar to Accattone, Pasolini’s second film depicts the life of a prostitute

in post-war Rome. However, Mamma Roma differs from Accattone in two
important ways. First, when the film begins, the main character, Mamma
Roma, has been toiling for years to make her way out of prostitution and
establish an honest living. She now exists at the threshold between her
past and present lives and is visibly conscious of the difference between
the two. Second, Mamma Roma has a double identity as prostitute and
mother. The plot focuses on Mamma Roma’s efforts to break free from
the past and create a new life and honest household, both to be shared
with her son, Ettore. At this important crossroads in her life, two addi-
tional prostitute figures contribute to Mamma Roma’s trials and tribula-
tions in different ways: Bruna and Biancofiore. Bruna, who unofficially
operates like a prostitute, is Ettore’s love interest, and Biancofiore is an
associate of Mamma Roma, who, despite some similarities, differs from
Mamma Roma in her lack of emotional connection with Ettore.28
Though a seasoned prostitute from an older generation, Mamma
Roma embodies Pasolini’s notion of female innocence and authenticity
in ways similar to the women in Accattone. Beyond the fact that the same
actor, Franco Citti, plays the pimp figure (here Carmine) in both films,
the prostitute figures have similar traits and backgrounds. For instance,
much like the younger women in Accattone, Mamma Roma comes from a
poor family, and, in many ways, remains a victim of oppression and
control, subjected daily to the authority of her pimp and the police. As
with the women in Accattone, Mamma Roma’s inherent and inalienable
purity is also discernible in her humble home and workplaces. Even
though Mamma Roma does not live in the borgata per se, and her main
objective is to move up and out from her past life of deprivation, she still
belongs to the lowest sector of ‘have nots.’ Pasolini reinforces her semi-
forgotten status through the recurrent shot of a cityscape view from her
living-room window. The view marks a physical and psychological dis-
tance between the marginal and the mainstream in society, as is under-
scored each time Mamma Roma goes to work. Mamma Roma’s regular
movement between her home and her more central, populated work
locations confirms that the primary space of her existence is just outside
the city centre.
Bruna and Biancofiore are also marginal creatures. For Pasolini, their
status of ‘not belonging’ to the dominant culture of 1960s Roman life
already classifies them as more genuine than the average middle-class
citizen. As seen in the previous chapter, Bruna mirrors Mamma Roma in
that she inhabits an ambiguous space on the border between two worlds.
At one point, she indicates to Ettore that her apartment is somewhere
‘up there’ in the large housing project that looms over them. Having a
dwelling place in common with Mamma Roma implies that Bruna’s
family shares Mamma Roma’s social status and aspirations for a better
life, as substantiated by small but symbolic material gains. Bruna herself,
however, spends her days lazing about the abandoned fields just beyond
Accattone (Franco Citti) conquers Stella (Franca Passut) for the first time
(Accattone, 1961)
An unnamed prostitute (Elsa Morante) and Maddalena (Silvana Corsini) in

prison (Accattone, 1961)
Anna Magnani in the final scene of Mamma Roma (1962)
Pasolini and Anna Magnani filming Mamma Roma (1962)
The ‘Young Virgin’ (Margherita Caruso) from Il Vangelo secondo Matteo (1964)
Susanna Pasolini as the ‘Old Virgin’ with the Marys in Il Vangelo secondo Matteo
(1964)
Jocasta (Silvana Mangano) and Edipo (Franco Citti) in Edipo re (1967)

Emilia (Laura Betti) and the gravedigger peasant (Susanna Pasolini) in Teorema
(1968)
Close-up of the ‘saint,’ Emilia, in Teorema (1968)

Medea (Maria Callas) communicating with the spiritual forces around her in
Medea (1969)
Medea (Maria Callas) travelling with the Argonauts in Medea (1969)
Prostitutes 87
the apartment building zones.29 This location symbolizes Bruna’s contin-

ued immersion in the past world of rural or marginal cultures, where
bourgeois aspirations had not yet infiltrated. In comparison, Biancofiore
is a less defined, hence more enigmatic figure. She appears to live in a
humble apartment (where she takes Ettore to make love) and to work
the same beat or partake in the same circle of prostitution as Mamma
Roma. Her authenticity derives from the humility and violence to which
she, like Mamma Roma, is subject and exposed (think, even, of the
staged scene of violence in her home when she and Mamma Roma
blackmail Pellisier), and from her need to embrace both central and
marginal cultures in order to make a living and survive.
At the same time, despite their clearly subjugated status with respect to
men, neither Bruna nor Biancofiore seem consciously aware of being
overwhelmed or of desiring something different, and neither seems to
suffer from her condition. The neighbourhood boys have an unofficial
but binding claim on Bruna – the younger, unofficial prostitute. They
take turns having sex with her and occasionally offer her small trinkets
such as keychains in return. For this reason, they perceive Ettore as an
intruder on both their territory and their possession. The initiated
Bruna does not do much to resist their authority, allows them to lead her
away without a fight, and casually says ‘See you later, Ettore.’30 Differ-
ently still, Mamma Roma’s friend, Biancofiore, is an official prostitute
but not a victim of outward violence or threats. Nor does she appear
particularly poor, frustrated, or depressed. Instead, she has a neat, attrac-
tive appearance and a generally cheerful nature. Content to help Mamma
Roma get Ettore established in Rome, for instance, she half-jokingly says,
‘So qui pe’ questo! Pe’ fà i piacere a la gente’ (That’s what I’m here for!
To make people happy).31 In contrast with Mamma Roma’s desperate
dynamism and frustration, Biancofiore’s even-natured personality sug-
gests either a lack of awareness (like Bruna) or a consciously detached
approach to her existence (yet a third variant among these borgata
women) because she lacks family ties (i.e., children) and specific mate-
rial goals.
Unlike Bruna and Biancofiore, Mamma Roma’s codification as a source
of past origins and a giver of life derives largely from the fact that she
represents sustenance for her real and surrogate sons, Ettore and Car-
mine (who is younger than she is).32 Like Accattone, Carmine instinc-
tively withdraws from hard work and returns to Mamma Roma for
money. With the excuse of needing funds for his makeshift enterprises
(such as raising pigs), he forces her back on the streets by threatening to
tell Ettore she is a whore, which would shatter her dreams. As for Ettore,
he, too, depends on her energy and ability to work and earn. Ettore is a
jobless, aimless, and seemingly futureless teenager. Born and raised in
the rural outskirts of Rome, he possesses not an ounce of the values or
shrewdness of mainstream culture, not to mention the work ethic that
his mother has embraced. At the same time, though, he is not a mali-
cious borgata moocher such as Accattone. An outsider to both the city
centre and the borgata, he depends on Mamma Roma for stability and
orientation. She provides food, clothing, shelter, and even a bit of spend-
ing money for his long lazy days – that is, until Ettore fails at school and
takes on low-life lover, Bruna. It is at this point that Mamma Roma
curtails her financial support and compels Ettore to become a respon-
sible member of their household and microsociety.
Still, monetary sustenance is not the only life-giving value of Pasolini’s
prostitutes in this film. There is also something vitalizing or salvific in the
activities of these women – sexual or not – that gives hope to the men
with whom they engage. For instance, in addition to the vitality she offers
Ettore in terms of hard work and money, Mamma Roma also brings life
to the boy through her physical and emotional energy. From time to
time, her enthusiasm for a ‘new life’ rubs off on Ettore and inspires a
faint smile in him. And Ettore’s smile, let it be clear, is the only visibly
positive element in his physical presence, and it surfaces inadvertently
during rare moments of closeness with his mother (e.g., their early
dance scene, the day he works in the restaurant, and when Mamma buys
him a motorbike). Moreover, the physical and emotional dynamism she
exudes in breaking away from prostitution and embracing a petty-
bourgeois future through Ettore’s successes indirectly joins Ettore with
her sexual activity, and eventually affects the boy’s life deeply.
Somewhat differently, Bruna revitalizes Ettore, not with money or
physical and emotional energy, but, rather, with consensual and unpaid
sex. There is no ulterior motive behind Bruna’s sexuality. She beds
Ettore simply for fun. Whether out of companionship or to pass the time,
she is amused by the fact that he is a virgin (‘Iiiih! Iiiih! Allora non
sai nemmeno come semo fatte, noi donne!’) and decides to teach him
how to make love.33 It seems to be Bruna’s natural way of welcoming him
and initiating him into her world, which is an ambiguous one caught
between an ancient agricultural past like his own (in the remote Guidonia,
Ettore was raised by farmers referred to as bumpkins or burini) and the
materialist future represented by the housing projects in which they live.
Bruna and her sexuality provide the vitality of life at the very edge of
Prostitutes 89
Rome; a more visceral, instinctive form of sustenance than Mamma

Roma’s money and aspirations can provide. For this reason, Bruna re-
mains the most ambiguous character in the film because, officially, she is
neither mother nor whore, though she is potentially both at once. But
the problem with this youthful, subproletarian figure is that she lacks the
inviolable maternal identity of the mother and the moral-ideological
significance of the whore. Instead, she is a stagnant figure existing on the
border between two worlds, much like the ruins around which she
spends her days. For Ettore, who has just embarked on his journey to
social consciousness, Bruna signifies the dead end of an unawakened
past, which was no longer a viable option in Italy at the time this film was
made. But while Mamma Roma insists that Ettore should not regress
towards Bruna, his forward movement alongside Mamma Roma leads to
an annihilating clash with the dominant morality and mentality of the
mainstream.
Biancofiore also brings new life to Ettore through sex, but only on one
occasion and not of her own will or desire. Instead, she has sex with
Ettore as a favour to Mamma Roma, who explicitly asks her to bed him.
Adamantly against Ettore’s relationship with Bruna, Mamma Roma asks
Biancofiore to make Ettore forget the lowly girl. Not even her ‘stench’
should remain with him when Biancofiore finishes. ‘Ma je lo devi fà
scordà er primo [amore]! Manco la puzza ce deve restà!’34 Biancofiore
cheerfully carries out the request and afterward recounts her successes
to Mamma Roma, confident that she revitalized Ettore, stirred new
sentiments in him, and helped him forget the past. (‘Ma quale Bruna,
quale Bruna! Appena m’ha visto me, quello addio Bruna!’) Not only did
he tell Biancofiore that he would come back and even take her out to the
zoo, but in the next sequence we see Ettore on the job – his first job –
with an unusual energy in his walk. The film faithfully reflects the
screenplay’s description of this brief scene: ‘Com’è felice, generoso,
rapido, spavaldo: tutto dedizione. Il ciuffo gli balla sulla fronte sudata,
mentre solca la marea della folla che mangia ...’ (How happy, generous,
fast, brash he is: all dedication. His front locks bounce on his sweaty
brow, as he makes his way through the dining crowd).35 However, it is an
ephemeral and unconscious energy that Ettore experiences. It comes
and goes in this brief sequence, after which he fades back into his listless
mode of existence (as compared with the sustained and conscious en-
ergy driving his mother towards the city centre).
In general, the prostitute’s vitality arises from the different dichoto-
mies and tensions that characterize her life, whether within her own
being or through her relationship with others. Throughout Accattone and

Mamma Roma, we note this energy precisely where the woman’s humble
background and marginal culture (often embodied by her pimp or son)
meet the newfangled codes of the growing bourgeoisie. In Mamma Roma,
Pasolini portrays this spatial-ideological contrast with visual immediacy
through the general dynamism of Mamma Roma’s movements as she
walks, talks, sings, dances, and shouts her social aspirations out to others.
The dilemma of this cultural contrast first comes to the fore when she
goes to Guidonia to retrieve Ettore and introduce him to her life.
Finding Ettore entails journeying back in her life to an ancient past,
represented here metonymically as a semi-deserted fairground.36 Con-
versely, once Mamma Roma catches up with Ettore and brings him to
Rome, Pasolini captures Mamma Roma head-on as she walks towards her
apartment complex and domestic living space.37 Although she does not
live in the city centre quite yet, her direction is one of forward movement
or advancement – towards the camera, the bourgeois viewer, the city, and
the new life of her dreams. Pasolini reinforces this idea midway through
the film, after the setback that Carmine imposes on her life. Back on her
feet and back on her path, Mamma Roma and Ettore move to a some-
what nicer housing project in Cecafumo, though still near the outer
limits of Rome.38 Once again, Pasolini films mother and son walking
forward towards this symbolic goal, imbuing the scene with Mamma
Roma’s relentless drive and ambition.
Other occasions on which the contrasting forces causing Mamma
Roma’s conflicted cultural status can be seen are the two night-time
sequences in which she believes she is leaving prostitution for good.
During these ‘monologues in motion,’ Pasolini predominantly employs
the same combination of frontal shots – close, medium, and long – to
convey the genuine intensity of her forward impetus. For example, in
the first night walk, Mamma Roma’s brisk gait towards the camera shows
that her sentiments of fear and defeat have not yet emerged. In truth,
she has only just begun her new life with Ettore, and she is still optimistic
about their future. In other words, the one setback imposed by Carmine
(a couple of weeks ‘on the job’ to earn for him) has not diminished her
energy or her sense of forward direction. In fact, she continues to
embrace the future with her words as she utters cheerful farewells to the
friends and faces that recall her painful past. By contrast, Mamma
Roma’s second night walk, presumably occurring just a few months later,
has an entirely different tone and feel. Not only does Mamma Roma
appear worn and resigned, but her trajectory is also slower and more
Prostitutes 91
irregular. Whereas the subject of her speech during the first talk was her
oppressive family origins and justification for becoming a prostitute, her
semi-conscious and semi-coherent talk the second time around (she is
drinking from a bottle along the way) centres on the obstacles (Car-
mine) and events (Ettore’s failures at school and work) that were not
part of her plans.39
Overly loquacious and almost babbling from the lacerating mix of joy
and pain she has known in her new life with Ettore, Mamma Roma
recounts her misfortunes to whomever steps into her path. Here, Pasolini
employs a chiaroscuro technique similar to that used in Accattone to em-
phasize very effectively the sublime nature of her struggle. Her skin tone
makes her a bright, white figure, and her dark clothes fade into a black
background to create a surreal visual effect that suggests her current
mental state is one of fantasy and/or inebriation. At the same time, the
stark contrast between Mamma Roma’s white face and the dark world
she leaves behind lifts her up and away from the base reality of her life as
a whore and grants her a transcendent value as a poor, disenfranchised
human being. In this scene, Mamma Roma walks and walks but never
arrives anywhere. She talks and talks but never concludes anything
concrete. Neither the linear path of her first night journey nor the
winding trajectory of the second leads Mamma Roma out of the
subproletarian underworld to the petite bourgeois future she desires.
The irony and uselessness of her forward thrust culminates in the final
sequences of the film, when Mamma Roma pushes her fruit cart to work.
Profoundly anguished, she nonetheless proceeds on her path forward
towards the formidable city centre. However, as Ettore lays dying in
prison, her dynamic stride is reduced to a cheerless trudge, and she
advances no further than the market place at the border between the
city centre and its margins.
The three prostitutes in Mamma Roma represent different levels of
civic conscience; they express different levels of interest or determina-
tion with respect to symbolic Rome, or to the bourgeois ideals that
gradually pervaded the living spaces (modern housing projects) and
minds (desire for material possessions and improved social status) of
most lower-class communities around 1960. In other words, these women
personify the subproletariat at varying stages of cultural assimilation vis-
à-vis the mainstream. Mamma Roma has clearly embraced the moral and
material ethics of the dominant culture; Bruna lingers in an ambiguous
state of adolescence, remaining rooted in an unwitting and instinct-
driven past; and Biancofiore straddles both, giving and taking from each
domain as needed in order to exist comfortably. In many ways,

Biancofiore’s approach is the most practical, since she is neither wholly
limited by an oppressive past nor wholly driven towards an intangible
future. She lives here and now and, despite some cynical remarks, ap-
pears to be relatively content.
Mamma Roma’s civic awareness is problematic, though, in that it leads
her to renounce much of what is plain and pure in her life (her authen-
tic, if lowly, past) and reinvest her energy in a materialist future that is
not sure to exist. Her co-opted or ingenuous desire to be part of the
mainstream ultimately proves detrimental for her, her son, and her
community. Because she and the other characters live precariously be-
tween past and present worlds, they are not fully immersed in either. The
only way to resolve the tension or ambiguity of this existence, it seems, is
to allow one to prevail over the other. Therefore, when Ettore (like
Bruna, an adolescent subject almost wholly tied to the past) resists
Mamma Roma’s will, the burgeoning authority of her new cultural
orientation has tragic effects on both them and the subaltern commu-
nity they represent. Nowhere is this more evident than in the final
sequences of parallel editing between Mamma Roma’s last day at work
and the day Ettore dies in prison, when the addition of sacred music
gives the conclusion an epic tone.40 Like the popular chorus in a Greek
tragedy, the small group of market companions and neighbours partici-
pate in Mamma Roma’s anguish. Upon learning of Ettore’s death, these
people rush behind Mamma Roma as she leaves the workplace for her
home. They follow her to Ettore’s room and then to the window that
gives onto the cityscape, where they prevent her suicide in the nick of
time.
Throughout the film, one of the ways in which Pasolini conveyed the
spatial and ideological distinction between the city and its more ancient
and authentic border zones was through the recurrent trope of Mamma
Roma’s window. The main window of her apartment in Cecafumo lets
out onto a view that establishes as diametrical opposites her viewpoint
or desires and the austere city centre, symbol of her goals. Whereas the
view from her first apartment opened onto the Verano cemetery, por-
tending that death lay in the general direction of the city, the main
window of her second home lets out onto a pseudo-cityscape of Rome,
with a cupola like that of St Peter’s. In reality, it is Cecafumo, a small
community within the larger limits of the Italian capital. Still, the view
from Mamma Roma’s window functions like a mirror by providing the
consistent reflection of her desired ‘Other.’ Rather than a person,
Prostitutes 93
though, it is the central sphere and its bourgeois culture that she in-
spires to incorporate in her life. But, paradoxically, this cityscape is not
a positive image. It does not connote hope and consolation for Mamma
Roma in terms of a bright future and tangible goals. No. The cityscape
looms dimly before mother and son each time they open the window
and has the contrary effect of threatening their relationship and well-
being.
At the end of the film, the same view epitomizes the central culture
and moral authority that Mamma Roma holds responsible for Ettore’s
death. Thus, in closing, the modest cityscape view represents a profane
reality that refuses and represses all those whose ancient backgrounds
makes them difficult if not impossible to integrate. In the final shot,
Mamma Roma and company stare at the ominous dome poised almost
defiantly in the opposite field of vision. This communal ending suggests
that Ettore became a sacrificial lamb for the sake of ‘progress’ for all.
Even if the lives of these people will not necessarily change after his
death, it is clear that, like Mamma Roma, they will not be able to leave
their past behind without profound conflicts and consequences. As a
result, Ettore’s death reflects the broader impact of cultural clashes
between past and present as embodied by the prostitute and her work,
and it implies that the most precious and laudable aspects of her original
culture may persist only precariously, if at all, within the dominant law
and culture of the present.
Uccellacci e uccellini (1966)
The tensions between ideological forces in the marginal subcultures of

Rome are also a central theme in Uccellacci e uccellini. In this film, a father
(Totò) and son (Ninetto) pair of modest economic standing (hence, the
surname Innocenti) undertake an allegorical journey on the open road
of life and circumstance.41 Their travel alludes to the broader ideological
journey of Italy’s ambiguous subproletariat in the process of turning into
petty bourgeoisie. Making numerous stops and encountering eccentric
characters and random events along the way, father and son alternately
experience life as pilgrims from the ranks of the oppressors or op-
pressed. During their journey, an unsolicited companion – literally
compagno di strada or political comrade – joins them; it is a talking crow
who makes political and philosophical comments about the main charac-
ters’ actions and deliberations. Totò and Ninetto’s experiences also
include a mythical-mystical interlude, still about birds but in which the
crow is paradoxically absent. In this central segment of the film, father

and son become servants of Saint Francis, who charges them to teach a
message of love to hawks and sparrows so that the stronger will not kill
and consume the weaker simply because they have the power to do so.
Like the crow who is to teach the instinct-driven Innocentis to use their
sense of reason, the friars will seek to instill a sense of moral conscience
and social justice in the bird species.
Although Totò and Ninetto do not directly engage in political discus-
sions, along the way they do come across different signs (literally street
signs) and symbols marking a clash between past and present cultures,
between genuine and corrupt modes of living, and between the political
Right and Left. The most crucial of these symbols are the crow himself,
who personifies Marxism, and a prostitute named Luna, who represents
life or regeneration.42 The political rhetoric of the leftist crow combines
with the sexuality of the common prostitute to suggest a cause-effect
relationship: once restored in body and spirit through sexual interaction
with the prostitute, the men consume the intellectual bird. Pasolini
affirmed precisely this when, in an exchange with Jon Halliday on the
meaning of Luna he said: ‘La donna rappresenta la vitalità. Le cose
muoiono e noi ne proviamo dolore, ma poi la vitalità ritorna: ecco che
cosa rappresenta la donna’ (Woman represents vitality. Things die and
we feel pain, but then the vitality returns: that’s what woman repre-
sents).43 In the specific context of this film, it appears that the authentic
Marxist agenda that expired with Togliatti in 1964 allegorically dies
another death through the crow. Yet the symbolic Luna (Moon), who
interacts with the two men between these two deaths, promises cyclical
change and the regeneration of new life. Together, the professorial crow
(who seeks to bring the men to conscious awareness of Western politics)
and Luna (who incites their rudimentary desires) suggest that a more
authentic life’s journey for the father and son in the future would
combine the forces of passion and reason.
The prostitute Luna only appears in one segment towards the end of
the film, but we assume she is generally like the other prostitutes we have
seen – poor, humble, and authentic according to the filmmaker’s anthro-
cultural points of view. However, despite the similarities, Luna is also
somewhat different from the streetwalking women in Accattone and Mamma
Roma and does not outwardly share all of their traits and roles. When
Totò and Ninetto first come across Luna, the young woman’s expression
is somewhat diffident, similar to that of the worn prostitutes in previous
films. But unlike these women, Luna is not a victim of oppression and
Prostitutes 95
violence, and Totò and Ninetto are neither pimps nor ‘johns’ in the
traditional sense of the term. They are random passers-by who are drawn
to her simple, attractive presence, perhaps tempted by her one bare
shoulder.
When father and son each solicit her in turn, Luna does not discuss
the price or terms of her services. Rather, she ingenuously runs off into
the brush, chatting about mundane things and acting as if she were
simply pleased to have company. The space that Luna occupies and in
which she provides her services, though reminiscent of the deserted
fields full of overgrown plants to which Maddalena, Stella, and Bruna all
retreat with their clients, differs for the sheer height of the plants that
allow the couple to escape, hide, and play, as if sex were a pastime or
game. Furthermore, Luna appears suddenly – almost magically, even –
along the allegorical road of life that Totò and Ninetto travel. Rather
than the worn, hurt, and manipulated women of the borgata, Luna
reminds us of Stella in the bottle factory. She would appear to be a semi-
divine, timeless, and ageless being if it were not for her clothes and the
plane that flies overhead, reminding us of the modern era. Luna is also
distinct from the other prostitutes in that she does not provide for or
even symbolize financial subsistence for others. Totò and Ninetto do not
stand to profit from her earnings, and she is never shown with or
mentioned in reference to a pimp or child.44 In fact, we are completely
unaware of any flow of money or material exchange. Luna is thus freed
to assume a purely mythical or poetic role and to represent an uncon-
taminated, instinct-based sexuality – a tangible sign of human relations
that remains unconditioned by the moral codes of the city centre.45
Despite these differences, it seems clear that the same ideological
dichotomies observed in other prostitutes (past and present; margins
and centre; vitality and death) also characterize Luna’s life and relation-
ships. These contrasting forces are exemplified by, and encapsulated in,
the moment in which she and Totò emerge from their hidden locus
amoenus among tall plants and a jumbo jet passes overhead. Though
Luna appears and works in a rural space that is obviously detached from
the city centre and its homogenizing ideals, she and her world are still
susceptible to the ‘noise’ or intrusion of capitalist culture. Since the
sound comes decisively after the sex, it suggests that petite bourgeois
values are present and imposing themselves even during a pleasurable
interlude in men’s lives. The airplane brusquely juxtaposes the woman’s
vitality with the death of authenticity in Western cultures. It comprises a
paradoxical, almost anachronistic presence in the anonymous periph-
eral space where Luna conducts her work. Moreover, the plane’s noise
overwhelms any verbal exchange they might have had after sex, which
suggests that even such rare, impulsive interludes in our lives – not to
mention even the peripheral zones that represent society’s margins – are
susceptible to drowning out by the symbols of capitalist culture and
machinery.
To fully understand the twofold significance of Luna’s earthy vitality, it
is important to consider her placement at the near end of the film. This
lone, humble female figure has sex with father and son – each genera-
tion in its turn – just after Italian Communist Party leader Palmiro
Togliatti’s funeral, and the connection between her appearance and the
real-life political footage confirms the broader implications of the
prostitute’s sexuality and, in general, of Pasolini’s affirmative representa-
tions of women. Before Luna appears, a silent segment of documentary
clips connected to the main storyline through strategic editing gives the
impression that Totò and Ninetto can see or partake in the events shown.
It is presumably through their eyes that the viewer first sees only the
lower legs and feet of people walking in procession and then the commu-
nist signs and symbols and large portraits of Togliatti, at which point it
becomes clear that this is a state funeral. Thousands of onlookers partici-
pate in the event, kissing the portraits, raising their arms and fists in
solidarity, and mourning the death of communism. Pasolini then con-
nects the sombre funeral scene to the dirt road on which Totò, Ninetto,
and the crow resume their destination-less walk. Here, the bird reiterates
Pasolini’s message, conveyed via intertitle at the very start of their jour-
ney: ‘Il cammino incomincia e il viaggio è già finito’ (The walk begins
and the journey is already complete).46 Though ignored and even mocked
by the pilgrims at this late stage in their travels, the crow’s comment
stresses the circular nature of life and politics and foreshadows the
revitalizing significance of the prostitute who suddenly springs up along
their path.
Luna’s brief but vitalizing role connects with the scene that follows,
namely, the final episode, in which Totò and Ninetto kill and eat the
Marxist bird. The emotional energy of the communist funeral, com-
bined with the physical energy derived from sex, seems to catalyse this
final act of violence and lend it civic meaning. Recharged from their
sexual escapades with Luna, Totò and Ninetto resume their journey. But,
all too soon, Totò flat-out tires of the crow’s pedantic chatter and sug-
gests to Ninetto that they eat it.47 Since the two men (in the mythical
interlude on Franciscan prayer) had previously tirelessly sought to teach
Prostitutes 97
the stronger hawks not to blindly eat the weaker sparrows, this scene,
which centres not just on the consumption of an inferior creature but on
the consumption of an intellectual bird, is somewhat puzzling and begs
many questions. By not only killing but also consuming the intellectual
character, do the men express a preference for their irrational and
instinctive side, which has, presumably, resurfaced during sex? Does
their consumption of the crow indicate a different type of instinct, one
with political implications? Does it suggest, as the crow had previously
intimated, that ‘by consuming and digesting professors, one becomes a
bit of professor himself?’48 Or, through their joint experiences, had the
two men unwittingly imbibed the ‘noise’ of capitalism, which means that
they now metaphorically drown out the crow’s voice of opposition? The
interpretative possibilities here are many, but it seems most logical that,
because at this time Pasolini still attributed authenticity to the whole
realm of human instinct and sexuality, his ending suggests that, once
ingested and processed, the left-wing intellectual can revive the pilgrims’
revolutionary spirit.
Whatever the significance of the final scene may truly be, the men’s
decision to eat the bird requires little deliberation. Totò swiftly moves
in for the attack, and, in the next shot, only a burnt carcass remains.
Throughout Uccellacci e uccellini, Pasolini makes numerous reference
to bodily states or functions: murder or violent death (first funeral
scene); defecation (the farmers); starvation (the ‘Chinese’ mother);
birth (actress/mother of Benvenuta); sexual intercourse (Luna); eating
and digestion (the crow); and real, physiological death (Togliatti). In
thus delineating the various physiological states of humankind, Pasolini
alludes to parallel ‘states’ in the life or development of a nation. In other
words, the corporeal realities of human subjects are metaphors for
political parties, platforms, and eras that have their own cycles of birth,
growth, purgation, difficulty, revitalization, interaction, consumption,
and death.
Furthermore, through Totò and Ninetto, Pasolini suggests that the
people in a given society grasp and ingest aspects of this political cycle
and then process them in different (active or passive, rational or instinc-
tive, personal or communal) ways. Successively, they release the energies
produced by their engagement with the civil sphere, either consciously
through political activism, or subconsciously, through personal habits
and cultural practices. As the crow affirms shortly after the communist
funeral and sexual interlude with Luna: ‘... forse è passata la mia ora, le
mie parole cadono nel vuoto ... ma sono convinto che qualcuno verrà e
prenderà la mia bandiera per portarla avanti ...’ (Perhaps my hour has
passed ... and my words fall on deaf ears ... but I know that someone will
pick up my banner and carry on ...). These words reflect Pasolini’s belief
that, until the mid-1960s, the purity of spirit could revive a genuine
Marxism.49 This is the only interpretation that might shed a ray of hope
on the gruesome fate of the professor-bird, and it is bolstered by the
mysterious presence of Luna. When an airplane rumbles overhead again
in the last shot, it emphasizes the fact that a Marxist future will also
depend on the ability of both generations to comprehend one another
despite the deafening forces of capitalism conditioning people from all
sides.
Because the signs and influences of Italy’s dominant capitalist culture
are omnipresent and potentially omnipotent as well, Luna is a crucial
waypoint of knowledge for men on the great road of life; her vitality
breeds hope beyond the strictly personal and physical levels to affect the
civic and political spheres as well. Compared to the crow’s intellectual
musings, she is a source of corporeal, instinctive knowledge.50 Although
she does not fill the men with the moral and civic spirit needed to spark a
meaningful revolution, she does instill a sense of physical drive and spirit
that will allow them to live life in a more genuine fashion. By luring both
generations – and, allegorically, humanity as a whole – to have sex in the
wild, Luna exemplifies the staying power of the culturally authentic even
as the generations become conscious, thus detained by the social and
political events around them.51
Curiously, though, neither father nor son is willing to admit to the
instinctive, carnally driven side that leads him back to a state of inno-
cence via woman. It is as if between generations there were an unspoken
moral code to observe and to pay lip service to: the father should not
have extramarital affairs, and the unmarried son should not engage in
sex. It is as if by admitting these base desires, the men would become
unrespectable or disreputable according to the new bourgeois ethic,
thus ineligible for ‘progress.’ As a result, Totò and Ninetto feign stomach
cramps and the need to defecate (in this film, a bodily function with no
moral code attached) in order to escape to the place where Luna sits
waiting to nurture them. In fact, Totò and Ninetto will both soon be
rejuvenated by her presence. Like schoolboys they take turns sneaking
away to reach her, crawling through tall weeds and brush, and then
laughing as they seek out a place for sex. Though father and son do not
establish real emotional ties with the young woman, they engage with her
earthy vitality and take the goodness she has to offer.
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While the men’s involvement with Luna may seem selfish and utilitar-
ian, her name reminds us of the cycles and change that all life – human
and political – must undergo to be renewed. Her sexuality will energize
the ebb and flow of life and death in human beings and, more broadly,
their political ideals. If we consider the opening dialogue in the film
(‘Co’ la luna non se prende!’), the appearance of a prostitute with the
name ‘Moon’ at the end clearly connotes a circular journey. In dialect,
Totò’s first line could refer to fish as well as to women, meaning that
when the moon is out, they don’t ‘get any,’ whether food or sex. Totò
then explains the connection between the moon and the tides, stating
that the one exerts the force of gravity on the other.52 In other words, the
beautiful, changing moon exerts her intangible celestial force on the
earthly elements (the sea).
In reference to Italy’s political status in the mid-1960s, the presence
and influence of the moon implies that after the death of communism,
society is not completely without hope if we can count on regular cycles
of new energy. Thus, with the introduction of Luna right after Togliatti’s
funeral and just before the crow is consumed, Pasolini injects his hope
that a genuine Left will start to make a difference. However, the father
and son’s final deed sparks the suspicion that the common individual will
consume the last authentic civic voice in an unconscious or instinct-
based fashion. Like the hawks in the film’s Franciscan interlude, who,
despite all their lessons in love, continue to eat the sparrows, both
generations risk journeying through life as mere survivalists, exerting
power where and when they can. The fact that the prostitute Luna is the
one entity or being with whom the men engage physically sustains
Pasolini’s association between woman and beginnings. Through Luna,
he makes human instinct, the body, and nature’s cycles central to the
notion of new life in the political arena, hence, extending his thesis from
the individual being to the community or state.
To the men they support, prostitutes seem as simple and straightforward

a resource or solution as man’s ‘daily bread.’ Yet the truth is somewhat
more complicated. Though seemingly of the borgata, prostitutes actually
exist on and constitute the border between two worlds, the borgata and
the city centre. Because they must accommodate both sides in order to
survive, they end up embodying the spatial, social, economic, historical,
and existential characteristics of each in one contradictory, ambiguous,
and, ultimately, unresolvable whole. The dilapidated shacks, abandoned
fields, city streets, and state prison that prostitutes occupy delineate an
ideological contrast between the marginal (ancient-instinctive) and the

central (mainstream-moral) cultures. Geographically speaking, the pros-
titutes typically come from rural villages beyond the city limits. But
because their livelihood comes from within the urban sphere, they also
encounter the mentality of the centre, and, through their clients, come
into contact with modes of existence that are different.
At best, the clients’ behaviour towards the prostitutes is equivocal; they
desire them for their services but publicly repudiate them for moral
reasons. From an economic standpoint, prostitutes are completely ex-
cluded from the city’s progress and material prosperity. Yet they are
central to the primitive economy of the borgata, which would collapse
without this workforce. Prostitutes also embody the notion of borders in
a historical sense, for they exist between the past and the present. That
is, their lives in the present are characterized by codes of conduct and
kinship from the ancient, rural outskirts of Rome. Finally, from an
existential viewpoint, the prostitute is intrinsically linked to life and
death in that she embodies a limbo state of existence/non-existence or
vitality/oppression as exemplified by the following contrasts: (1) while
life and vitality issue from her humble cultural roots, the threat of social
oppression emerges from her contact with the centre; (2) although her
work brings money and, thus, sustenance to her male dependent, it also
incites a cultural clash. Through the prostitute, the lowly male character
comes into contact with the city centre but is immune to its basic work
ethic and sense of moral responsibility. He cannot live on the terms it
sets forth, and the ensuing disaster subdues or annihilates him com-
pletely.53
Between 1961 and 1966, Pasolini successfully broadened the scope of
his political message through his portrayal of prostitutes who revitalized
the individual and, in some cases, their communities. In Accattone, Stella
represents an innocent, marginal past, which is not dominated by the
borgata laws of possession and demand nor by the expanding bourgeois
morality in Rome. In fact, the film only hints briefly at the notion of this
moral consciousness through state institutions such as prison, police,
and the anonymous eye or authority that follows Accattone in his last
days. In Mamma Roma, we note a more direct confrontation between the
ancient and the new through the daily interactions of Mamma Roma and
Ettore. Mamma Roma continuously moves towards the social goals she
sets forth, but her desires contrast sharply with her past and origins, as
precariously personified by her son. Differently still, Luna of Uccellacci e
uccellini is a highly symbolic figure of almost mythical status; she is a
Prostitutes 101
pure, reliable, and uncontaminated entity in the midst of ideologically

confusing and culturally desecrated times. If accessed with a genuine
sentiment or perspective, Luna’s vitality could restore life to both the
individual and the many.
Given their double status as central and marginal figures and as
signifiers of life and death, the prostitutes in Pasolini’s cinema continu-
ously converge two cultural realities, two ideological spaces, and two
places in time, making them essential to the preservation and regenera-
tion of elementary, genuine human relations. Poor, exploited individuals
from the lowest ranks of society, prostitutes are nevertheless symbols and
strongholds of an ancient goodness, and the untainted cultural roots
they represent restore life to their male counterparts. Indeed, the virtue
of these women (like their pimp and idler companions, in many cases)
stems from the fact that the neo-capitalist ethics sweeping through Italy
did not erase their original identity and crude vitality – or, if it did, at
least not completely. In Accattone, Mamma Roma, and Uccellacci e uccellini,
prostitutes are partly, if not completely, excluded from the materialist
mentality of the great ‘anthropological mutation’ of the late 1950s and
early 1960s.54 To the contrary, in these films, the prostitutes’ subclass
status firmly represents an alternative, pre-existing universe – one with
unwritten codes of honour and justice, the main objective of which is
survival, whether within their marginal cosmos or on the contentious
border with Rome. Because their lives emerge from a genuine past but
engage with the corrupt present, prostitutes are conceptual thresholds,
or points of confluence between the old and the new. To an even greater
extent than the mothers, perhaps, Pasolini’s prostitutes illuminate Italy’s
sociocultural situation in the 1960s and helped gauge the progress (for
better or worse) that humankind had made on its existential journey.
4 Daughters
Ma perché nell’esporti questa Teoria dei Due paradisi,

ho parlato di tuo fratello Pietro e non di te?
È semplice: perché senza la sua storia di figlio maschio,
la tua non potrebbe essere confrontata a nulla,
e non si potrebbe quindi neanche cominciare a parlarne.
Pasolini, Teorema, 78
[Why in explaining this Theory of Two Paradises

did I speak about your brother Pietro and not about you?
It’s simple: because without his story as the male son,
yours could not be compared to anything,
and, therefore, one could not even begin to speak about it.]
Although Pasolini’s early films centred on the lower classes in Rome,

several of his later films (not to mention his poems, essays, newspaper
columns, and plays) focused on the growing bourgeoisie and the moral
authority that this upper-middle class exerted both within and beyond
the home.1 He was greatly concerned with the influence of ‘parents’ –
their ideologies, desires, and actions – on ‘children.’ But whereas previ-
ously his personal experiences and poetic musings as ‘son’ had caused
him to concentrate on the male child’s relationships to authority and
authority figures, by the mid-1960s, Pasolini began to study the daughter’s
plight, too. Il Vangelo secondo Matteo, Teorema, Porcile, Appunti per un’Orestiade
africana, and Medea each have a daughter who is forced by a family
dilemma to come to terms with her role in society.2 Pasolini created his
most significant daughter figures between 1968 and 1970, at a time when
Daughters 103
gender and generational relations were of great political interest and

incited student demonstrations in many countries. In his films, he ex-
plores each daughter’s subjugation and ability to act independently and
effect meaningful changes.
Though Pasolini more often and more typically reflected on the par-
ents’ desecrating influence within the male sphere of fathers and sons, it
seems that he only arrived at the heart of the problem through the
specifically female lens of the daughter. Daughters elucidated a new
perspective on childhood and subjectivity that simultaneously denounced
the gendered, generational, and class-based codes of the bourgeoisie.
Although his films never focus exclusively on the daughter figure, the
young women are crucial to the story onscreen. Each young woman is
caught in a difficult relational triangle with her parents – particularly the
mother – and is compelled to distinguish herself with respect to their
authority and other moral forces that bind her. Although a fragmented
sense of self may inhibit her from living authentically, for Pasolini, the
daughter’s internal struggle is at least a sign that passion and reason
coexist within her. In some instances, we see the daughter toil to estab-
lish a more genuine mode of existence for herself (Odetta, Electra); in
others, we see her become overwhelmed by the living signs of an ancient,
religious, and barbarian culture (Glauce), or appear so conditioned by
the homogenizing cultural forces in society that she is largely oblivious to
what might be good or pure in her life (Salomè, Ida). The daughters we
see in these films are driven to a variety of extremes – blind conformism,
illness, even suicide – the civic consequences of which are deeply trouble-
some.
Il Vangelo secondo Matteo (1964)
The first film to portray an important daughter figure is Il Vangelo secondo

Matteo, an adaptation of Matthew’s Gospel, in which Salomè is men-
tioned. Salomè offers a first window onto the troubled state of the female
child in the bourgeois family paradigm, where she lacks an integral
notion of self. Salomè is the daughter of Herodias and Philip the Tetrarch.
While still a girl, Salomè flees from her home with her mother, who
marries Philip’s brother, Herod Antipas. When John the Baptist con-
demns Herodias’s second marriage on the grounds of adultery and
incest, the shamed Herodias seeks revenge through her daughter and
makes her perform a dance for Herod Antipas in hope of receiving
a favour. Compelled by loyalty to her mother, Salomè dances for the
drunken king, who, enticed and pleased, grants her a wish. Promptly and
obediently, Salomè asks for John the Baptist’s head on a platter, and the
king obliges.3
As per the biblical account, Il Vangelo secondo Matteo tells the story of
Christ’s birth, life, persecution, and death. However, early in his film,
Pasolini establishes his theme of public authority and the ruling class, as
well as this social group’s fear of John the Baptist’s new teachings.
Pasolini also underscores the hypocrisy of King Herod, who concurs with
the Pharisees that John the Baptist’s preaching about Christ constitutes
heresy and thus imprisons him. Though Salomè has nothing to do with
these preceding events, her actions affect all that follows. By dancing in a
way that pleases her uncle-stepfather the king, she inspires his generosity
towards Herodias, who is motivated by her thirst for revenge. Salomè’s
part in this personal-turned-political turmoil takes place in three brief
sequences: the first, just before the dance, as her mother prepares her
for the mission; the second, during the dance, which lasts about a
minute; and the third, after her dance, when she delivers her mother’s
wish.
As we know, Pasolini’s concept of cultural authenticity was grounded
in the notion of innocence. Yet his idea of innocence was less a state of
sinlessness in the Christian sense than a reflection of a genuine essence
and very modest social status. Most of all, being innocent entailed re-
maining immune to, or unchanged by, the cultural hegemony of one’s
day, namely, the ruling class, its moral authorities, and its materialist
ideals. In Il Vangelo secondo Matteo, Salomè is potentially virtuous in both
senses. Initially, she is indeed a sinless child – virginal, even angelic in
appearance. Akin to Botticelli’s angels, or Filippo Lippi’s Salomè, she is
covered from head to toe in pretty weightless clothes.4 She wears white
and carries flowers as symbols of her purity. But although she is still a
child and presumably uncorrupted by bourgeois ideologies, her inno-
cence in Pasolini’s cultural terms is questionable. Her mother guards her
before and after the dance, and, during the dance, Salomè is simul-
taneously bound by the gaze of both ‘parents.’5 Trapped and stifled,
Salomè lacks genuine opportunities to think and act for herself.
These doubts regarding her integrity notwithstanding, Pasolini con-
veys Salomè’s potential virtue through her narrative placement in the
film and through his filming techniques. His editing choices effectively
liken Salomè to other blameless children by showing her just before or
after brief references to them. An unidentified Salomè first appears
between scenes of Jesus talking or interacting with children whose bright
smiles connote an ineffable purity of spirit that is foreign to the rigid
Daughters 105
authority figures (i.e., the Pharisees) ruling from afar. Both her anonym-
ity and the narrative proximity of her appearance (thanks to the editing
that juxtaposes her with them in this scene) suggest that she shares their
virtue. Likewise, Pasolini chooses the moment just after Salomè’s dance
to capture a little blond boy in a close-up and have Jesus proclaim that
God’s kingdom resembles (the beauty and innocence of) children.
Contrary to other portrayals of Salomè’s dance as overtly seductive, in
Pasolini’s film, the dance has no sexual connotations. Rather, the direc-
tor uses the occasion to underscore the corrupt nature of the parents’
desire for power and to assert his belief that children are their victims.
Salomè’s dance, writes Pasolini in the screenplay, ‘has nothing profane,
sensual or shameful about it’ (‘La danza di Salomè non ha nulla di
profano, di sensuale e d’impudico’). ‘She dances an exquisite dance that
alludes stylistically, but only vaguely, to the movements of Oriental dance.’
(‘Salomè che danza una squisita danza che solo vagamente accenna,
stilisticamente, ai movimenti della danza orientale’).6 In the film, the
portrayal of the dance is faithful to this description and emphasizes
youth and innocence. As critic Viano points out, ‘there is no attempt to
make the audience complicit with Herod’s lustful gaze,’ which allows us
to focus on the image of the manipulated child, driven to her actions by
her unvirtuous parents.7
Salomè is a pawn in her parents’ desecrated dealings. Though a
member of the privileged class herself, she is used as both the vehicle for
her mother’s emotions and the king’s wish to justify adultery and mur-
der. During the dance, we see how the young woman experiences psy-
chological pressure from both sides of the family triangle. There is a
series of revealing silent exchanges between Salomè, Herodias, and
Herod. Herodias stands to one side of Salomè, as King Herod Antipas
looks on from the other. Initially, his penetrating glance inhibits Salomè’s
actions and constitutes an intense filmic moment of object transfer as he
temporarily displaces his desire for the grown Herodias to the young girl
(just as her mother wished). But rather than being ‘an empty canvas
onto which Herod projects his sexual desire,’ Salomè is used as a conduc-
tor to facilitate the noble couple’s corrupt authority. In the moment of
her dance, she is a pure vessel who turns into, as Viano then adds, ‘the
predestined victim of an authoritarian gaze,’ which forces her to be a
signifier of power (rather than pleasure), ‘regardless of her desire to be
so.’8 Herodias is the motor behind Salomè’s action (dance and wish),
and Herod is the counter-authority that prevents her rebellion and keeps
her in place.
Pasolini alludes to Salomè’s victimization by indirectly comparing her
with John the Baptist. He proposes their similarity by alternating shots

between the both figures just before Salomè’s dance. First, he shows
Salomè all alone in a courtyard, dressed in white and playing with a
pebble, much as any poor child might pass the time on an endless day.
He then shows John the Baptist, who sits alone in prison, praying as he
awaits his fate. A window metaphorically joins the two, first by distin-
guishing John’s closed prison sphere from Salomè’s presumably free and
open sphere. Indeed, at this point, John’s existence is wholly internal
and contemplative, while Salomè’s existence becomes a public perfor-
mance and political show. The two are profoundly connected in that
John the Baptist’s life depends on Salomè’s actions, and, in fact, as the
prisoner looks up at the light through his small window, we cut to
Salomè, whose innocence quickly dissolves as she enacts her mother’s
plan.
Salomè’s dance, then, not only constitutes a unique moment of agency
but also a missed or literally impossible chance to individuate as a
subject. Herodias’s desire for revenge has imprisoned Salomè in a family
triangle, destroyed her innocence, and undermined her potential to
subvert the ruling class. Throughout the sequences in which she appears
with Herodias, Pasolini conveys the mother’s emotional hold over Salomè.
First and foremost, we note the women’s physical proximity. They stand
side by side, garments almost touching, connecting physically through
the act of dressing for the dance. The women’s closeness is also revealed
through a silent exchange of glances, which gives a sense of the inter-
subjectivity (here, a shared emotional state of anticipation, vendetta,
and fear) characterizing Salomè’s preparation for and execution of the
dance. Indeed, Pasolini describes both women as ‘absorbed, anxious,
and evil,’ as they stand apart from the others (who celebrate around
them) and think ahead to their common objective.9 Not surprisingly, the
event seems more like a funeral than a celebration. And although
Salomè is the centre of attention at this party, neither she nor her
mother shows signs of happiness. Again loyal to the screenplay, Herodias’s
and Salomè’s ‘funereal’ expressions contrast with the festive environ-
ment and guests.10
Unlike the mothers discussed in chapter 2, who, despite their faults,
represented authentic origins and vitality, Herodias is not at all virtuous;
she neither sustains nor recovers a pure dimension in her life, and so
much the less for her daughter. To the contrary, her presence portends
death and destruction, and her actions are shallow and spiteful. As a
result, Herodias has nothing to offer Salomè in terms of goodness, only
Daughters 107
adverse traits that weaken and destroy. This negative transfer of desire
between generations is visible through the women’s ambiguous smiles.
When mother and daughter first exchange glances (as Salomè gets
dressed for her dance), their smiles rapidly transform into looks of deep
concern, even dread. Herodias then kisses Salomè as if sealing a pact,
and Salomè smiles, though faintly, to confirm. After her dance, Salomè
must receive the king’s suspicious smile and, following through with her
mission, she smiles back. She then curtsies and runs to find her mother
in a puerile gesture that at once says ‘it’s her fault’ (indicting Herodias)
and ‘save me’ (indicting Herod). Whether out of shame or fear, Salomè’s
reaction reminds us of her dependent and undifferentiated status. She is
a candid and trusting creature imposed upon by her mother’s crippling
demands. The dance initiates her as a vehicle of power and ends her age
of innocence.
Salomè’s story is a metaphor for the violent and utterly criminal effects
of bourgeois authority on the younger generation. She is free neither to
conceive of nor pursue a notion of self that is distinct from the forces and
figures moulding her beliefs. As a result, she is forced into a role that
leaves few choices for subjectivity and authentic modes of being. The
story of her loyalty to Herodias, therefore, has broader civic meaning. It
illustrates how children, once snared by the web of corrupt authorities,
become part and parcel of a sweeping cultural demise. They must fit a
mould or literally risk their lives to be different. Much like John the
Baptist, who, representing the revolutionary spirit of Christ the saviour, is
killed by the authorities, Salomè, representing the new and untainted
generation, is now co-opted and suppressed. She can exist in the father’s
world only in so far as she reflects the values and objectives of the
authorities. Of course, compared with John the Baptist, Salomè only dies
metaphorically, in that her identity is assimilated by others.
But Pasolini portrays Salomè’s dance as a requiem to every innocent
human group, age, or class with the potential to resist the effects of mass
desecration.
Teorema (1968)
Four years after making Il Vangelo secondo Matteo, Pasolini revisited the
theme of children inheriting their parents’ sins in his widely acclaimed
Teorema. By 1968, Italy was in the throes of political unrest and experienc-
ing an era of uprisings and demonstrations.11 Influenced by activist
groups from Berkeley to Paris to Prague, young students in particular
were voicing their demands for reform in the universities and other
fundamental institutions such as the family and the workplace. Pietro
and Odetta, the son and daughter in Teorema (1968), belong to this
political generation but do not partake in such public events. Rather,
they experience their emotional and ideological turbulence internally.
Through their processes of subject individuation, suddenly catalysed by
the arrival of a mysterious guest in their home, the two youths take
different paths to self-knowledge. While the son ‘dutifully’ tries to ex-
press himself outwardly (in art), the ‘rebellious’ daughter gradually
withdraws into herself. And it is on the fine line between internal and
external realities in the corrupt present that Pasolini probes for signs of
virtue in this family.
The teenage children in Teorema belong to a rich, industrial family
living in Milan between 1967 and 1968: Paolo (the father), Lucia (the
mother), Pietro (the son), Odetta (the daughter), and Emilia (the ser-
vant). The five members never speak to one another and hardly interact.
The main storyline involves them equally in portraying the following
hypothesis: what would happen if a divine guest were suddenly to enter
their household, have sex with each of them, and a day or two later
disappear? The theorem or ‘truth’ Pasolini posits with this film is that each
individual would experience a crisis that is profoundly destructive or
redeeming in some way. As it turns out, the maid becomes a small-town
saint; the mother, a sexual automaton; the son, a frustrated, painter; the
father, a philanthropist nomad; and the daughter, a dead weight or non-
being. While there is much to be said about the each character’s reac-
tion, our focus here is on Odetta’s radical retreat, for by giving in to a
catatonic state, she renounces the human world as she knows it.
Still in her early teens, and the youngest family member, Odetta
theoretically holds the promise of some authenticity – that is, a capacity
to nurture genuine desires and remain unaffected in any profound
fashion by cultural hegemony. Her potential is immediately visible in the
childlike traits she exhibits. In the opening sequences, she wears a school
uniform, a ponytail, and no make-up. Compared with her made-up and
highly stylized mother, Lucia, she is not a woman but a girl and still very
much in her formative years. Other noteworthy features are her big eyes
and penetrating glance, as well as the occasional run or skip in her gait,
such as that we see when she runs from garden to family house and back
to the garden to get her camera and take pictures of the guest. Akin to
Salomè, Odetta conveys her unpretentious state through her diffidence
towards men. In the opening sequence, she shies away from a callow
Daughters 109
suitor who teases her and playfully grabs at her books. Here, she jealously
guards her one special possession like a toy or prize and, in the manner
of a schoolgirl, says, ‘I don’t like boys.’12 On other occasions, Odetta
retreats to her childhood bedroom, where she sits on the floor and takes
out objects from her toy chest as if they were buried treasures.
Odetta’s girlish and naive qualities suggest that she may be capable
of an authentic existence to some extent, but that her relationship to
authenticity (as Pasolini conceives of it) remains at best indirect and
profoundly problematic because of the oppressive influence exerted by
her parents and her social class. Although outwardly the parents and
children do not spend much time together, the cultural hegemony that
their household represents engulfs Odetta completely. In truth, it traps
her thoughts and emotions, it conditions her every move, and it inhibits
the full development of her persona. Pasolini portrays the stifling na-
ture of this environment through the girl’s deeply concerned look,
which she wears at all times. She is so weighted down in this world,
writes Pasolini in the text of the novel upon which the film was based,
that her forehead looks like ‘a box of painful intelligence, or, perhaps,
knowledge.’13 Pasolini portrays this burdened look through medium
and close shots of Odetta’s ultra-serious face as well as her association
with closed or ‘fixed’ objects, such as the photos she takes, the photo
albums she carries, and the toy chest where she stores them, almost
under lock and key.
Odetta’s photographs are the first sign that she has an unbalanced
relationship with her parents. At a critical adolescent age, Odetta has
developed her identity almost exclusively through her relationship with
her father. That she idolizes Paolo is evident during her very first
sequence, in which she carries a special photo: a large picture of him
posing alone (‘solo la prima pagina è inaugurata, da una grande fotografia:
la fotografia del padre’).14 Odetta clearly suffers from an Electra com-
plex of sorts, which Viano considers a ‘superficial tribute’ to Pasolini’s
own Freudianism.15 But Viano’s observations that ‘Odetta has no image
of herself except through the eye of an overpowering male’ and that
‘her relationship to the world is informed by patriarchal discourse’ are
insightful. Because Odetta exists within a restrictive system of male
authority and bourgeois codes (‘Odetta ha tutti i caratteri esterni e
comuni di una ragazzina molto ricca’), she not only has no voice but also
no notion of self. The iconographic image of the father therefore
confines her to the prescribed role as ‘good daughter’ in the upper
echelon of Milanese society.
Odetta’s void is exacerbated by the absence of any vital mother-mirror

with whom to identify during her formative years.16 Although Odetta’s
mother, Lucia, is theoretically present in the household, she is generally
absent from Odetta’s life. Granted, the two women appear in the same
room or space on a few occasions. They are both physically present at the
party at which the guest appears, at the family dinner table when the two
telegrams arrive, and at the moment when the guest prepares to leave.
Yet, unlike Salomè and Herodias in Il Vangelo secondo Matteo, Odetta and
Lucia have no physical contact and no communicative exchanges.
Whether for better or worse, Pasolini shows no visible relationship be-
tween the two – no emotional connection and sense of loyalty or obedi-
ence to speak of. And even when physically present, Lucia is nonetheless
absent as a mother because she lives in her own spiritual dilemma and is
tied up in seeking her own path to survival. Yet, when physically missing,
she is symbolically present in a debilitating way, since the regular mater-
nal void makes Odetta more dependent on her father and more obliging
to the social codes that the Father in general represents.
To show how Odetta might grow aware of her authentic self, Pasolini
creates a unique relational triangle among Odetta, the guest, and Paolo.
Personifying an esoteric and mystical divinity, the guest not only estab-
lishes a direct relationship with Odetta, as he does with each family
member, but he also replaces the missing mother in the parental tri-
angle. This substitution allows Odetta to truly individuate for the first
time and, eventually, grasp her subjectivity. The father–daughter–guest
relationship solidifies when Paolo falls ill, and Odetta and the guest
remain at his bedside and try to comfort and cure him. In this bedroom
space, Pasolini shows each of the three characters alone and then in
relationship with one another. Through their different points of view,
as well as the gazes they exchange, we see Odetta relating to her father
through the guest and to the guest through his relationship with Paolo.
Pasolini particularly emphasizes Odetta’s increasing discernment with
regard to her father’s hitherto mythic dimensions and her growing
interest in the guest.
This triangular relationship culminates a few days later when Paolo
recuperates from his illness outdoors. The guest sits and keeps him
company, while Odetta stands by and keeps watch. Odetta silently ob-
serves her father as if he is a puzzle or a sign that has changed in
meaning: ‘La malattia l’ha trasformato [Il Padre], e ha certo toccato –
davanti agli occhi di Odetta – una realtà che sembrava incorruttibile: la
realtà del padre potente e immortale’ (The illness transformed the
Daughters 111
father, and before Odetta’s eyes changed a reality that seemed inalien-
able: the reality of a powerful and immortal father).17 Whether as a
result of the illness or the guest’s strong counter-presence in her life,
Odetta’s blind devotion to Paolo then changes. She no longer exhibits a
quasi-divine adoration towards him. Instead, she studies him from a
distance and sees him in smaller dimensions, for the first time becoming
aware of his weaknesses and mortality. In fact, to be doubly sure of what
she sees, she diligently documents the two men’s presence with photos.
However, unlike the opening sequence, in which Paolo was the sole
object of her viewpoint and photo-memories, Odetta now turns away
from her father, ‘discovers’ the guest through her lens, and is drawn to
his body instead.18
Odetta’s apparent loss of control involves seeing the new, mysterious
reality (embodied here by the guest) and opening herself up to em-
brace it. A newfound notion of self and subjectivity then emerges as she
gains direct access to an alternative and sacred dimension in her life. At
first, it seems that Odetta displays devotion and reverence for the guest
out of gratitude for the healing techniques he employed to cure her
father.19 However, the same sensual desire that overwhelmed the other
family members eventually engrosses Odetta too. We see the effect of
the guest’s presence and, more precisely, his difference with respect to
the father, through the alternate viewpoint of her camera lens. In the
midst of taking pictures of her convalescent father outdoors, Odetta
stops to observe the guest – his face, his shoulders, his chest, and his
pelvic area.20 Her first reaction is one of fright. Running away, into the
house, she reminds us of Salomè taking shelter behind Herodias for
having dared to look or communicate with her eyes. But when Odetta
returns to the garden space, she has suddenly mustered the strength to
take action. She grabs the guest by the hand, draws him away from her
father, into the house and then to her bedroom. Here, she symbolically
compares her past and present identities by taking her photo album out
from the toy chest to look at family pictures before turning around to
the guest – to his ‘pure and powerful’ penis – and silently consenting to
sex.21
For Pasolini, sex constituted one of the most genuine modes of self-
expression and human interaction; because it was largely instinctive, it
could transcend the power of moral authorities and social codes. Odetta’s
sexual union with the guest leads to her awareness and acceptance of an
authentic self that is only knowable in contrast to, or in defiance of, her
family structure and its values. This new phase in Odetta’s life is espe-
cially noticeable just before and after the guest’s departure. No sooner
does Odetta embark on her journey to self-knowledge through direct
contact with the guest than the guest receives a telegram stating he must
leave. The news comes as a blow to her, as it does to everyone, and it
impels her to voice the feelings aroused by her recent introspection. In
her monologue to the guest, she explains how she came to know a pure
and sacred essence in her life, and that, through physical contact with
him, she has found a solution to her dilemma. She says: ‘Mi hai fatto
trovare la soluzione giusta e benedetta alla mia anima e al mio sesso’
(You helped me find the right solution, the blessed solution for my soul
and my sexuality). With the genuine spirituality of his body, then, the
guest changed her life and nurtured her body and soul. Moreover, by
connecting so intimately with him, Odetta was able to release her child-
hood fears – of men and of losing her father. Having realized this, she
adds: ‘La presenza miracolosa del tuo corpo (che racchiude uno spirito
troppo grande) di giovane maschio e padre, ha sciolto la mia selvaggia e
pericolosa paura di bambina’ (The miraculous presence of your body
[that contains too great a spirit] of young male and father, unleashed my
wild and dangerous girlish sense of fear).22
Once aware of this new self, Odetta will accept nothing less. Rather
than return to her desecrated bourgeois reality – the only world to which
she has regular access – Odetta gradually withdraws from her role as
family daughter. When the guest leaves, Odetta calmly revisits the spaces
he occupied and ponders the meaning of his absence. She stands at the
tall iron gate guarding their house and, through the grates, observes the
street on which he left. In the screenplay, Pasolini describes the street as
a void, and that void a sadder, more offensive, yet more normal reality
than ever. (‘E quel vuoto è più triste, offensivo, normale che mai.’)23 In
the film, Odetta clearly perceives the nothingness around her. But now
she is equipped to compare it to the lack of selfhood that had character-
ized her life until then. For instance, she now knows that the absence
actually indicates a presence. She senses that the void may point to
fulfillment, and that the profane identity sustained by the bourgeois
family paradigm signals the authentic possibilities that lie beyond it.
From the front gate of her home, Odetta walks to the backyard,
contemplating the guest’s presence in the chairs where he often sat and
read, as if by revisiting the details of his recent stay she might rediscover
the new life he brought to her existence. She literally traces the steps
between the spaces that she, her father, and the guest once occupied,
trying to understand her relationship to each of them, and she is so
Daughters 113
intent upon getting the details just right that she meticulously checks
with a tape measure to be sure that her calculations are exact. Yet it
seems that what transpired between her, Paolo, and the visitor cannot be
explained with math. So she continues to retrace her ‘path’ to her
newfound selfhood by returning to her bedroom. Here, she symbolically
replicates her initial contact with him by opening her toy chest – a token
of her virginity or innocence and of her fixed identity in the past – and
taking out the family photo album. In reviewing the pages that now
contain pictures of the guest, she touches the young man’s body, survey-
ing it as she originally did through her camera lens. At the precise
moment of contact with his ‘sex’ – that is, when she arrives at his pelvis
area – Odetta clenches her fist, lies down on her bed, and never wakes up
again.24
With the gesture of her closed hand or clenched fist, then, Odetta
makes a radical turn inward to foster her subjectivity. That is, she chooses
an identity of absence from the bourgeois world she has known in order
to exist as an individual. Or, as Viano explains,
After her encounter with passion, Odetta finds her will, the will to reject a
text that did not let her have an image of her own. So Odetta does not
passively fall prey to a catatonic attack. She chooses the psychiatric ward,
for she now prefers to embody madness rather than lie as an appendage of
the Father. Hence she makes herself absent, refusing to lend her body any
further to a text that had no real place for her.25
By replacing her mother with the guest in the parental triangle, Odetta
can consciously relate to the guest (the sacred) and the father (patri-
archy) and, consequently, make a choice. Therefore, her decision to
assimilate the former and diminish or redimensionalize the latter (through
photography or the creation of new texts) represents a mindful dis-
avowal of the ‘good daughter’ paradigm to which she was psychologically
and socially limited. In the end, Odetta identifies with the mysterious
and the authentic presence that swept through her life. And, in doing so,
she not only overturns the restrictive family mould but also resolvedly
grasps an essence all her own.
Odetta’s journey to self-knowledge through her encounter with the
guest combines the sexual and the spiritual, the instinctive and the
intellectual. For Pasolini, by the late 1960s, the body and the intellect
seemed the only routes to establishing or recovering a sacred dimen-
sion. One had to conceive the sacred mentally to feel it, or to feel it
physically and instinctively to believe it. Thus, at the broader civic level,
sex in Teorema represents humanity’s last hope for authenticity. One by
one, as each person encounters the guest, Pasolini affirms that seeing
and acknowledging alternatives and otherness with regard to the main-
stream invisibly infiltrating our lives from all sides must begin with the
individual, who, when healthy and secure, can then pass it on to the
family, the community, and the broader society. Indeed, this passage
outward from the individual is the missing link in Pasolini’s theorem. In
the specific case of the bourgeois family, each member is too weak or
insecure to truly grasp diversity and nonconformity and make it a con-
necting and central force in their lives. Only the maid, Emilia, who
comes from the most humble working class, is able to turn her encoun-
ter into a communal and unifying event. By contrast, after the guest’s
departure, the family unit disintegrates further into dysfunction and
alienation. One after another, each family member treads a lonely path
to the end.
However, like Odetta, who opts for a pure, uncorrupted state of
existence through total detachment and isolation from her family, the
monolithic paterfamilias follows her lead out of the world – of the
bourgeois present – with an equally radical gesture.26 At first, Paolo is
tempted to find a substitute for the guest that would allow survival in the
present. To this end, he seeks out blue-eyed young men with whom to
have sex at the train station until the sight of a toddler at his feet incites a
profound change. Paolo then suddenly sheds his identity by literally
disrobing. He withdraws from mainstream society, as signalled by the
central station in which he stands, and walks off to the desert, naked.27
Therefore, the primary parental figure who symbolically inhibited her all
along is somehow restored or reborn by the daughter’s decisive change.
In this case, the child’s recovery of an authentic dimension allows for the
parent’s recovery, too, and suggests that the new generation will pave the
way for the older one. More precisely, the generation of daughters, who
never stand to become fathers themselves, will have the force and perspi-
cacity to resist a monolithic cultural perspective and not only see but also
assimilate the signs of virtue around them.
Through Odetta, Pasolini expressed the daughter’s ability to resist
cultural oppression among the privileged classes by means of physical
and mental awareness as well as personal determination. Granted her
freedom paradoxically consists of the hermetic closure of her self to the
desecrating world around her, but Odetta’s ‘way out’ shows that revolu-
tion must take root in the individual before it can take shape in society.
Daughters 115
Seen in this light, Odetta’s singular, silent gesture of remaining wide-

eyed with an indomitably clenched fist does not communicate ‘a failure
to grasp her essence’ in the corrupt and present of the cultural main-
stream. Rather, it proves that she sees and seizes this very essence, and
that, despite the cost of losing her place in society, she has resolved never
to let it go.28 In this way, Odetta becomes ‘Other’ like the guest – a
deviant, according to Viano, for whom there is no place in society.29 The
family dutifully confines her to a sterile room before displacing her
completely to a psychiatric clinic. In the end, Odetta disappears from
society as mysteriously as the guest, proving bourgeois society’s inability
to embrace or host ‘diversity incarnate’ in any lasting or meaningful
fashion. At the civic level, Odetta’s departure has sober ramifications, if
read as the death of a new and promising family dimension. However, if
her symbolic death leads to new life in the father, there is hope that
society at large might be restored with greater awareness of – and naked
contact with – the sacred.
Porcile (1969)
A year after Teorema, Pasolini offered another example of the dysfunc-

tional bourgeois family and spiritual void in Italy. Porcile (1969) portrays
the restrictive and conformist relationship between young and old gen-
erations and the dispirited nature of gender relations within and be-
tween them. The film has two separate but intertwining storylines. ‘Orgia’
(Orgy), is set around the year 1000 and tells the tale of a young cannibal’s
fatal clash with the civilized world. ‘Porcile’ (Pigpen), set in the rich and
industrial Germany of 1968, depicts the disturbed young Julian’s fatal
clash with the materialist goals of his parents and girlfriend. The one
protagonist rapes, kills, and even eats human flesh, and the other en-
gages sexually with pigs. But the laws of consumption eventually reverse
on both: the cannibal is captured and put to death, and the student is
devoured by his pigs. Here I will focus on the modern tale and Julian’s
struggle with his family and class. Simply put, Julian is irresolute. He
cannot decide if he is ‘for’ or ‘against’ his father – the Father – and the
neo-capitalist culture he represents. Nor can he decide if he is for or
against his girlfriend Ida and the revolutionary student generation she
represents. Viewed in opposing terms as they relate to parental figures,
Julian epitomizes the great danger of political indecision, while Ida
epitomizes the negative fate of the co-opted younger generation.
Despite the fact that Ida’s parents never appear, and that she is never
shown in the context of her own family, the seventeen-year-old girl

nonetheless typifies the ‘daughter of the bourgeoisie’ as she interacts
with Julian and his family in their elegant Godesberg mansion. Through-
out the film, her outgoing ways, ‘revolutionary’ spirit, and general opti-
mism make her a foil to the depressed and cynical Julian. Interpreting
the role of Ida is the same woman who played Odetta in Teorema (Anne
Wiazemsky). She very much recalls the earlier daughter figure for her
girlish traits and her pursuit of relationships that she deems meaning-
ful.30 Yet unlike the introverted Odetta, Ida expresses herself outwardly
and emphatically in political discussions and activities. Furthermore, she
continuously seeks to engage Julian in conversations about his emotions,
ideological positions, and future aspirations. Ida wants to know if he
loves her, for example, and she wants him to join her student group in
their upcoming demonstration in Berlin. But her efforts are to no avail,
since Julian lives in another world: he nurtures a secret love for pigs that
transports him beyond the daily realities of his bourgeois sphere. This
deviant existence is so base and unacceptable to his whole family and
class that he excludes himself from their rank and file before they even
learn of it. Julian’s instinctive relationship with the pigs is what makes his
union with Ida impossible. Though depraved, Julian’s attachment to his
pigs is a symbolic example of extreme ‘Otherness’ or resistance, and it
reveals the extent to which Ida, co-opted by her elders, ignores all that is
authentic. In the end, Pasolini has us wonder which young person’s
existence is really the more perverse.
Notwithstanding her youth and spirited demeanour, the only remnant
of Ida’s innocence is the fact that she is a teenaged schoolgirl. But under
the oppressive influence of conservative parents, and burdened by her
environment, Ida acts and appears more like an adult than a teenager,
particularly with respect to Julian. She does not dress like a typical
schoolgirl but rather like a lady, even donning a fur on one occasion. Her
visits to Julian give the impression of being part of her daily business or
plan, and her conversation always demonstrates clear objectives or con-
cerns. At times Ida even sounds like Julian’s mother, reminding him to
act his age, get clear on his goals, and make up his mind (‘Julian, sii serio.
Hai venticinque anni ...’).31 When Julian facetiously turns their conversa-
tions into rhymes and games – ‘Ehi, non voglio con questo dir nulla,
neanche se invece di Ida ti chiamassi Ulla’ (Hey, I don’t want to say
anything with this, not even if your name were Ulla instead of Ida) – Ida
clearly stands out as the more mature figure, despite the eight-year
discrepancy in their age.32 In fact, during their first conversation in the
Daughters 117
film, Ida goes as far as to say that she has come in the guise of a forty-
seven-year-old woman like his mother, Mrs Klotz.33 In other words, she
behaves as a mature woman accustomed to her son’s capricious nature
and equipped with the authority to make him think and speak.
In Pasolini’s view, the one trait that might anchor Ida to cultural
authenticity is her seemingly rebellious spirit. Early on in her dialogues
with Julian, we learn that she plans to join some 10,000 students in a
political demonstration in Berlin. Together these young people will piss
on the symbolic Wall to protest the state authorities and the controlling
systems they represent. When Julian is first undecided and then states he
will not go, Ida accuses him of being a coward for not taking a stance
(‘se non vieni sei un vigliacco’). Theoretically, the Berlin march would
be the younger generation’s opportunity to break free from bourgeois,
parental constraints. But, through Ida, Pasolini elucidates not only the
false nature of Ida’s claims – ‘Il tono delle frasi di Ida è quello un po’
rigido dei rivoluzionari improvvisati’ – but also the emptiness of the
student demonstrations of this era (1968).34 For the author, Ida’s politi-
cal activism is of the worst kind because it amounts to nothing but
conformism. In truth, Ida’s words and actions are the main signs of her
blind adaptation to the mainstream. Thus, Julian’s disinterest in Ida’s
political impetus actually signals the opposite – the healthy, autonomous,
sincere option; it illuminates the daughter’s condition as a mere puppet
and suggests that her protest is counter-productive, if not entirely mean-
ingless and corrupt.35
Ideally, through her conversations with Julian, Ida would detach from
the parental influence as he does (albeit in an anti-social, sardonic, and
soon-to-be-catatonic way). Ideally, Ida would become authentically aware
of the non-meaning of her political actions. But, at seventeen, she proves
so completely convinced, co-opted, and caught up in the student agenda
that she does not grasp the way in which Julian sees what is truly
different. To point this out to Ida, Julian temporarily strays from his
stance of indifference, nudging Ida to reflect on his individualism, ‘Ma
credi che il conformismo possa gettare un’ombra sulla mia infinità?’ (Do
you think that conformism can cast a shadow on my infiniteness?), and
on his conscious will to remain unchanged, ‘Ti rendi conto che la mia
qualità principale è di restare inalterabile?’ (Don’t you realize that my
main quality is that of remaining unchangeable?). Through Julian’s
questions, Pasolini underscores the daughter’s hypocrisy and offers the
son’s apathy as the truly revolutionary solution. Julian’s earlier activism
was futile, he (Julian) claims, because his world – the bourgeois world –
does not attribute meaning to words like ‘conformism’ and ‘dissent.’ ‘Ho
capito che ero conformista anche se facevo il rivoluzionario. Nel sistema
planetario in cui vivo parole come conformismo e dissenso evidentemente
non esistono’ (‘I understood that I would be a conformist even if I was a
revolutionary. In my planetary system words like conformism and dissent
obviously don’t exist’).36 It becomes clear, then, that Ida belongs to a
world that pays no heed to such terms and whose political actions are
largely insignificant. Therefore, the glimmer of hope stemming from her
activism is quickly dashed. She goes to Berlin and returns home un-
changed and even worse off, since she gets engaged to a student named
‘Puby.’ The young man’s name (a play upon puberty) accentuates the
fact that Ida has prematurely adopted a maternal role, thus clinching her
bourgeois fate.
Presuming that her parents are similar to Julian’s, it seems safe to
assume that Ida’s healthy individuation was impeded by the dominant
culture that the older generation represents and that Ida, very much like
the other daughters we have seen, is a crippled subject in a corrupt
system with false values. Pasolini conveys this lack of openings or oppor-
tunities with the internal setting of the Klotzes’ family home. He pre-
dominantly portrays all of his characters in closed spaces, single rooms,
and tight symmetrical systems. In the case of Ida and Julian, the director
uses the mise en scène and formal structure of his shots to establish the
contrasting relations between the two youths. For instance, he continu-
ously keeps Ida in the alternate field of vision from Julian. Whether
captured in the same shot or in shot-reverse shot sequences, we almost
always see the son and daughter in opposition to one another as Ida tries
to unite with Julian and form a couple. Even when the two youths are
outdoors in the open air, the formal symmetrical division between them
prevails. The two walk in parallel to one another on either side of the
villa’s reflection pool, which mirrors the rigid architecture of the stately
family mansion behind them. When they walk together and almost kiss at
the end, each comes from an equidistant point on opposite ends of the
screen, which confirms the diametric nature of their approaches to one
another and the divergence of their worlds.
Whether to suggest that, at twenty-five, Julian already belongs to the
generation of fathers and thus opposes the student generation that Ida
represents, or that, at seventeen, Ida has wholly assumed the mentality of
the parental sphere that Julian defies and resents, Pasolini establishes
the two youths as opposites. Moreover, he paradoxically asserts that
Julian’s illicit sexuality, when compared with Ida’s co-opted status, com-
Daughters 119
prises the only example of free or unadulterated living in their world.

The strong parental influences, the neo-capitalist culture of the Klotz-
Herdhitze empire, and the geometrically closed living spaces (denoted
by the ‘perfect’ palace) all reinforce the distinct impression that not a
single breath of authenticity can survive in this stifling environment.
Even the daughter proves to be a vehicle of the dominant culture.
Only Julian retains an aura of mystery, for he conducts a portion of his
life apart from the ‘central’ family system, outside and detached from
the actual home. And he preserves this external, marginal, and deviant
reality as if an essence or a truth all his own. When Ida tries to get under
his skin to discover his hidden motivation in life, Julian teases and then
decisively excludes her from his secret escape: ‘Io mi alzo alla mattina, e
cosa mi aspetta? Una giornata piena del mio amore. Gli atti di questo
amore devono avvenire in segreto: devo conoscerlo solo io, questo è
molto importante; perché questo segreto mi ricongiunge alla vita’ (I get
up in the morning, and what do I expect? A day full of love. The acts of
this love have to take place secretly. Only I can know it. This is very
important; because this secret reconnects me to life).37 Julian’s secret
becomes a metaphor for new life – an inalienable essence or notion of
self that cannot be influenced or appropriated by others. By making this
truth inaccessible and then (once revealed) simply unfathomable to
others (at the end, the Godesberg community opts to ignore Julian’s
lurid activity), Pasolini denounces the world’s refusal of diversity,
honesty, and ‘Otherness.’
Pasolini further portrays the denial of diversity through Mrs Klotz, who
epitomizes the rotten bourgeois condition. Much like Herodias and
Lucia, this mother figure, even if unrelated to Ida, is a desecrated role
model through and through. Mrs Klotz is so far removed from any life-
giving qualities that her occasional presence and conversations inhibit
Ida’s individuation even further. We note the older woman’s wish to
influence the girl the very first time she appears before the young
couple. Eager for Julian to make a plan and get married, she expresses
her approval of Ida as a wife: ‘È un peccato che non vi decidiate. Il mio
Julian avrebbe proprio bisogno di una ragazza gentile, dolce, innamorata
sul serio’ (It’s a shame you can’t decide. My Julian really needs a kind,
sweet girl, one truly in love).38 In Mrs Klotz’s eyes, Ida would make the
perfect, supportive bourgeois wife (much like herself) that every indus-
trial giant needs. And if it were not for Julian’s reluctance, it seems that
Ida would be content to assume that role. But rather than heed his
mother’s utilitarian advice, Julian cynically retorts with a childish but
effective rhyme – ‘Se si mettesse insieme al suo patrimonio il nostro,

diventerei padrone di mezza Germania, lana, formaggi, birra e bottoni.
Senza contare i cannoni’ (If we put together her patrimony with ours, I
would own half of Germany, wool, cheeses, beers, and buttons. Not to
mention the cannons) – as if to say that assimilating her ideas means
becoming like his father, handicapped, gullible, and generally weak.39
When Julian suddenly falls ill, and his counter-influence is silenced,
Ida must contend directly with his mother. Here, Pasolini poses the
mother and daughter figures in opposition. During their dialogues, the
women either sit face to face at a distance of a few yards or stand on
opposite sides of doorways or windows with a clear open space in be-
tween. They disagree on nearly every point about Julian, whether com-
menting on his talents, interests, or character traits. However, the verbal
disagreements and physical distance between the two women are an
illusion. Although Mrs Klotz represents the older generation, and Ida
the young one, and while Mrs Klotz represents the conservative mother
and Ida the rebellious child, their ‘opposing’ ideas are mirror reflections
of one another – inverted but representing the same thing. Thus, the
women mesh identities as they fight over Julian until Ida finally senses
their similarity. Giving up her fight, Ida brings them both to a similar
plane stating ‘delle povere donne, siamo; pensi se lui ci sentisse’ (‘what
wretched women we are; imagine if Julian could hear us’).40 Ida has no
way out from this identification with her, it seems, since her catalyst,
Julian (her other term of reference for individuation), remains in his
absent state. If she were perceptive, she might realize that Julian, though
closed off in his own world, was still exerting his influence. Laying there
so consciously and radically different, Julian shows rather than speaks his
virtue. Not by chance is he likened to the Holy Shroud (‘ma eccolo lì che
giudica come una sacra sindone’), an embalmed saint (‘È là nella sua
stanza ... come un santo imbalsamato), and, in the film, to Saint Sebastian,
the martyr.41
With Mr Klotz in a wheelchair and rarely shown in her presence, Julian
lost to illness, and Mrs Klotz intent on assimilation, Ida is surrounded by
useless points of reference that do nothing to help her develop an
autonomous identity. This ineffectual family environment is even re-
flected in the Klotzes’ family name, which, in German, generally means
one of two things: either a ‘block,’ as in a piece of wood, or a ‘chump,’ as
in a fool or a dupe. Whereas Mr Klotz, symbolically weakened by his
wheelchair, turns out to be a business chump vis-à-vis the conniving
adventurist Herdhitze, Mrs Klotz is much like a wooden block – an un-
Daughters 121
thinking, unfeeling, inanimate object, a stiff and shapeless human sub-

ject. She only has meaning if carved and shaped for the specific purpose
of her class. In this, she is as much a dupe as her husband because she,
too, is manipulated by the forces of capitalism, and, ironically, subjugated
by those like Herdhitze (literally oven heat), who prove ‘hotter,’ or, in
other words, more prepared, astute, or powerful. Sadly, Mrs Klotz’s fate as
a bourgeois mother portends that of Ida, the bourgeois daughter, who
cannot take form as a subject before the cultural system appropriates her
so silently and completely that she does not see how her desires and
actions are riddled with flatness and insincerity.
Ida’s inability to individuate in the rigid and prescriptive family sphere
portends the unpromising fate of the young generation, which is to be
thoroughly inculcated with their parents’ ideological convictions. Through
the course of her conversations, it becomes clear that Ida’s social and
political thinking is false or blind, and that it promises an empty exist-
ence. A young intellectual of the Sessantotto generation, Ida could easily
be one of the students Pasolini addressed in his mordant Il PCI ai gio-
vani ... ! (Give the Italian Communist Party to the Young! ). Written the year
before Porcile’s release,42 the poem is a reaction to student demonstra-
tions at the School of Architecture in Rome, which were carried out
against Italy’s outdated and inefficient education system.43 In essence,
Pasolini found the figli in this event, masked as communists or supporters
of social reforms, to be no different from their conservative parents. This
realization was so troubling that he lashed out with sarcastic reproach:
È triste. La polemica contro

il PCI andava fatta nella prima metà
del decennio passato. Siete in ritardo, figli.
E non ha nessuna importanza se allora non eravate ancora nati ...
Adesso il giornalisti di tutto il mondo (compresi
quelli delle televisioni)
vi leccano (come credo ancora si dica nel linguaggio
delle Università) il culo. Io no, amici.
Avete facce di figli di papà.
Buona razza non mente.
Avete lo stesso occhio cattivo.
Siete paurosi, incerti, disperati
(Benissimo!) Ma sapete anche come essere
prepotenti, ricattatori e sicuri:
prerogative piccolo-borghesi, amici.
Quando ieri a Valle Giulia avete fatto a botte

coi poliziotti,
io simpatizzavo coi poliziotti!
Perché i poliziotti sono figli di poveri.
Vengono da periferie, contadine o urbane che siano.44
[It is sad. The polemic against

the Communist Party should have been started in the first half
of the last decade. You are late, children (sons and daughters).
And it doesn’t matter if you were not even born yet ...
Now journalists from around the world (including
those from television)
kiss your asses (I think you still say it that way in
university lingo). But not me, friends.
You all have the faces of spoiled kids.
A true race doesn’t lie.
You have the same evil eye.
You are fearful, insecure, desperate
(Very good!) But you also know how to be
overbearing, blackmailing and self-assured:
prerogatives of the petty bourgeoisie, my friends.
When you fought yesterday at Valle Giulia
with the policemen,
I was on the side of the police!
Because the police are children of the poor.
They come from the outskirts, whether urban or agricultural.]
Ironically, the teppismo or hooliganism of the young demonstrators in

Rome confirmed the violent attitude of the conservative Right rather
than the revisionary approach of the communist Left. Like Ida’s march
in Berlin, the protest at Valle Giulia was an empty and hypocritical
gesture because it was not motivated by genuine political engagement so
much as the insolent and hegemonic tendencies of the dominant class,
which Pasolini thought characterized youth culture at that time. Further-
more, the event substantiated Pasolini’s pessimistic view that both young
and old generations had by now been so equally and profoundly co-
opted by a consumer mentality that neither had any notion of let alone
concern for authenticity. Even worse, by the late 1960s, Pasolini could
hardly distinguish between the Right and the Left.
To stress what, for him, comprised the real tragedy in this situation,
Daughters 123
Pasolini compared the arrogant demonstrators, male and female, with

the innocent police officers they brutally attacked:
Hanno vent’anni, la vostra età, cari e care.

Siamo ovviamente d’accordo contro l’istituzione della polizia.
Ma prendetevela contro la Magistratura, e vedrete!
I ragazzi poliziotti
che voi per sacro teppismo (di eletta tradizione
risorgimentale)
di figli di papà, avete bastonato,
appartengono all’altra classe sociale.
A Valle Giulia, ieri, si è così avuto un frammento
di lotta di classe: e voi, amici (benché dalla parte
della ragione) eravate i ricchi,
mentre i poliziotti (che erano dalla parte
del torto) erano i poveri. Bella vittoria, dunque,
la vostra!
[They are twenty years old, your age, dear boys and girls
We are obviously in agreement in our stance against the police.
But take up your anger with the Authorities (magistrature) and you’ll see!
The young policemen,
who you for sacred hooliganism (elected tradition
from the Risorgimento period)
of spoiled kids, beat,
belong to the other social class.
Thus at Valle Giulia, yesterday, we had a fragment
of class struggle: and you, friends (although on the side
of reason) were the rich,
while the police (on the side
of the wrong) were the poor. Nice victory,
yours was!]
Here, Pasolini openly blasts the younger generation for its hypocrisy. He
views them as a group of spoiled, conformist teens who take pride in a
fruitless victory. Since the police – who in theory denoted the authority
and the state the students vehemently resented – were, in practice,
genuine, poorly educated people from the disadvantaged southern
regions, the students were actually beating and fighting the ‘have nots’
or ‘Others’ whom the PCI was supposed to support and defend.
It is in light of a similar political irony that we must read Ida’s impetus

as a student activist going to piss on the Berlin Wall in 1968. And it is this
same lens we must use not only to read Julian’s anti-conformism but also
to acknowledge it as a form of heroism. For this reason, the daughter Ida
is a crucial foil for Julian. Ida’s rebellion paradoxically initiates her as a
conformist; Julian’s rebellion excludes him as ‘Other,’ mad, or deviant.
Ida’s thoughts and actions solidify her place in the mainstream and
majority; her actions show that she has bought into the dominant culture
of her day. By contrast, Julian’s thoughts and actions solidify his renun-
ciation of his central and privileged position. Julian dies, consumed by
pigs, but this will be kept a secret. His death is too extreme to be
recognized as a profoundly human and meaningful message, and, as
with Odetta, bourgeois society uncategorically rejects any move towards
the authentic. So Julian is forgotten, Ida disappears into the void, and all
hope for a bright, constructive future is either lost or simply consumed.
Appunti per un’Orestiade africana (1970)
In Teorema and Porcile, Pasolini exposed the artificiality of the Italian

bourgeoisie at the end of a tumultuous decade in order to underscore
the complete disappearance of genuine subcultures, even in the younger
generation. However, in the same period, he borrowed from Greek
tragedies to create the films Appunti per un’Orestiade africana (1970) and
Medea (1970), both of which take on the issue of the younger generation
finding a place for the religious or spiritual. One of his ‘film notes’ or
‘notebook-style’ works from the 1960s, Appunti per un’Orestiade africana, is
a preliminary film – a set of ‘film notes’ – for a future film on Aeschylus’
three-part tragedy, which begins with Agamemnon’s return to the House
of Atreus after conquering Troy.45 As such, Appunti combines the main
characters and plot ideas for a future fictional film about Orestes with
real-life, documentary-style footage and interviews.46 After providing an
introduction and overview of the plot, Pasolini uses a rich collage of
voice-over comments, panoramics, and close shots to explore the various
people and settings he might use for his film.47
As Pasolini searches, he comments that an Electra will be the hardest
to find in the modern African setting.48 Given the number of strong,
introspective, expressive young women he found in the African nations
he visited, this conviction is, at the very least, thought-provoking. Accord-
ing to the filmmaker, ‘African girls lacked the pride, harshness, and
hatred that animated Electra.’49 Watching them laugh, for example, he
Daughters 125
reflects on how all of life seems a great celebration for them, ‘with their
beautiful colored scarves, red, yellow, blue, purple.’50 Thus, while mod-
ern African women connote cultural authenticity through their visible
vitality and ritualistic ways, Pasolini’s Electra will have to convey the same
through a deeply destructive vengefulness born from irrational desires.
Yet all that is destructive and irrational is not necessarily negative, at
least not in Pasolini’s world. Electra also nurtures a deep and direct
connection to the deities and the divine through the contemplative life
that generates her rancorous longings. The hypothetical Electra Pasolini
eventually finds is a young and marginal creature. In fact, she is shown
only once in an isolated outdoor setting, where she solemnly brings
offerings to her father’s grave. We assume that Electra expresses her
sense of self through devotional acts such as this quite regularly, and that
her rites and prayers denote a direct communication with the earth and
the gods. Indeed, Electra’s words (as hypothesized in voice-over com-
mentary) are few and limited to one prayer. Like other African women,
Electra represents an ancient, magical world, but it is the profundity and
power of her inner life that distinguishes her as a subject.
Electra is similar to other female figures in the Orestiade, for instance,
Cassandra and the Erinyes. Albeit minor characters or entities, Cassandra
and the Erinyes are both also powerful symbols of the profoundly spiri-
tual culture to which Electra belongs. Cassandra is the young soothsayer
who becomes Agamemnon’s lover in Troy. Upon returning with him to
the House of Atreus, she foresees the tragedy about to unfold and,
consequently, pleads with Agamemnon not to go home. Though brief,
Cassandra’s agency is essential to the tale because it issues forth from her
mystical powers, and her visions empower her to change the course of
events.51 Only Agamemnon does not believe or comply. Like Cassandra,
Electra also influences the main story and the male protagonist from her
position at the margins of the family microcosm or society. Her prayers
will illuminate past events and catalyse fateful deeds to come.
Though Electra is human, she is also similar to the Erinyes or ‘daugh-
ters of the Earth’ – the irascible spiritual entities that infiltrate Ores-
tes’s system and compete with his rational capacities. These ancient
goddesses of family violence embody the passionate nature of human
beings. After Orestes kills his mother and uncle, they mercilessly perse-
cute him until Athena intervenes and transforms many of them into
Eumenides, who then also embrace the human faculty of reason. For
Pasolini, the coexistence of passion and reason within these spirits points
to a future symbolic order in modern society that is based on balance
(Apollo and Athena), though never free from conflict or violence. Within
the familial sphere in the House of Atreus, Electra has a similar spiritual
function. She is the blood-thirsty figure seeking revenge for the misdeed
done to her father by her mother and uncle, and she appeals to Orestes
to carry out her wish. The passionate effect she has on her brother,
however, is abated and balanced by the goddess Athena’s court of justice
and the democratic order of her society.
Like the other daughters we have seen, Electra belongs to a powerful,
patriarchal family, and, in the wake of her father’s death, she remains
involved in a difficult triangular relationship with her parents, even if
they are both absent from the film. She clearly loves her father and
remains in contact with him through prayer. And she clearly hates her
mother, Clytemnestra, for her selfish and violent deeds of killing
Agamemnon and marrying his brother. Whether present or absent,
Clytemnestra is not a nurturing or edifying figure in Electra’s life.52
Instead, Electra has an emotional bond with her father and brother.
Therefore, Electra is not entirely isolated or inhibited in terms of differ-
entiation in Pasolini’s film. Despite the fact that she has a subordinate
role and is unable to act on her own in society, the extreme events in her
family allow her to clearly perceive her own desires and, with the help of
others, launch her subjectivity.
Like Aeschylus, Pasolini suggests that with her brother Orestes’ help,
Electra will achieve an authentic existence based on a clear understand-
ing of her relationship with each parent and her pivotal role in the
desecrated family sphere. Granted, she still lives in a patriarchal society
that in many ways limits her, but, thanks to her profound inner life and
genuine spirituality, she can still express her personal longings and
realize her goals. For instance, in the prayer cited below, Electra demon-
strates a clear preference for the aspects of her identity she wishes to
retain or destroy. Though none of the hypothetical characters in these
film notes actually recites lines from the Greek play for the camera,
Pasolini’s voice-over commentary includes several monologues from
Aeschylus’ original. Such is the case of Electra’s monologue at
Agamemnon’s tomb. Pasolini’s rendering of the prayer shows a small
piece of land with some grassy spots in a small garden and a tiny hut.
When making the film, he asked the man and woman living there to
carry out the actions and say the words they would customarily say upon
praying at the grave of a loved one. During this brief scene, Pasolini
reads in a voice-over:
Daughters 127
Dio dell’Inferno, re dei vivi e dei morti,

fa’ che ascoltino questa mia preghiera
gli spiriti che stanno sotto terra, testimoni
terribili dell’assassinio di mio padre,
e la Terra stessa, madre di tutti noi,
che ci ha nutriti e in sè ci raccoglie,
a germinare nuove vite – mentre versando
quest’acqua sacra ai morti, io prego mio padre:
‘Padre, pietà di me, e di tuo figlio Oreste!
Fa’ che torniamo padroni della nostra casa!
Ora non siamo che due diseredati senza
speranza: così ci ha ridotti la stessa nostra madre
che ha sposato Egisto, complice del suo omicidio.
Io sono viva e schiava, Oreste vivo, è in esilio,
e quei due trionfano, ricchi della tua ricchezza.
Che un caso divino riconduca qui Oreste,
questo ti chiedo, dammi ascolto, padre!’53
[God of the Underworld, king of the living and dead,

make the spirits that live underground,
witnesses of the terrible assassination of my father,
listen to my prayer
And the Earth herself, mother of us all,
that has nourished us and gathers us in herself
to germinate new lives – as I pour
this sacred water upon the dead, I pray to my father:
‘Father, have pity on me, and on your son Orestes!
See to it that we return as masters of our house!
Now we are nothing but two outcasts without
hope: our own mother who married Aegisthus,
accomplice in your murder, reduced us to this condition.
I am alive and a slave and Orestes is alone, and in exile,
and those two triumph, rich with your wealth.
May a divine force bring Orestes here,
This is what I ask of you, hear me, Father!]
In this prayer, Electra invokes the God of the Underworld, the spirits
of the dead, Mother Nature, and Agamemnon. She beseeches first their
compassion and then their assistance in avenging her father’s death.
Specifically, she asks that they send her brother home, where he will
become the primary vehicle for her plans. Through his act of murder,
Electra will preserve the family name and protect the rights and prosper-
ity of future generations in their home. This prayer not only gives shape
to her desires but also reflects a deeply spiritual aspect of her existence.
It is through these words that we see that Electra’s subjectivity stems
mainly from the force of the irrational desires through which she will
summon the mystical sphere to avenge her father’s death. While the
experience is painful, it allows her to individuate in a less conditioned or
compromised fashion than any of the daughters before her.
Electra contends with the power-hungry and oppressive figures in her
family – particularly her mother and her uncle, Aegisthus – by invoking
the divine spirits and actively calling a spiritual dimension back into the
family sphere. In doing so, she foreshadows Athena’s lesson to Orestes.
That is, Electra represents the passionate and irrational forces that
coexist with the forces of reason and exert an influence on even the most
rational human beings. In this way, Electra’s relationship with her brother
– the son – gradually gains broader social and political significance. First,
Electra individuates a sense of self through her family’s tragedy and,
more so, through her inner life and prayers. It is in this profoundly
contemplative act that she then assumes a communal role – one that is
beyond her family or even city because it embraces the earth, the natural
elements, and the gods. Electra can now articulate her desires and spur
Orestes to action. In the irrational and spiritually driven daughter coex-
isting harmoniously with, and even influencing the rational and civic-
minded son, we can read Pasolini’s proposed ideal for meaningful agency
and fruitful intersubjectivity among the young generation. In other
words, the combined subjectivity of Electra as motivator and Orestes as
agent suggests how humankind might salvage its ancient and honourable
roots while striving for fair, honest, and vitalizing modes of human
interaction and community life.
In sum, Electra embodies within the family microcosm that which the
Erinyes symbolize in society at large. She is the ‘Other’ who contends
with and even calls upon the dominant and rational forces (Eumenides)
in society in order to preserve the emotional basis of her agency. The
widespread significance of Electra’s spiritual impetus is reflected through
the rich array of women that Pasolini filmed for his notes in Uganda,
Nigeria, and other African nations. These women were the thread of
hope that a new world might not be entirely devoid of devout cultural
practices and beliefs. Like Electra, the unabashed spontaneity or silent
Daughters 129
diffidence of these women exemplified genuine forms of vitality. Whether

on their way to a wedding or mourning someone’s death, their lives were
grounded in ritual and prayer. As Viano notes, freeing the equation of
women and irrationality from clichés provides a ‘powerful feminist
subtext.’54 Because the images of women are nonsexual and ‘black,’ they
are an effective symbol of socio-political difference (gender, race, roles,
spaces, cultures) at many levels.55
Electra’s prayer taps the themes of generational strife and mass des-
ecration across Italian and other societies. It treats the subjects of class
conflict and social justice, particularly when Electra describes herself and
her brother as oppressed. She likens herself to a slave in Aegisthus and
Clytemnestra’s wicked regime and portrays her brother as a victim of
marginalization through exile. The metaphor of class struggle in Electra’s
prayer continues through the comparison of parents and children to
owners (padroni) and outcasts (diseredati), respectively. In this film, the
theme of social difference – among Pasolini’s favourites, and a true
keystone of his poetics – also takes on the additional dimension of colour
because the filmmaker relocates the tragedy from Greece to Africa. In
other words, in Appunti per un’Orestiade africana, Pasolini extends his
theme of ideological opposition to the difference between black Africa
and the white Western world. Electra’s need to individuate within a
potentially annihilating social environment (the family and beyond)
reflects the same need experienced by the then-new African nations,
which, in order to truly and authentically come into being,
had to differentiate from their ‘parent’ or ‘master’ nations and retain
ancient cultural ties and primordial ways of being.
Medea (1970)
Pasolini continued to explore the daughter’s troubled existence through

the mythical character of Glauce in Medea. In this film, Pasolini portrays
the Corinthian princess as a modest young woman in her late teens who
marries to obey her father’s will. She appears on only two occasions,
which, being two renditions of the exact same scene, doubly reinforces
her difficult relationships with Creonte, Jason, and Medea. The action in
these two scenes is quite simple. Glauce solemnly stands with her father
and maids in a receiving room of their house, where she accepts the gift
of a dress and jewellery from Medea, presented to her by Jason and
Medea’s two boys. Glauce retreats to her room to try on the dress.
Frightened by her new appearance, and overtaken by a strange force,
she runs from her room and the palace and leaps to her death from a
high wall. The first version of this event presumably depicts Medea’s
mental preparation or ‘vision’ of her vengeful plan. The second is the
actual execution of the plan. Pasolini repeats this scene, it seems, to
underscore two things: the strength of Medea’s spiritual dimension; and
the consequences that Medea’s personal dilemma has for the younger
female generation (Glauce), thus the ruling class (the king).
Once again, the daughter figure proves crucial in the family triangle.
Like several of her counterparts in other films, Glauce still has a child’s
status within the family, and she is, at least initially, a guiltless member of
a patriarchal system that makes her an object of socio-political contract
between men. Glauce’s subordinate social status is clear from the fact
that her father, Creonte, chooses her mate. We also note that Glauce is
largely silent during her short appearances. Moreover, the spaces she
inhabits suggest that she leads a marginal or solitary existence with
respect to the rest of the community. Indeed, Glauce’s life seems to be
much more solemn, sheltered, and inwardly directed than one would
expect of the daughter of a king. Pasolini shows her in enclosed settings
(dark rooms or passageways), always wearing heavy garments that sym-
bolically weigh her down. Equally weighty are certain aspects of the mise
en scène and the girl’s facial expressions. Glauce is surrounded at all
times here by numerous maids and seems preoccupied, if not afraid.56
When Jason and his sons bring their gift, Glauce emerges from a thick,
imposing wall and a swarm of female servants (in the absence of a real
mother, perhaps) to accept Medea’s gift and then quickly withdraw.
Despite her youth and innocence, Glauce is neither a direct vessel of
the divine like Electra nor an example of cultural innocence wholly
denied like Ida. Instead, Glauce represents untapped potential for au-
thenticity in that she demonstrates reverence and sensitivity towards the
mysterious ‘Others’ and events in her life. Like Salomè, she is an inno-
cent subject unawakened to conscience awareness and action. In Corinth,
Glauce remains solely an object of desire and a term of social contract for
the adults or authorities in her life but does not see these things for what
they are. In this respect, Glauce is on a par with Medea and Jason’s two
sons – the two youngsters who are vulnerable to desecration and destruc-
tion in the modern world because they are not yet conscious of either
their parents’ conflicting authorities or the existence of a vital spiritual
dimension. Indeed, when the boys present Medea’s gift, Pasolini hints at
their similarity to the princess by showing them in parallel. In each of the
renditions of this scene, Glauce is with her father and the boys are with
Daughters 131
Jason – each obediently carrying out their social roles. And like the boys,
Glauce will eventually pay with her life for the clash between the sacred
and the profane.
Glauce is caught in different relational triangles, none of which foster
her authentic selfhood and identity because contrasting emotions con-
tinuously burden her. Consider Glauce in her simultaneous and pivotal
role as the third party in relationships with her father (Creonte) and
future husband (Jason); with her father (Creonte) and spiritual mother
(Medea); and with the modern world (Jason) and an ancient and mythi-
cal civilization (Medea). For Jason, Glauce is an object of desire; for
Creonte, she is a token of social prominence and exchange; and, for
Medea, she is a pawn in her plan for vengeance. Glauce’s confusion only
worsens when Creonte wants to protect her from Medea’s potential for
violence while still obliging her to honour his contract with Jason. In the
end, the daughter’s individuation process does not reflect that of a child
who turns away from one parent to associate more strongly with the
other. Rather, it is the tale of a young woman who, oppressed on all sides
and unable to break free from conflicting authorities and obligations,
awakens to her authentic ‘self’ only in time to break her chains and then
die.
Absorbed and appropriated as she is by the authority figures around
her, Glauce nonetheless identifies with Medea in a profound and mean-
ingful way. Because of Jason, she is indirectly bound to the older woman
by mixed feelings of jealously and loyalty. For example, although she
does not state it herself, we know that the young princess feels guilty for
marrying Jason. And the fact that she accepts Medea’s wedding gift and
even puts it on (despite a strange presentiment and her father’s beseech-
ing not to) shows that her determination not to offend Medea is stronger
than her willingness to obey paternal commands.57 Acceptance of Medea’s
gift is the first sign of her spiritual awakening. Furthermore, even though
Glauce is socially superior to Medea in Corinth, she appears subjugated
by Medea’s presence. As Creonte explains upon banishing Medea: ‘... è
per ciò che può fare mia figlia: che si sente colpevole verso di te e
sapendo il tuo dolore, prova un dolore che non le dà pace’ (... it is
because of what my daughter might do: she feels so guilty toward you
and, knowing of your pain, her pain doesn’t allow for any peace). Clearly,
Medea instills in Glauce a mixture of reverence and fear, so much so that
her wedding to Jason feels like a funeral.58
Glauce recognizes Medea as her spiritual mother and, through her,
opens her eyes to the central role of divine power in human lives.
Though unrelated, the women build a relationship with one another

through the internal workings of their hearts and minds; they are ‘mother’
and ‘daughter,’ not only because of their difference in age but also
because of the subordinate positions they occupy with respect to their
male counterparts. That is, both Medea and Glauce are subject to patri-
archal command, and both predominantly live indoors and inside them-
selves, nurturing a contemplative life. Finally, both suffer from the
decisions that Creonte and Jason make about Glauce’s marriage to the
latter. Indeed, it is through these plans for marriage that the two women
come together, if unwittingly at first, as competitors and antagonists. It is
on the occasion of Glauce’s marriage that Medea awakens Glauce to the
essentiality of a strong spiritual life through her gift of a magical gar-
ment, which metaphorically dresses the young bride in a new guise.
Nowhere is the discovery of a new self more striking than in the mirror
scenes following the gift-giving sequence in each rendition of Medea’s
revenge. As Glauce stands in front of the mirror, wearing the dress, she is
unable to see herself as she knows herself to be. The mirror image is
blurred, and Glauce is so painfully confused by what she sees that,
seeking freedom from the image, she flees. But as she runs, the dress
catches fire, and Glauce then leaps to her death.
Is it the charmed dress per se that makes Glauce react so extremely, or
is it the girl’s emerging subjectivity, signalled by her decision to wear the
dress and look in the mirror, that ultimately leads to her death? Which-
ever is the case, it is clear that Glauce’s emergence as a new subject
through her contact with Medea proves so overwhelming that she can no
longer accept her role in the present. Donning the magic garment
suddenly places Glauce in Medea’s dimension. Glauce is not traumatized
because she rejects Medea’s barbarous culture and faith, or because she
has been conditioned to the point that she cannot see it. On the con-
trary, while standing before the mirror, she is unnerved by a new aware-
ness of her corrupt existence and by the knowledge that her marriage to
Jason will only result in more of the same. Death, whether willed or not,
seems the only path to redemption. Glauce’s death suggests that, despite
her jealousy, Medea deemed the princess an innocent and salvageable
victim. In this case, Glauce’s death would imply the purposeful removal
of all genuine creatures from the desecrated realm of the present before
authority claimed them completely. Medea actually saves Glauce in the
same way that she saves her sons.
The broader implications of Glauce’s fate are the jolting and poten-
Daughters 133
tially debilitating effect of ancient and genuine cultures on those who

encounter them unprepared or too late. Her fate also reflects the gener-
ally precarious nature of any individual or community unwilling to con-
front the irrational and mystical sphere. For Pasolini, Glauce’s lack of
foresight or preparation was typical of the younger generations from the
privileged classes. In his view, they had grown up so completely detached
from any genuine origins that they lacked the spiritual foundation neces-
sary to recognize and revere ‘Otherness’ as positive and vitalizing. Whether
she panics and runs away from this new reality or from physical and emo-
tional pain caused by the cursed dress, Glauce’s individuation constitutes
a brief moment of awakening and the onset of a spiritual conversion. Her
sense of Medea’s suffering impels her to symbolically embrace the woman’s
spiritual and cultural difference by wearing the clothes she has given her.
The new image of self she gains exposes the extent to which her life has
been profane, and the void ultimately leads to her death.
Whether real or mythical, the daughters in Pasolini’s films have been

raised in a system that co-opts them from the beginning and offers little
chance for escape. While to a large extent the son figures (i.e., Pietro in
Teorema, Julian in Porcile, or Orestes in Appunti) face the same basic
predicament, in the poet’s mind, these young men are fathers-to-be who,
through gender identity and socio-political traditions, are inextricably
immersed in the dominant logic of patriarchy. For the same reason,
daughters are initially different, though they rapidly assume the cultural
values that the father, the bourgeois family, and the broader social
context oblige. Electra seems to be the only daughter who is not com-
pletely imprisoned by the patriarchal system. Pasolini’s rendition of the
tale, like its original, is liberating but not feminist; the daughter’s story –
her identity and her potential for rebellion and difference – are histori-
cally bound to the desire and agency of her brother. In the poem ‘Ma
perché nell’esporti questa Teoria’ ... (cited at the beginning of the
chapter), the poet-director specifically explains to Odetta, the daughter
in Teorema, that her story would not be possible without that of the son.
That is to say that, to others, the daughter only exists in relation to her
male counterpart. Subordinate, dependent, and humiliated by insignifi-
cance, she would have to struggle to make her story known.
Their narrative subordination and insignificance with respect to sons
notwithstanding, the daughter figures in these films are an important
part of the political discourse on generations that Pasolini routinely
delineated in a male, autobiographical key. Throughout his life, Pasolini

displayed a deep personal tie to the generation of sons and sought to
mirror himself in it. Whether street waifs (Ettore), mythical martyrs
(Christ), or cynical intellectuals (Julian), sons constituted an ideological
category that was simultaneously susceptible to blind imitation of the
fathers and driven to distinguish itself from them. But when Pasolini lost
much of his hope in the revolutionary potential of sons and also began to
feel like a father himself, the study of daughters allowed him to extend
his assault on the father, on neo-capitalist culture, and on patriarchy at
large. The category of daughters offered a fresh approach to the issues
with which he continuously wrestled, and a new perspective on the
question of authenticity among the young.
With his screen daughters, then, Pasolini sought to recover the
authentic traits he had previously found in the maiden mothers in his
poetry and early films – figures that contrasted severely with the decid-
edly unvital and potentially harmful mother figures from the later 1960s.
In each of the five films discussed in this chapter, the daughter engages
with one or both parental spheres in order to voice a desire that they
either inhibit or fully repress. The authenticity of the daughter’s subjec-
tivity therefore depends on her ability to reduce her parents’ influ-
ences – that is, to transcend or counter their cultural and moral authority.
Whether intentionally or not, the positive, negative, or absent role mod-
els around the daughter impel her to reflect upon her desires; she has
either to reinforce and conform to the mainstream or undergo a life-
altering change. Through this dilemma, Pasolini infused the daughter
figure with his own emotional struggles and ideological concerns; she
offered a different lens through which he could consider his own posi-
tion and his own parental relations. In retrospect, his observations on
daughters proved forward thinking, for ‘when a wave of feminism swept
over Italy in the 1970s and challenged women’s traditional roles ... and
daughters were hard pressed to find positive elements of identification
in them,’ Pasolini had already determined that a young woman’s success-
ful individuation would require an authentic encounter with the self and
a desire for something radically ‘Other’ with respect to the authoritative
codes of her culture and upbringing.59
5 Saints
Silence itself – the things one declines to say, or is forbidden to name, the
discretion that is required between different speakers – is less the absolute limit
of discourse, the other side from which it is separated by a strict boundary, than
an element that functions alongside the things said, with them and in relation to
them within over-all strategies.
Foucault, The History of Sexuality, 1: 27
Though Catholic, Pasolini’s parents were not ardent observers of the

faith, and his childhood included no formal religious education.1 Still,
throughout his youth, Pasolini nurtured profound sentiments for Christ
and the Holy Mother. ‘Until age fifteen,’ he once recalled, ‘I believed in
God with the intransigence of kids ... Particularly characteristic [of my
faith] was my devotion to the Madonna.’2 As a child, Pasolini loved to
look at icons of the Virgin, observing them with such fervour and
emotion that he was sometimes convinced that they smiled or moved.3
This affection for the Holy Mother influenced Pasolini in deep and
lasting ways – from his own identification with the son who revolution-
ized and suffered, to his adoration of Susanna Pasolini, and the innu-
merable references to the mother–son bond found throughout his
works. As a poet, Pasolini incorporated the Madonna’s pure and humble
traits in the characters of his poems.4 In his early cinema, he alluded to
the Madonna through certain borgata women, namely, the afflicted
Mamma Roma and the potentially redemptive Stella. He also briefly
depicted the Virgin in a tableau vivant parody of the Deposition of Christ
in La ricotta (1963). His most direct and unequivocal portrayals of the
Holy Mother take place in Il Vangelo secondo Matteo (1964) and Il Decameron
(1971).
Granted, many of the women in Pasolini’s films displayed the natural
humility and maternal grace that were typical of the Madonna. Yet
Pasolini reserved an even greater, ultrapious status for a handful of
women who comprised a category of goodness above and beyond that of
other women, either because they more completely and profoundly
embodied the human spirit that he so readily celebrated or because they
personified specific religious archetypes and aesthetic ideals. When not
the Madonna herself, these women were angel or ‘saint’ figures whose
words were few, whose presence was highly symbolic, and whose rare
gestures were weighty. At first glance, the saints’ silence and reserved
behaviour grants them a special, iconographic quality. But, at the same
time, the identical traits make them seem subordinate, even passive, with
respect to the primary events of the plot. As a result, many of these pious
women have been misinterpreted, meaning that no one has really seen
or considered what they contribute to Pasolini’s thesis on the fate of
authentic subcultures and human relations in modern times. A close
look reveals that, in each film, these apparently submissive and negli-
gible women use a keen sense of vision and non-verbal language to
embrace purity and diversity so completely that they become sacrosant
themselves.
By definition a saint is either ‘a canonized person regarded as having a

place in heaven,’ or ‘a very virtuous person; a person of great real or
affected holiness.’5 In the specific context of Pasolini’s cinema, this term
is attributable to just a few women, namely, the young and old Virgins in
Il Vangelo secondo Matteo (1964) and Emilia the servant in Teorema (1968).
There are also a few minor characters who to some degree qualify as
saints, namely, the other ‘Marys’ (Mary of Bethany and Mary Magdalene)
and the Angel of God in Il Vangelo. Another obvious saint is Giotto’s
(actually Giotto’s best student’s) or Pasolini-the-Artist’s Virgin, who ap-
pears very briefly at the end of Il Decameron (1971). Of course, Pasolini’s
films also include several pious men. Consider Christ in Il Vangelo, or St
Francis and his strange converts in Uccellacci e uccellini (1966). In addi-
tion, there is the zealous Saint Paul in the 1968 screenplay San Paolo
(published in 1977) that Pasolini never realized as a film. However, the
male saints will not be explored here because their focus on words in the
context of explicitly pedagogical relationships (teacher–disciples) is be-
yond the scope of this discussion.6 Instead, this chapter looks at the
Saints 137
silence of female saints and the importance Pasolini assigned to non-

verbal expressions in signalling and salvaging a spiritual dimension in
our lives – spiritual not so much in a conventional religious sense as in a
personal and social sense. Though in some cases this spirituality may
derive from a Christian sentiment (as in the case of Il Vangelo and Il
Decameron), throughout Pasolini’s opus this cultural ideal speaks more to
a global concern for integrity – wholeness or soundness of mind, body,
and spirit – as the foundation for human interaction.
As with other narrative traditions, in classic cinema, the ideological
construct of ‘woman’ often represents absence, limitation, or lack.
Whether through verbal silence or the sociocultural silence suggested by
her marginal spaces or subordinate roles, the female character’s status is
quite often one of non-belonging or non-signifying in the patriarchal
realm of language and meaning. In such cases, suggests Laura Mulvey,
‘she stands in patriarchal culture as a signifier for the male other, bound
by a symbolic order in which man can live out his fantasies and obses-
sions through linguistic command by imposing them on the silent image
of woman still tied to her place as bearer, not maker, of meaning.’7 The
female’s desire counts for nothing, and her expression of that desire
is nearly non-existent, while the male’s ‘fullness’ or freedom of self-
expression is enabled by her emptiness or subordination as subject. To
this critical notion, Silverman adds: ‘Classic cinema’s female subject ... is
what might be called a synechdochic representation – the part for the
whole – since she is obliged to absorb the male subject’s lack as well as
her own.’8 For Silverman, woman involuntarily subsumes all of the losses
in cinema in order to make the male subjects whole. And because she is
traditionally made receptive to the male gaze, she perpetuates her own
constraints as object within his trajectory. Thus, the female subject’s
‘obedience to the male voice’ – literal or metaphoric – indicates a lack of
her own and solidifies male power to the point of underwriting its
superiority.9
In Pasolini’s cinema, we undoubtedly find examples of women who
lack a distinct voice and clear-cut subjectivity. But not every woman’s
marginality or silence connotes inferiority and submission. There are
many female characters who, while receptive to the male gaze, launch a
powerful gaze of their own that identifies people, objects, and events
and makes them part of their own subjective trajectory. Consider, for
example, Emilia (Teorema) and Giotto’s Virgin (Il Decameron). The si-
lence and intense observations of these women render their ‘to-be-
looked-at-ness’ anything but merely sexual. Emilia’s levitation and the
Madonna’s central position urge the viewer to search for meaning be-
yond the immediate appearance of things and engage with the compel-
ling concept of silence as discourse.10
Pasolini’s attention to verbal versus non-verbal semiotics was part of a
larger and lasting preoccupation with the intricacies of power and au-
thority. Though he did not expressly conceive of speech and silence in
terms of a gender divide, he did critique the former for its position of
dominance, and he codified the latter as a central attribute of the
‘Other’ and of ‘Otherness.’11 The notion of a silent semiotics dovetailed
with his ongoing exploration of class and sexuality as key forms of social
difference and primary sources of human authenticity. Precisely because
these characteristics (along with an array of other factors such as race,
colour, religion, or geography) marginalized the human subject, they
provided a vantage point that allowed him/her to see and feel life from
an alternative perspective – from within a reality outside or beyond the
hegemonic culture of the contemporary ruling class. As one such social
group, the saints in this chapter subtly overturn viewer expectations
about language and, through their combined sight and silence, foster
his/her belief in the sacredness of authenticity and diversity.
In this sense, Pasolini was what Hélène Cixous called a ‘breaker of
automatisms’ in culture. As a homosexual and unorthodox Marxist, he
was already a ‘peripheral’ figure, and, as such, one among many whom
authority sought to subjugate and silence.12 It was from this marginal
place that he most often spoke, and it was in this light that he equipped
his saints with an alternative discursive practice. Although feminist theo-
rists would soon demand that women ‘break out of the snare of silence,’
Pasolini valued female silence and used it in ways that effectively weak-
ened the snare of patriarchal discourse, because it was precisely their
silence that endowed the saint figures with a voice far more penetrating
than words.13 The saints’ ‘lack’ was thus a positive condition and a
powerful vehicle of subjectivity.
Giacomo Manzoli has maintained that Pasolini granted pre-eminence
to the relationship(s) between voice and words, even when they were
absent from a given scene or text. For him, the films are ‘un luogo
privilegiato per esplorare l’infinita varietà di relazioni che tali elementi
[voce e parola] possono intrattenere con le altre componenti
dell’espressione cinematografica’ (a privileged place to explore the infi-
nite variety of relations that such elements can have with other compo-
nents of cinematic expression).14 The critic’s main concern was how
voice and spoken language combined with other ‘elementi vocomorfi’
Saints 139
(such as silence, vibrations, or the deafening sounds of an instrument)

to comprise a unique code that allowed Pasolini to recount things in
cinema while remaining anchored to their physical vitality.15 It was spe-
cifically the lack of words, I would add, that in Pasolini’s cinema kept the
expressivity of people, objects, and even events grounded in the genuine
terrain of physical truth – those rudimentary, instinctive, and bodily
realities that were so central to his sacred cultural ideal.16 So, to the
extent that a character’s identity might depend on her speech acts or
lack thereof, both voice and silence weigh heavily in the successful
expression of self.17 Yet despite the visual immediacy of facial expressions
and bodily gestures, it is often difficult to interpret silence. Thus, in the
case of Pasolini’s saints, whose relationships are built almost entirely on
silence, the screenplay becomes an important tool for gauging the mean-
ing and effectiveness of their discourse.
Il Vangelo second Matteo (1964)
Though Pasolini never made a film about Eve, he portrayed the Virgin
Mary three times – in La ricotta (1963), Il Vangelo second Matteo (1964),
and Il Decameron (1971).18 The first of these films contains the lengthier,
more detailed treatment of the Holy Mother, both as a young woman
who bears the Christ child and as the older woman who witnesses Christ’s
death. However, Il Vangelo second Matteo is not a film about Mary so much
as it is about ‘two thousand years of stories about Christ,’ his life on earth,
and his relationships with others.19 Women factor into the narrative
among those others with whom Christ connects directly or indirectly at
different times in his life. They appear selectively, and while in many
ways they are secondary with respect to the apostles (who live their daily
lives with the Messiah), the ‘Marys’ nonetheless have important roles to
play. Faithfully adapted from its biblical source, Il Vangelo portrays most
of the cardinal events in the life of Jesus Christ, as told by Matthew: the
Immaculate Conception; the Annunciation; the birth of Christ; the
Adoration; the Slaughter of the Innocent; the death of John the Baptist;
Christ’s travels, temptations, and teachings; the Last Supper; the Cruci-
fixion; and the Resurrection.20 Though their words are few, and their
actions simple, the old and young Virgins, as well as Mary of Bethany, are
essential witnesses, interlocutors, and, sometimes, agents of the divine.
Whereas the images a screenplay conjures in our minds often differ
from those eventually portrayed on screen, Pasolini visualizes his initial
description of the young Mary in Il Vangelo without compromising an
ounce of the candour and integrity he sought to convey through her

image in the script.
Figura intera di Maria. Essa è una giovinetta, ma lo sguardo è profonda-

mente adulto: vi brilla, vinto, il dolore. Il dolore che si prova nel mondo
contadino ... È una giovinetta ebrea, bruna, naturalmente, ‘proprio del
popolo,’ come si dice; come se ne vedono a migliaia, con le loro vesti
scolorite, i loro ‘colori della salute,’ il loro destino a non essere altro che
umiltà vivente. Tuttavia c’è in essa qualcosa di regale ...21
[Full shot of Maria. She is a young woman, but her look is profoundly adult:
pain, overcome, shines there. It is the pain of the farmers’ world ... She is a
young, dark, naturally Jewish woman ‘of common stock,’ as one says; one of
thousands we see with faded clothes, ‘the colours of health,’ and whose
destiny is none other than living humility. At the same time, there is
something regal about her ...]
The film depicts young Mary according to a compelling series of oppo-

sites: youth and maturity, poverty and nobility, strength and suffering.
Pasolini underscores the Virgin’s tender age by employing the word
giovinetta twice, and, as with the maiden mother of his poems, he refers
to the young woman’s existence as ‘living humility.’ Yet, because Mary is
destined to become a protagonist in the great public events that are
Christ’s birth, life, and death, she also connotes something regal. Her
imminent greatness is conveyed through numerous close shots of her
face, which, in conjunction with her silence, imbue her with an aura of
mystery.22 These moments of transcendence encapsulate her innocence
and lift her from her impoverished material status.
Pasolini also located the young Mary’s purity in the simple fact of her
pregnancy and motherhood, which required no words for expression.
Much like the descriptions in the screenplay, the film emphasizes Mary’s
humble gestures and the beauty implicit in her maternal grace:
F.I. o M.F. di Maria col bambino che le succhia il seno. Una maternità
purissima, ma ‘realistica’ ... Il realismo consiste nel fatto che intorno alla
Madonna ci sono gli oggetti reali, e perciò stesso commoventi e infine sacri,
della sua reale vita di sposa povera.23
[Full or half shot of Mary with the baby at her breast. It is an extremely
pure, but ‘realistic’ maternity ... The realism is based on the fact that there
Saints 141
are many real-life objects around her from her life as a poor wife. As such,
they are moving, ultimately sacred.]
Like the madre fanciulla, whose virtue emanated from the simplicity of
her daily tasks and living environment, Mary’s purest qualities radiate
from her material reality as poor wife and mother, and the humble
domestic setting is yet another sign of her innocence and grace. The
home she and Joseph inhabit seems more like a cave, inferior even to the
miserable shacks inhabited by Nannina and Maddalena (Accattone), the
degraded workplacess of Ascenza and Stella (Accattone), and the sparse
setting of Mamma Roma’s (Mamma Roma) first flat. Mary and Joseph own
no furniture, and they sleep on the floor.
Because Mary’s maternal status is literal and concrete, as a character
she is very earthly and very real. Yet her awareness of divine intervention
in her life automatically endows her with a mystical essence superior to
that which Pasolini ordinarily perceived in young girls. As the director
stated in an interview,
... ogni giovane donna innocente è piena di mistero. Tutto quello che ho
cercato di fare è stato di moltiplicare per mille il mistero che c’è in questa
particolare giovane donna. L’uso della sproporzione, delle persone
impreparate al confronto con eventi divini, è stato voluto.24
[... every innocent young woman is full of mystery. All I tried to do was
multiply by a thousand the mystery that exists is in this particular young
woman. The disproportionate emphasis on people who are not prepared
to face divine events was intentional.]
Together, the screenplay and interview shed light on the special atten-
tion Pasolini afforded the young Virgin. Through her he aimed to
convey the profound sense of a miracle taking place, one that was
plausible only in the purest, most unassuming characters. Moreover, he
achieved this in the absence of words. Close shots of Mary’s face and
eyes, combined with (Bach’s St Matthew Passion) and the gospel lyrics of
‘Sometimes I Feel Like a Motherless Child,’ communicate a rich array of
emotions that anchor the notions of origins, innocence, and goodness in
the female figure’s silent semiotics.
The association between silence and the spiritual or sublime is further
reflected in the general absence of spoken words in Mary’s life. Not even
the Angel of the Lord’s verbal warnings to Joseph are needed to establish
Mary’s sacrality, because she already either knows or intuits most of what
the Angel says. With the focus off language in her scenes, particularly in
the early part of the film, we quite naturally lend more attention to the
Virgin’s face and body. Though the young woman does not utter a single
word, she very effectually transmits her thoughts and emotions with her
expressions, or solely with the direction of her eyes. Her downward gaze
conveys modesty, embarrassment, or fear (at Joseph’s reaction to her
pregnancy, for instance), and her direct or forward gaze conveys frank-
ness towards Joseph and the viewer. Finally, her upward gaze conveys her
complete faith in God’s plan. Therefore, although at the beginning of
the film Mary’s body is potentially a classic sexual site (Joseph did not
know of the Annunciation and initially doubted his wife’s honesty), in
actuality, Mary’s body represents the inviolable truth of which she is both
matrix and protagonist. Pasolini develops the young Mary neither as
sexual object nor desexualized mother, but, rather, as a symbol of spiri-
tual plenitude and social difference.
Concerning the significance of sustained silence in Il Vangelo, it is
important to note that Joseph also remains speechless in the preamble,
which symbolically positions him in direct contrast to the king and the
Pharisees (i.e., the ruling classes), who express in words their lack of
faith or outward opposition to God’s divine plan. These corrupt leaders
launch sinister accusations of heresy towards John the Baptist and Christ
himself, thereby disclosing the selfish and devious nature of their lead-
ership. Later, Herod and Pilate act against the Messiah through their
spoken contracts and conversations with Judas and Peter, the disciples
who have strayed. And even though Joseph receives a verbal explana-
tion of Christ’s conception before he can understand or even believe
what has taken place, Joseph’s own lack of speech here shows that
silence does not serve solely to subordinate women within a patriarchal
framework. In this case, silence unites the pure of spirit with the great
mystery of the divine and signals their faith in the virtue of what is
‘Other’ (i.e., Christ).
At the same time, it should be made clear that not all spoken language
signifies the profane. Jesus used both words and actions in his public
teachings and pursuit of justice. Equally true is the fact that Mary’s
authenticity, expressed in silence, is often complemented by the Angel’s
divine words. However, in Pasolini’s Il Vangelo, the Angel speaks only to
Joseph while Mary is far away or sleeping. In other words, Mary does not
require words to know or understand the divine truth. Second, Pasolini
makes his archangel messenger a woman, despite the fact that, in the
Saints 143
Christian tradition, Gabriel, Raphael, and Michael all were male. This
was an intriguing choice on the director’s part, especially because, in the
scriptures, the gender of most of the other angels is, for whatever reason,
left unspecified.25 In the visual arts, however, gender identity is difficult
to avoid. Obviously, Pasolini had to choose between a young man or a
young woman for this role. Consequently, the appearance of teenage
actress Rosanna di Rocco overturns gender expectations and, if only
briefly, compels us to consider how Pasolini’s choice works against patri-
archy, both visually and linguistically.26 In short, Pasolini’s choice desig-
nates a young woman as the key mediator between mortals and God and
charges her with the verbal communication of a miracle. In contrast to
Mary, who does not appropriate the Word, the female angel breaks the
code of silence imposed on women by patriarchy. But she still uses
language in a way that is analogous to Mary’s use of silence – that is, as
means to, and expression of, Christ-like diversity with respect to the
dominant culture.
In the mid-1960s, Pasolini wrote an essay, ‘A Cinema of Poetry,’ in
which he theorized a double mode of filmmaking that reflects the
particularly non-verbal approach to female subjectivity we see in the
young Mary and other saints.27 In this piece, Pasolini claimed that lying
beneath the filming technique he called a ‘free indirect subjective’
(which enabled an author to mesh his own point of view with that of his
characters in the same way free indirect discourse did in prose) was
another stylistic approach. This parallel, poetic technique fostered free
expressionism. In other words, while an author could divulge ideological
messages and autobiographical subtexts by using the linguistic code
adapted to the ‘dominant psychological state of mind in the film,’
another film or ‘text’ ran beneath this surface-level film, and it did so
without any ‘pretext of mimesis’ at all:
Proof of the presence of such an unrealized, subterranean film are, pre-

cisely, as we have seen in the specific analyses, the obsessive shots and
editing rhythms. This obsessiveness contradicts not only the norm of the
common film language, but the very internal organization of the film as a
‘free indirect point of view shot.’ It is, in other words, the moment in which
language, following a different and possible more authentic inspiration,
frees itself of function and presents itself as ‘language as such’ – style.28
We can detect this kind of alternative and ‘subterranean’ technique

in the filming of the young Virgin and her silence. In addition to the
‘obsessiveness’ made manifest through repeated close shots of the young

woman’s face, Pasolini slows down his editing rhythm in all of the
sequences that feature the young mother, thereby granting her freedom
of expression beyond any mimetic responsibilities or linguistic codes. In
a second moment, then, the viewer can deduce meaning from various
aspects of her subjectivity, based on her ‘psychological state of mind’ as
either mother of Christ or protagonist/participant herself. Furthermore,
this stylistic expressionism does not restrict the young virgin’s meaning
to ‘sexuality’ or ‘servility’; on the contrary, much like her silence, it frees
her from conventional paradigms and allows her to ‘show’ an untainted
subjectivity that indicates a reality beyond that prescribed by society.
Young Mary appears for the last time when the Angel announces the
Holy Family’s liberation from King Herod’s wrath, but her genuineness
and graceful qualities reappear with the presence of Mary of Bethany
during the Last Supper. In his screenplay, Pasolini describes Mary of
Bethany’s innocence in terms of her sweet, youthful, and maternal
expressions. And in the film, he makes her innocence a virtuous trait, in
the same way he did for the young Virgin before her. Following his
sermons on Mount Olive, for instance, Christ and his apostles share a
meal in Bethany, where Mary comes to the table and bathes Christ’s head
with oil. Here, Pasolini’s attention temporarily shifts away from the
Saviour to focus on the woman:
Panoramica su una donna – Maria di Betania – che, in figura intera, si

avvicina a lui, attraversando la tavolata quant’è lunga, portando un vaso
prezioso tra le mani. E ora vicina a lui, in primo piano, con una dolce faccia,
giovanile e insieme materna. Sorride. Poi con gesto quasi sacro versa il
liquido profumato dal vaso sui capelli di Cristo, spargendovelo con le mani,
con timidi gesti materni. Primo piano di Giuda che guarda, contrariato.29
[Panoramic on a woman – Mary of Bethany – who, in a full shot, goes close

to him, crossing the length of the dinner table with a precious vase in her
hands. Now close to him in a close shot with a sweet face, youthful and yet
maternal. She is smiling. Then with a near-sacred gesture, she pours the
perfumed liquid from the vase on Christ’s hair, spreading it with her hands
with timid maternal gestures. A close shot of Judas who looks on, dismayed.]
As in the case of the young Virgin, the film portrayal of Mary of

Bethany adheres to the screenplay, with the exception of one detail:
Mary’s age. Renowned author Natalia Ginzburg played this role, and she
Saints 145
was in her early forties at the time. Yet despite the discrepancy between
the written description of her as ‘giovanile’ and the reality of Ginzburg’s
age, the writer’s face and eyes effectively radiate the humility and mater-
nal sweetness that Pasolini sought to transmit. Moreover, in Pasolini’s
world, the notion of youthfulness could last throughout the years; more
often than not, youthfulness referred not to one’s literal age but to one’s
inner strength and vitality, and it is with this spirit that Ginzburg silently
carries out her sacramental task, that of anointing Christ’s head with oil
in preparation for his burial and rebirth.
Whereas we might easily attribute the choice of Ginzburg for this role
to the fact that she and Pasolini were friends, a closer look suggests an
interesting connection between her role as intellectual and user of words
with her role as saint and user of silence. By 1964, Ginzburg was well
known for her novels, short stories, and plays. During the Second World
War, she had married Leone Ginzburg, who directed the anti-fascist
newspaper Giustizia e Libertà in Turin. Arrested, released, exiled, and
then imprisoned again for intense underground political activity, Leone
died shortly after, supposedly beaten to death, in Rome’s Regina Coeli
prison. Natalia Ginzburg’s Jewish identity and the persecution she, too,
experienced charged her physical appearance in Il Vangelo with ideologi-
cal notions of subversion, suffering, and social justice. So, when she
appears near Christ to prepare him for death, Pasolini very effectively
inverts Ginzburg’s previous association with words and has her partake in
Christ’s story with silence. Her ritualistic gesture displays not only her
proximity and participation in Christ’s painful fate but also her solidarity
with the diversity he represents.
Albeit brief, Mary of Bethany’s role sustains the notion that silence is
an attribute of both the humble and the divine. If we compare it to the
selective use of language during the Last Supper, we see that Pasolini is
suggesting that communication among the pure can take place without
words, while communication among the corrupt relies quite heavily on
the dominant symbolic or words. We note this distinction in the micro-
cosmic setting of Christ’s Last Supper where he neither asks Mary to
come to the table nor requests that she prepare for him burial. Yet, as she
assumes these responsibilities herself, he silently expresses his gratitude
and approval. Altogether differently, however, Christ addresses the soon-
to-be traitor, Judas, with words. When Judas accuses Mary of wasting oil,
Jesus defends the holy woman, announcing his death in the same breath,
as it is written in the scriptures: ‘Versando questo profumo sul mio corpo,
per la mia sepoltura lo ha fatto’ (She poured this perfume on my body
for my burial).30 So, that which Mary knows or intuits, Judas must hear in
spoken terms. After this exchange, Jesus smiles at Mary again to con-
clude their silent discourse. Curiously, the screenplay suggests that Judas,
suddenly enraptured with joy, smiles too (‘Sorride anche lui, come
contagiato, dalla gioia, dalla commozione’).31 However, in the film, Judas
does not smile. Rather, he seems confused and disturbed and then runs
away. In this way, Pasolini makes a clear distinction between the faithful
and the treacherous through their use (or not) of words.
Though it is not entirely clear whether historically Mary of Bethany and
Mary Magdalene were one and the same person, in his screenplay, Pasolini
distinguishes between the two, including Mary Magdalene as one of the
Marys accompanying the older Virgin during Christ’s death and resurrec-
tion. In the film, he makes her more minor still, never announcing her
name, and leaving her identity rather ambiguous. Nonetheless, her pres-
ence is worth examining briefly, since Pasolini concentrates not on any
details from a lurid past but on her pure attributes.32 Thanks to the silent
semiotics of her body, through which she participates alongside the Virgin
in the most earth-shattering of sacred events, Mary Magdalene attains the
same kind of saintly status as Mary of Bethany and the Virgins. Elsewhere
in his cinema, though, Pasolini depicted more overtly alluring Magdalene
figures, even if only allusively or parodically. There is the obvious sexual-
ity associated with Maddalena, the prostitute in Accattone, and there is also
the free-spirited sensuality and eroticism of Nannarella in La ricotta. She
strips before the ‘holy cast’ of The Deposition of Christ after some prodding
from the men who want her to ‘tempt’ the makeshift Stracci-Christ figure
(already nailed to the cross) so that he suffers.33 Similarly, Uccellacci e uccellini
contains a makeshift Magdalene among the bizarre group of travelling play-
ers, who enact a skit called ‘The Foundation of Rome.’ Just as their histori-
cal spectacle begins, she gives birth to a real little girl, making for an absurd
connection between the foundation of Western civilization and the birth
of an illegitimate child.34 Conversely, Mary Magdalene appears only at the
very end of Il Vangelo, silently accompanying the Virgin through the Cru-
cifixion, Deposition, and Resurrection.
Like the other Marys, Mary Magdalene transcends her earthly context
because she is a prime witness to the miracle of Christ’s death, and the
vibrancy of her faith communicates his divine message to human kind.
During the final sequences of the film, we consistently see Mary Magdalene
in the background, next to the Virgin. She steps forward only at the time
of the Deposition to help shroud Christ’s body before walking off with the
Saints 147
small group who stands vigil at his tomb. Though the screenplay only
makes explicit mention of her once, and not for this role in the Deposi-
tion but rather during the Resurrection, in the film Mary Magdalene is
central to the group of faithful who use their eyes and bodies to celebrate
Christ’s glory. Pasolini portrays them onscreen just as the screenplay de-
scribes: ‘Gioiose, rozzamente gioiose, umili figure senza importanza
presente nel giro di quell’evento sacro così immensamente più grande di
loro ... ed ecco che cadono bocconi per terra’ (Joyous, crudely joyous,
humble figures without importance in the sacred event taking place that
is so much bigger than them ... here they fall face-down to the ground).
Together with the other faithful citizens, Mary Magdalene exhibits an
unrefined, instinctive physicality that makes her part of the miraculous
events.35
Well beyond an age that would make her a sexual object in the
traditional cinematic sense, the old Virgin (played by none other than
Susanna Pasolini) also stands out for her silent communication and
compelling facial expressions. The choice of Susanna Pasolini for the
role of the aged Virgin naturally grants the character additional mean-
ing. For instance, while Susanna’s appearance calls to mind the madre
fanciulla ideal she inspired long ago, she is now an emblem and arche-
type for the pure and humble at large. Second, Susanna’s presence as
the universal mater dolorosa prompts an autobiographical reading of the
religious film, implying Pasolini was the righteous, yet martyred Son.
This reading likens Pasolini to Christ, not only for his biological bond
with Susanna in real life but also for the combination of pride and pain
that his life and life work had caused her over the years. On this note,
Viano finds the Virgin’s role hermeneutically limiting: ‘Too old to be a
credible Madonna, Susanna Pasolini ruthlessly exposes the film’s auto-
biographical dimension and indirectly suggests that Christ’s story is like
an open matrix for the most personal and diverse appropriations.’36 It is
certainly true that we can analyse the old Mary psychoanalytically, as a
source of emotional pressure on the marginalized male subject. How-
ever, the primary purpose of this type of reading would be that of
sustaining a homosexual discourse, which, Viano adds, Pasolini ‘fails to
get beyond.’ However, the autobiographical references in Il Vangelo actu-
ally have a much broader aim. Susanna’s appearance as the Madonna
allows the filmmaker to connect the universal mother and pious woman
to his lifelong poetics of authenticity. That is, Pasolini appropriates
history and myth at key moments in Christ’s life (beginning and end,
birth and death) not to emphasize his own persecution and public
martyrdom but to assert the spiritual force of maternal origins and the
ability of this ‘truth’ to illuminate, embody, and inspire more genuine
modes of living.
Personal references aside, the older Virgin’s direct link to the divine
stems first and foremost from her identity as Christ’s mother. Yet for
Pasolini, her truly saint-like status derives more from her profoundly
silent appreciation of Christ’s diversity. When she sees him for the first
time after many years, Pasolini shifts between close shots of Mary and
Jesus, using this technique not only to capture the fact of their bond,
which is revealed in the way they communicate with their eyes, but also to
expose the depth and poignancy of Mary’s silent actions. Mary neither
speaks nor grieves when her son does not greet her, because she sees his
love and understands his need to generalize their identity.37 With a keen
sense of vision for all things divine, Mary shares directly in Christ’s glory
by witnessing, announcing, and celebrating his presence with her entire
physical and emotional being. During the Crucifixion, Deposition, and
Resurrection, she stands with the other Marys and directly participates in
his death through observation and prayer. When Christ is nailed to the
cross, a series of close shots show Mary’s mental anguish in parallel with
Christ’s physical agony, as if to suggest an equal, even intersubjective
pain. And as Christ is quite literally incapacitated by the nails on the
cross, Mary is also physically incapacitated by weakness. Time and time
again, she falls to the ground, overwhelmed in body and spirit by grief.
Still, she does not abandon her role as witness.
Sight is thus the main vehicle through which Mary participates in
sacred events. And as was the case with the young Virgin during the
opening sequences and Annunciation, her blessed state is further exem-
plified by the fact that she requires no words to communicate with the
Angel of the Lord at the end of the film. Instead, the Resurrection scene
clinches the extraordinary virtue of the Virgin’s silence. The Angel
appears to tell the faithful that Christ has risen and will soon appear to
the apostles in the desert. But before delivering her verbal message to
the crowd, she appears before Mary alone and just smiles, her face
beaming the miraculous news. In a reverse shot, we see Mary smiling
back, acknowledging the message. In the absence of words, Pasolini
tracks forward on Mary’s last smile to emphasize the power of non-verbal
discourse among the truly humble or divine.38 The old Virgin and the
other Marys then run forth to ‘sing’ Christ’s glory alongside other
unmistakable icons of innocence – Ninetto Davoli, the shepherd boy; a
Saints 149
toddler; and the sweet, teenage disciple John – whose smiles and bodily
gestures also encapsulate the divine.
Mary’s silence thus has significance beyond the personal sphere of the
mother–son relationship. For Pasolini, the Virgin’s final acts of witness-
ing Christ’s death and resurgence means celebrating the poor, humble,
and innocent at large. That is, Mary’s direct connection to Christ at the
end of the film bespeaks the new spiritual and political reality of her
surrounding community and, in its mythical dimension, all of human
kind. As a result, the feminist notion that the Mary figure ‘embodies the
fate of the Virgin mother, existing only in relation to her perfect product
Christ’ goes largely unsubstantiated in Il Vangelo.39 Pasolini’s Virgin, like
the other pious women, exists in relation to her community, too. As in
the case of Christ, whose lengthy silences are charged with meaning
(they punctuate, underscore, or contrast with his words), the Virgin’s
silence accentuates her role as a heavenly signifier on earth.40 Mary’s
silence must not be read, therefore, as a form of social oppression
towards women or towards the lowly class that she (and Joseph) repre-
sents. Instead, her silence should be considered a source of authenticity
and strength, for it encapsulates the profound humility of a vast human
category that expresses itself by being simple and simply being. The
material impoverishment of these people and their existence outside the
cultural mainstream only heightens their openness, and thus prepares
them to partake in sacred events.
Indeed, sight and sound play a key role in Jesus’ parables and teach-
ings, and their importance is reinforced by his dying words, when he
warns the faithful that people will listen but not hear; that they will look
but not see. (‘Il cuore di questo popolo si è fatto insensibile.’ ‘Hanno
chiuso gli occhi ... per non vedere. Hanno chiuso le orecchie ... per non
sentire.’) Why? Because their hearts have grown insensitive. Christ’s
emphasis on human senses here sustains the notions that ‘seeing is
knowing’ or ‘seeing is sacred,’ which Pasolini continued to explore in
later films such as Edipo re, Che cosa sono le nuvole, and Medea.41 Seeing and
hearing are receptive skills through which the subject takes in linguistic
information but does not have to produce speech. In Il Vangelo, the
humble and the innocent partake in Christ’s glory largely because of
their non-dependency on speech. The central notion of ‘a people grow-
ing insensitive,’ therefore, implied that the majority of people in Christ’s
time were losing their capacity for authentic experiences. In contrast,
Mary and the pious women represent genuine forms of knowledge
attainable through the body and the spirit.
In his analysis of Il Vangelo, Viano suggests that Pasolini’s attention to

Mary of Bethany over Mary Magdalene emphasizes a desexualized por-
trayal of woman.42 In addition, he finds this choice symptomatic of two
potentially negative tendencies. One is the extent to which ‘we rely on
the representation of woman as sex,’ and the other is ‘just how much the
founding text of Christianity is at a loss to provide her with another
meaningful function.’ However, although women’s silence might well be
construed as a sign of asexuality or social oppression, Pasolini downplays
woman’s sexuality precisely to avoid such reductive analyses and to
highlight instead a more purposeful, impactive subjectivity. In this case,
being ‘without sex’ constitutes a positive condition and frees woman
from the cinematic codes that might limit her to an object of sexual or
viewing pleasure. Their potential lack instead signals fullness.43
Far from being ‘sanctioned only in her role as passive and silenced
mother,’ the old Virgin gains direct access to the sacred through her
body and, through her silence, generates enthusiasm for Christ’s mes-
sage on earth.44 The female body becomes a meeting point between the
earthly and the divine, and the woman herself, a hybrid agent with an
expressive power akin to that of Christ. Thanks to her vision and physi-
cality, Mary does not celebrate the life of her child per se but rather the
existence, preservation, and strength of his diversity. If, as Barbara Johnson
claims ‘it is those marginalized men who are considered to speak most
convincingly from the mother’s body,’ then Pasolini speaks most effec-
tively through the Virgin-Susanna’s body, unlocking the maternal meta-
phor from paternal logic, and making it an instrument of authenticity
and freedom.45
Teorema (1968)
Throughout the 1960s, Pasolini grew increasingly dismayed at the state

of human affairs: in Italy and around the world, once-humble communi-
ties and individuals were pursuing materialist goals and shunning age-
old modalities and values. When working on Il Vangelo secondo Matteo, he
commented on a general insensibility to miracles:
Viviamo in una cultura che non crede più ai miracoli, e così a noi fanno un
effetto sgradevole (i miracoli nel mio film), ma non è così per un contadino
meridionale che vive ancora in una cultura magica nella quale i miracoli
sono reali come lo erano nella cultura in cui visse e scrisse Matteo. Perciò il
contadino forse non nota l’artifizio, il trucco (che ho usato).46
Saints 151
[Our culture no longer believes in miracles, and so they (the ones in my

film) have a negative effect on us, but that is not the case for a southern
farmer who still lives in a magical culture where miracles are as real as they
were in Matthew’s culture. So it is likely that the farmer won’t notice the
artifice, the tricks (I used).]
For Pasolini, the poor southern farmers – or any marginal social groups,
for that matter – were still the exception to the rule. Even towards the
mid to late 1960s, as mass desecration virtually characterized the Western
world, the filmmaker was convinced that some truly humble people still
existed and were still attuned to the magic potential of small, daily
events. It was likely this conviction that led to the choice of a poor woman
to play the saint in Teorema.
Emilia (Laura Betti) is the maid servant of a wealthy industrial family
in Milan. Though unrelated by birth, Emilia is fully integrated into their
household and fully participates in the divine event that takes place
there. That is, when a mysterious guest suddenly arrives to live with them
for an undetermined period of time, Emilia, like the others, is emotion-
ally overwhelmed, profoundly attracted to the young man, and actually
the first to engage with him sexually. However, unlike the wealthy family
members, who undergo unfathomed crises that disorient and alienate
them, Emilia assimilates the guest’s essence and becomes a spiritual
entity, too. In this way, the family maid not only reinforces Pasolini’s
previous associations between the subproletariat and human virtue but
also balances the guest’s mystical presence with her burgeoning saint-
hood. The rest of the family is symmetrically divided into father-mother,
brother-sister, so the guest-Emilia pair maintains the gender balance in
both the household and underlying theorem.
When Emilia is introduced just a few minutes into the film, her
physical appearance immediately distinguishes her from the others. Un-
like the rest of the family, who don suits, private-school uniforms, or
fashionable clothes, she wears a plain, dark skirt and blouse, and her hair
is simply arranged. Moreover, since she wears no make-up, her eyes stand
out as being particularly candid and expressive. In these early scenes,
Emilia also distinguishes herself as humble and innocent with respect to
the rest of the family. Clearly, her role as servant in the rich household
sets her apart socially, for she serves their lunch, cleans their house,
carries their bags, and tends to their garden. Indeed, it is while tending
to simple duties such as answering the door and receiving the mail that
we get the first hints of Emilia’s connection with a sacred and spiritual
‘Otherness.’ One day, the young postman Angelino (played by Ninetto

Davoli) delivers a telegram to the house. With an irresistible grin, he
skips about and then flutters away. A parodic Angel of the Lord, the
postman brings divine news to the ‘chosen’ family through the servant
Emilia.
Another confirmation of Emilia’s genuine status is her immediate,
instinctive reaction to the guest. She first sees him outdoors, where she is
mowing the lawn and he is reading a book. Upon noticing him from afar,
she stops mowing to observe the blond stranger, as Pasolini affirms with
close shots from her point of view. Engulfed in his book, the guest seems
unaware of Emilia’s presence and her look, which focuses on his upper
legs and crotch. But when he accidentally drops some cigarette ashes,
and Emilia comes running to clean his leg, he cannot help but notice
her. In this makeshift but utterly sincere act of devotion, Emilia becomes
so overwhelmed that she flees to her room to prepare herself for a
miracle. Specifically, she removes her earrings, her only sign of wealth, in
order to create a humbler, more worthy appearance. She then touches
the various pictures of saints hung around her mirror, before returning
outdoors to her work. However, the guest’s presence soon overpowers
her to the point that she runs to the kitchen to inhale gas. When the
guest saves her and takes her to her bed, the near-paralysed woman has
nothing to offer but her body, which the guest accepts as her humble
gift.
In this film, Pasolini builds his theorem around the idea of inter-
course, with all its corporeal and emotional implications. Through sex,
each family member will come to know a new and unfamiliar reality
and glimpse, if only briefly, a more authentic notion of the self.47 But
in this film, it is not the explicit sex act that interests Pasolini so much
as the idea of embracing and eventually embodying (to some extent) the
‘Other.’ In truth, the viewer does not witness any of the sex acts with the
guest, only the initial contact and the allusion to something more. But
this absence is, in itself, a powerful presence because it mirrors the
abstract nature of spiritual plenitude. In other words, the lack of material
‘proof’ forces the viewer to contemplate the personal (emotional) and
political (ideological) significance of each character’s relationship with
the guest. The fact that Emilia is the first of the five household members
to engage with him physically – almost immediately after seeing him the
first time, in fact – reveals the humble figure’s heightened awareness of
and openness to the sacred.
Another form of absence that actually serves as a presence is Emilia’s
Saints 153
silence, which constitutes an important distinction between the authen-

tic and inauthentic. The other family members verbalize their feelings to
the guest, and these monologues represent the symbolic outpouring of
subjectivity, thus constitute their quasi-spiritual/social awakenings. How-
ever, Emilia, who has been endowed with purity from the start, will not
need to access spoken language in order to cleanse her conscience or
become clear on who she is. For, through the guest, she has simply
renewed the profoundly spiritual character that was really part of her all
along.
Pasolini relied on film’s visual immediacy to convey Emilia’s alterna-
tive status. He signalled her piety through a rich series of diegetic details
(poor clothes, few possessions, humble demeanour) and a variety of
filming techniques (close shots revealing the look in her eyes, silent
exchanges with the children in the village she visits, and long shots that
immerse her in the rural setting) almost completely in the absence of
words. But in the novel version of Teorema, Pasolini made the guest speak
for Emilia in a monologue similar to those made by each family member
upon learning of the guest’s imminent departure. In his speech, entitled
‘Complicità tra il sottoproletario e Dio’ (Complicity between the
subproletariat and God), the guest himself makes it clear that Emilia was
different from the others, and that she and he shared a bond that
required no spoken words. In the same way that their world intrinsically
excludes her lowly rank or status, Emilia’s reality rejects the rhetoric or
chatter (chiacchiere) that the others use to define themselves:
Del resto,
ci siamo mai parlati? Noi non abbiamo
scambiato parole, quasi gli altri
avessero una coscienza, e tu no.
Invece, evidentemente, anche tu,
povera Emilia, ragazza di basso costo,
esclusa, spossessata del mondo,
una coscienza ce l’hai.
Una coscienza senza parole.
E di consequenza anche senza chiacchiere.48
(emphasis added)
[After all,
have we ever spoken? We have never
exchanged words, as if the others
have a sense of conscience and you no.

Instead, evidently, even you,
poor Emilia, low cost girl,
excluded and rejected by the world,
you have a conscience.
A conscience without words.
And, consequently, one without idle chatter.]
While the novel cannot speak for the film, at times the choice of words
for the written text sheds better light on a key idea the director hoped to
convey. Moreover, because Pasolini did not work with a formal screen-
play for this film – rather, he used the series of monologues and then
ideas for movements, settings, and relationships – the text underscores
Pasolini’s intent to communicate the power of silence in achieving self-
knowledge and in expressing the self with candour.49 Indeed, in the film,
Emilia’s awareness of self and the world around her persists outside the
dominant logic (symbolized by the urban sphere and the bourgeois
home) even after the guest leaves. Her wordless status signals a life that is
purer and more profound than that which the others might ever attain
through their one-time encounter with the guest.
As previously stated, Emilia is the only member of the family micro-
cosm to truly incorporate the guest’s goodness in her being. But the
poor woman’s encounter with the divine does not change her so much as
it unveils the goodness she has always possessed and allows her to dis-
seminate it outward towards her community. This means that her post-
guest mission is no longer to serve the one – the rich and privileged
family – but rather the many, namely, the common people who, con-
sciously or not, are slowly falling prey to a profound cultural transforma-
tion. For this reason, Emilia plants herself like a seed where obvious and
obtrusive signs of capitalist exploitation have settled in: a construction
site for modern housing.
Consequently, Emilia’s silent gestures have meaning far beyond the
level of the individual or the single family. In the second half of the film,
her deeds connote a dimension lost to contemporary society as a whole.
After the guest’s departure from the bourgeois villa, Emilia leaves the
family. Without speaking with anyone or saying goodbye, she simply
packs her bags and heads to the bus stop. Although we do not know
exactly where she is going (perhaps to the Emilia Romagna region, as
her name suggests), we know she gets off in a rural area and enters a
small village where farmer folk and children greet her. This anonymous
Saints 155
and unassuming place stands for all simple, marginal communities with
whom Emilia will share her good will and intentions. It is in the central
courtyard of this humble location that Emilia’s newly emerged and
mystical identity reaches its full expression. For weeks, she sits outdoors
on a bench in a rite of self-sacrifice, subsisting on boiled nettles until she
transforms into a saint. Despite the metaphoric deaths that her phases of
asceticism, levitation, and, later, her burial might imply, Emilia’s sanctifi-
cation is grounded in the notion of new life and vitality (hence, her child
servants and salvific gestures to the sick) and comprises a message of
hope for all.50 Differently from the other family members, whose post-
guest crises are largely individual and self-centred events, Emilia assimi-
lates the sacred and uses her keen awareness of what is ‘Other’ to recover
and preserve a sense of purity in society at large.
Emilia’s direct connection to the spiritual thus grants her a central and
pivotal role similar to that of the guest during the first half of the film. In
the second half of the film, Pasolini edits the narrative in such a way that
it consistently weaves Emilia’s miraculous feats of devotion with the
traumatic fates of the others. These juxtapositions join the potentially
harmful effects of a spiritual awakening in modern times with the pa-
tience and resolve that, through humility, observation, and faith, nurture
consciousness. For example, after the daughter Odetta withdraws from
the family sphere in a catatonic state, Pasolini shows Emilia performing a
miracle: she cures a poor child from his leprotic state. Next, between
scenes of the son Pietro violently journeying to self-discovery through
art, we see Emilia-the-ascetic refusing to eat. Here, the saint’s inward
purgation counterbalances outward bodily excesses of Pietro, who, blind-
fold and stumbling, urinates on his art. Third, we see the mother Lucia
initiating a series of sexual escapades with anonymous young men who
resemble the guest. When she realizes that they are false substitutes and
cannot fill her void, she enters a dark church and stares at Christ. As
Lucia turns inward to the Church, Emilia turns further outward towards
the people. She miraculously floats above the rural crowd in glory as they
look on in amazement.
At this point, only the father is left. Given the symbolic foundation he
provides for his family (household) and for society (factory), it seems
appropriate that Paolo be last. In the final sequences of the film, Paolo
leaves his life behind and wanders aimlessly in the desert. His desperate
state connects with Emilia’s final gesture of being buried alive. To achieve
this, she enlists the help of an elderly woman (Susanna Pasolini). Shovel
in hand, the old peasant accompanies Emilia to the site of a modern
housing project, where there sits an excavator machine with a hammer

and sickle painted on it. Here, the combination of Emilia’s name (Emilia
Romagna was one of the strongest communist regions and the region of
Bologna where Pasolini was born) and the symbols of the Communist
Party further reinforces the ‘solidarity between the subproletariat and
the sacred’ and reveal the hope Pasolini invested in the genuine commu-
nity that hosts and then buries Emilia.51
Once interred, Emilia embodies the genuine roots of society. Only her
eyes can be seen as she cries a pool of tears to nourish the earth.52 Here
Emilia aligns herself with the other saints through her sense of sight and
the specific act of looking. Again, the novel elucidates the connection
between sight and the sacred in a way that is direct and easy to discern. In
his goodbye speech to Emilia, the guest says:
Tu sarai l’unica a sapere, quando sarò partito,

che non tornerò mai più, e mi cercherai
dove dovrai cercarmi: non guarderai nemmeno
la strada per dove mi allontanerò e scomparirò,
e che tutti gli altri, invece, vedranno, stupiti,
come per la prima volta, piena di un senso nuovo,
in tutta la sua ricchezza e la sua bruttezza,
emergere nella coscienza.53 (emphasis added)
[You will be the only one to know, once I have left,

that I will never be back, and you will seek me
where you will need to seek me: you won’t even look
down the street from which I’ll leave and then disappear,
and that all of the others, instead, will see, stupefied,
as if for the first time, full of a new sense,
in all of its richness and ugliness,
emerge in their conscience.]
Though Pasolini consistently uses close shots of Emilia’s face to com-

municate her feelings, we have to wait until the maid servant speaks to
fully understand the role of her eyes and tears. In her last scene, Emilia
asks the peasant woman to cover her completely with dirt. Noticing the
old woman’s look of fear, Emilia finally breaks her silence and says,
‘Non aver paura, non sono venuta qui per morire, ma per piangere ...
e le mie non sono lacrime di dolore, no, saranno una sorgente ... che
non sarà una sorgente di dolore ...’54 (Don’t be afraid, I did not come
Saints 157
here to die, but to cry ... and my tears are not tears of pain, no, they
will be a source ... and not one of pain ...’) In speaking for the first
time (except for the word or two she said to the postman at the begin-
ning of the film), Emilia employs several negative forms that mirror
her final gesture. Her words show that even though she has entered
the realm – literally the terrain – of the symbolic, she does so with the
purpose of overturning its status quo in order to achieve something
radical, something different, even opposite. Moreover, since her mouth
is covered, and she is literally reduced to a pair of eyes, her words have
the effect of speaking from the soul: that is, from the inner depths of
the body, of the earth, of a place that the viewer and outer world do
not expect. Emilia thus turns spoken language upon itself to further
emphasize her sacred message.55 It is at this point that Pasolini
cuts back to Paolo, creating a narrative link between the saint and the
father.
Just when Emilia has herself buried as an offering to human kind,
Paolo gives up his logocentric identity (i.e., paterfamilias) to wander
naked in the desert. The father’s return to his origins, or to an uncodified
status, is a metaphoric death, and is further enhanced by the accompani-
ment of Mozart’s Requiem. We see Paolo trudge what must be endless
kilometres to the left and to the right, back towards the horizon and then
forward. As he comes towards the camera with open arms, he cries out
from his gut with despair. Although the screen goes black at this point,
his cry persists in the darkness until the final titles appear. This ending
can be read as closed or open. In the former case, the father is an empty
creature. He has nothing to give or receive in the barren terrain that
represents his existence. He is but a tiny speck in a great wasteland and
destined to be consumed and die. Yet, when read in a positive light,
Paolo’s nakedness and guttural cry suggest a return to infancy – or at
least to a point in life where hope and possibility still exist. In this case,
Paolo experiences loss of self with respect to the language and signifiers
(clothes, possessions) of the symbolic that defined him. According to
Pasolini, this radical renunciation of self and return to origins was
necessary for the previously co-opted subject to regain access to authen-
ticity. Consequently, of all the family members, Paolo’s reaction to his
encounter with the guest – his departure from civilization and loss of his
roles – most closely mirrors the sacrificial gesture of the saint. That is, by
immersing himself in the spiritual origins of humanity, stripped of the
codes that previously defined him, he experiences the loneliness of an
authentic existence in modern times.
The desecrated condition of Western neo-capitalist societies was not a

new theme for Pasolini. Ten years prior, he had written a civic poem
featuring a symbolic excavating machine like the one beside which
Emilia is buried. Brilliantly personified in the poem, the scavatrice is
similar to Emilia and the old gravedigger in that both are charged with
joining the past and the future by the very nature of their work – whether
constructing modern housing complexes in undeveloped zones or culti-
vating authenticity in the cultural void of the present. In ‘Il pianto della
scavatrice’ (‘The Excavator’s Cry’), the female subject – ‘la vecchia
scavatrice’ – stands at the limits of Rome, where ‘thousands of lives still
echo’ and the ‘disaffection, mystery, and misery of her senses’ change
the shape of the world that until yesterday was so dear. The old machine
is a lone symbol of development and change in the rapidly transforming
society (‘Solo l’amare, solo il conoscere / conta, non l’aver amato, / non
l’aver conosciuto ...’). Operated and occupied by the lower working
class, the excavator must reconcile their genuine human spirit (‘... alle
loro borgate, / tornano su motori leggeri – / in tuta o coi calzoni di
lavoro, /... / i giovani, coi compagni sui sellini, / ridenti, sporchi’) with
the future objectives of human kind (‘si fa nuovo isolato, brulicante in
un ordine ch’è spento dolore’).56 Life in the present causes anguish,
writes Pasolini. It is like ‘living a consumed love’ in which the soul no
longer grows (‘Dà angoscia il vivere / di un consumato amore. / Là
l’anima non cresce più’). So, even the potential signs of the life in these
peripheral zones – market places, streets, shanty shacks, warehouses, and
open fields – are alienating, and their silence seems deadly. Only the
sight of some working-class youths buzzing home on their motorbikes
breathes life into the situation.
But labour and spiritual fatigue at a deserted construction site are not
all the old excavator and Emilia have in common. The two also connote
similar civic concerns, for each is moved to tears by the widespread
desecration she perceives living and breathing around her. Section IV of
the poem makes this poignant connection clear. Here, the tired old
digger cries out from despair. She has suffered from years of hard work
(‘A gridare è, straziata / da mesi e anni di mattutini/ sudori accompagnata
/ dal muto stuolo dei suoi scalpellini, / la vecchia scavatrice’) and
laments the interminable nature of her desecrating task, since she par-
takes in transforming grassy, open spaces into cement courtyards (‘Piange
ciò che ha / fine e ricomincia. Ciò che era / erbosa, aperto spiazzo, e si fa
/ cortile, bianco come cera, / chiuso in un decoro che’è rancore’).
Applying this interpretation to the broader cultural domain of Italy and
Saints 159
other Western nations in the 1960s, the mechanical digger laments the
powers that dominate, destroy, and effectively ‘silence’ all for the sake
of progress (‘Piange ciò che muta, anche / per farsi migliore’). Self-
reflexively and perhaps paradoxically, the digger cries out against her-
self, or despite herself, for she is the agent of development and change
whose actions ‘silence’ the unspoiled roots of humanity that lay beneath
the surface of life.
In 1956, Pasolini wrote that the light of the future already ‘burned in
all the daily actions’ of the humble classes. That light caused them
anguish, despite the hopeful spirit of workers who silently raised their
communist flags in the territory of the other human front (‘angoscia
anche nella fiducia / che ci dà vita, nell’impeto gobettiano57/verso
questi operai, / che muti innalzano, / nel rione dell’altro fronte umano,
/ il loro rosso straccio di speranza’). The excavator’s doleful plea thus
preceded the saint’s purifying tears and the father’s bestial cry, portend-
ing their role as relics of authenticity in modern times.
Il Decameron (1971)
It might seem odd to include Il Decameron in a discussion of saints,

especially because Pasolini’s adaptation of the medieval work seems to
celebrate only corrupt and licentious human behaviours. In fact, at the
time of its release, Il Decameron was deemed pornographic because it
showed explicit sex acts and full frontal nudity.58 Admittedly, it appears
that almost every character in the film is planning, plotting, or success-
fully having sex. Though there are a few young female characters whose
sexuality is authentic because it strategically subverts patriarchal author-
ity, the candour and diversity of these young women (examined in
chapter 6) does not at all resemble the piety of the saints discussed.59
Simply put, not even the nuns in Il Decameron are truly virtuous. The one
exception is the Virgin Mary, whose silent presence at the very end of the
film conveys Pasolini’s artistic and civic message.
Pasolini’s Decameron contains ten stories from Boccaccio’s original, two
of which are frame tales, each containing four others. The final segment
of the film combines the second frame tale, in which the artist Giotto
visits Naples to paint a fresco in the Santa Chiara church (VI, 5), with the
internal tale of Tingozzo and Meuccio, who debate whether having sex
with one’s comare (your child’s godmother, or your wife’s best friend)
constitutes a sin and can be punished after death (VII, X). After the
main character in each of these tales falls asleep, the Virgin Mary
unexpectedly appears, though it seems clear that her image is conjured

in the course of the artist Giotto’s dream.
The Virgin Mother’s presence in Pasolini’s Decameron is, at the very
least, parodic. Nevertheless, her purity and virtue are inviolate. When, in
his dream-vision of The Last Judgment, the Virgin Mother appears to
Giotto-the-Artist (played by Pasolini himself), she visibly differs from the
old and young Marys of Il Vangelo. Her virtue does not derive from an
impoverished setting, a girlish look, or even a profoundly humble
demeanour. Rather, we first attribute the new Virgin’s authenticity to the
fact that Silvana Mangano plays her. Beyond the fact that Mangano
explicitly reminded Pasolini of his mother – the two women shared
certain physical attributes and mannerisms – we also associate Silvana
Mangano with Susanna Pasolini because of her previous roles as Jocasta
and the mother from the prologue in the highly autobiographical Edipo
re.60 Such references to Susanna Pasolini automatically transfer the madre
fanciulla ideal to Giotto’s Virgin, meaning she displays the unequivocal
features of innocence and grace that typified youthful, humble women.
But beyond these associations with Susanna, Silvana Mangano was simply
radiant and beautiful. Pasolini added this physical beauty to her ‘pure’
traits by privileging close, frontal shots that isolated her face and granted
her identity mythical value. Together, her halo, the rich colours of the
tableau-vivant scene, and the sacred music that plays (Veni Sancte Spiritus)
all have a glorifying effect.61
In the beginning, the Virgin’s authenticity is largely based on the
autobiographical references that Pasolini further clinches by playing
Giotto-the-Artist himself. Nevertheless, the Madonna’s genuineness also
derives from the specific setting and context of the tableau in which she
appears, which happens to be The Last Judgment.62 In addition to being
born in the mind of an artist whose life was dedicated to creating
devotional imagery, this Virgin also acquires a crucial sacred role by
displacing Christ as the central figure of the artist’s dream and historical
narrative. In other words, in Pasolini-Giotto’s mind, the mother replaces
the son as the judge of human kind. She sits at the centre of heaven and
earth and will decide humanity’s fate when the world comes to an end.
Since The Last Judgment has regularly featured Christ, the scene with
Giotto’s Virgin at first disorients the viewer. But upon reflection, her
substitution for Christ creates an interesting new narrative that empha-
sizes the importance of female subjectivity.
The Virgin’s central position in Giotto’s dream conveys a message of
Saints 161
difference and resistance that ambitiously counters viewer expectations,

phallocentric visual codes, and patriarchal norms. First, as mentioned,
the Virgin Mother supplants Christ. He is out, and she is in – as protago-
nist, agent, and source of authority, not just in her own family but in the
whole world. Second, the Virgin’s central role endows her with a func-
tion beyond the birth of Christ. She does not merely access the sacred
through his glory. Instead, she herself is the central matrix of the sacred,
thus she decides the future of all humanity. Third, through her sustained
silence the Virgin defies theories of power. Her silence shows her author-
ity to derive from outside the dominant logic of the symbolic. In truth, in
the same way that characters in the figurative arts have no physiological
voice, none of the characters in the tableau speak. Why then, should we
deem the Virgin’s silence noteworthy? Because her silence demonstrates
the power of the artist, who can show a reality without speaking it and,
without saying it, make us see it. Not only does her silence grant the
notion of authority new meaning, suggesting that her decisions about
humanity will be based on non-verbal and observant forms of agency, but
it also celebrates the female saint as an alternative source of subjectivity
(vis-à-vis the son who was also a pure vessel for Pasolini) and a new ‘voice’
for Pasolini’s discourse on authenticity.
The oxymoronic notion of a ‘silent voice’ thus joins the significance of
the silent Virgin with that of the artist figure both internal and external
to the film. As mentioned previously, these artists are one in the same
because Pasolini plays Giotto throughout the second half of the film. In
different ways, this choice reflects Pasolini’s ideas about the artist’s role
as intermediary between the earthly and the divine. For one, he seems to
assert that the Artist has a direct link to the spiritual dimension, since the
actual conception of the Virgin figure takes place in his mind. She
appears to him out of the blue – free from any specific political context
but as a result, perhaps, of his immersion in the sociocultural sphere of
medieval Naples. With his role, Pasolini also suggests that the spiritual
dimension can be recovered and fostered among a predisposed human-
kind by means of a spontaneous, physically vivacious, and creative spirit
such as his in the Santa Chiara workshop setting. Whether stone-serious
or openly jovial (painting playfully, for instance, on his apprentices’
faces), the artist is always a vitalizing force that inspires the community
(here, a group of male apprentices) around him. The notion of authen-
tic authority inspired by the dream and presumably achievable through
art develops further as Giotto finishes the holy triptych:
Giotto guarda anche lui, tra i suoi aiutanti, l’affresco.

Nel suo viso è stampato – come una leggera ombra, non priva di malinco-
nia – il sorriso dolce, misterioso e ingenuo con cui l’autore guarda la sua
opera finita.63
[Giotto, among his helpers, also observes the fresco.

Imprinted on his face – like a light shadow, not lacking in melancholy – is
the sweet, mysterious and naive smile with which he looks at his finished
work.]
However, the ‘finished work,’ when shown in the film, only contains two
painted panels, and the third blank panel compels the viewer to consider
the artwork’s meaning in addition to the significance of Pasolini-Giotto’s
act. If indeed the blank panel was inspired by the Virgin’s appearance to
Giotto just before, then the Virgin clearly incites the artist to be different
– to overturn our expectations, to challenge our interpretative abilities,
and to express his own subjectivity.64
The notion that authenticity is achievable through art as connoted by
Giotto’s dream reflects Pasolini’s role as the artist internal to the film.
But does it not also reflect his conviction as artist-filmmaker external to it
as well? Upon leaving the third triptych panel incomplete, Pasolini-
Giotto turns to the camera and asks us directly: ‘Why finish a work of art
when it is so beautiful to simply dream of it?’ (‘Perché realizzare un’opera
d’arte quando è così bello soltanto sognarla?’). With this question,
Giotto confirms the importance of his dream for deciding on an open
end for the triptych. And, in conjunction with the ending of his film,
Pasolini-the-Artist invites us to engage in the construction of meaning
for the unfinished work. As Millicent Marcus affirms, ‘The absence of an
ending which will perfect the work in the etymological sense opens up
the entire text to ambiguity, placing the burden of interpretation on the
reader.’65 Therefore, in the spirit of Umberto Eco’s ‘open work,’ Il
Decameron’s finale addresses two major themes of postmodernity: polysemy
in art and reader interaction with the text. ‘Every work of art,’ writes Eco,
‘even though it is produced by following an explicit or implicit poetics of
necessity, is effectively open to a virtually unlimited range of possible
readings, each of which causes the work to acquire new vitality in terms
of one particular taste, or perspective.’66
Pasolini supported the basic tenets of the ‘open text’ in several ways,
the first of which was with his final action as artist internal to the film.
Here he invites his co-workers and all others looking on to contemplate
Saints 163
the meaning of the unusual triptych. At the same time, as filmmaker

external to the text, Pasolini fostered multiplicity of meaning and reader
interaction by directly addressing the movie-going public. By observing
and eventually ‘judging’ the triptych text ourselves, we are prompted to
contemplate the conclusion of the film and its open ending. Whether we
focus on the ‘authentic’ commoners in his tales, or on the ‘authentic’
process of artistic creation, we are called upon to participate in Pasolini’s
mission by bringing new (pure and unadulterated) life to the text through
our interpretations and analyses.
In an interview, Pasolini stated that his presence in Il Decameron meant
ideologizing the film by means of his very consciousness of it.67 And if
consciousness of the film coincided with his physical presence in the
work, then the ideology of the text issues forth from his partaking in the
both the reality portrayed and the message extended. With this knowl-
edge, we can further understand the connection between Giotto’s dream
of The Last Judgment and the film’s conclusion in the Santa Chiara
church. The incomplete tableau, born from a female-centric vision in
the subconscience of the artist, refers us back to the subjective process of
creation. Whether this subjective process entails the creation of the self
as subject or as a work of art in the public sphere, it remains an unending
process with multiple facets, phases, and interpretations. Seen in this
light, the film’s final question and inconclusive last scene defies semantic
finality, closed hermeneutic systems, and, metaphorically, even death.
The Virgin, the blank panel, and the open-ended film show how a work
of art ultimately transcends any negative, pessimistic, or eschatological
content or material (e.g., carnal sin, hell, doomsday). This vitalizing
truth allows us to focus our attention on potentially positive interpreta-
tions, such as longevity, new life, or rebirth. With the Madonna and the
artist representing alternative authorities for whom infinite endings and
interpretations are both licit and possible, Il Decameron seems to say that
the future of human authenticity will depend upon our keeping a keen
eye on and an open mind towards all that is mysterious, liberating, or
simply different.
Pasolini’s female saints continue a pattern of reference to the Virgin

Mary and maiden mother that began in his early poetry. His regular
return to these iconographic figures reflects the oftentimes circular and
ritualistic nature of his trajectory as an artist and individual. In the place
of spoken language, these pious women employ their sense of vision,
manifesting and reinforcing their subjectivity through their gaze, facial
expressions, and bodily gestures. These predominant modes of self-

expression diverge from, destabilize and, at times, render irrelevant the
linguistic codes of the symbolic order. As an evolutionary antecedent of
vocal language, silence is ‘a universal mode of representation accessible
to almost all human beings, and sufficient for all basic communicative
needs.’68 In this sense, the saints embody an important aspect of Pasolini’s
cultural ‘pre-history’ – that is, human life and relations as they were
before the hegemonic and effacing powers of neo-capitalism set in.
Through silence, Pasolini returned to linguistic origins in order to show
(rather than speak) authentic modes of communication, which required
a perceptive and receptive disposition towards the ‘Other.’ The saints’
non-logocentric acts of seeing rather than saying pointed to a new
authority emerging in the face of patriarchy. The lack of spoken words
was thus a positive signifier and a desirable condition through which
Pasolini effectively overturned expectations about language and commu-
nication and broadened his message about central but lost values in
modern society.
6 Sinners
The various conceptions of sexuality throughout Western history, however

diverse among themselves, have been based on the perennial contrast of ‘male’
to ‘female.’ Female sexuality has been invariably defined both in contrast and in
relation to the male ...
De Lauretis, Technologies of Gender, 15
To be a subject or ‘I’ at all, the subject must take up a sexualized position,

identifying with the attributes socially designated as appropriate for men or
women.
...
To speak as woman is already to defy the monologism of discursive domination

under phallocentrism.
Grosz, Lacan: A Feminist Introduction, 148, 176
In Pasolini’s gallery of screen women, few are truly virtuous and certainly
none to the extent of the silent saints of chapter 5. To the contrary,
Pasolini’s films brim with loquacious women who, for one reason or
another, commit sizeable ‘sins.’ Nevertheless, many of these ‘sinners’
either retain the positive traits of or add new dimensions to the filmmaker’s
poetics. Despite their peccadillos or crimes, Pasolini characterizes these
women as positive because their attraction to life, capacity for survival,
and awareness of self render their existence authentic. Because nearly all
of Pasolini’s characters might well be classified as sinners in some way, in
this chapter I explore women’s carnal sins in particular. Examining
women’s ‘sins of the flesh’ beyond the level of prostitution reveals how
some of the female characters in Pasolini’s opus subvert the symbolic

order through their combined use of language and sexuality, which they
employ purposefully and playfully to elude patriarchy’s power, overturn
their prescribed roles, and nurture their own desires. Unlike many of the
other character types we have seen, Pasolini’s sinners are not character-
ized by maternal drives, silent spirituality, or economic struggle. Instead,
these women want equality and freedom. By fighting fire with fire – that
is, by manipulating patriarchy’s dominant code from within – the sinners
resist conditions that deny personal fulfilment and restrict authentic self-
expression.
Teorema (1968)
Teorema was the first film in which Pasolini began to show women as
sexual subjects who were on a par with men in terms of desire and
agency. Granted, in Edipo re, Jocasta often appears in the bedroom and is
often on the verge of having sex, but these encounters are mostly
prompted by Edipo. However, in Teorema, the women are not dependent
or passive in this respect. When the guest descends upon their house-
hold, the women therein respond to their impulses and satisfy their own
physical desires. They do not reflect, respond to, or comply on command
with the sexual longings of the men around them. The mother, Lucia,
discussed previously in the context of her daughter, stands apart from
the other mothers in Pasolini’s filmography because she never embraces
her maternal role.1 And because the main theme of Teorema is the sex-
sacred nexus embodied by the guest, it seems more appropriate to
consider Lucia in terms of her carnal sins and show how these illicit acts
connote the refusal of norms within the context of her family crisis and
broader sphere of the community. Although Lucia speaks much less than
the sinners that follow, her one monologue marks a decisively liberating
and self-preserving entry into the symbolic.
Lucia represents the modern woman of her time, but one repressed
and crippled by a lack of self-awareness and a lack of social freedom.
Throughout the film, she appears the same: trim and well dressed, with
stylish hair and make-up. She entertains on occasion and appears to have
no formal occupation. While not a corrupt figure in and of herself, she is
clearly a co-opted member of her society, weakened and conditioned by
her privileged status. Ordinarily, these traits would not signal a genuine
existence, but Lucia is also taciturn and reserved, and it is her withheld,
semi-frightened, and mysterious nature that allows us to consider her in
Sinners 167
light of Pasolini’s investigation of authenticity. The notion of Lucia’s

underlying innocence is further enhanced by the fact that Silvana
Mangano plays this role. As was the case in Edipo re (1967) and Il
Decameron (1971), the actress refers to Susanna Pasolini and, hence, the
origins of Pasolini’s life, poetics, and political ideals.
Lucia is the first female figure in Pasolini’s cinema to initiate sex out of
wedlock for reasons other than prostitution.2 And it is by violating the
moral codes of marriage that she takes steps towards a more genuine
understanding of her self and her role in society. Pasolini develops the
notion of Lucia’s hidden virtue through a few symbolic actions, all of
which revolve around sex. In fact, they constitute the only times she fully
expresses her subjectivity. ‘To be a subject or “I” at all,’ Elisabeth Grosz
affirms, ‘the subject must take up a sexualized position, identifying with
the attributes socially designated as appropriate for men or women.’3
However, as Lucia takes up her sexualized position, she defies the at-
tributes prescribed by society. With the exception of the fact that she
keeps to the heterosexual paradigms governing sexual relations, Lucia
openly rejects her role as dutiful wife by refusing conjugal sex and asserts
her ‘self’ as the subject of extramarital affairs – first with the guest, and
then with a number of surrogates.
Lucia’s discovery of her true identity is a process that at first manifests
itself in the form of sexual desire and then culminates in sexual inter-
course with the guest. Nevertheless, both stages of Lucia’s encounter
require her to engage with the symbolic through language. Her first
contact with verbal language does not materialize through speech (pro-
duction or externalization of the symbolic) per se, but, rather, through
reading (reception or internalization of the symbolic). Specifically, she
reads the sensual and symbolic poetry of Rimbaud.4 Having seen the
guest read this book earlier in the film, we assume it is his. So, the fact
that Lucia reads it as a prelude to sex signals her will to ‘read’ or ‘learn’
the guest as if he were a gospel or a guide, and to assimilate him like
knowledge. However, because she is reading highly suggestive love po-
etry, the book also functions as a galeotto or guiding agent that incites or
facilitates her sins. That Rimbaud was himself gay further emphasizes
the transgressive nature of her actions.5 From his book, Lucia passes to
the guest’s clothes and reads them, too, as a system of signs. Carefully
arranged on the floor and furniture as if his invisible body were in them,
the garments inspire Lucia to shed her inhibitions (quite literally her
clothes) and offer herself to the visitor. She flirtatiously tosses her dress
over the balcony to attract his attention (he is outdoors), and when he
joins her on the balcony of the family hut, where she waits, naked, he
leans over her with the sun beaming from behind and responsively
consummates their union.
When, soon after this encounter, the guest announces that he must
go, Lucia, like the other family members, enters into crisis. Profoundly
aware of her empty past and equally concerned about the future, Lucia
accesses the symbolic to express her grief. In the following candid and
cathartic exegesis, Lucia sums up her life as a lack of real interests, or a
lack of genuine desires and subjectivity:
Mi accorgo ora che non ho mai avuto alcun interesse reale, per nulla. Non
parlo di qualche grande interesse, ma nemmeno dei piccoli interessi natu-
rali come quello di mio marito per la sua industria, o di mio figlio per gli
studi, o di Odetta per il suo culto famigliare. Io nulla. E non so capire come
ho potuto vivere in tanto vuoto; eppure ci sono vissuta. Se qualcosa c’era, un
po’ di istintivo amore, così, per la vita, esso inaridiva ... come un giardino ...
dove non passa nessuno. In realtà quel vuoto era riempito da falsi e
meschini valori, da un orrendo cumulo di idée sbagliate. Ora me ne
accorgo. Tu hai riempito la mia vita di un totale, reale interesse. Dunque
partendo non distruggi niente di ciò che c’era in me prima, se non una
reputazione di borghese casta ... che m’importa! Ma ciò che invece tu stesso
mi hai dato, l’amore nel vuoto della mia vita, lasciandomi lo distruggi tutto.6
[I realize now that I have never had any real interest, in anything. I don’t
mean big interests, but not even little natural interests like that of my
husband for his factory, of my son for his schoolwork, or of Odetta for the
family. I have had nothing. And I don’t know how to understand how I
could have lived in such emptiness; and yet I did. If once I had a bit of
instinctive love for life, it dried up ... like a garden ... that no one visits. In
reality, that emptiness was filled with false and poor values, from a horren-
dous accumulation of wrong ideas. Now I see it. You filled my life with a
total, real interest. So by leaving you are not destroying anything that was
part of me before, other than the reputation of being a chaste bourgeois ...
who cares! But by leaving you destroy instead all that you yourself gave me,
love amidst the emptiness of my life.]
In her monologue, Lucia defines herself in terms of a nothingness;

nowhere is this more evident than in the simple phrase ‘Io nulla.’ Even if
this ‘I nothing’ refers to her lack of sincere interests compared with her
husband and children, the juxtaposition of these two notions – the self
Sinners 169
and non-being – have a contradictory effect. For if she can say ‘I,’ she
must be a subject and therefore exist. At the same time, if her saying ‘I’
means ‘taking up a sexualized position’ and ‘identifying with the at-
tributes socially designated as appropriate for women,’ then her exist-
ence, Pasolini suggests, is a non-existence.7 Yet, at some level, Lucia is
relieved to see this void and finally know the truth. It is as if by reducing
herself to nothing, she can identify the genuine seed of her selfhood,
and, from within this very emptiness or state of non-being, can then
recover a genuine dimension in her life. The guest incites this self-
reflection and makes Lucia cognizant of her first ‘real’ interest, that is,
the ‘Other,’ the mysterious, the sacred. For Pasolini, this new awareness
was more valid and powerful than all the entrepreneurial, intellectual, or
social interests of the other family members combined. Her challenge
will be preserving this new state once the guest (the primary motor for
it) is gone.
Lucia’s isolated use of language serves as a vehicle for her self-study
and analysis. She finally sees herself not only with respect to her family
members but also with respect to society as a whole. The verbal exposi-
tion of her crisis garners meaning at the civic level, because her status as
a ‘chaste bourgeoise,’ built on the ‘horrendous accumulation of wrong
ideas,’ is imposed on her by society and conditions her notion of self. So
how exactly can the newfound, potentially authentic subject survive in a
world that inculcates false values? How exactly is Lucia supposed to
proceed? Very telling is an omitted segment of her monologue in which
the qualitative adjective orrendo is repeated. It is worth presenting here
because it connects Pasolini’s political concerns with Lucia’s spiritual
dilemma.8 It is as if in all her emptiness, Lucia herself personifies the
false values of the dominant culture. In the film, Pasolini leaves the
characters’ faces and surroundings to express the same ‘horrendous’
thesis:
Tutte le idée sbagliate di cui vive una signora borghese:

le orrende convenzioni, gli orrendi umorismi,
gli orrendi principi, gli orrendi doveri,
le orrende grazie, l’orrenda democraticità,
l’orrendo anticomunismo, l’orrendo fascismo,
l’orrenda oggettività, l’orrendo sorriso.
Ah, quante cose so di me – dirai. È una coscienza
acquisita per magia – e parlo come nel monologo
del personaggio di una tragedia!9
[All of the wrong beliefs a bourgeois woman lives with:

The horrendous conventions, the horrendous sense of humor,
the horrendous principles, the horrendous duties,
the horrendous graces, the horrendous democracy,
the horrendous anti-communism, the horrendous fascism,
the horrendous objectivity, the horrendous smile.
Ah, how well I know my self, you will say. It is a conscience
I’ve acquired magically – and my speech is like the monologue
of a character in a tragedy!]
The universo orrendo was a metaphor for neo-capitalist societies, whose

materialism and hegemony stripped humanity of its genuine characteris-
tics, beauties, and pleasures. According to critic Giancarlo Ferretti, this
world view was a ‘natural and immobile vision’ of
la borghesia industriale capitalistica come malati che inesorabilmente cor-

rompe ogni civiltà passata e inevitabilmente contagia ogni suo oppositore,
fino a coincidere con l’intero mondo, salvo certe precarie e transitorie
sacche più inerti che resistenti.10
[the industrial capitalist bourgeoisie as a group of sick people that inflex-

ibly corrupts every past civilization and inevitably contaminates every op-
ponent, until it coincides with the whole world, except certain precarious
and transitory pockets that are more inert than resistant.]
The ideological theme of a horrendous universe effectively joins Lucia’s

personal existential void with the corrupt society in which she lives.
Lucia’s emptiness could be given a Freudian interpretation – that is, that
her state signals a symbolic lack and indicates powerlessness or even
penis envy. But Lucia actually illuminates a potentially feminist paradigm
instead. In her speech, she appropriates language as an instrument of
power to denounce society’s closed symbolic structure and almost non-
existent spiritual state. In the same way that Pasolini did in his news
columns, poems, and films in this decade, Lucia acts from within the
oppressive system and turns the power of patriarchy and cultural hege-
mony upon itself. Suddenly, then, Lucia’s sexual act of self-expression
loses its solely desperate or negative values. Instead, her illicit escapade
exposes a lonely individual who, in a moment of spiritual rapture, dis-
cards her clothes, familial roles, and reputation in a passionate act of
resistance to her former chaste and bourgeois self. Like her daughter
Sinners 171
Odetta, who renounces her false self and passes into a voluntary cata-
tonic state, Lucia’s speech marks the stripping of her self to resist codifi-
cation by the horrendous universe.
However, what follows Lucia’s monologue is her failed attempts to
find a substitute for the guest’s presence, showing that an awareness
alone does not suffice, and that transgression may, at best, be ephem-
eral. Lucia leaves her home and drives through the city, looking for
young men who resemble the guest. Though we only witness two such
adventures, we imagine they exist ad infinitum. One of her twenty-
something pickups is a student who takes Lucia to his apartment, where
he leaves his clothes strewn about and sleeps in a fetal position after
they have sex. Wide-eyed and vigilant (like Medea who also literally
located the sacred as she knew it in sex), Lucia ‘reads’ the signs around
her in the same way she read the guest’s book. These material objects
become a term of comparison in Lucia’s search for unconditioned and
unadulterated modes of being. But, unlike the guest’s clothes, which
were so carefully arranged as to configure, in his absence, an ethereal
presence, this student’s crumpled clothes signify empty or quick sex
only. From this sign, Lucia realizes that her potential new partner is just
a boy – a bourgeois victim much like her own son, and not a powerful
vessel of spiritual or cultural ‘Otherness.’
Curiously, Lucia’s next escapade is even more lurid and earthy. This
time, she chooses a more rugged, unrefined young man (the first one
did not realize she was soliciting him), who shrewdly seizes the opportu-
nity to have sex. Lucia stops her car by an abandoned country building
and goes off with him to a ditch. Although she clearly breaks the chains
of ‘roles’ and ‘reputation’ that bind her, this sexual encounter does not
fulfil her either. She only finds desecrated copies of the guest, it seems,
so it is no surprise that she begins to crumble from within. She is
physically and emotionally lost, which is perfectly encapsulated in her
final question to the second stranger when she drives him back home:
‘How do I get back to Milan?’
Millicent Marcus suggests that ‘Lucia’s frantic attempt to recover the
guest degenerates into an endless series of sordid sexual exploits.’11
However, this ‘degeneration’ is complicated by the fact that she con-
cludes her journey (as far as we can tell) in the old country church. It is
as though at the end of her interlude outside Milan – the milieu that has
underwritten her empty state – Lucia has become completely disori-
ented and has turned to the church as a point of reference. When she
enters the small building, a symbolic ray of sun streams in from behind,
just as it did during sex with the guest. But Lucia closes the door and
turns inward, towards the altar. What shall we make of this final move?
Does Lucia’s inward turn and final gesture represent a step back towards
the bourgeoisie and its moral conventions? Does her stop at an empty
country church symbolize a false spiritual refuelling, which would mean
that her liberation has either failed or was only illusory? Or might her
final stop suggest that her life stands to assume a more meaningful
dimension, as long as she faces the truth of her spiritual void? In other
words, in this scene, Lucia may be turning towards her core self in the
only way possible in lieu of the guest’s physical presence. If this is the
case, rather than further constraining her, the peripheral, rustic place of
worship connotes a dark, closed, womb-like space in which she can take
refuge and in which she can close out the external influences that make
her empty, so that she may begin to find and fill her inner self.
Granted, Lucia employs verbal language only in the most decisive
moment of her life in order to honestly assess her self and her society.
Through the words of her monologue, she deconstructs the roles she
had blindly accepted and unconsciously maintained for forty years. Still,
like Dante’s pilgrim, who has to descend the ranks of hell before finding
the path to redemption, Lucia reaches the nadir of her existence through
random acts of sex and a disorienting stage of rebellion. She seeks to
create a new beginning for herself through the instinctive and unre-
strained sexuality she experienced with the guest. She tries to duplicate
this new, ‘pure’ reality but in his wake only sees – with greater depth and
awareness – the horrendous state of her current existence. For this
reason, her sins of the flesh are authentic, and, within the context of
Pasolini’s cinema, constitute an important forerunner to the diverse
speech acts and sex acts of the sinners in the Trilogy of Life films.
Il Decameron (1971)
To no surprise, the films in which sinners predominate are Pasolini’s

most overtly erotic works. Of course, Pasolini alluded to sexual relations
in nearly all of his films, whether through prostitutes (Accattone, Mamma
Roma) or conjugal pairs (Edipo re, Medea), but none of his films from the
1960s showed the sex act taking place. Even in Teorema, when sex be-
comes a primary means of communication and a pivotal subject of the
film, Pasolini only insinuates in the form of hypothesis that the charac-
ters have physical intercourse with the guest.12 However, after changes in
Sinners 173
the censorship laws (thus after Teorema, Porcile, and Medea), Pasolini
began to depict more explicit hetero- and homosexual relations, as well
as full frontal nudity and other ‘amoral’ activities. For this reason, the
years 1968–70 mark an important turning point in his career. In the films
discussed here, namely, Il Decameron (1971), I racconti di Canterbury (1972),
and Il fiore delle Mille e una notte (1974) (i.e., La trilogia della vita), there is
a decisive progression in the representation of sexual desires and sexual
activities as central to the favourable portrayal of female figures.13 Natu-
rally, these films triggered a good deal of controversy. While some schol-
ars studied Pasolini’s adaptations of the medieval masterpieces in detail,
others dismissed them for being excessively nostalgic or vulgar.14
For Pasolini, the Trilogy of Life films constituted a crucial and last-ditch
effort to represent humble creatures and genuine cultures onscreen
through the inalienable integrity of the human body. Indeed, Pasolini
specifically conceived of the eroticism in the Trilogy of Life films as a
metaphor for, and vehicle of, culturally unmediated, thus, purer modes
of being. Ideologically, he exercised freedom of expression and a certain
take on the sexual liberation characteristic of that time. Poetically, he
identified the ‘innocent’ bodies of his lower-class characters as a last
hope for showing human authenticity.15 Personally, he found our erotic
heritage – inherited from moments in time before history actually de-
fined a civilization – to be fascinating.16 But despite the discursive free-
dom outwardly achieved with these films, Pasolini disavowed all three
pictures (along with the optimism that inspired them) shortly after they
were made. In his article, ‘L’Abiura alla Trilogia della vita,’ Pasolini
explained, ‘Io abiuro dalla Trilogia della vita, benché non mi penta di
averla fatta. Non posso infatti negare la sincerità e la necessità che mi
hanno spinto alla rappresentazione dei corpi e del loro simbolo
culminante, il sesso’ (I abjure from the Trilogia of Life, although I don’t
regret making it. I cannot deny the sincerity and necessity that pushed
me to represent bodies and their culminating symbol, sex).17 By late
1974, Pasolini had come to the tragic and unalterable conclusion that in
the world ‘everything was upside down.’ Or, at least, it appeared to be
the opposite of what it once seemed. ‘Ora tutto si è rovesciato,’ he wrote,
Primo: la lotta progressista per la democratizzazione espressiva e per

la liberalizzazione sessuale è stata brutalmente superata e vanificata dalla
decisione del potere consumistico di concedere una vasta (quanto falsa)
tolleranza.
Secondo: anche la ‘realtà’ dei corpi innocenti è stata violata, manipolata,

manomessa dal potere consumistico: anzi, tale violenza sui corpi è divenuto
il dato più macroscopico della nuova epoca umana.
Terzo: le vite sessuali private (come la mia) hanno subito il trauma sia
della falsa tolleranza che della degradazione corporea, e ciò che nelle
fantasie sessuali era dolore e gioia, è divenuto suicida delusione, informe
accidia.18
[First: the progressive fight for expressive democratization and sexual

liberation has been brutally surpassed and nullified by the decision of
consumer power to concede widespread (as well as false) tolerance.
Second: even the ‘reality’ of innocent bodies has been violated, manipu-
lated, corrupted by consumer power: even worse, such violence to bodies
has become the most glaring trait of the new human era.
Third: private sex lives (like my own) have endured the trauma of both
false tolerance and corporeal degradation, and what was once pain and joy
in our sexual fantasies, has turned into suicidal disappointment, shapeless
sloth.]
According to Pasolini, by the early 1970s, the hegemonic control

characterizing bourgeois culture had rendered the notion of sexual
freedom completely worthless.19 Though society claimed to accept and
even support different forms of equality and/or freedom, in reality, it
condemned and constrained people more than ever. The ‘innocent’
bodies of the poor Neapolitans, the working-class British folk, or the
African and Middle Eastern villagers of his Trilogy films had been thor-
oughly corrupted by the consumer culture of their day. For Pasolini,
even the private sex lives of individuals had fallen prey to false tolerance
in society, meaning that a new human era had inevitably begun. Human
sexuality was no longer an immediate and reliable source of vitality and
site of spiritual regeneration. Instead, the human body and its passions
had become mere signs of the worst forms of conformism and degrada-
tion. Il Decameron, I racconti di Canterbury, and Il fiore delle Mille e una notte,
however, were all made prior to his pessimistic declarations in ‘L’Abiura,’
thus they can still be studied in terms of the purity and vibrancy exhib-
ited by their characters, whether naked or dressed.
In the Trilogy of Life, the various sinners’ language and actions develop
Pasolini’s concept of female subjectivity in a light-hearted and often
cynical fashion. Free from existential or spiritual crises, the self-indul-
gent women in Il Decameron, I racconti di Canterbury, and Il fiore delle Mille e
Sinners 175
una notte are (to greater and lesser extents) feminist-type figures who
rebel against unfair restrictions in their lives. They use language to have
sex, and they have sex for their own pleasure. But their carnal sins are
actually unobjectionable acts, because they represent truthful living with
respect to one’s personal needs and passions. Granted, in the Trilogy of
Life films, Pasolini’s reflections on human integrity are often ironic or
tongue-in-cheek. At various moments, it is even hard to take the concept
of women’s innocence seriously, since deception and lies constitute the
majority of linguistic strategies that women employ to achieve their
aims. But, like the language used, these examples of dishonesty are
simply an inauthentic means to an authentic end. The women’s deceit-
ful ways are an instrument of power that they turn upon itself for
genuine purposes. Whether playfully or aggressively, the sinners ma-
nipulate verbal language to change their unhappy, restricted, or incom-
plete lives.
Masetto’s Nuns, or the Nuns’ Masetto
Pasolini’s Decameron is a loose adaptation of ten tales from Boccaccio’s

original masterpiece.20 One of the stories, ‘Masetto di Lamporecchio’
(III, 1), shows how speech designates roles in both sex and gender
relations. Masetto is a humble young man who seeks a job as a convent
gardener when he hears that the nuns there are ‘demanding.’ Pretend-
ing to be deaf and dumb, he presents himself at the convent door. Here,
he quickly succeeds in arousing the women’s interest and getting the job,
but does so without realizing he will be used mostly for sex. Indeed, in
the following days, various nuns see Masetto working and bring him to an
empty barn to satisfy their physical desires. This goes on until Masetto,
unable to have sex with the Mother Superior, speaks out in his own
defence. With the playing field now levelled by language, the head nun
strikes a deal that permits Masetto to continue to ‘work,’ but at a pace
that better suits his bodily needs.
In Masetto’s tale, the nuns’ physical drives represent an untainted
source of vitality, and, while their faith in God may be deep, they also
refuse to let go of the natural desires denied to them by the ‘rules’
governing religious life.21 Their sexual repression becomes clear, for
example, when they react with great excitement to the mere presence of
a man among them: ‘Uh! Un uomo dentr’o convento! Uh! Madonna
mia!’ they announce one to the others, ‘Sorelle, un uomo dentr’o
convento!’ (A man in the convent! Oh! Mother of God! Sisters, a man in
the convent!). Therefore, when the opportunity to satisfy their personal

instincts presents itself, they break the codes of their society, bend
restrictions, and evade certain responsibilities in order to get what they
want. That is, rather than use speech mainly or strictly to carry out their
rituals, services, and prayers, these nuns use language to plan and imple-
ment sexual relations with the new gardener.
Though Masetto wants to have sex with them, too, the use of speech
asserts an important role reversal in the common paradigms of submis-
sion and authority. In this tale, the male protagonist’s lack of verbal
language makes him easily subordinated by the nuns’ devices. When the
women who are traditionally restricted in their access to language in-
deed gain that access, they take control of their object and use him to
achieve their goals. More explicitly, the nuns objectify Masetto by making
him – his body and their interactions with it – the subject of their speech
and gaze. They basically reduce Masetto to a sexual object, even a sexual
machine. The nuns desire Masetto around the clock, so they direct the
gaze to the male body, which underscores its ‘to-be-looked-at-ness’ or
spectacle-object status and is a direct reversal of the usual order of things.
In one scene, they target their looks directly at Masetto’s crotch, which
literally embodies the women’s secret. It and, therefore, he represent
something to observe, hold, exchange, or hide, and by objectifying a
man in this way, these women symbolically lose their subordinate status.
Beneath their giggles and girlish games, then, the nuns are actually
transgressing the boundaries of conventional religion and conventional
gender roles in order to heed the call of their bodies.
When Masetto finally reaches his limit and reclaims his gift of speech,
the women use language to come to an agreement and retain control.
That is, once he assumes his ‘normal’ role in the symbolic, the nuns
cleverly turn their forbidden object of desire into an acceptable object of
worship by proclaiming Masetto a miracle (‘Miracolo! Sì, miracolo!’) and
then using that miracle as a basis for making a verbal contract for
continued sexual services.22 Thus, under the semblance of a miracle,
these women use language to divert attention from the carnal sins that
bring them to live more authentically. Because they do not have to
relinquish their individual desires, the ‘miracle’ of Masetto’s speech
paradoxically becomes the miracle of the women’s earthly pleasures.
Pasolini’s nuns are active subjects whose words dismantle the symbolic
order by altering male–female power relations in the microcosm of the
convent.
Sinners 177
Caterina di Valbona
In the tale of ‘Lizio di Valbona’ (V, 4), a teenage girl (Lizio’s daughter,
Caterina) falls in love with a handsome young man (Riccardo) during an
innocent summer game. Burning with desire to spend the night together,
the two devise a plan. Caterina says she will convince her parents to let her
sleep on a balcony, where Riccardo can easily reach her. When, the next
morning, Caterina’s parents find her sleeping with Riccardo, they insist
that he marry their daughter. Riccardo happily obliges, and the two are
allowed to return to their love nest and peaceful morning slumber.
To a great extent, Caterina embodies the innocent, madre fanciulla
figure of Pasolini’s early poetics. A visibly sweet young maiden, Caterina’s
facial expressions, beautiful smile, and white teeth radiate a candour that
Pasolini emphasizes with close shots. Her smile epitomizes the honesty
and forthrightness with which she nurtures her ‘self’ – an ideal to which
she remains committed throughout the tale. Pasolini first introduces
Caterina amidst the hustle and bustle of a busy market square, but
another indicator of her pure status is the suggestive setting in which
Lizio’s tale opens. Like many a madre fanciulla before her, Caterina frolics
in a lush summer garden with her friends who play a carefree game of
hide-and-seek. These are the traits that will soon contrast with those of
her conformist, materialist parents who disapprove the full (sexual)
expression of her self.
As part of the dominant class culture, Caterina must observe numer-
ous restrictions on her self-expression, including matters of sexuality and
a choice of partner. Yet, in the spirit of being true to herself, Caterina
appropriates the instrument of patriarchal power, that is, verbal lan-
guage, specifically in order to heed her personal desires and plan a
secret meeting with Riccardo. Subject to parental scrutiny and requiring
permission for all that she does, Caterina knows that she will not realize
her amorous goal by means of natural sincerity. Hence, she finds a way to
transgress the strict codes that safeguard her virginal status by making a
seemingly innocent request to sleep outdoors on the family’s terrace. In
this way, Caterina puts an inauthentic means (verbal language) to an
authentic end (sex and closeness) and manipulates an external instru-
ment of power to satisfy base-level desires.
More than simply breaking with social codes, Caterina’s strategic use
of language also challenges the symbolic order. Her persuasive conversa-
tion with her mother – characterized by a witty play on words – conjoins
the notion of a ‘singing bird’ (usignolo) with Riccardo’s male member or

her own source of pleasure (in Italian, the penis is often informally
referred to as ‘the bird’).23 Caterina first tells her mother she is too warm
to sleep inside. And when the mother does not agree (‘Dove sta questo
caldo?’), Caterina says she has ‘hot blood’ compared with that of her
aging mother: ‘Eh, mamma, ma voi avete a pensà a quanto sono più
calde le guaglioni di voi femmine anziane!’ (Oh, Mom, you are forget-
ting that young girls are much hotter than you old women!). Unable to
refute the comparison, the concerned mother asks what she can do to
relieve Caterina from this heat. It is here that Caterina makes her second
linguistic play, mixing the meaning of birds and body parts. She says that
a night on the balcony where the ‘nightingale sings’ will certainly help
her sleep. In this way, Caterina deceitfully obtains permission to capture
Riccardo’s ‘bird,’ thus claiming another sign of patriarchal power for her
pleasure.
Just before the climax or point of primary conflict in Lizio’s tale,
Caterina and Riccardo are shown post-coitus, in the nude. Here, Pasolini
asserts the genuine nature of Caterina’s uninhibited subjectivity in two
ways. The first association is physical and erotic, and takes place when
Caterina sits up to admire Riccardo. Sharing her point of view, Pasolini
pans down Riccardo’s taut, bronzed body until Caterina arrives at his
penis and gently takes it in her hand as if it were the bird she proposed to
have sing by her bedside. The second association is ideological in nature
and materializes when, the morning after, Ser Lizio goes to wake his
daughter who had longed to ‘sleep with her nightingale’ (Fammi vedere
un poco come la nostra Caterina ha dormito stanotte col suo usignolo),
and finds her with Riccardo’s bare member in her hand.
Pasolini underscores the broader significance of the simple family
conflict with different elements. Narratively speaking, it would be Lizio’s
right to kill Riccardo for dishonouring the whole family. But Lizio proves
the bourgeoisie to be more opportunistic than traditional, opting in-
stead to take advantage of Riccardo’s wealth (‘Riccardo è un ragazzo
bravo, e di buona famiglia ... con un gran patrimonio ... e con lui non
possiamo avere che una buona parentela’).24 The mise en scène through-
out this parent–child confrontation also positions the two generations as
being at odds with one another: Lizio and Giacomina are clothed (closed,
conservative), while Caterina and Riccardo are naked (exposed, liberal)
and obedient. Moreover, Lizio and Giacomina stand in the opposite field
of vision, which visibly separates patriarchal authority from the teenag-
ers’ ‘innocent’ erotic adventure. Finally, rather than conclude the tale
Sinners 179
with Lizio’s financially motivated victory, Pasolini returns our attention

to the young lovers as they willingly take their ‘punishment’ (i.e., a
quickly improvised wedding).
Caterina’s carefully chosen and deceitful words thus paradoxically
contrast her genuine goals (sustaining freedom, instinct, and carnal
desires) with the corrupt codes represented by her parents and their
aspirations. The fact that, in their ‘pure’ (i.e., naked) condition, she and
Riccardo are candidly grinning from ear to ear suggests that, despite the
external structure and demands of the dominant culture, the ‘tuned in,’
or spiritually aware human subject can indeed create a private realm in
which to experience life more authentically. The hidden beauty of this
final scene is that it shows Caterina’s realm was to be found within the
boundaries of her bourgeois existence. The family terrace, located ‘above
the garden,’ then becomes a locus amoenus akin to that of the open space
where Caterina and Riccardo first meet and play hide-and-seek. A mid-
way point between the family home (and her bedroom) and the original
bucolic setting, Caterina’s terrace represents the crucial threshold in her
subjectivity, between her subordinate status in the symbolic and her
authoritative status in the makeshift Eden. Although she eventually
conforms to social demands by obeying her father and marrying Riccardo,
she is sincerely happy to do so. Her marriage does not detract from the
fact that she manages to choose her own partner, carry out a plan to
satisfy her most intimate desires, and live a life that is at least partially
unspoiled and true.
Lisabetta da Messina
Il Decameron includes another tale about a young woman who also wishes
to experience her sexuality more freely: ‘Lisabetta da Messina’ (IV, 5).
The story opens on young Lisabetta’s bedroom, where she and her lover
Lorenzo have spent the night.25 She asks him to stay longer, but, knowing
the danger this would involve, Lorenzo goes. Unfortunately, one of
Lisabetta’s brothers happens to see him leave and runs to tell the others
that their sister was bedding the Sicilian workhand. Whether they are
more upset by the dishonour Lisabetta’s actions bring the family or
disgusted by her choice of a low-ranking partner, the brothers punish her
crime by taking Lorenzo to the country and killing him. Intuiting her
brothers’ horrible misdeed, Lisabetta goes with her maid to exhume her
lover’s head, then buries it in a basil plant, whose fragrance will sweeten
her room.
Once again, the notion of innocence or virtue can easily seem elusive.
But because in the Trilogy of Life sexuality still constitutes the most
authentic mode of self-expression and interaction, sex remains the pri-
mary sign of innate goodness. Like Caterina, Lisabetta is a sweet, young
maiden whose full subjectivity is forbidden by the patriarchal law of the
merchant middle class to which she belongs. She is a victim of her
culture and the oppressed member of a relatively privileged society,
particularly within the microcosm of her family. Though her innocence
derives in part from this inferior status in the strictly codified family
setting, Lisabetta neither denies her bodily pleasures nor drowns her
subjective voice. Her fornication, lies, and resolve to retain her partner
even after his murder prove her commitment to a wholeness of being
that the authority figures around her disallow and cannot themselves
achieve.
The main source of authority with which Lisabetta must contend is her
three brothers, who dominate her life visibly and verbally. Pasolini re-
veals the rigid nature of the family hierarchy when Lisabetta confronts
the brothers about Lorenzo’s disappearance. They are brusque and rude
and almost threaten to kill her, too:
2o fratello (severo): Che sei venuta a fare qua?

Lisabetta (timidamente): Volevo sapere se Lorenzo è tornato ...
1o fratello: Te lo abbiamo detto tre giorni fa ... L’abbiamo mandato a
Palermo per certi affari nostri.
2o fratello (adirato): E se ce lo domandi ancora, ti diamo la risposta
che meriti.
3o fratello (brusco): Lisabettta, vattene dentro casa ed esci, come hai
fatto sempre, solo con il permesso nostro.
2o fratello: Va ... va ... e se ce lo fai ripetere un’altra volta povera te!26
[2nd brother (severe): What did you come here for?

Lisabetta (timidly): I wanted to ask you if Lorenzo has returned ...
1st brother : We already told you three days ago ... We sent him to
Palermo on business.
2nd brother (irate): And if you ask us again, we’ll give the real answer
you deserve.
3rd brother (brusque): Lisabetta, go inside and come out, as you are
accustomed to, only with our permission.
2nd brother : Go ... go ... and if you make us repeat it again, look out!]
Sinners 181
Other indications of the fact that her brothers control her life are the
shot, reverse-shot structure of their dialogue, which grants the siblings a
clear sense of opposition, and the high angle shots that Pasolini uses to
convey the brothers’ superiority over Lisabetta when they speak. 27 How-
ever, Lisabetta surpasses the threat or limitations they pose in her life
first by secretly following her sex drive, then, later, by reclaiming Lorenzo
(metonymically) after he is dead. From beginning to end in this tale,
Lisabetta privileges her personal desires over the demands or expecta-
tions of her pretentious brothers.
Like the other sinners, Lisabetta will strategically use spoken language
to reverse power relations in her home, and challenge the laws that
confine her. Simply put, Lisabetta lies to her brothers in order to over-
ride the horror and finality of Lorenzo’s death. When Lorenzo appears
in a dream to tell Lisabetta how he died and where he lies buried,
Lisabetta subverts the reality her brothers imposed on her life by killing
Lorenzo. To achieve this, she tells her brothers she has been cooped up
for too long and humbly asks permission to go strolling with her maid:
‘Fratelli, è tanto tempo che resto chiusa in casa ... Volete darmi il
permesso di andare a passeggiare un poco con la nostra serva?’28 Unsus-
pecting, the brothers agree, and it is at this point that she openly defies
them. She goes to Lorenzo’s grave and fervently digs up his body
(‘comincia a scavare, presa da quel suo fervore folle e quasi impietoso’).
She then detaches his head and carries it back to her room, where she
plants it and places it in a sunlit window. Beyond the symbolic suggestion
that sunlight will bring new energy and growth, this bedroom window
represents a threshold for the female subject. It is a symbolic boundary
between the outside world and her intimate resting place – between the
public and private demands to which Lisabetta must respond. Therefore,
contrary to Boccaccio’s tale, which ends with Lisabetta dying from de-
spair,29 Pasolini’s tale ends under the sign of creative victory. By salvaging
Lorenzo’s head, Lisabetta preserves the image of the ‘Other’ through
whom she nurtured her desires. Though somewhat gruesome, the final
scene suggests that Lisabetta successfully counters the finality of death
imposed by her brothers. Although in reality she cannot have Lorenzo
again, she can preserve a fragment of their love, and, by extension, her
personal commitment to authenticity.
In broader terms, Lisabetta’s brief appropriation of spoken language
reflects a hard-to-find human integrity because in the context of her life
it enables her to achieve a non-conformist mode of living. By contrast,
her brothers’ use of language exemplifies the false and oppressive ruling
class that is unable to nourish any genuine desires or instincts. They
hypocritically punish Lisabetta for responding to her sexual desires out
of wedlock, even though one of them was engaged in the same activity on
the night her secret was discovered. The double standard here exists not
only for men and women but also for the strong and the weak. During
Lorenzo’s death scene, for example, Pasolini further exposes the broth-
ers’ hypocrisy by alluding to their repressed homosexuality. The pastoral
escapade leading up to the murder acquires sexual overtones when the
young men run and then urinate together, displaying their virility. After
another run, the brothers stop to rest. Here, they feed each other grapes
in a treacherous display of seduction, because their playfulness soon
turns into violence. They begin feeding Lorenzo but eventually stuff so
many grapes into the boy’s mouth that the allusion to forbidden sexual-
ity turns into the cruel fattening of a beast before slaughter.30 In this
respect, the brothers’ corruption also extends to the way they wield
power over the weak or innocent. As members of the rising merchant
class, they trick and squash the southern workhand.31 Given the class
difference between Lorenzo’s and Lisabetta’s families, his death alludes
to the annihilation of the poor, the authentic, and the socially different.
Though, in the end, Lisabetta and Lorenzo are both victims of repres-
sion and violence, their words and actions denote some of the ways in
which Pasolini continued to recover desirable forms of diversity onscreen.
32
I racconti di Canterbury (1973)
The second Trilogy of Life film is I racconti di Canterbury. In this work,

Pasolini adapted eight of the original tales and added an autobiographi-
cal frame tale in which he himself plays Chaucer. As in Il Decameron,
nearly all of the stories focus on illicit sexuality, corrupt authority, and
hypocritical religiosity. But, compared with its predecessor, the collection
ends on a more cynical and pessimistic note. Rather than conclude with
unfinished artwork and ask, ‘Why finish a work of art when it is so nice to
simply dream about its ending?’ I racconti finishes with the ‘Cursor’s
Tale,’ in which clergymen become ‘human flatulence’ and are crudely
blown from Satan’s ass. This vulgar scene precedes Pasolini’s final ap-
pearance as Chaucer, who cheerfully signs his name to his work. With the
film’s themes of illicit sex and social transgression, the ‘Merchant’s Tale’
and the ‘Wife of Bath’s Prologue’ offer sustained and vivid explorations
Sinners 183
of female subjectivity and self-expression as a means of achieving per-

sonal freedom and integrity.
The Merchant’s Tale – May
The film’s opening sequence shows the town square and tavern where an
array of Chaucerian characters mingle. The first tale, the ‘Merchant’s
Tale,’ tells of wealthy old January, who one day decides to marry. What is
more, he does not want a plain wife or an old wife; rather, she must be
young and pretty. He ends up marrying May, but the girl quickly tires of
his jealousy and amuses herself by planning a love affair with a young
squire and admirer named Damian. In the meantime, the gods Prosperina
and Pluto make a playful wager to see which of the conjugal pair is the
stronger, May or January. They blind January, which facilitates May’s
ability to plan and realize her extramarital affair. But just when the two
young lovers are about to consummate their relationship, the gods
restore January’s sight and grant May the ability to convince him that his
jealousy made him see visions. Then the two stroll off contented.
Although May is guilty of being unfaithful to January, like many of the
sinners before her she nonetheless retains an air of purity. Initially, her
innocence stems from an array of obvious traits such as age, social rank,
and environment. She is a young (in her early twenties), simple girl
when January first spots her, wearing a modest dress and no make-up,
with her hair unstyled. The first time she is shown, she is playing games
with children, which joins her, if only briefly, to the maiden mother. This
scene also suggests that, like Bruna (Mamma Roma), May spends most of
her days outdoors and, since she is sitting directly on the dirt street, that
she belongs to the lower ranks of society. Indeed, May keeps company
with a group of young street urchins who reveal her candid, earthy
nature by lifting her dress to reveal her bare buttocks. To further substan-
tiate this impression of crudeness, Pasolini has her display other unre-
fined traits. One is the way she eats. As is clear during the wedding
banquet, May lacks a lady’s finesse: she hunches over her plate and
rapaciously eats large pieces of meat with her hands. In the same scene,
she stares instinctively, unabashedly, and hungrily at Damian, who gazes
up at her from among the common crowd and who, at the time, has a
painful erection.
While some read this tale as that of the challenges faced by an old man
with a young wife, it can also be read as the story of a young woman who
pursues her desires despite conventions that oblige her to marry a horny
old man. By sinning with young Damian, May transgresses the social
codes that bind her and sustains the authentic vitality denied her by
marriage to January. In fact, from her wedding day onward, when she
first sees Damian, May reciprocates the young squire’s desire (i.e., she
stares at the bulge in his pants) and devises a plan for them to meet and
have sex. Therefore, despite the possibility that the ‘Merchant’s Tale’
may be a ‘portrait of sexual frustration,’ it might as well be the portrait of
a young woman’s emancipation. For from within the confines of her
traditional, medieval marriage, May takes charge enough of her sex life
that she can keep a lover. She does so even while pregnant, thus overrid-
ing the authority of her prattling old partner (standing right beside her)
and subordinating her maternal identity.33 In other words, May counters
her obligatory status as a wife-mother-object by focusing on Damian and
tending to her own needs.
Whereas Chaucer’s May falls for Damian ‘out of pity’ and, in the
fashion of courtly love, succumbs to his wishes out of the goodness of her
heart, Pasolini’s May is an equally active, desirous, and responsible player
in the young lovers’ lustful plan.34 In fact, once she has Damian on her
mind, and, worse, after she receives his love letter (stating that if he
cannot have her he will die), she visibly tires of the status quo and grows
resentful of her husband. May rolls her eyes or stares at the ceiling with
boredom, particularly during January’s bedroom antics. She sticks out
her tongue to show her distaste as he huffs and puffs atop her, and she
even laughs aloud when he prances about the room to celebrate his
ejaculation. One night, when January has fallen asleep, May takes action:
she goes to her desk, takes up her pen, and responds to a letter from
Damian saying: ‘Caro Damiano, anchio ti amo con tutto il quore. Io farò
fare la chiave del giardino che ci potremo fare lamore’ (Dear Damiano, I
love you too with all of my heart. I will have a key to the garden made so
we can make love there).35
Although May uses language sparingly in her love note, writing only
enough to make her amorous intentions clear, it is through her appro-
priation of language in written form that she takes responsibility for her
own desires and challenges the symbolic order – not in the manner of
the sinner, Lucia, who suddenly uses language to express a void, but,
rather, in the manner of the younger Caterina and Lisabetta, who
strategically speak, even lie, to realize their passion-driven goals. How-
ever, May’s strategy lies not in gaining permission but in composing the
note and the plan in which she decisively names the time, place, and
means of her illicit meeting with Damian (daytime, in the garden, she’ll
Sinners 185
get him a key). This way, May both symbolically and literally hands
Damian the key to her husband’s property and prized possession. Seen
in this light, the short letter does more than join May with her lover: it
also overturns the idea that the power of the pen, hence, language,
belongs only to men.
Pasolini reinforces the notion of female authority (as per women’s
appropriation of language) at the end of the tale, when May speaks for
the first time. January and May have just entered their Edenic gardens
for a morning stroll, when the expectant May feigns hunger and asks her
blind husband to help her step up, so that she can reach the ‘ripe fruits’
(i.e., Damian) that await her up in the tree (‘Oh, mi è venuta tanta voglia
di mangiare quelle more che stanno lassú!’).36 This plan works, but just
as she consummates her relationship with Damian, the playful Pluto and
Prosperina restore January’s sight. May will have to speak again to save
her reputation. Here, May quite smoothly convinces her husband that
his jealousy made him see strange visions, that they made him see ghosts
that don’t exist. (‘Prima di tornarvi la vista vi ha dato un barlume delle
cose ... e la vostra gelosia vi ha fatto vedere fantasmi.’)37 Though scepti-
cal, old January does not put up a fight. Relieved to have his sight back,
and his beautiful wife at his side, he decides to believe May’s answer.
As the two walk off, hand in hand, we are reminded of the harmony
and equity that the expansive, symmetrical, and perfectly groomed gar-
den space represents. It is here that Prosperina and Pluto enjoy their
game with mortals and exercise their equal powers over May and January’s
relationship. Similarly, in the end, husband and wife display greater
balance in their authorities. January wishes to keep May under lock and
key, but May finds a way to turn his dominant will on himself and, at least
temporarily, break free. Even though her main instances of subjectivity
are officially dishonest and constitute grave sins, they exemplify authen-
ticity. And although achieved through adultery, they sustain her subjec-
tivity in a culture that is by and large exploitative of women.
Prologue to the Wife of Bath’s Tale
The question of female subjectivity in unhappy or deceitful marriages is

a common theme throughout the Trilogy of Life. But nowhere is the topic
so central and detailed as in the ‘Wife of Bath’s Prologue,’ for which
Pasolini once again cast dear friend and award-winning actress Laura
Betti in the leading role. Several factors make the ‘Prologue’ stand apart
from other parts of the medieval masterpiece as adapted by Pasolini.
One main difference is the first-person narration by a woman. Here,

Alyson, the Wife of Bath, has license to recount her experiences in love,
sex, and marriage, and she speaks profusely and publicly. Second, the
Wife’s prologue stands apart for its sheer quantity of female speech. No
female figure, sinner or not, talks quite as much as Alyson of Bath.38 A
third distinguishing feature is the fact that ‘the Wife’s’ identity is based
on a plural and fragmented personal history of marriage. She has been
married four times and plans to marry again. She tells her tales to
random listeners, as if bragging that she ‘has been around.’
For anyone who knows Chaucer’s original, it may seem ridiculous to
propose that the vigorous and bawdy Wife of Bath is a reputable figure
of any kind. Not so – at least not on Pasolini’s terms. In his world, and
in the context of his sinners, the Wife of Bath is indeed golden because
her self-driven, anti-patriarchal, and libertine behaviours bespeak a truer
mode of being. Although Alyson, the Wife of Bath, must abide by
certain laws of ownership, she is not portrayed as a marginal, oppressed,
or victimized figure with respect to a bourgeois family.39 She also differs
from the other Decameron and Canterbury sinners in that she does not
inhabit a particularly rural or humble setting. Thanks to her various
husbands, she is relatively wealthy and at times showily dressed (wearing
red and donning a big hat). Rather than frolic with maids in bucolic
locations, she gossips with other women and hits on random men.
Another way in which Alyson of Bath breaks with the moral codes and
thereby represents authenticity is through her open (and openly crude)
talk about sex. In fact, her basic philosophy revolves around this habit,
and she is never punished or castigated for behaving uninhibitedly
about sex. When in the opening scene Pasolini first shows her among
the pilgrims, she is chatting with assorted tavern-goers and townspeople
and blatantly dismissing the conventions of female chastity, claiming
that ‘women’s virginity was never commanded in the Gospels’ and sug-
gesting, therefore, that God did not condemn female sexuality. To the
contrary, by stating that the Holy Book commands that man ‘pay his
debt to his wife,’ she capitalizes on the authority of the Bible and the
written word to suggest that women are meant to experience sexuality
fully and freely.40
Alyson also sets new standards for women with her domineering
behaviour towards men. We first see her in action with her fourth
husband, as he carries out his ‘duties.’ Alyson’s incessant chatter and
apparent boredom accentuate the bold nature of her sexuality, for it
becomes clear that love is not driving her demands.41 In this scene,
Sinners 187
Pasolini employs a long shot of the bed on which the husband is working
away. Then we see Alyson up close as she impatiently tells him to hurry
because she has to chat:
Forza, marito mio, forza. Lo sai come siamo fatte noi donne! Dobbiamo
fare le nostre chiacchiere, perché siamo capricciose: e poi più ce lo negate
più lo vogliamo ... Insomma, hai fatto?42
[C’mon, my husband, get to it. You know how we women are! We have to
do our chatting, because we are whimsical: and then the more you deny us
the more we want ... So anyway, are you done?]
A closer look at Alyson’s use of language with respect to the men in her
life shows how her sexuality challenges not only the conventions of
courtship and marriage but also the symbolic order that reinforces
patriarchy within middle-class society. In the scene with her fourth hus-
band, the weakened (silent) man stands in contrast to the virile (chatty)
Wife. The husband’s silence mirrors his impotence, since rather than
reach climax after his tremendous physical effort, he simply collapses.
Disappointed, even disgusted, the Wife gets up, grabs her clothes, and
resumes her ‘public’ life. Then, when her husband lies dying, the Wife
theatrically mourns: ‘My sweet husband, why are you leaving me?’ (‘Dolce
mio marito, perché mi lasci?’). Too weak to respond to her false display
of woe, he makes one vulgar hand gesture to the crowd of onlookers to
indicate that sex with Alyson has reduced him to this state. By demand-
ing that her insatiable desires be fulfilled, the wife takes control of each
husband to the point of exhausting him to death. Her incessant chatter
reflects her appropriation of the phallocentric order of things, which, in
turn, diminishes the male’s ability to speak and act. In fact, husband
number four only manages to mutter ‘Never again!’ before dying.43
Alyson’s forceful combination of bold language and behaviour contin-
ues in her new relationship with Gianozzo, a student from Oxford. From
the moment she lays eyes on him, she descends on him like a bird of
prey, and, once again, she is neither abashed nor reserved about express-
ing her desire. For example, while visiting her friend Lisotto’s, one day,
Alyson spies on Gianozzo through a keyhole as he bathes and dresses,
and when he later exits his room, she coyly asks: ‘Don’t I know you from
somewhere?’ Embarrassed, Giannozzo simply bows and leaves, but the
ensuing conversation between the two women centres on sex and mar-
riage and makes it clear that marriage is Alyson’s compromise with
society – the reason for which she is not outcast completely. The Wife of
Bath brags, for instance, about her ability to please men: ‘Tutti i miei
mariti l’hanno detto: la mia cosuccia è la meglio che si possa trovare in
tutta la città di Bath!’ (All my husbands have said, my thingie is the best
that you can find in the whole city of Bath!). She also states that she is
never without plans for a future marriage: ‘Oh, modestia a parte! A me
non mi si troverà mai senza piani di nozze, o d’altre cose del genere ...
Mai e mai!’ (Oh, modesty aside. You’ll never find me without wedding
plans, or something similar ... No, never!). At the same time, she criti-
cizes the custom of marriage itself for the monogamous constraints it
imposes: ‘E se proprio vuoi saperlo, mi sembra anche scemo quel topo
che abbia una sola buca dove rifugiarsi!’ (If you want to know the truth, it
seems stupid that the mouse only has one hole to hide in!).
Shortly after, the Wife of Bath sees Giannozzo outdoors in the public
fairgrounds and wastes no time in taking control. She does so first by
coercing him with words (‘Sono venuta qui per parlarti, Giannozzo!’)
and then by literally taking hold of his penis to rub it (menarglielo). As she
‘charms’ him with her actions, Alyson paradoxically tells Giannozzo he
has put a spell on her. Then she quickens the pace of her rubbing and
says: ‘... you have to marry me!’44 When Giannozzo claims he is too
young to marry, Alyson simply states that ‘her old husband’s death is her
new husband’s gold.’45 At this point, Giannozzo is persuaded and be-
comes her fifth husband (a number sardonically emphasized by the sight
of five urinals by her bedside). However, on their wedding night,
Giannozzo will not consummate their marriage; he does not respond to
the Wife’s urging and insisting. Instead, he shows her a moral book that
‘speaks’ out against sexual depravities such as hers.
In response to Giannozzo’s offensive gesture, Alyson seeks to regain
the upper hand with her brazen tongue. First, she reminds Giannozzo
that he has gained her inheritance. Then, when he continues to refuse
her, she insults him, calling him a coward, pig, and hypocrite.46 The
verbal spat quickly becomes a physical confrontation, and Giannozzo
pushes Alyson to the floor, where she hits her head and prepares to die.
Here, she falsely apologizes and melodramatically asks for a last kiss. As a
sorrowful Giannozzo leans forward to grant her this, Alyson makes her
final move. She bites her new husband on the nose – another bodily
protrusion, if you will – thereby truncating his authority and claiming
sovereignty in marriage. Pasolini’s ending is analogous to Chaucer’s finale,
in which Alyson burns Giannozzo’s book to gain control in ‘tongue and
hand’ (word and authority), after which the two live happily ever after.47
Sinners 189
On a final note, consider the position of May’s and Alyson’s tales in

Pasolini’s film with respect to the original collection. In Chaucer, the
Wife’s prologue and tale precede ‘The Merchant’s Tale’ by several sto-
ries. Pasolini instead places them both in positions of emphasis. May is
the first woman in the film (primo tempo), and Alyson, the first women in
the second half (literally the fifth of eight tales, hence, the centre of the
film). This arrangement provides the film with a symmetry based on
strong female protagonists. One young and one old (by medieval stan-
dards, at least), each taking control of her life through the uninhibited
expression of her desires. In fact, these women pursue their desires
directly and boldly, often in public (Alyson) or right under the nose
(May) of their husbands (i.e., authority). Though Alyson’s promiscuity
arguably inflates ‘the image of the nymphomaniac to grotesque propor-
tions,’ for Pasolini it was only through excess, extramarital affairs, and the
externalization of desire that genuine subjects could really break out of
their moulds and live more authentically.48
Il fiore delle Mille e una notte (1974)
Like Il Decameron and I racconti di Canterbury, Il fiore delle Mille e una notte
comprises a selection of episodes from the original novel A Thousand and
One Arabian Nights. With a focus on freedom, beauty, and sexuality, these
tales depict the trajectories of numerous characters. The fact that Dacia
Maraini wrote the screenplay with Pasolini at the onset of her illustrious
career gives rise to an interesting balance between male and female
subjectivity, with decisively subversive twists. As Viano puts it, this very
fact ‘sets knowledgeable viewers already in the mindframe of a poten-
tially feminist work.’49 To no surprise, then, the women in Il fiore inspire
interesting analyses with respect to authenticity, authority, and oppres-
sion, and the two female protagonists, Zumurrud and Aziza, use lan-
guage and sexuality to articulate and sustain what they (and Pasolini)
experience as free and life-giving.50
Zumurrud
With respect to the previous Trilogy films, Il fiore has a complex narrative
structure that weaves together episodes from Zumurrud’s and Aziza’s
different storylines. In between these episodes, additional, shorter sto-
ries begin and end, creating a mosaic and somewhat labyrinthine viewing
experience. The film begins in an open market square, during the sale of
a slave. The auctioneer claims that the young Zumurrud (Ines Pellegrini),
known as the ‘woman of the moon,’ gives the best massages in town. No
sooner does the man open the bidding for purchase than an intriguing
contradiction emerges. Rather than be bought by a master or sold by an
auctioneer (passively), Zumurrud selects a master and sells herself (ac-
tively and with her own money, we find out) to a teenager named Nur ed
Din (Franco Merli). Zumurrud brings Nur ed Din to her home, where
the two settle in and make love. But as chance has it, soon after the
young woman gets kidnapped and Nur ed Din spends the rest of the film
travelling the world to find her. After several years, a desert tiger finally
leads him to the city of Sair, where Zumurrud reigns as a cross-dressed
king. As king, Zumurrud eventually finds her long-lost lover and immedi-
ately subjects him to her ‘authority’ again.
Zumurrud’s innocence stems from many features she has in common
with the madre fanciulla protagonists of previous films. For instance, she
seems equally candid and fun-loving, for she often laughs and jokes with
those around her. And when she laughs, she reveals a big, beautiful smile
and large, expressive eyes. Zumurrud’s appearance is naturally modest
in other ways; her clothes are few and simple, she has almost no hair, and
wears neither make-up nor jewellery. From the start, Zumurrud’s diver-
sity and power derive from her social difference. In a society in which
everyone is black, her ‘Otherness’ does not stem from colour but from
being a woman and a slave. Indeed, Zumurrud belongs to the very lowest
ranks of society, where, theoretically, she is a mere object to be bought,
sold, and used according to her owner’s will.
Despite her doubly subordinate status as woman and slave in this
ancient society, Zumurrud’s innocence and authenticity also derive from
her regular use of frank, direct, and authoritative speech, even when
impolite or insincere. For example, Zumurrud subverts social conven-
tions by means of spoken language when she offends the men in the
market square. In refusing a prospective buyer, Zumurrud makes his sex
organs the brunt of a joke and says: ‘Tu hai un bastone di cera molle
dentro i calzoni. E quando dormi, si alza (ride) e quando ti alzi dorme.
Che Dio abbia pietà di chi ti sta accanto!’ (You’ve got a soft wax stick in
your pants. And when you sleep it stands up (she laughs) and when you
get up it sleeps. May God have pity on the person in bed with you!).51
Here, her ‘quick tongue’ or ability to be assertive and insulting reveals
not only her commitment to being true to herself but also her sense of
humour and her feisty spirit. Although the prospective master reacts
angrily to her insolence, Zumurrud suffers no consequences for her
Sinners 191
actions. Instead, she continues expressing her desires through speech,

particularly when she spots a potential owner she finds appealing: a
young man (Franco Merli playing Nur ed Din) with a big smile, who
stands nearby, idly eating some candied treats. Here Zumurrud an-
nounces to the men: ‘Io non voglio essere venduta a nessun altro che a
quel ragazzo laggiù ... solo lui sarà il mio padrone perché ha la guancia
liscia e la sua bellezza abbaglia chi lo guarda’ (I don’t want to be sold to
any one but that boy there ... only he will be my master because he has
smooth cheeks and his beauty stuns whoever looks at him).52
Generally speaking, the verbal authority that Zumurrud exerts to
safeguard her authenticity in the public domain characterizes her life in
the private sphere as well. Once home with Nur ed Din, she acts more
like his master and teacher than slave and subordinate. Though Zumurrud
maintains her womanly appeal and practises numerous traditional activi-
ties within the home (cooking, embroidery, and so on), she also gives
Nur ed Din the money with which to buy her and then rent a flat, and
she takes the lead with her virginal master, teaching him how to make
love. Ultimately, Zumurrud’s overcompensation for Nur ed Din’s real
innocence (his boyish, candy-eating nature and sexually inexperienced
status) results in an equitable and fulfilling relationship for herself.53
From within the confines of her hierarchal society, she first inverts the
dominant master–slave relationship and then dissolves it as they become
lovers and friends. In this, their relationship is authentic because it is
mutually stimulating and essentially free.
Zumurrud’s savoir faire with different modes of verbal language not
only challenges the symbolic order through which power relationships
are sustained, but it also foreshadows the subversive effects of her cross-
dressing and male impersonation later in the film. As previously men-
tioned, shortly after her union with Nur ed Din, Zumurrud is kidnapped
by a thief, from whom she eventually manages to escape by tricking her
old guard, stealing his clothes, and riding away on his horse. It is in this
inauthentic male guise that Zumurrud comes by chance to the city of
Sair, where the inhabitants await the first male visitor, whom they will
declare king.54 Upon her arrival, the disguised female slave instantly
becomes the highest-ranking member of society and finds that, to avoid a
violent death, she must take a wife.55
Zumurrud’s use of language now gains additional genuine and vital
functions, namely, that of establishing an honest relationship with her
wife and, ultimately, of saving her own life. Shortly after the wedding, the
childbride Hayat tells Zumurrud that by law they must consummate their
union. At this point, Zumurrud has no choice but to tell her tale and
establish a bond of secrecy with Hayat. She stops speaking with the words
and voice of a man and tells Hayat how she came to Sair. She then strips
naked. Amused by Zumurrud’s surprise and charmed by her adventur-
ous tale, Hayat gasps with excitement and laughs aloud. Like adolescent
friends, the girls vow to keep the secret, making language, identity, and
subverted authority the foundation for solidarity. ‘I’m unlucky,’ says
Hayat, ‘but I won’t betray you’ (‘Sono stata sfortunata, ma non ti tradirò!’).
Now accomplices in a spirited game of false identity, the royal couple
successfully transgresses society’s laws from within and organizes city
festivals that will hopefully attract Nur ed Din.
Judith Butler theorizes the power of cross-dressing and drag, particu-
larly in the cinematic medium. Drawing upon Althusser’s notion of
ideological state apparatuses, she concludes that ‘drag may well be used
in the service of both the denaturalization and re-idealization of hyper-
bolic heterosexual gender norms.’56 Though Il Fiore was written prior to
Butler’s theory, it is likely that the ambivalence and contradiction in-
herent in cross-dressing, like drag, appealed to Pasolini and Maraini.
Zumurrud’s life-or-death existence as a cross-dressed king subverts
viewer expectations by confusing notions of gender and the interplay
(agency versus receptivity) of authority. That is, by becoming king, she
manipulates gender roles and social rank to reflect the multilayered and
mise-en-abîme structure of male dominance in society. At the outer
limits of this concentric design, a patriarchal governing system obliges
marriage and heterosexual relations. In this social setting, then, Zumurrud
‘receives’ authority and is a victim. But within the city, despite that she is
subject to the overall law of the land, (s)he rules over the entire popu-
lace as well as the single visitor or citizen when so desired. As a man and
a noble, Zumurrud obtains ‘legitimate’ power in the public sphere and
uses it, for example, to punish by death her past offenders (her kidnap-
per passes through the city) or any visitors she finds to be arrogant. At
the centre or core of this framework of power is the intimate, personal
domain in which Zumurrud reigns over herself and select others. Sym-
bolized by her closed living quarters, it is here that she first gains the
solidarity of Hayat, and, later, the total submissiveness of Nur ed Din.
This multi-tiered and pervasive notion of dominance forces the viewer to
reflect not only on the nature of power relations in this film but also on
the ‘regimes of power by which one is constituted’ and the ‘regimes of
power that one opposes.’57
Sinners 193
Like the other sinners in the Trilogy of Life, Zumurrud uses inauthentic
measures – physical and linguistic subterfuge – to nurture an uncontami-
nated sense of self and thereby preserve an essential element of truth in
her life. Her contemporaneous mastery of ‘true’ and ‘feigned’ identities
for this very purpose culminates in the final segment of the film, when
she finds Nur ed Din and brings him to her bed. Whether spouting
commands or reciting erotic poetry, in this game, King Zumurrud’s
language and penis (the ‘weapon’ with which she playfully threatens her
victim) dismantle monolithic notions of identity, authority, and self-
expression. This scene challenges the phallocentric and logocentric
orders of society, since, in the guise of a man, Zumurrud makes Nur ed
Din prepare for sodomy. Though the non-consensual sex act never takes
place, Zumurrud’s poetry shows how her use of male language and the
male member can instill fear: ‘Il mio amore è grande e quel bel ragazzo
mi disse: Dai dentro col tuo affare fino alle viscere e sii vigoroso!’ (My
love is great the beautiful boy said to me: Go all the way to my guts with
your thing and be vigorous!).58 As Viano notes, this scene constitutes ‘an
indictment of a male-dominated society obsessed with phallic symbols of
power,’ and it supports ‘the superiority of women who deserve leading
roles.’59
Yet the critic’s successive claim – that woman can only thwart oppres-
sion and achieve subject status in disguise – is not wholly true.60
Zumurrud’s stint in drag simply adds to and completes the broad set of
social norms and gender roles (dress/appearance, sexuality, assertiveness)
she has been transgressing since the opening scene. By adding homo-
erotic tension to the final scene, Pasolini showed a heterosexual male
(Nur ed Din) intimidated by an impending act of homosexual aggres-
sion.61 That is, to impart his lesson, he puts Nur ed Din in the traditional
position of a woman – generally defenseless and obedient – to assert that
this kind of oppressive behaviour is wrong. Seen in this light, Pasolini
condemns through Zumurrud the use of the penis, in words or actions,
simply to wield power over or to subordinate others. And through Nur ed
Din, he acknowledges that homoeroticism, while a genuine expression
of desire for some, is not an authentic solution for all. Thus, despite the
perverse aspects of her erotic game, which signal the physically and
emotionally destructive effects that power has on ‘innocent’ victims (a
subject to be taken up mercilessly in Salò), Pasolini’s choice of a black
slave woman to represent a homosexual male actually promotes race,
gender, class, and sexual difference in a single figure of diversity.
Aziza
Compared to Zumurrud’s story of creative victory, Aziza’s tale, the sec-

ond main storyline in the film, is a sad story of unrequited love. She and
her teenage cousin Aziz are engaged to be married, but, on the day
before their wedding, Aziz sees a mysterious young woman (Budur) in a
window and instantly falls in love. Back home, he confesses to Aziza, who,
rather than fight against or weep over her loss, helps Aziz win Budur’s
affection. Eventually they succeed, but when thereafter Aziza dies of
consumption, Budur convinces Aziz to build her a tomb. However, on his
way to oblige, Aziz gets lost and disappears for more than a year. During
this time, he is forced to marry another woman and father a child. When
he finally returns, Budur no longer wants him and makes him pay for his
infidelity with castration.
Aziza is a young woman with an unassuming and almost self-effacing
nature. She lives somewhat confined to a modest home, where she awaits
Aziz’s comings and goings each day. Her innocence readily emanates
from her humble character traits and her nurturing, maternal demeanour.
Aziza is undoubtedly a madre fanciulla figure with respect to her husband-
to-be. This is notable in the way she worries about his well-being, the way
she cooks and insists he eat while pining away for Budur, and, ultimately,
in the way she lovingly helps him reach his goals. Another and rather
unique facet of Aziza’s authenticity is the fact that she actually looks like
Aziz, who is inherently innocent himself not only for his ragazzo di vita
attributes but also for the fact that he is played by Pasolini’s long-time
companion and icon of innocence par excellence, Ninetto Davoli. The
similarity in Aziz’s and Aziza’s names, facial expressions, innocent smiles,
and curly heads of brown hair suggests we are seeing two sides (male and
female) of the same figure.
While we might view Aziza as a wretched, self-sacrificing figure (she
renounces her future and eventually her life for the sake of Aziz’s
happiness), her role in the newly formed love triangle among herself,
Aziza, and Budur is both pivotal and powerful. Much like Zumurrud, she
assumes an unusually authoritative role in the life of her male partner,
and she achieves this primarily through language. For example, Aziza
must instruct Aziz in the ways of love. He is oblivious to his mystery
woman’s body language (she does not speak), let alone her intimate
desires. So, as interpreter for Aziz, Aziza deciphers, translates, and for-
mulates appropriate responses to Budur’s silent semiotics. Eventually,
Aziza’s words and actions work. But, at the same time, they shift the focus
Sinners 195
in the love triangle away from Aziz to Aziza, making the love dialogue
actually transpire between the two women. In this, Aziza breaks with the
conventional codes of heterosexual love by taking over the male role in
Aziz’s relationship. She not only assumes the symbolic power through
language, but she gradually expresses her own subjectivity in what are
supposed to be Aziz’s messages to Budur. In short, she moves away from
being merely the mediator and becomes instead the primary agent-
interlocutor.
In taking over Aziz’s role, Aziza rewrites his love story; she recasts it in
her own words to make it a more authentic and more meaningful one.
Though the cousins’ subjectivity fundamentally intertwines as the love
triangle takes shape, it becomes clear that the two figures are very
different. While Aziz is outwardly consumed by the thrill of adventure
and pangs of anticipated sex, Aziza is internally and physically con-
sumed by the loss of her love. Still, as she withers away at home, Aziza
sends Aziz to his love appointments night after night with the persuasive
language he will need to gain Budur’s trust. She supplies her cousin
with poetic dialogue such as ‘Dite, innamorati, in nome di Dio, come
deve fare un ragazzo quando l’amore diventa padrone di lui?’ (‘Tell me,
lovers, in the name of God, what must a boy do when he is taken over by
love?’), and ‘Egli ha cercato di rassegnarsi, ma non ha trovato altro in sè
che un cuore disperato dalla passione’ (He tried to give up, but he
found nothing other in himself than a heart desperate with passion).
But whereas Aziza appropriates language for a profound and, for her,
devotional purpose, Aziz delivers his love messages mechanically, as if it
were his turn in a long game of waiting. His inauthentic behaviour is
accentuated by the fact that he remains oblivious to the subtext of the
women’s conversations, even when Budur says in sign: ‘S’egli non trova
la rassegnazione, per lui non c’è altro di meglio, forse, che la morte’ (If
he cannot find solace, perhaps there is nothing better for him than
death), and Aziza replies: ‘Noi abbiamo udito e obbedito e quindi ora
moriamo. Saluta per me colei che ha impedito il mio amore’ (We have
heard and obeyed and now we die. Send my regards to she who pre-
vented my love).62
As pre-announced by her own words, Aziza dies shortly after Aziz and
Budur consummate their relationship. Her final message on this occa-
sion is unique because it employs the first person plural, and, in doing
so, indicates two things. First, it means that before Aziza dies, she actually
steps out of her role as intermediary to address Aziz directly. Second, her
words warn the lovers that she and Aziz will both die (i.e., moriamo). For
she knows that once she is gone, Budur will discover Aziz’s selfish motives
and shallow games. Indeed, when Budur learns that Aziza has died of
consumption, she growls with rage and wants to kill Aziz. But he manages
to save his life in this instance, thanks to Aziza’s words once again. This
time, it is a final phrase ironically passed on to a disinterested Aziz during
Aziza’s funeral: ‘La fedeltà è un bene, ma è un bene anche la leggerezza’
(Loyalty is good thing, but lightness is a good thing, too). The sentence
works like a charm. Budur spares Aziz’s life and orders him to build a
tomb for Aziza instead.
Since language and sex are inextricably bound throughout this tale,
both words and the phallus are crucial elements in the representations
of life and death. Yet rather than use Aziz’s real penis (indeed shown
nude) as a symbol of power and authority in the culminating love scene,
Pasolini opts for a large, metal phallus attached to the tip of a arrow,
which gives hyperbolic significance to the patriarchal subtext. During
this sequence of sexual foreplay, Aziz takes up the bronze phallus and
aims it at Budur, as if to strike her between the legs.63 But, in reality, it is
not Aziz’s male member that penetrates Budur. Rather, it is Aziza’s
words – her metaphoric appropriation of the powerful phallus, detached
from the male body as it is. Consequently, rather than merely reinforce a
male-active versus female-passive role in sex, which suggests that Aziz will
wound Budur with his member and control their relationship according
to his desires, this symbolic prelude to intercourse forewarns something
different: it brings our attention to the notion of a ‘detached’ phallus
and to the power of the woman-to-woman relationship.64
This strange, metallic penis challenges the symbolic order on two
accounts: first, because it is detached from the male subject; second,
because it alludes to lesbian love. The first reminds us that Aziz’s power
actually comes from somewhere other than his self, his body, or his
reality. In fact, it comes from Aziza, who assumes her cousin’s identity
through language and through her role as intermediary. Then, since
Aziz must recite Aziza’s words when he aims the bow and prepares to
shoot the arrow, we see that Aziza’s words are what shape or define the
mighty phallus and metaphorically fill Budur with love. In this way, Aziz
paradoxically becomes the vehicle of Aziza’s love. So, if this tale is indeed
about heterosexual love, Aziza falls in love with Budur, Aziz’s object of
desire, as a way of indirectly remaining a love object for Aziz. However, an
alternative reading would suggest that Aziza actually falls in love with
Budur, the desirable ‘Other,’ or authentic player, in this love triangle. As
a result, the large phallus does not represent male power or pleasure so
Sinners 197
much as it does the female’s access and commitment to the ‘Otherness’

she deems vital.
The bizarre pre-sexual ceremony centring on the sexual weapon also
represents violence or the capture of one’s prey and, as such, foreshad-
ows the events that put an end to Aziz’s egocentric behaviour. In the final
sequence of this tale, Budur appropriates spoken language to assert her
authority and remain faithful to Aziza, the genuine source of her love. As
we know, Aziz gets lost on his way to building Aziza’s tomb. When he
returns a year later, hoping to pick up where he left off, Budur’s reaction
is utilitarian: ‘Ti ringrazio molto, Aziz, ma ormai se un uomo, sei sposato
e hai un figlio. Che me ne faccio di te?’ (Thanks a lot, Aziz, but by now
you are a man, you are married, and you have a child. What good are you
to me?). And her actions thereafter are punitive. Offended by his inso-
lence and disrespect towards her, she will not permit any other woman to
have him.65 So she rallies her warrior-women to capture Aziz and hold
him down for slaughter. But before Budur can strike, Aziz utters Aziza’s
last words one more time (‘La fedeltà è un bene, ma è un bene anche la
leggerezza’). And, as if Aziza’s spell were recast, Budur drops her knife
and orders the women to castrate him instead.
At the time Pasolini filmed his Trilogy of Life, Western cultures still
defined female sexuality ‘in contrast and in relation to the male.’66 ‘Male
sexuality is understood as active, spontaneous, genital, easily aroused by
“objects” and fantasy, while female sexuality is thought of in terms of its
relation to male sexuality, as basically expressive and responsive to the
male.’67 According to Kaja Silverman, the traditional paradigm of
gender relations throughout film history presents ‘phallic’ men and
‘wounded’ (penetrated/castrated) women, which translates to subject-
object dichotomies, or characters with language versus those without.68
Though Pasolini’s films preceded the touchstone works of French femi-
nists, who, since the late 1970s have been theorizing language, gender,
and sex, they clearly delineated the basic distinction that several of these
theorists drew between male and female modes of self-expression. For
example, in the same spirit as Luce Irigaray, who did not ‘aim to create a
new women’s language,’ but, rather, who sought to ‘utilize already exist-
ing systems of meaning or signification, to exceed or overflow the oppo-
sitional structures and hierarchizing procedures of phallocentric texts,’
Pasolini explored different modes of discourse within the existing sym-
bolic order to broaden, rather than limit, female expression.69 He used
the spoken word, both overtly and surreptitiously, to complement women’s
body language. He also employed stylistic techniques such as close-ups

and point-of-view shots to convey their intimate longings and foreshadow
their principal actions.
Much like Julia Kristeva and later post-structuralist theorists, Pasolini
perceived Western capitalist cultures to be built upon the logical and syn-
tactic functioning of language and aimed at the accumulation and main-
tenance of power. And, like Kristeva, many of his film theories and ex-
pressive techniques seek to negotiate the impasse between our fragmented
language and our fragmented sense of ourselves (in the empty soul or
psyche of the postmodern world) by bringing the body back into lan-
guage and language back into the body.70 Thus, in his own way, Pasolini
distinguished between the ‘symbolic’ and the ‘semiotic’ by associating
the male sphere with verbal language, and the female sphere and authen-
ticity in general with pre-linguistic forms of knowledge and expression.
For Kristeva, the semiotic was the ‘raw material’ of signification, or, better,
‘the corporeal, libidinal matter before being channeled for social cohe-
sion and regulation.’71 Similarly, Pasolini identified the female domain
with all ‘original’ or ‘marginal’ forms of existence, wherein self-knowl-
edge and self-expression derived from the simplest, most rudimentary
human experiences, interactions, and gestures. The semiotic represented
a state of anteriority or exemption with respect to the strictly codified
social structures and human behaviours imposed at every turn by the main-
stream. Particularly fascinating about Pasolini’s sinners is the fact that
they straddle both terrains; they enter and exit the symbolic realm of
language and power at will, to pursue erotic pleasures and satisfy personal
needs.
Pasolini often portrayed women in very traditional roles and was more
than once accused of misogyny, even though his conception of women
was predominantly positive.72 It is true, however, that he was not a con-
scious feminist. Pasolini’s ideological interest in women was part of a
broader examination of social and cultural diversity and moral and
political oppression, rather than of women’s rights per se. Nonetheless,
either prior or in parallel to the feminist theorists of his time, Pasolini
championed a notion of subjectivity wherein women were not always or
necessarily subordinate to men. Female subjectivity, as he portrayed it,
upholds sexuality and bodily desires as inviolable sources of human
authenticity, no matter what gender, race, class, historical time period, or
type of society. It also demonstrates how the combination of cunning and
creativity can allow the oppressed subject to manoeuvre within the con-
fines of the dominant culture and eventually invalidate or even overturn
its limitations.
Sinners 199
For Pasolini, authenticity was an earthy, vital, and instinctive ideal –

sometimes spiritual and other times crude and physical. The sinners’
sexuality constitutes an exemplary and transgressively affirmative case of
the authentic because it visually and verbally establishes alternative au-
thorities within the established symbolic. According to Laura Mulvey, ‘the
paradox of phallocentrism is that it depends on the image of the cas-
trated women to give order and meaning to its world ... An idea of
woman stands as linchpin to the system: it is her lack that produces the
phallus as a symbolic presence, it is her desire to make good the lack that
the phallus signifies.’73 However, Pasolini’s sinners denounce female
subordination by appropriating the phallus, whether literally or meta-
phorically, via language and sex. They speak and sin not to make up for a
lack, but to assert their rights in the public and private spheres. The
sinners are thus self-assured subjects, enhanced rather than subjugated
by the appropriation of language and empowered by the affirmation of
their wishes. They differ only in the specific modes and intensity with
which they challenge, claim, and subvert authority.
Moreover, the fact that none of Pasolini’s sinners performs a maternal
role74 precludes their confirmation of the patriarchal unconscious through
their practice of raising children into the symbolic.75 By avoiding the fate
of ‘the bleeding womb,’ Pasolini’s sinners transcend such reductionist
concepts of self.76 They neither turn the child-signifier into their own
desire nor ‘gracefully give way to the word, the name of the father and
the law.’77 Rather, these women access the symbolic in response to their
own fundamental drives and successfully manipulate the signs of patriar-
chal language to live as bearers and makers of meaning in their own
right.
7 Salò and Petrolio
... Mostruoso è chi è nato

dalle viscere di una donna morta.
E io, feto adulto, mi aggiro
più moderno di ogni moderno
a cercare fratelli che non sono più.
Pasolini, Bestemmia, 637
[... Monstrous is he born

from the womb of a dead woman.
And I, adult fetus, wander about
more modern than any modern man
searching for brothers that no longer exist.]
In queste pagine io mi sono rivolto al lettore direttamente e non convenzional-

mente ... io ho parlato al lettore in quanto io stesso, in carne e ossa ...
‘Lettera a Alberto Moravia,’ Petrolio, 544
[In these pages I have addressed the reader directly, not conventionally ... I
spoke to the reader as myself, in flesh and blood.]
On 2 November 1975, Pasolini was murdered on a beach on the out-

skirts of Rome. Salò o le 120 giornate di Sodoma (1975), a film that ex-
plored the totalitarian, tyrannical, and sadistic destruction of human
integrity, thus became his last completed film. For many, it seemed that
Salò ended Pasolini’s career on a hopeless and apocalyptic note. It is
true that times had changed profoundly for Pasolini, both personally
Salò and Petrolio 201
and politically. However, Salò was not Pasolini’s last artistic word in any
absolute sense, and it does not completely represent his thinking about
authenticity at the time of his death. Petrolio, a novel-in-progress since
1969 and worked on with greater intensity in the years before Pasolini’s
death, is a noteworthy counterpoint to the horror and perversity pro-
jected in Salò. Petrolio shows, in the most extreme and unique fashion,
that the author still found meaning, affirmation, and transcendence
both possible and achievable through the presence and subjectivity of
female figures. Even the reverse logic of Salò upholds this vital connec-
tion. Thus, while Salò may well be the despairing and logical endpoint
of his political and artistic thinking, it is clear that, at the time of his
death, Pasolini still perceived women to be a profoundly important
source of authenticity, both for the individual and the community at
large.
Salò (1975)
In his ‘Abiura alla Trilogia della vita’ (1975), Pasolini admitted that he was
foolish to think he could preserve his faith in the possibility of represent-
ing human goodness onscreen. In particular, he doubted the authentic-
ity of the naked bodies and unleashed sexuality he portrayed in his films
from this period. By the early 1970s, neo-capitalist consumer culture had
infiltrated every person’s life, dictating not only how one should dress,
speak, and think about life but also how one should carry his or her body
and live out his or her sexual experiences. In essence, Pasolini’s formal
abjuration claimed that not even the human body and its inherent
instincts and drives could be safeguarded from authority or from power.
This became the primary theme of Salò, in which Pasolini turned notions
of genuine bodily expression and uninhibited sexuality upon them-
selves. In Salò, sex and the body – once symbols of life and freedom –
become the quintessential sites of oppression and death.
In Salò, the main characters are implicated in a formidable plan to
imprison, sodomize, rape, torture, and eventually kill the sixteen teenag-
ers they have captured in a round up that reflects the horror of the Nazi
regime. The ‘authors’ of this evil plan are four middle-aged libertines
who oblige four middle-aged women to complete their symmetry of
command by supplying the narrative framework and stimuli for their
work.1 Three of the women are storytellers or ‘narratresses,’ whose
specific duty is to provide detailed accounts of their victimization (sexual
and otherwise) as young women or children at the hands of a perverse
male authority. The fourth female figure is a pianist who accompanies

the women’s performances with somber music. The pianist is the only
person among the privileged group of elders – the only individual on the
side of power, that is – who eventually repudiates the regime.
In a recent essay entitled ‘A Revaluation of Salò,’ A. Robert Lauer
delineates three important departure points for an analysis of this film.2
First, he establishes that Salò is about fascism: ‘not only as substance,
whose ideology can circulate anytime, but also as system or historical
phenomenon in this case, Northern Italy in 1943–45.’3 Second, Salò is
about literary adaptation: ‘Salò is a modern recast of de Sade’s most
important work, Les 120 Journées de Sodome, although in a transferred
context.’ Third, Salò is about culture, politics, and the passage of time:
‘Salò is about the final stages of an era, in the same way that de Sade’s
work is about the final days of the monarchy of Louis XIV. The era in
question in Pasolini’s film is Modernism and modernity.’4
By the time he made Salò, Pasolini’s notion of fascism had grown to
encompass both historical fascism and ‘neo-fascism’ (the term Pasolini
used to describe the capitalist-consumerist dominion of culture). More-
over, in his view, this new fascism controlled Italians to a far greater
extent than the ‘old’ or interwar fascism had ever been able to. This new
power exerted its influence in every aspect of life, from dress and
socialization to all linguistic communication, including journalism and
the arts. As Viano affirms, Pasolini depicted a ‘“new Power” that toler-
ated no outside.’ However, because the outside still existed as a concept,
it became the desirable ‘Other’ – the mark of disobedience, or goal of
transgression, in the film. The ideology of Salò is located precisely in the
relationship between inside and outside – the closed, internal system
and the open, inaccessible outside.5 Indeed, the neo-fascist palace in this
film represents ‘the omnivorous postindustrial state’ that was not only
‘killing the outside and thus disposing of reality’ but doing away with
authenticity and difference all together.6
As regards Lauer’s second point about literary adaptation and trans-
ferred context, Salò presents not only a new era and a new state but also a
new prison. For Pasolini, the palazzo (palace) was the locus of deadly
captivity. It reflected the staying power of the desecrated ruling class as
well as the individual’s brutally co-opted or subjected status. The palazzo
thus connotes the body politic at large, which had become a closed
prison system. Here, the human citizen must acquiesce and conform in
order to avoid death, or rebel, which nonetheless means death. Finally,
Lauer’s observation on ‘the final stages of an historical era’ as depicted

in Salò conjoins the civic dimension of human existence to the personal
and subjective sphere. That is, the final stages of modernity correspond
to the final stages of life, in so far as life is a trajectory or journey. In this
light, Salò marked the end of innocence for all of humanity – a swift, all-
encompassing downward spiral through the entirely closed and corrupt
world of the present.
In previous chapters, the primary springboard for discussion has been
the developing concept of human innocence and authenticity as it
manifested itself in the bodies, lives, and settings of various characters.
However, because the desecrated completely takes over in Salò, in this
film, Pasolini can only represent his notion of innocence (in any of its
forms/manifestations) by reverse logic – that is, by depicting the devital-
izing and dehumanizing powers of the corrupt and hegemonic regime.
For Pasolini, sexual desire had always represented the most intimate,
instinctive, and potentially inviolable form of subjectivity, but, in Salò, sex
is no longer a means to authentic selfhood or freedom. Instead, the body
and sexuality have been claimed by power and, like all else, remain
subject to its laws of excess and oppression. Furthermore, any transgres-
sion of the imposed nudity or sexual perversion classifies as an act of
autonomy, and acts of autonomy are punishable by torture or death. In
response to an instance of unauthorized love between two teenage girls,
for example, the commanders separate the two and record their names
in the ‘black book’ for future discipline. Another girl who hides a photo
of her boyfriend under her pillow meets the same fate. And the genuine
love between a teenage soldier of the regime and an African housemaid
ends with their cold-blooded murder.
A few familiar traces of innocence do exist in Salò, though for the sole
purpose of torture and destruction in the form of spectacle. The group
of teenagers captured by the regime’s commando forces are familiar
symbols of youth and candour, and, as in many of Pasolini’s other films,
the members of the younger generation (who fall in love, pray, try to
escape, cry for their parents, or even dance when the regime dissolves
itself in horror at the end) retain some potential for goodness and
authenticity. But the adult world’s only allusion to social difference, thus
innocence, comes in the form of the enigmatic pianist. Interpreted by
the French actress Sonia Saviange, she generally sits alone, off to one
side of the lurid environment, accompanying the central events with
music.7 Throughout the film, she is silent, self-effacing, and somewhat
detached from the others. Nonetheless, she participates in the regime

with her music and on rare occasions turns towards the main action to
look and listen.
In nearly every other detail, Salò’s world is utterly profane and repre-
sents the diametric opposite or worst possible scenario with respect to
Pasolini’s fundamental ideals of humility, diversity, and authenticity. The
most striking sign of mass desecration is the fact that Salò’s world is an all-
male universe. It is the extreme example of the symbolic order – of the
‘Other’-annihilating regime, wherein the four libertines’ word is law. We
even see the four self-righteous commanders (the duke, the bishop, the
magistrate, and the president) writing their laws in the ominous black
book during the opening sequences. Their pre-established male domi-
nance silences all manifestations of difference and resistance, and it
underscores Salò’s uniqueness with regard to Pasolini’s previous films, all
of which not only allowed for but also depended on the co-existence of a
female sphere or meaningful realm of ‘Otherness.’ This is not to say that
other films did not have apocalyptic notes, however. In La rabbia (1963),
the juxtaposition of nuclear explosions and stills of Marilyn Monroe
suggested that beauty could be destroyed at a moment’s notice. Similarly,
Jocasta’s suicide, Odetta’s catatonia, and Medea’s infanticides suggested
that even the most inherently innocent are subject to society’s corrup-
tion and that death or non-being is the only way out. Therefore, Salò is
not necessarily different in the desecrations, but in the totality with
which corrupt authority has co-opted every last fragment of life, espe-
cially anything having to do with women.
Unlike the women in Pasolini’s previous films, saints and sinners alike,
none of the female figures on the side of the regime are outwardly
identifiable with the earthy-pure or the mystic-transcendent. On the
contrary, the regime does all it can to profane the genuine qualities of
women. For one, the middle-aged maîtresses have been co-opted and
placed into positions of pseudo-authority. Think of Signora Vaccari, for
example, who presents victims to the commanders for full body inspec-
tion, indicating the perfection of their buttocks, breasts, or teeth. The
maîtresses also show signs of middle-class conformity and superficiality in
the way they dress and the way they speak. And, certainly, the narratresses
do not exhibit the physical or emotional candour of the Roman whores,
mythological mothers, spiritual daughters, or silent saints. Instead, they
are ‘performers’ – false or feigned beings by definition – who have been
appointed to collaborate with the forces of power. Whether in agree-
ment or in order to save their own lives, they readily partake in the
storytelling rituals that set the stage for sadism and torture and mark the
absence of an alternative sphere of existence.
If the four commanders represent the all-encompassing law, then Mrs
Maggi, Mrs Vaccari, Mrs Castelli, and the pianist are subsumed by their
authority and are as subject to the law as are the victims. Although three
of these women access the symbolic with efficacy and flair, they do so at
the libertines’ command. The primary indicator of the women’s co-
opted status is the fact that they prepare for their monologues as if these
monologues were theatre pieces. Before descending the staircase to
arrive in the main room, which functions as a performance space, Mrs
Maggi and Mrs Vaccari get ready in private dressing rooms. The intimate
nature of these rooms might suggest the existence of a hidden self
beneath the mask or, rather, reveal the great depth of their social
conditioning. As each woman sits before a mirror or looks out from a
window while adding the final touches to her make-up or dress, we
cannot help but wonder if they are really for or against the regime.
However, if there is anything individual or dissenting remaining inside
them, they do not act on it in the least. In fact, these private opportuni-
ties (when they are away from the commanders) are, at best, missed
opportunities to see their true selves. Nothing at all comes out of these
mysterious preludes to their stories.
Worse than the absence of an original female spirit, is the fact that all
maternal figures and even maternal references are defiled or severely
punished in the regime. In fact, matricide – the ultimate crime against
nature – goes to the heart of Pasolini’s discourse on the desecrated and
destroys the maternal matrix as a creative font. Signora Maggi recounts
to the group how she killed her mother for forbidding her certain
sexual relations. Unnerved by the thought of owing tribute to one’s
mother, the duke suddenly exclaims: ‘È follia supporre che si debba
qualcosa alla propria madre!’ (‘It is crazy to think that one is indebted
to his mother!’).8 He then describes mothers as sexual objects and
potential whores before bragging about how he killed his own mother:
‘Appena fui in grado la mandai nell’altro mondo. Mai in vita mia conobbi
un piacere così, come quando chiusi gli occhi per l’ultima volta’ (As
soon as I was able to, I sent her to the other world. Never in my life have
I known a pleasure so great as seeing my mother close her eyes for the
last time).9 All of a sudden, their anecdotes get interrupted by a female
victim named Renata who cries out in horror for her beloved mother,
who died trying to save her from the regime. At first, the evil command-
ers are amused, even aroused by Renata’s emotional reaction.10 But
when she invokes God’s pity shortly thereafter, the men immediately list
her for punishment. Despite her name, Renata will not be reborn through
catharsis and grief. Rather, she will be forced to reingest her sublime
sentiment in the perverse form of a commander’s excrement, thus
dying a figurative death of despair.
Still, the ultimate violation of the female spirit as previously celebrated
in Pasolini’s films, it seems, is the fact that the libertine rulers dress up as
women. In the final circle or Circle of Blood, three of the men dress as
women and stand admiring themselves in a room full of mirrors. In
medium and close shots, we see them one by one, donning hats, jewels,
and other paraphernalia as they prepare to attend the president’s wed-
ding. For Pasolini, woman has consistently been a poetic nexus of the
mundane and the mystical, so the evil-doers’ cross-dressing forces us to
ask what Pasolini aimed to convey here. Far from Zumurrud’s genuine
plan for survival or subversive play on authority, Salò’s example of a drag
scene represents the commanders’ ‘official’ and total co-opting of women
as a category of ‘Otherness’ in the interests of serving their own obses-
sion with control, their heartless diversion, and their reckless will to
despoil and destroy.
While all things associated with women fall prey to the commanders’
will, the pianist stands out for several reasons. For one, she remains
spatially detached from the primary action and discussion in the main
storytelling chambers. From her place at the margins (a corner of the
room), she looks forward at her piano and only rarely towards the centre
of the room.11 The one instance in which she does stop playing to pay
attention to the ‘mainstream’ is during the extreme case of Renata,
when mothers are ridiculed and matricide is embraced. However, de-
spite her marginality or surface-level detachment, the pianist is clearly
not immune to the regime. Here, where continuing to play her music
would signal her blind participation or total assimilation to the regime,
she instead shows her difference by interrupting her work. The small
gesture of stopping the music to watch the main events offers a glimpse
of the pianist’s ‘true’ subjectivity; it shows she is not co-opted to the point
that she cannot distinguish the absolutely horrific discussion of matri-
cide from the other evil ‘norms’ of the regime.
The pianist also represents difference through music or artistry. For
her musical contribution, even if coerced, is still creative, personal, and
inspired from within in a way that the narratresses’ lurid tales could
never be. Though it is theoretically true that the other women also
‘create’ with their storytelling cabaret, allowing the argument that they
too are artists trapped in an abyss, the visible polish and accomplish-
ment with which they seamlessly rise to the occasion and perform (as
compared to the pianist’s imperfect theatre role, for example) leaves
their ideological opposition questionable. On the contrary, even if ulti-
mately and utterly controlled, they appear complicit and content with
their work. In truth, in the absence of a culminating gesture such as the
pianist’s suicide, it is impossible to tell if they are truly for or against
the commanders. But whatever their positions, since they are never
seen to defy the regime or do other than it asks, they can be judged
accordingly.
The most telling example of the pianist’s underlying difference sur-
faces when she must suddenly improvise a skit, and is seen to be visibly
uncomfortable with her ‘mask.’ In the scenario, she plays ‘Mr Loyal,’
the landlord, opposite Signora Vaccari, who plays ‘Mr Joujou’ (or ‘Play
play’), a poor tenant. This strange scene parodically reflects the regime’s
internal dynamic, and it constitutes a unique moment in the pianist’s
trajectory, for on this occasion – the sole occasion, in fact, upon which
she speaks – her performance is stiff and unreal compared with Mrs
Vaccari’s more expert improvisation.12 Of even greater significance here
is the content of the play, which risks being overlooked because the
women speak in French and their voices and gestures are all quite
exaggerated. In the guise of Mr Loyal, the pianist gives advice about how
to ‘earn’ or survive in an oppressive situation. ‘You must work with your
hands,’ is her message. ‘Just write,’ she says; ‘vous n’avez qu’écrire ...
n’importe quoi,’ to avoid playing your ‘role’ in the play (la comédie).13
From her new ‘authoritative’ stance, the pianist is suggesting how to be
‘loyal,’ but to one’s self. Through the creative work of one’s hands,
whether writing or playing, she can maintain her integrity from within
and not be reduced or annihilated by her oppressors. Thanks to the
mirror effect common to theatre scenes, the pianist suddenly sees her-
self in Vaccari’s character’s confused reaction and is suddenly so un-
nerved by having revealed her inner secret (i.e., the music or handwork
on which she survives) that she screams and collapses. The unexpected
scream is so powerful that it jolts both the Vaccari character out of her
French-speaking ‘roles.’ Vaccari finishes the dialogue in Italian (‘ma
cosa fa ... cosa succede ...?’), and the pianist resumes her silence. Thus,
both women return to being ‘themselves,’ that is, puppets with assigned
roles in the regime. Nonetheless, the pianist’s scream signals a new
awareness on her part and expresses her utter despair, because, by

revealing the one genuine trace of her self, she has almost surely se-
cured her demise.
The mass death scene, or grand finale of this horrific spectacle, begins
shortly thereafter. Initially, we hear only the pianist’s music in the back-
ground as the duke sits before a window to observe the physical torture
taking place outdoors. But then a cut suddenly joins the pianist with
these scenes via parallel editing. While the teenagers are being raped,
scalped, burned, and slaughtered, the pianist is alone in the empty
storytelling chamber. At a certain point, she stops playing and gets up
from the piano. She walks through the great room, and then through
various doors, as if looking for signs of life.14 Her journey is a symbolic
one, for in addition to conveying her isolation and difference with
respect to the mainstream (commanders and victims), this brief, indoor
trajectory also mirrors the embedded nature of her existence within the
layered or labyrinthine setting. It reflects her internal existence with
respect to the majority, and it intimates that she has been nurturing
something that is ‘Other’ within her all along. Buried deep inside, this
‘something’ will eventually die out – smothered or destroyed – unless it
manages to break free. The pianist eventually makes her way up a
staircase, enters a room, and opens a window, where she momentarily sits
on the sill, looking down. But all at once, a look of horror comes over her
face, and she raises a hand to cover her mouth. One can only assume
that she sees what is taking place in the courtyard below, the effect of
which is twofold. While on the one hand it makes her realize that life
outside the palazzo is no different from the horror she has known inside,
on the other, the torture scenes make her painfully aware of her complic-
ity and, thus, of her responsibility for the crimes. Like Jocasta, who takes
her life after seeing what she does not want to see and learning what she
does not want to know, the pianist refuses the regime, with no further
compromise.
In his recent chapter, ‘Requiem for a Utopia,’ Carlo Testa suggests that
‘we cannot be absolutely certain about the real motivations behind the
pianist’s leap to her death from a window in the villa of opprobium ... To
be sure,’ he explains, ‘her fate suggests the notion (confirmed by the
presence of “revolutionary” Dada-Futurist art in the concentratiary villa)
that anything appreciated and consumed by power, however subversive
in its original intention, becomes by its nature as merchandise a support
for that very power; and so much the worse for the artist unwilling or
unable to cope with this.’15 Indeed, the regime leaves no way out; it is a
totalizing system that claims every aspect of the human being, including
their living bodies and artistic talent. But the choice whether to persist in
this horrendous universe ultimately still belongs to the individual sub-
ject, and that choice is driven by that fraction of self – that last ounce of
genuine thought and emotion – that the regime, in all of its pervasive-
ness, cannot eliminate. With her final gesture, the pianist thus accom-
plishes two things: she refuses the regime’s profane enterprise, and,
much like Odetta, she claims authority over her own existence through
non-existence in that world.
Through the figure of the pianist, we see how the destructive forces of
power can penetrate the intimate and individualistic sphere of artistic
expression, which, like sexuality, was a source of genuine selfhood and
subjectivity for Pasolini throughout his career. Though we do not see the
pianist being forced to play, we assume she was either culturally assimi-
lated enough to agree or completely coerced into participation. Yet, in
either case, if, for Pasolini, music was linked to artistry and authenticity,
and if authenticity was the basis for human integrity, what does it mean
that the pianist played music to accompany the commanders’ atrocities?
For critic Stefano Murri, it means that art becomes a self-annihilating act,
a form of suicide in itself: ‘Così l’arte, disponibile a fare da complemento
all’abominio, è, di per sè, un suicidio, e non può che negarsi, finire,
esaurire il suo compito di fronte a tanta crudele strumentalità’ (In this
way art, willing to complement the abomination taking place is, in itself,
a suicide, and cannot help but negate itself, finish, exhaust its duty in the
face of so much cruel instrumentality).16 Murri seems to suggest that if
art allows itself to be co-opted by power, then it is committing suicide,
because authenticity and freedom of expression are intrinsic to art.
Once art is put to evil purposes, it can no longer be art. Therefore, within
the all-encompassing regime, the pianist and her art will have to pur-
posefully non-exist in order to remain ‘Other’ from everyone and every-
thing around. Clearly, the decision to persist or not is a double-edged
sword, because whether she kills herself or not, she is destined to disap-
pear.17
For Pasolini, the body had always been a physical and metaphysical
source of reality. It was a privileged site where the subject lived out an
array of social, sexual, and psychological experiences. Moreover, only in
the body could the authentic subject exert some control over his/her
life and achieve some level of authenticity. With her suicide and her
music, the pianist was like the small group of dissident victims who
transgressed the totalitarian law with their bodies (illicit sex) or their
spirits (by evoking beloved family members or God). Though silent and
subdued compared with the more effusive teenagers, the pianist’s final
gesture occurs as spontaneously as did the revelation of her ‘secret’
during the skit. In accordance with her own scheme for survival, she
simply works ‘with her own hands,’ as Mr Loyal describes it, first with
her music and then with her suicide, to preserve the true essence of her
being.
Apart from the eerie portentousness of the violent death of the artist,
the pianist’s suicide constitutes Pasolini’s final cinematic word on women
as a crucial human category capable of resisting utter corruption and
achieving forms of authenticity all their own. Granted, Salò represents an
artistic endpoint that offers little to no redemption when compared with
his first film, Accattone. In his analysis of Salò, Viano shrewdly asks how the
final film, with its suicide, might reflect back on Pasolini’s filmography,
which started with a quotation from Dante’s Inferno about Buonconte’s
shedding one tear for salvation.18 One possible connection lies in the
way Pasolini continued to locate integrity where we least expect it,
namely, in the lowest, most violent, and miserable of human experi-
ences. While the pianist’s final act, whether a sign of awakening or
repentance, undoubtedly recalls Buonconte’s soul-saving tear, it would
seem opportune to extend Viano’s question further and ask how Salò
and the pianist’s death reflect back on Pasolini’s film career in terms of
other suicide attempts. My answer would be that Salò brings Pasolini’s
love for realism, his attraction to genuine creatures, and his concept-
ualization of social diversity as virtue full circle through the life/death
contention inherent in the self-annihilating gesture. The circle began
with Accattone’s life-threatening jump from the Sant’Angelo bridge, and
it now ends with the pianist’s suicidal release.
Eleven potential, failed, or successful suicides occur in Pasolini’s films,
all of which represent rebellions, transgressions, and self-affirmations of
some type. Accattone tempts fate twice: first as a dare, and then out of
desperation. He survives the first jump, and his friends abort the second
leap. Next, when Mamma Roma learns of Ettore’s death, she wants to
throw herself from a window, but friends stop her in the nick of time. In
La terra vista dalla luna, Assurdina slips on a banana peel during a fake
suicide scam she hopes will bring her money and falls to her death.19 In
Edipo re, Jocasta hangs herself over the shame of incest. In Teorema,
Emilia, who is overwhelmed by the presence of the guest, first ingests gas
from a stove (but is saved by the guest) and then has herself buried alive
in metaphoric suicide. In Porcile, Julian seeks out sex in the pigpen,
knowing he risks being consumed, and then indeed is. In Medea, Glauce,
possessed either by magic or guilt, leaps to her death. Her father, Creonte,
follows suit. Another suicide, in my view, is that of Aziza in Il fiore delle
Mille e una notte, who knowingly dies of consumption. The tenth is the
young girl in Salò, who kills herself before a hidden altar in order to
break away from the regime. Finally, there is the pianist, whose subjectiv-
ity through suicide ‘indicates the road to an antagonism born
of nonparticipation in the game.’20 The pianist changes the meaning
of death from ‘death as the proof of power’ to ‘death as the proof of
resistance.’ Like Pasolini with his last film, she is the artist making a
radical gesture to counter and oppose in the most comprehensive way
possible the dominant cultural forces that torment and suppress.
Petrolio
Salò was only one of what by chance turned out to be Pasolini’s final
projects. At the time of his death, he was actively engaged in composing
and revising many poems in addition to writing new film projects such as
San Paolo and Porno-Teo-Kolossal. Perhaps his greatest work-in-progress in
those final years was Petrolio, a mammoth novel in ‘notes’ form, on which
he worked on and off, and to which he often referred in interviews and
articles.
Petrolio is a 520-page manuscript that took form in the late 1960s and
remained incomplete upon Pasolini’s death. Friends and relatives
assembled it during the 1980s, and Garzanti published it in 1992.21
Although the novel develops the familiar topic of an all-encompassing
cultural hegemony, it also counterbalances the grim bleakness of Salò by
returning in part to the era of the Roman subproletariat, as depicted in
Accattone and Mamma Roma, where earthy, vital manifestations of Italian
subcultures still abounded. In its more graphic, violent, and surreal
revisitation of the post-war decades, this novel shows in the most extreme
and unique fashion that Pasolini still found the concept of primordial
cultural goodness identifiable in and representable through the attributes
and gestures of women.
In Petrolio, the eccentric protagonist Carlo becomes two different
people, a split that represents the deeply conflicted nature of the main
(and autobiographical) subject. Surprisingly, though, Carlo is not an
artist, poet, musician/intellectual, or a subproletarian figure. Rather,
Carlo is successful bourgeois professional with one side (Carlo I-Carlo
Polis) existing as an engineer, and the other (Carlo II-Carlo Tetis) as his
lowly, aimless, and deviant alter ego. Carlo I works for Eni, an Italian
petrochemical company. Carlo II spends his days ‘ad adempiere bassi
servizi’ – that is, seeking out perverse sexual experiences with other
human beings, whether relatives, servants, or random passers by.22 Clearly
then, Carlo I represents the world of politics and reason (Polis), and
Carlo II represents the world of rudimentary passions and bodily in-
stincts (Tetis). The culminating events that take place in each of their
lives will be their successive metamorphoses into a woman and the sexual
epiphanies they experience thereafter.
The Carlos’ transformations are actually transubstantiations, since
they literally occur in the body, as sex changes. More explicitly, each
‘side’ of the protagonist becomes a woman with vulva and breasts. He
then partakes of innumerable sexual adventures in this altered state of
reality. In fact, these changes are so unique that they comprise the
primary moments in the book – ‘i momenti basilari del poema.’23 ‘Both
episodes,’ writes Robert Gordon, ‘are expressions of an epiphany for
their protagonists, or “il miracolo” revealing through their degradation,
whether with one or with many, a cosmic dimension.’24 Alluding to the
epic tradition with the subtitle ‘poema,’ Pasolini has each Carlo descend
through a long and lurid journey to the lowest depths of human exist-
ence in order to experience a personal transcendence. With the body of
a woman, each Carlo humiliates himself to the point of achieving the
crudest form of innocence and imbibes new life from the awe-inspiring
cazzo (penis).
Carlo II’s transubstantiation happens first, perhaps because he is
earthier and more instinctive, thus, more naturally transgressive.25 Hav-
ing left Torino, he moves on to Rome, where an extraordinary event
takes place one day. While wandering about the area of Stazione Ter-
mini, seeking opportunities for sex, several trucks drive his way. On
board are large groups of spirited communist workers waving red flags
and singing revolutionary hymns.26 The last of the trucks stops in front of
Carlo II, and the gambe and grembi (legs and penises) of the virile young
men are at his eye level and have a profound effect on him.27 It seems
that his physiological change is directly inspired by this emotional experi-
ence, for shortly after the vision that so effectively blends sex and poli-
tics, Carlo II becomes a woman.
In his complete focus on the body in this segment, Pasolini stresses
the material or physiological changes that accompany the protagonist’s
transformation. And to render the physicality of this situation more
immediate and real, Pasolini describes Carlo II’s transformation alter-
nately in terms of weight, a reduction, and a collapse:
Il petto di Carlo si appesantì ... Nel tempo stesso, il basso ventre si alleggerì
e si svuotò ... Cadde la coscienza del membro che in Carlo era un ‘basso
continuo,’ una nota senza fine ... Cadde di colpo dal mondo la visione che
lo restringeva in una unità dove contava solo il sesso ... Carlo prese un taxi e
tornò alla casa dei Parioli.28
[Carlo’s chest got heavy ... At the same time his lower abdomen grew light
and emptied out ... His awareness of his member, which in Carlo was a
continual weight ... and a note without end, disappeared ... Suddenly, the
vision that held him tightly, where only sex counted, disappeared too.]
In this context, the repeated verb cadere – meaning to fall, crumble, or

finish – has several connotations. For instance, although the verb is used
to describe a very recent event, Pasolini uses the absolute past tense
form, cadde. This usage suggests the change took place in a distant past,
another era, and grants the event epic dimensions. Second, this verb
marks the ‘fall’ or downward spiral that Carlo II will soon experience.
Third, the repetition of the term accentuates the gradual and profound
degradation that is so crucial to Carlo’s personal sublimation. Finally, the
alliterative effect of the letter ‘c’ – ‘Cadde la coscienza del membro che
in Carlo era un basso continuo ... Cadde di colpo’ (emphases mine) –
gives Carlo II’s transformation a concrete, almost palpable, dimension.
Carlo II will have to reach the nadir of human existence to find the
genuine roots of his self.
However, when Carlo II first notes the changes in his body while
looking in a mirror, the description of his female reality is negative:
... andò dritto in camera e si spogliò, guardandosi al grande specchio

disadorno ... dell’intimità virile. Subito vide che cosa era successo di lui.
Due grandi seni li pendevano – non più freschi – nel petto; e nel ventre
non c’era niente: il pelame gli scompariva tra le gambe, e solo toccandola e
allargandone le labbra, Carlo, con lo sguardo lucido di chi ha imparato da
un’esperienza di bandito la filosofia del povero, vide la piccola piaga ch’era
il suo nuovo sesso.29
[... he went right to his room and stripped down, looking at himself in the
big mirror, lacking in virile intimacy. Immediately he saw what had hap-
pened to him. Two large breasts, no longer fresh, hung there on his chest,
and in his lower abdomen there was nothing: hairs disappeared between
his legs, and only by touching it, and opening the lips, Carlo, with the sharp
look of one who has learned the philosophy of the poor by being a bandit,
saw his new organ, which was a small wound.]
Here Pasolini’s characterization emphasizes emptiness, as if being a

woman was in itself a humiliating fact. Carlo II’s becoming a woman
represents a loss and a lowering of status. Furthermore, Carlo II is not an
innately innocent ‘maiden mother’ but rather an older, worn, and de-
graded woman, much like the prostitutes in Pasolini’s previous works or
the animals to which Pasolini will directly compare him. Carlo II’s breasts
are ‘no longer fresh,’ his lower womb area has ‘lightened up and emp-
tied out,’ and his new genitals are described as a small slit or wound
(piaga). With his ventre (womb, belly) having been replaced by a vulva, he
no longer possesses a grembo in the male-gendered sense. Thus, in the
transubstantiated state, he loses his sexual identity as possessor and giver
and begins his odyssey as the possessed one, or receiver.
In fact, on more than one occasion, Pasolini equates Carlo II with
passive animals, such as a sheep that is ‘docile and subordinated by he
who mounts from behind,’ or that ‘waits obedient and docile.’30 How-
ever, Pasolini is not simply equating women with lowly beasts. Though he
risks accusations of misogyny, this association offers nothing but positive
connotations within the context of his life’s work and long-standing
poetics of the female. Even the gods that appear at the end of Petrolio’s
‘Note 55’ are ‘humble, subjected, and faithful like dogs,’ and, here, the
animal-like qualities attributed to Carlo II pinpoint the female figure’s
lasting ties to a genuine, instinct-based existence.31 The sheep’s inno-
cence in particular conveys woman’s pure and rudimentary state as
compared with the human corruption of the state. I would even go as far
as to say that it is through his sexual role as woman and receiver of the
‘seed’ that Carlo II personifies the womb and generator of life; it is in his
sheer submissiveness with respect to the divine ‘Other’ that he will come
to embody the mystical qualities of ‘Otherness’ himself.
In his new identity as a spiritually driven female, Carlo II consecrates
and reconsecrates his existence through sex. In ‘Note 55,’ for instance,
he organizes what seems to be an endless series of sexual encounters
with subproletarian youths in the outer zone of Casilina in Rome.32 The
seven or eight meetings that Pasolini describes exemplify the ‘cosmic’
nature of Carlo II’s awakening to authenticity.33 One by one, he sees the
young men to ‘appear’ in the distance and then approach, as he waits on

his knees to receive miracle after miracle in the form of penis and sperm.
After two encounters with bodily contact limited to his mouth and hands,
Carlo II gains full access to his new female reality by accommodating the
miraculous member inside of him. Face to face with the earth, inebriated
by the dirt and grass beneath his face, and sublimated by the moon that
illuminates each ‘god’ and his member, Carlo II trembles with joy. He has
become one with the universe.34
Whereas Carlo II’s transfiguration was inspired by an external force (his un-
conscious attraction to a group of vibrant young communist workers on a
truck), Carlo I’s transformation results from an entirely internal sense of
imbalance, which is reflected by his conscious decision to remain a bour-
geois conservative. When Carlo I becomes aware that his vile counterpart
(Carlo II) is suddenly missing from his life, he must decide whether to seek
or renounce him. On this occasion, he opts to preserve his privileged ex-
ternal identity as a successful engineer to such an extent that he eventually
integrates outwardly with the fascists. Yet, soon after he makes this decision,
he transforms into a woman underneath his clothes. This physiological
change occurs during an important business dinner (‘Verso la metà di
quella cena ... Carlo cessò di colpo di sentire il cazzo come carne’) (Half-
way through that dinner ... Carlo suddenly stopped feeling his penis as
flesh).35 Hours later, he stands before a mirror to confirm: ‘Sul petto
sporgevano infatti due enormi seni e tra le gambe, al posto del pene, c’era
un nulla coperto da una macchia di peli: una vulva ....’ (On his chest two
huge breasts stuck out and between his legs, in the place of his penis, there
was a void covered with a patch of hair: a vulva ...’).36
However, before looking in the mirror, the inebriated Carlo I has a
dream. In this vision, he sees his father among a numerous gods, one of
which stands out from the others: Salvatore Dulcimascolo (Saviour
Sweetboy), a teenager of low class and distinctly southern descent.37 He
is the subconscious manifestation of Carlo II that Carlo I seeks to repress
– that is, the poor, humble, raw, and uninhibited ‘Other’ that he will
come to know through sex. More explicitly, Salvatore personifies social
difference, since he is the kind of person Carlo I had never even noticed
before, due to an innate form of racism or pretence.38 He also represents
sexual difference; the sheer candour of his naked body strikes Carlo as
marvellous and new. In his dream, Carlo I is attracted precisely to this
aura of difference:
... lì, ora, presente, vivente, carnale, col suo odore, forse con la sua puzza e
con il suo peso, con il suo calore, con la sua possibilità di aggredire o di
essere aggredito, di desiderare o di essere desiderato, come un frutto
appena maturo pronto per essere colto, oppure negato, intoccabile, riservato
ad azioni che un borghese non riesce ad immaginare (che miticamente). 39
[... there, now, present, alive, carnal, with its smell, perhaps its stink and its
weight, with its warmth, with its possibility to attack or be attacked, to desire
or be desired, like a recently ripened fruit ready to be picked or left
behind, untouchable, reserved for actions that a bourgeois could not
imagine (except mythically).]
This sensual and potentially violent dream effectively foreshadows the

fact that Carlo I will break away from the conformist identity he con-
sciously chose for himself and go beyond the sexual and social limits of
his class (i.e., transgress) to experience that which a bourgeois could
only fathom as fiction.
After becoming a woman in body and waking from his dream, Carlo I’s
experiences revolve around his attraction to Carmelo, a teenage cloak-
room attendant, who embodies Salvatore Dulcimascolo on earth. Some-
thing about the young boy who monitors his coat has a penetrating
effect. Though Carlo I does not consciously associate him with the young
god from his dream, his fascination with Carmelo’s look and his body are
the same. Whether as a male embarrassed by homosexuality, or a female
embarrassed by promiscuity, Carlo I does not ask for a date. Still, he
frequents the locale, just to exchange glances or brush hands with
Carmelo. For Carlo I, these brief encounters are an innocent ritual –
intense and thrilling – until one day Carmelo gives Carlo I his number.
Shortly after, the two make plans to meet.
Several aspects of the sexual relationship that ensues make Carlo I’s
female epiphany different from Carlo II’s. One distinction is the fact
that, in sex, Carmelo is a singular, unified, and all-encompassing ‘Other.’
Carlo I only has sex with Carmelo, and their physical union only occurs
once. A second unique characteristic is the frequent use of the term
grembo to connote Carmelo’s penis until the moment it is actually re-
vealed. The third distinguishing aspect is Carmelo’s paradoxically yet
unquestionably maternal nature. Finally, the fact that Carlo I is repeat-
edly moved to tears during sex clinches the idea that Carlo I’s physiologi-
cal transformation signifies more than sexual liberation. It represents a
rebirth of the person and a radical release from his identity as a means of
gaining a new way of seeing and experiencing the world.
In describing each Carlo’s metamorphosis, Pasolini uses terms and
images that underscore the nexus between gender, sexuality, and the
spiritual or metaphysical. Common among both, for example, are adjec-
tives such as materno, protetto, sacro, affettuoso, and infinito; nouns such as
ubbedienza, donna, membro, ventre, grembo, sesso, puttana, miracolo, eternità,
and violenza; and verbs such as soffocare, morire, contemplare, possedere.
However, no word occurs with such conspicuous repetition as the term
grembo, particularly in the passages that describe Carlo I’s anticipation –
his seeing, touching, and receiving of Carmelo’s penis. Used exactly six
times in the pages devoted to ritualistic foreplay, the term grembo chal-
lenges our notions of sex and gender to suggest a double or cross-gender
meaning. The word refers to Carlo I’s newly acquired body parts, thus his
reality as a woman. But although Pasolini frequently referred to the
whole male erogenous zone as the grembo, we cannot tell if the one Carlo
I perceives is male or female. Is he projecting the regenerative female
organ onto the desired male object, or is he creating an association by
analogy between the two? It seems more likely that the latter is the case,
the reason being that although Carlo I is a woman in body and theoreti-
cally possesses this creative font, he actually longs for the same vital
source in the ‘Other.’ And, as was the case with Carlo II in ‘Note 55,’
Carlo I’s submissiveness and receptivity with respect to the ‘Other’ leads
to a miraculous experience.
Carlo I’s desire for Carmelo’s member is much more than a sexual
desire; it is also an emotional and ideological experience sustained by a
reversal of authority. From a generational standpoint, Carmelo is a son,
and, from a social standpoint, he is a servant. But in his relationship with
Carlo I, he not only assumes the mature and authoritative role (making
the first move in the cloakroom and the car, and dominating in sexual
relations) but also a maternal identity that makes Carlo I feel protected.
This reversal is made clear by Carmelo’s first appearance in the cloak-
room, where his look, writes Pasolini, is maternal (‘Lo sguardo di quel
servo ... era uno sguardo materno’) and the way he takes Carlo I’s coat is
like a loving embrace – light but possessive (‘un abbraccio leggero ma
prepotentemente possessivo’).40 Interestingly, Carmelo’s sexual prowess
does not detract from his maternal potential. Rather, it contributes to his
protective image: ‘[la sua viriltà] aveva la stessa funzione del suo
atteggiamento materno, che imponeva, con silenziosa violenza, la pro-
pria affettuosità protettrice’ ([His virility] it had the same function of his
maternal demeanour, which imposed with silence and violence, its own
protective affection). Even during climax, his tenderness balances his
violence, as he nearly suffocates Carlo I:
... si sentivano tutte e due le palme di quelle grosse mani ben tese, che
afferravano quanta più parte della schiena potevano, stringendo Carlo fin
quasi, ancora, a soffocarlo, con forza, ma nel tempo stesso con immensa e
studiata delicatezza: una delicatezza protettrice e affettuosa, come l’abbrac-
cio di una madre.41
[... Carlo could feel both palms of those large taut hands that grabbed as
much of his back as they could, squeezing him almost to the point of
suffocating him, with vigour, but at the same time with great and careful
tenderness: a protective and affectionate tenderness, much like a mother’s
embrace].
The combination of the mother and the ragazzo-di-vita youth creates a

new composite image: the madre fanciullo. It is as if, at the end of his
career, Pasolini joined the fundamental sources of vitality from his ear-
lier works in the figure of Carmelo.
The last striking characteristic of Carlo I’s rapport with Carmelo is the
fact that Carlo I cries several times and for different reasons. First, he is
moved by Carmelo’s caresses, which resemble those typically given to
dogs: ‘Carmelo che lo accarezzava come si accarezza una cagna. Poi
d’improvviso non si trattenne più, lasciò traboccare i suoi sentimenti ...’
(Carmelo who pet him like a bitch. Then suddenly he couldn’t hold it in
any longer, and his sentiments poured forth ...).42 The tears stream
continuously on Carlo I’s face and eventually wash it clean. Then Carlo I
cries for a second time during oral sex: ‘Nuove lacrime stavolta di
soffocamento spuntarono agli occhi di Carlo, strabuzzati, e lo bagnarono
tutto’ (This time new tears from suffocation came out of Carlo’s eyes,
bulging, and wet his whole body).43 Here, Pasolini counters Carlo I’s
physical pain with the purifying power of tears. Finally, the third mention
of tears results from the sadness Carlo I feels when his affair with
Carmelo is over: ‘Carlo, sconfitto, con nuove lacrime alla gola, si chiedeva
se, adesso, Carmelo si sarebbe voltato, a porgergli come prima,
galantemente, la mano ...’44 (Carlo, defeated, with tears welled up in his
throat, wondered if now Carmelo would turn to offer his hand, gallantly
like before ...).
Though he must accept that the miracle is not infinite, the experience
with Carmelo instils in Carlo I a genuine desire for something other than
the limits of his earthly existence. In fact, nearly every phase of his
esoteric interlude is marked by a desire for infinity. (‘Carlo avrebbe
voluto però che durasse eterno’; ‘il desiderare all’infinito’; ‘per Carlo
parve un’eternità’; ‘il disperare all’idea che sarebbe finita’) (Carlo would
have liked it to last for all eternity; desiring infinitely; it seemed like an
eternity to Carlo; he became desperate at the thought that it would
end).45 Ultimately, this unorthodox sexual experience leads the subject
to an ephemeral moment of transcendence. Carlo I lives the physical
encounter with his god in a comprehensive fashion, since, compared
with Carlo II, his identity as conservative bourgeois necessitates a more
intense and focused spiritual transformation. But, like Carlo II, by be-
coming a woman and ‘receiving’ the ‘seeds’ of authenticity, Carlo I
achieves a hitherto unknown state of physical and emotional awareness
that makes him one with the earthy integrity of the borgata subculture
and its inhabitants.
In the aftermath of these sexual interludes, both Carlo I and Carlo II
return to ‘normalcy,’ but each is clearly miserable. Carlo II lives on as a
castrated male, while Carlo I, now aware of a lost dimension in society,
reintegrates but cannot find peace.46 Pasolini’s appropriation of female
essence in its most concrete (corporeal), most intangible (spiritual/
emotional), and also most scandalous (cross-gender) aspects, makes
l’essere donna (i.e., womanhood or the female condition) a life-giving and
life-altering experience. Ideologically, the sex/gender change in each
protagonist devalues the role of men (except for lower-class youths). It
depicts the male role to be that of automaton in a society bereft of
genuine relations among people and their environments. Poetically, the
sex change validates and confirms women’s role as a port of access to the
absolute or the eternal. They are not – or not merely – subject to
‘submission and authority.’ Rather, as critic Bruna Pischedda affirms,
drawing on Spinazzola’s work: ‘La donna è predisposta organicamente
ad annullare la propria identità: proprio questa è la condizione che le
consente di apririsi a una sublimità di esultanza panica altrimenti
irraggiungibile’ (Woman is biologically predisposed to cancel her own
identity: this is precisely the condition that allows her to open herself to
the sublimity of panic exultation that would otherwise be unattain-
able).47 Pischedda justifies the oppression of the female subject in Petrolio
– the violent and repetitive sex acts done by or to Carlo after his transfor-
mation – by claiming this was Pasolini’s way of recovering femininity
from the violence that the powerful penis is obliged to make her experi-
ence (‘così Pasolini rinsarcisce la femminilità degli oltraggi che il potere
del pene è votato a farle subire’).48
According to Pischedda, then, it is from this state of nothingness that
the subject can potentially achieve a sounder, more virtuous state. True,
what Pasolini proposes in Petrolio is the following: only the cancellation of
one’s identity, as achieved through a complete transformation of the
body – a radical change, degradation, or symbolic death – can free the
human subject from his role as dictated by the dominant culture. It is not
enough that each Carlo has an alter ego. For Pasolini, the alter ego or
reality of a split self does not suffice in this day and age to make him
aware or bring him into contact with the ‘Other.’ It is only by literally
transubstantiating – by becoming the ‘Other’ in body and in spirit – that
Carlo can experience a real release and become truly aware of and
receptive to the various forms of cultural diversity that this ‘Otherness’
subtends. Carlo’s sexual adventures, as Ward points out, ‘serve the re-
demptive purpose of rescuing him from the limits of his rigidly codified
public life,’ and they enable him ‘to experience the abolition of all limits
and the loss of identity.’49 No longer strictly a sexual deviant or socially
conformist middle-aged professional, Carlo can finally glimpse life as a
cosmic and regenerating force.
In both Salò and Petrolio, ‘being’ a woman, whether literally or sugges-
tively, renders the autobiographical artist figure a vessel of cultural pu-
rity. In other words, he does not attain or achieve goodness through the
vehicle of woman, but rather becomes a woman himself. In Pasolini’s
earlier works, women were certainly the key to authenticity, but the
primary male subject always remained separate from them and, in any
case, distinctly male. At the same time, he had to find a way to appropri-
ate the goodness emanating from women and the female sphere, but
often proved unable to do so. In later films such as Il Decameron and I
racconti di Canterbury, the self-referential figures – Giotto’s best student
and Chaucer – were also distinctly male and separate from the women
who were positive signifiers in their worlds. However, in Salò, the artist
figure is a woman, and in Petrolio, the autobiographical Carlo turns into a
woman to directly access new life and represent authenticity himself.
Salò and Petrolio mark two different endpoints in Pasolini’s career. In
different ways, they summarize a long trajectory of self-expression in art
and indicate some of the future directions his work might have taken.
While other late or unfinished works such as San Paolo (1977) and Lettere
luterane (1975) may effectively be considered additional endpoints in his
career, Salò and Petrolio offer the most comprehensive examples of the
author’s thoughts on women, sex, the self, and what is sacred in a
broader spiritual or generally mystical sense. In these two works, the
female body and existential sphere are extraordinary fonts of social and
sexual transgression, but now brought to such shocking extremes that
they risk seeming fantastical or incomprehensible (especially when com-
pared with the more light-hearted, if cynical, portrayal of sexuality in
Pasolini’s previous works). His later emphasis on corporeal violence and
total physiological change reflects the fact that the sexual activities that
had previously represented transgression (pre-marital sex, extramarital
sex, homosexuality, prostitution) had been falsely and hypocritically
subsumed by the dominant culture. Consequently, the rich and mean-
ingful bodily expressions on which Pasolini had previously counted had,
by the mid-1970s, lost most of their spiritual and ideological value.
If, as Giuseppe Conti-Calabrese asserts, Pasolini’s conception of what
was sacred, which includes cultural attributes such as the unspoiled,
earthy, and authentic discussed here, could only exist where there were
boundaries to transgress, and if, as Pasolini suggests, most transgressions
had become part of the norm, the only way to counter transgression-as-law
was with a counter-transgressive act.50 Such counter-transgressive solu-
tions entailed either turning back to what was once considered the
undesirable norm (i.e., archetypal signs of bourgeois morality and con-
formity such as heterosexuality and monogamous relationships) or step-
ping beyond what the average human being considered acceptable or
conceivable (such as suicide and sex changes). With Salò and Petrolio,
Pasolini opted for the inconceivable as part of his ongoing attempt to
find effective antidotes to mass desecration in the Western world.
Self and Subjectivity
‘To understand Pasolini’s significance in the panorama of post-war Ital-

ian and European culture,’ writes Gordon, ‘and indeed to understand
the exploitation and mythologization of his figure during his life and
since, requires us to look upon and through the refracting filter of self-
exploration that covers his every act, in person or in language.’51 Indeed,
Pasolini’s exploration of self is evident ‘in person’ and ‘in language’ in
nearly all of his films, and it defines the practical (physical) and theoreti-
cal (stylistic) implications of Pasolini’s ‘being’ in the texts. In fact, no
cinematic auteur has been so consistently and physically present in his
own works. Pasolini took on seven film roles – some ‘real’ and some
fictional – that always connected him as subject with his central thematic
of female subjectivity because they directly and visibly involved him in
the representation, creation, or salvation of genuine peoples, notions,
and cultural practices, no matter what the time or place in which they
occurred.
Clearly, Pasolini’s frequent self-representation in art involved some-
thing more than vanity and conceit. As Gordon notes, with respect to
Pasolini’s opus in general: ‘Were it simply a question of quantity ... were
Pasolini’s art no more than the indulgence of an unrepressed narcissist,
there would be scant interest in a study of this kind [of his subjectivity].
Instead, his work offers an extraordinarily fertile and dense example of
how subjectivities are built on something other and something far more
complex than merely saying “I”.’52 Of course, an artist’s presence can be
conveyed or perceived in myriad ways, such as through recurring images
and leitmotifs, emblematic filming techniques, or collaborations with a
particular actor or composer. In Italian auteur cinema, for example, we
have only to see Monica Vitti in isolated locations to think ‘Antonioni’; to
see Giulietta Masina’s face or hear Nino Rota’s melodies to feel ‘Fellini’;
or to see cowboy’s eyes and hear whistle motifs to recognize ‘Leone and
Morricone.’ Many such thematic and stylistic traits are also identifiable
in Pasolini’s cinema. For instance, consider the recurrent depictions of
ragazzi-di-vita youths or madre fanciulla women. Pasolini’s work is also
characterized by the incessant use of juxtaposition and conflict between
opposites, particularly between social classes or the ancient and modern
worlds. In addition, the faces of Ninetto Davoli or Franco Citti alone
typically suffice to announce Pasolini’s presence, as does the combina-
tion of religious music and violent, diegetic events, or the flat, frontal
close-ups of humble protagonists against abstract black or white back-
ground settings.
Yet the roles Pasolini gave himself in his own films have significance
beyond such techniques of characterization. They also go beyond the
simple pleasure of seeing a director appear in his own films. Unique
in the case of Pasolini’s auteurism is the iteration and intensity of
his physical appearances, which reflect a fundamental desire for self-
representation. As so many of his poems, novels, essays, and interviews
reveal, he was driven to self-study and self-affirmation. From his earliest
verses, autobiographism was implicit in all he did, and it continued
through his final narrative project, Petrolio, which was supposed to con-
tain a series of photos of Pasolini in the nude. Perhaps this regular
practice accounts for why Pasolini’s film roles have more often than not
been dismissed as ‘a given,’ or as self-indulgent and exhibitionist –
symptomatic, that is, of his need to self-victimize, to become a compagno
di strada in the trenches, to self-promote as one who represented the
alternative force that would redeem all others. But, he appeared so often
on screen, says Repetto, ‘che non può non essere considerata
un’importante cifra linguistica ed espressiva, una vera e propria costante
tematica’ (that one cannot not consider it an important linguistic and
expressive key, a real thematic constant).53
To have replaced himself with another actor clearly would have altered
the form and meaning of any film in which he appeared. The self-
referential nature of these works might still have been distinguishable if,
say, another left-wing artist had played Giotto in the Decameron (as Pasolini
originally intended), or conducted the interview with African students at
the University of Rome in Appunti per un’Orestiade africana.54 However,
the effect would have been more on a par with that of the Marxist crow in
Uccellacci e uccellini (the voice of Francesco Leonetti), or the director
(played by Orson Welles) in La ricotta. Highly effective though they may
be, these instances of self-reference are mainly semantic. Allusions, analo-
gies, and metaphors of different types, they refer the informed viewer
back to Pasolini’s life, works, and beliefs in order to construct meaning,
but they do not directly show or sustain the notion of self-representation.
In short, the substitution of Pasolini with another intellectual would have
changed the highly constitutive elements of self-creation that gave sub-
stance or body, if you will, to many of Pasolini’s films. Antonio Repetto
summarizes well by saying: ‘La presenza fisica di Pasolini sullo schermo è
il corrispettivo filmico della corporeità della sua poesia ... il protagonista
corporeo filmante-filmato visibile sullo schermo cinematografico’
(Pasolini’s physical presence is the filmic equivalent of the corporeality
of his poetry ... the corporeal protagonist, filming and filmed, visible on
the cinematic screen).55
Generally speaking, Pasolini alloted himself two main categories of
film roles.56 First were the ‘real’ ones, in which he literally played himself
– Pier Paolo Pasolini, the intellectual, the interviewer, the sociocultural
observer, and commentator. As such, he appeared in Sopraluoghi in
Palestina (1964), Comizi d’amore (1964), Appunti per un film sull’India
(1968), and Appunti per un’Orestiade africana (1970). Second were the
‘mythic’ roles he had in three separate works of literary adaptation: he
played the High Priest in Edipo re (1967), Giotto-the-Artist in Il Decameron
(1971), and Chaucer-the-Author in I racconti di Canterbury (1972).57 In

the real roles, while carrying out his duties as journalist and commenta-
tor, Pasolini’s personal interactions with people, landscapes, and local
events made him part of the overall meaning of the film. He became a
character as well as an ideological symbol for the civic discourses under
debate. In the fictional roles, Pasolini’s iconographic presence high-
lighted the tension between reality and myth, and between the personal
and political implications of the words he used or the actions that
defined him. Whereas the purpose of his real roles seemed clear in the
context of a given film and its aims, his narrative roles were not so easily
deciphered, in that they connected ancient cultures (presented in a
humorous and oftentimes hyperbolic fashion) with contemporary social
issues in ways that were complex and ambiguous.
But in addition to the more obvious subtexts of social diversity, class
difference, narcissism, political leftism, and homosexuality that pervaded
his texts, Pasolini’s presence also informed (i.e., altered and furthered)
the connection between women, sexuality, and authenticity in the films,
which in turned shaped the filmmaker’s perception of himself, both
within and beyond each work.58 Pasolini’s appearances on screen speak
to his desire not only to be part of the genuine subcultures he depicted
but also to be their motor and matrix. He himself wanted to embody or
become essential to the regenerative and life-giving processes in art, and
he needed to see himself as essential to saving the goodness he perceived
to be fading. By making himself a signifier in the semantic economy of
his films, he could actively and directly engage in the discovery or
recovery of the authenticity, despite the cultural void around him. These
self-fashioned roles, whether real or mythical, were evidence of his will to
effect autogenesis in the very fabric of his art; through them, he became
both the creator and creation of the human integrity he unceasingly
sought in others. His physical appearances substantiate this theoretical
approach and personal need – they render visible, concrete, indeed
almost palpable, the ‘self’ he had previously woven into other films and
written works via allusion and metaphor.
We find the key to Pasolini’s physical drive to total physical embodi-
ment of the cycle of life in a passage from the end of the unfinished
Petrolio. Here, Pasolini asserts the vital importance of his own bodily
presence in the creative processes that begin and end ad infinitum:
Nello stesso tempo in cui progettavo e scrivevo il mio romanzo ... proprio
nell’atto creativo che tutto questo implicava, io desideravo anche di liberar-
mi di me stesso, cioè di morire. Morire nella mia creazione: morire come in

effetti si muore, di parto: morire, come in effetti si muore, eiaculando nel
ventre materno.
[At the same time I was planning and writing my novel, he wrote, ...
precisely in the creative act that all of this implied, I also desired to free
myself from myself, that is, to die. To die in my creation: to die as in effect
one dies by being born: to die, as in effect one dies by ejaculating into the
maternal womb.]59
Given the cyclical nature of life, particularly as expressed within the

mythical framework of Pasolini’s cinema, the conceptual link between
birth and death is rudimentary and clear. However, the idea of dying in a
fashion that is at once sexual and procreative (‘as in effect, one dies, by
ejaculating into the maternal womb’) juxtaposes life and death, bodily
passions and the untainted origins of life in such a way that women and
the womb are truly key. Symbols of uncorrupted cultural roots and
authentic human beginnings, women and the womb, respectively, were
the real and figurative means through which the autobiographical sub-
ject could literally (em)body – and ultimately be – his own origins, his
own ‘Other.’ The progettare and scrivere to which he refers in Petrolio name
the creative processes through which he relentlessly gave birth to life
forms in art that were as ancient as they were new, and as scandalous as
they were innocent.
Pasolini aimed to salvage what was innocent and sacred about human
existence, save it from its dying state and restore its vitality from within.
His female characters were crucial intermediaries in the process. As a
broad human category representing the womb and new life, they pro-
vided for diversity across age, class, family background, social position,
and religion. They demonstrated continuity in terms of their eye for,
interest in, or opposition to all that was not pure and life-giving. And
when lasting, fulfilling solutions ceased to exist, exceptional figures in
Salò and Petrolio took the concepts of a return to origins and human
integrity to the furthest extremes (suicide and transubstantiation) as
the only way of countering the oppressive forces in society. By studying
the women in Pasolini’s cinema, we gain a perspective on the icons and
ideals that fuelled the artist’s faith in the future of human kind. Sex
(gender and sexuality), self (the film subject and the autobiographical
presence), and the sacred (the sites and signs of genuine cultural roots
and earthy or spiritual modes of living): these are the primary concepts
that magically intertwine in Pasolini’s portrayal of women in cinema and
in his final, personal cosmogony, which joins the artist-subject in com-
munion with himself and his world through the endless generation and
regeneration of creative experience.
Appendix:
Filmography of Pier Paolo Pasolini
Accattone. Arco Film/Cino Del Duca, 1961.

Mamma Roma. Arco Film, 1962.
La ricotta. Arco Film/Cineriz-Lyre, 1963.
La rabbia. Opus Film, 1963.
Comizi d’amore. Arco Film, 1964.
Sopraluoghi in Palestina. Arco Film, 1964.
Il Vangelo secondo Matteo. Arco Film/Lux Compagnie
Cinématographique, 1964.
Uccellacci e uccellini. Arco Film, 1966.
La terra vista dalla luna. De Laurentiis Cinematografica/Les Productions
Artistes Associés, 1966.
Edipo re. Arco Film, 1967.
Che cosa sono le nuvole? De Laurentiis Cinematografica, 1968.
Teorema. Aetos Film, 1968.
Appunti per un film sull’India. Rai Radiotelevisione Italiana, 1968.
La sequenza del fiore di carta. Castoro Film/Anouchka Film, 1968.
Le mura di Sana’a. Produced by Franco Rossellini and Rosina Astalt,
1974.
Porcile. IDI Cinematografica, Orso Films, INDIEF (Rome)/CAPAC
(Paris), 1969.
Medea. San Marco/Les Film Number One/Janus, 1969.
Appunti per un’Orestiade africana. IDI Cinematografica, 1970.
Il Decameron. PEA/Les Productions Artistes Associés/Artemis, 1971.
I racconti di Canterbury. PEA, 1972.
Il fiore delle Mille e una notte. PEA, 1974.
Salò o le 120 giornate di Sodoma. PEA/Les Productions Artistes Associés,
1975.
Notes
Introduction
1 All translations are mine unless otherwise noted.

2 Although it was never spoken in his home, Pasolini considered the Friulian
dialect of Casarsa della Delizia his maternal dialect in so far as it was the
language of Susanna’s family and the humble people among whom the
Pasolinis lived each summer and throughout the war years.
3 Pasolini had an acting role in Lizzani’s Il gobbo (1960).
4 See Pasolini’s filmography in the appendix.
5 Pasolini’s concept of coscienza – social, political, or moral – is closest to the
term consciousness in English.
6 See Pasolini’s famous poem of 1956, ‘Le ceneri di Gramsci,’ in Le ceneri di
Gramsci (Milan: Garzanti, 1957).
7 Naomi Greene, ‘Pasolini: “Organic Intellectual”?’ Italian Quarterly 31, nos.
119–120 (1990): 81. See also Gianni Borgna, ‘Pasolini intellettuale
organico,’ Nuovi Argomenti (Jan.–March 1976): 52–64.
8 Quintin Hoare and Geoffrey Nowell Smith, eds. and trans., Selections from the
Prison Notebooks of Antonio Gramsci (New York: International, 1971), 1822.
9 Greene, ‘Pasolini,’ 81.
10 The sacred features of Pasolini’s low-life characters were conveyed largely
through the director’s filming techniques, and expressing the humility of
these characters was a religious operation for him: ‘There is nothing more
sacred than a slow pan. Especially when this is discovered by a dilettante, and
used for the first time ... Sacredness, frontality. Hence, religion.’ See
Leonardo Fioravanti, Omar Zulficer, and Nazareno Natale, ‘Una visione del
mondo epico-religiosa,’ Bianco e nero 6 (1964): 19.
11 See Harry Hearder, ‘Communism in Italy and Its Relations in Western and
230 Notes to pages 6–9
Eastern Europe since 1956,’ in Italy: A Short History (Cambridge: Cambridge

University Press, 2001), 256–62.
12 Ibid., 259.
13 Ibid.
14 Ibid., 263.
15 Pasolini conceived of this term around the time he made his short films La
rabbia and La ricotta (1963), and he used it to describe the onset of a new
historical phase in Italy. He used the term broadly throughout the 1960s.
See, for example, ‘Per misteriosa elezione, ora lo scirocco (martedì 5 marzo,
sera),’ in Pier Paolo Pasolini, Bestemmia: Tutte le poesie (Milan: Garzanti,
1995), 690–1; ‘L’età è la nostra, solo più prossima alla fine, / ed è l’inizio
della Nuova Preistoria’ (The age is ours, only closer to the end, / and it is the
beginning of a New Prehistory).
16 See Hoare and Smith, Selections, 1677, 1821, 2122, 2195.
17 Pasolini’s two principal biographies detail the trajectory and reception of his
films. See Nico Naldini, Pasolini, una vita (Turin: Einaudi, 1989), and Enzo
Siciliano, Vita di Pasolini (Florence: Giunti, 1995). See also Barth D. Schwartz,
Pasolini Requiem (New York: Vintage, 1992).
18 For this study of women and the sacred in Pasolini’s cinema, the article- and
book-length works by the following authors (grouped according to theor-
etical and thematic perspectives and listed in the bibliography at the back of
the book) were extremely useful: film theory (Bertini, DeLauretis, G. Bruno,
Wagstaff, Anzoino); Pasolini’s political ideology (Miccichè, Greene, Ward);
psychological and psychoanalytic analyses (Carotenuto, Casi, Rohdie,
Viano); cultural-anthropological analyses (Fusillo); performance analyses
(Angelini). In addition, existing studies on Pasolini’s use of the figurative
arts (Rickets, Marchesini, Lawton) and music (Magaletta, Calabretto)
proved crucial to my analyses, as did an array of studies devoted to one
primary concept or theme across Pasolini’s oeuvre such as death (Zigaina,
Miccichè); realism (Viano); resistance (Ward); linguistic and visual and
stylistic contamination (Rumble); desire (Rohdie, Marcus); the voice and
silence (Manzoli); subjectivity (Gordon); and the sacred (Conti-Calabresi).
19 By female discourse I mean the ongoing poetic and ideological conception of
women that he conveyed in his poetry and films.
20 Stefano Masi and Enrico Lancia’s Italian Movie Goddesses (Rome: Gremese,
1997) is a wonderful and comprehensive picture book with basic plot and
production information about films and important facts about actresses.
Other important studies on women in Italian cinema, in addition to the
collection of essays by Tonia Riviello, Women in Italian Cinema (Rome:
Edizioni Croce, 2001), are Patrizia Carrano, Malafemmina: La donna nel
Notes to pages 9–16 231
cinema italiano (Florence: Guaraldi, 1977); Gianfranco Casadio, Adultere

Fedifraghe Innocenti: La donna de ‘neorealismo popolare’ nel cinema degli anni
Cinquanta (Ravenna: Longo, 1990); Giovanni Grazzini, Eva dopo Eva: La
donna nel cinema italiano dagli anni 60 a oggi (Rome: Laterza, 1980); and
Giovanna Grignaffini, ‘Il femminile nel cinema italiano: Racconti di
rinascita,’ in Gianpiero Brunetta, ed., Identità italiana e identità europea nel
cinema italiano dal 1945 al miracolo economico (Turin: Edizioni Agnelli, 1996),
357–87. For broader historical accounts of women and feminism in Italy, see
Zygmunt Baranski and Shirley Vinall, eds., Women and Italy: Essays on Gender,
Culture, and History (London: Palgrave, 1991); Ada Testaferri, Donna: Women
in Italian Culture (Toronto: Dovehouse, 1989); Martin Durham, Women and
Fascism (New York: Routledge, 1998); Victoria De Grazia, How Fascism Ruled
Women: Italy, 1920–1945 (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1992);
Victoria De Grazia, ed., The Sex of Things: Gender and Consumption in Historical
Perspective (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1996); Graziella Parati
and Rebecca West, eds., Italian Feminist Theory and Practice: Equality and Sexual
Difference (Madison, NJ: Fairleigh Dickinson University Press, 2002).
21 Maurizio Viano, A Certain Realism: Making Use of Pasolini’s Film Theory and
Practice (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1993); David Ward, A Poetics
of Resistance (Madison, NJ: Fairleigh Dickinson University Press, 1992);
Robert Gordon, Pasolini: Forms of Subjectivity (Oxford: Clarendon Press,
1996).
22 In addition to the foundational theories of Freud and Lacan on the topics of
subject formation, childhood individuation, and sexual theories of lack and
drive, the feminist film theories of Mulvey and DeLauretis on women’s tradi-
tionally objectified status and the male-dominant gaze were crucial for my
analyses. Equally important were Grosz’s overview of Lacanian psychoanaly-
sis; Silverman’s and Butler’s works on gender, voice, drag, and marginality;
Chodorow’s work on female subject formation within the family; and the
work of Cixous, Irigaray, and Kristeva on female language and the symbolic.
23 The published screenplays were particularly useful for their prose descrip-
tions of characters and settings. These texts also offer insight about the
motivations for and meaning of the silence of different characters.
1. Susanna Pasolini and the Female Universe
1 Pier Paolo Pasolini, ‘La vigilia: Il 4 ottobre,’ Accattone, Mamma Roma, Ostia
(Milan: Garzanti, 1993), 35.
2 A visit to the local cemetery in Casarsa reveals the abundance of Colussis
living there at that time.
3 Naldini, Pasolini, una vita, 6; see also p. 13, where Naldini describes how
Susanna returned to work to feed the family when Carlo was forced to pay
gambling debts.
4 Siciliano, Vita di Pasolini, 52. ‘Carlo Alberto forzò con la sua irruenza anche
sessuale, Susanna al matrimonio: Susanna nicchiava. Carlo Alberto insisteva.
La sposò per rapina.’ ‘Susanna aveva ormai trent’anni: si avviava ad essere
zitella.’ ‘Una considerazione pratica dovette spingerla alle nozze.’ (With
even his sexual impetuosity, Carlo Alberto forced Susanna into marriage:
Susanna hedged. Carlo Alberto insisted. He kidnapped her for marriage.
Susanna was thirty by then: she was on her way to becoming an old maid. It
must have been a practical consideration that led her to marry.)
5 The three main biographies of interest are those of Naldini, Pasolini, una
vita; Siciliano, Vita di Pasolini, and Schwartz, Pasolini Requiem.
6 Naldini, Pasolini, una vita, 9.
7 Ibid., 9. See also Jon Halliday, Pasolini su Pasolini (Parma: Guanda, 1992),
29.
9 Ibid., 11. Later in life, Pasolini viewed his dependency on Susanna as exces-
sive, even negative, since it led him to reject Carlo prematurely. In truth, up
through his adolescent years, Pasolini shared many enjoyable moments with
his father. But he was able to reflect only on the potentially negative effect of
his mother’s love after his father’s death. See Halliday, Pasolini su Pasolini,
28.
10 Naldini, Pasolini, una vita, 6. ‘Quando mia madre stava per partorire ho
cominciato a soffrire di bruciore agli occhi. Mio padre mi immoblizzava sul
tavolo della cucina, mi apriva l’occhio con le dita e mi versava dentro il
collirio. È da quel momento “simbolico” che ho cominciato a non amare più
mio padre ... Da allora tutta la vita è stata imperniata su di lei.’ (When my
mother was about to give birth I began to suffer from burning eyes. My
father immobilized me on the kitchen table, he opened my eyes with his
fingers and he poured eye drops in. It was from that ‘symbolic’ moment that
I stopped loving my father ... From then on, all my life revolved around her
[my mother].)
11 Ibid., 8–9.
12 Ibid.
13 Ibid., 8.
14 Ibid., 18. ‘Pier Paolo conosce il friulano per averlo imparato in mezzo ai
contadini, ma ancora non lo parla abitualmente; è solo un mezzo di comu-
nicazione con i ragazzi incontrati al Tagliamento o intorno alle piattaforme
di legno dei balli di paese.’ (Pier Paolo knows the Friulian dialect because
learned it among the farmers, but he doesn’t speak it regularly; it is only a

means of communication with the boys he met at the Tagliamento or near
the dance floors at the town dances.)
15 Ibid., 44. In 1942 Pasolini wrote in a letter to Luciano Serra: ‘Tutto [a Casar-
sa] ha perduto il mistero onde la fanciullezza la circondava, ed è nudo e
sporco dinnanzi a me: ma questo è un nuovo incanto, un nuovo sogno, e un
nuovo mistero.’ (Everything [in Casarsa] from my childhood has lost its
mystery and lies bare and dirty before me: but this is a new spell, a new
dream, and a new mystery.)
16 Poesie a Casarsa was published in 1942. It received favourable criticism from
renowned philologist Gianfranco Contini. He was the first to label Pasolini’s
work as ‘scandalous,’ a judgment based on the thematic content of young
boys’ sexuality, mixed with religious imagery and motifs of death. During the
fascist era, any overt form of regionalism, even in literature, was also per-
ceived as a provocation. See Siciliano, Vita di Pasolini, 90.
17 Naldini, Pasolini, una vita, 44–6, 61. Pasolini originally intended to write his
thesis with Roberto Longhi on contemporary painters, but the first draft of
this thesis was lost during wartime skirmishes. When Pasolini returned to the
University of Bologna, he requested a completely different project from
Carlo Calcaterra: an anthology and commentary on the poems of Giovanni
Pascoli.
18 See Marco Bazzocchi and Ezio Raimodi, ‘Una tesi di laurea ed una città,’
introduction to Pier Paolo Pasolini, Antologia della lirica pascoliana edited by
Marco Bazzocchi and Ezio Raimodi (Turin: Einaudi, 1993).
19 Naldini, Pasolini, una vita, 60–1.
20 Ibid., 88. Having left to fight with left-wing partisans in the mountains
dividing Italy and Yugoslavia, Guido Pasolini was killed by another partisan
faction in 1944. The family found out months later in 1945.
21 Ibid., 131–7. Naldini’s chapter ‘Ramuscello’ discusses the motivation for his
dismissal.
22 Ibid., 40–1. In Bologna, Pasolini worked with Fabio Mauri, Fabio Luca
Cavazza, Achille Ardigò, Luigi Vecchi, Mario Ricci, and Giovanna
Bemporad. Later, he befriended writers Francesco Leonetti, Roberto
Roversi, and Luciano Serra.
23 Siciliano, Vita di Pasolini, 179.
24 Naldini, Pasolini, una vita, 20. Rimbaud’s homosexuality and anti-conserva-
tive poetic stance had a profound effect on the burgeoning anti-fascism of
the high school–age Pasolini: ‘In secondo liceo 1938–9 un insegnante
supplente di storia dell’arte, il poeta Antonio Rinaldi, legge in classe Le
bateau ivré di Rimbaud. Questa lettura, nel ricordo un po’ leggendario, è un
crisma letterario e insieme politico che spazza via in una sola volta la cultura
accademica e provinciale, il conformismo fascista e mette in crisi la stessa
identità sociale del poeta adolescente.’ (In his second year of high school,
1938–9, a substitute teacher of art history, the poet Antonio Rinaldi, reads
Rimbaud’s Le bateau ivré in class. This reading, in a somewhat legendary
memory, is a literary and political consecration that all at once sweeps away
the academic and provincial culture, the fascist conformism, and puts the
social identity of the adolescent poet in crisis.)
25 Ivo Micheli, ‘“Una futura memoria”: Pasolini,’ Numero speciale di ‘Fine
Secolo,’ Reporter 25 October 1985); 14. ‘Ma come, non ti rendi conto che
cos’è il fascismo, che ha rovinato l’Italia ...? e gli misi una prima radice di
dubbio, che poi dopo germogliò come sappiamo.’ (Is it possible that you
don’t see what fascism is, that it has ruined Italy ...? and so she planted the
first seed of doubt that later took root as we know.)
26 See Naldini, Pasolini, una vita, 41–2, 46–7. Only a few years after his military
training in Porretta Terme, Pasolini made a formal break with fascism in the
journal Il Setaccio (1942–3). He wrote an article (‘I giovani, l’attesa’) in
which he called for freedom of expression for aspiring young artists like
himself, and, in a report on a trip to Weimar for a fascist youth convention,
he asserted that Nazi propaganda was counterproductive to European
culture in general.
27 Micheli, ‘“Una futura memoria,”’ 14. See also Siciliano, Vita di Pasolini,
107–12.
28 Micheli, ‘“Una futura memoria,”’ 14.
29 In Atti impuri, Pasolini created Dina, a violinist character, and admitted to
playing a bit with her sentiments.
30 Naldini, Pasolini, una vita, 51–4. As Pina Kalmc was falling in love with Pasolini,
Pasolini was in love with someone else – a student of his named Tonuti
Spagnol. Their teacher–student pedagogical bond was matched by a recipro-
cal physical attraction. Yet fear and culpability on the part of the older
Pasolini symptomatically infringed upon their erotic encounters. In fact, one
time when Tonuti fell ill, Pasolini returned to religion to pray for his recov-
ery. On this occasion he vowed, albeit unsuccessfully, to no longer satisfy his
erotic desires with young boys.
31 Siciliano, Vita di Pasolini, 213, 218.
33 Ibid., 118. The letter continues: ‘Fin dai miei primi incontri con te tu
avrai capito che dietro la mia amicizia c’era qualcosa di più, ma di non
molto diverso; una simpatia che era addirittura tenerezza. Ma qualcosa di
insuperablile, diciamo pure, di mostruoso si frapponeva tra me e quella mia
tenerezza ...’ (Since our earliest encounters, you must have understood that
behind my friendship there was something more, but not much different
[from friendship]; a fondness that was actually tenderness. But something
insurmountable, let’s say even monstrous came between me and that tender-
ness of mine ...)
34 Ibid. ‘Tu sei la sola donna verso cui ho provato e provo qualcosa che è molto
vicino all’amore.’ (You are the only woman for whom I felt and feel some-
thing very close to love.)
35 Silvana Mauri-Ottieri, letter to author, 16 May 1996.
36 Pasolini, Bestemmia. Unless otherwise indicated, all translations are mine.
Note that although the poems from Poesie a Casarsa and La meglio gioventù
were originally written in Friulian dialect, the English translations derive
from the Italian translations provided in Bestemmia.
37 Ibid., 14. This poem was originally written in Friulian dialect. I have included
Pasolini’s translation in Italian.
38 Ibid., 72–3.
39 Pasolini wrote this poem in 1943, though the La meglio gioventù collection was
published in 1954.
40 Pasolini, Bestemmia, 313–14.
41 Ibid., 314.
42 Ibid., 531.
43 In the mid to late 1950s, Pasolini was writing and collaborating on screen-
plays that featured Rome and prostitutes, such as Le notti di Cabiria by Fellini
(1957), La donna del fiume by Emmer (1961), and La commare secca (1962) by
Bertolucci.
44 Pasolini, Bestemmia, 531.
45 Ibid.
46 Pasolini’s personal attachment to his mother was not considered unusual,
given that mammismo was relatively common in the culture of his day. That is,
it was quite normal for unmarried men to live with their mothers, even at
more advanced ages. Any additional considerations of their rapport and
lifelong cohabitation may fall under the rubric of psychoanalytic interpreta-
tion.
47 Pasolini, Bestemmia, 517–18.
48 Ibid.
49 Ibid.
50 Pasolini began a regular column in Vie Nuove that ran more or less regularly
between 1960 and 1962, and then another that ran in Il Tempo between 1968
and 1970.
51 The translation comes from Norman Macaffee and Luciano Martinengo,
trans., Pier Paolo Pasolini: Poems (New York: Random House, 1982), 109. For
another translation of the same work, see Lawrence Ferlinguetti and
Francesca Valente, trans., Roman Poems: Pier Paolo Pasolini (San Francisco: City
Lights Books, 1986), 97–9. See also Pasolini, Bestemmia, 640–1.
52 On Pasolini’s motivations for turning to cinema, see Halliday, Pasolini su
Pasolini, 46–8; Siciliano, Vita di Pasolini, 316–18; Naldini, Pasolini, una vita,
234–5.
53 In the 1970s, female journalists seemed eager to interview Pasolini about his
views on women, particularly with regard to the Trilogy of Life films. See
chapter 6, note 16. Occasionally, Pasolini also responded to letters on the
subject of abortion and other women’s rights in his newspaper columns.
See Pier Paolo Pasolini, I dialoghi (Rome: Riuniti, 1992). For an interesting
analysis of the early feminist movement in Italy (1900–45), with a detailed
bibliography on non-fiction writing on women in Italian society, see De
Grazia, How Fascism Ruled Women: Italy, 1922–1945. For general analyses
on women and politics in Italy, see Franca Pieroni Bortolotti, Femminismo e
partiti politici in Italia (Rome: Editori Riuniti, 1978), Paola Bono and Mar-
gerie Kemp, eds., Italian Feminist Thought: A Reader (Oxford: Basil Blackwell,
1991), or Parati and West’s edited volume Italian Feminist Theory and Practice.
54 Pasolini invited several of these women to collaborate on films or accepted
interviews with them in various venues. Cambria played the role of Nannina
in Accattone (1961) and herself in Comizi d’amore (1964), and Dacia Maraini
assisted in writing the screenplay and selecting the location for Pasolini’s Il
fiore delle Mille e una notte (1974).
55 Laura Mulvey, Visual and Other Pleasures (Bloomington: Indiana University
Press, 1989), 62–3.
56 Viano, A Certain Realism, 115.
57 Scarred by a troubled childhood of abuse, molestation, and foster homes,
Marilyn lived her adult life plagued by loneliness, despair, and failed mar-
riages; she eventually died from an accidental overdose.
58 This is my translation. Sam Rohdie published a translation of this poem in The
Passion of Pier Paolo Pasolini (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 1995),
where the poem beautifully and tellingly constitutes a chapter in and of itself.
59 Walter Siti and Franco Zabagli, eds., Pier Paolo Pasolini per il cinema, vol. 1
(Milan: Mondadori, 2001), 399.
60 Several scholars have offered interesting analyses of La rabbia. See, for ex-
ample, Viano, A Certain Realism, 111–18; Antonio Bertini, Teoria e tecnica
del film in Pasolini (Rome: Bulzoni, 1979), 147–9; Antonio Repetto, Invito al
cinema di Pasolini (Milan: Mursia, 1998), 68–70.
61 As always, it remains difficult to discern frankness and honesty when people

speak before a camera and think their words and ideas will become public.
Within the film, Pasolini and intellectuals Muscetta and Moravia discuss to
what extent these ‘real’ Italians can represent the ‘real’ Italy.
62 Viano, A Certain Realism, 123. Taking (homo)sexuality to be a primary focus,
Viano classifies the film as ‘the chronicle of Pasolini’s mounting frustration
at the sight of people’s refusal to acknowledge sexuality as a problem.’
63 Siti and Zabagli, eds. Pier Paolo Pasolini per il cinema, 1: 457.
64 Viano, A Certain Realism, 123–5. ‘Pasolini’s documentary obviously fails in its
attempt to provide a document of “the true Italy.” It succeeds, however, in
documenting the mask. The value of Comizi d’amore is to be found in the
documentary representation of men and women, young and old, wearing
masks’ (123). ‘The distinction between a verbal and visual truth – “truth in
the logical sense” and “psychological truth” – makes its first, explicit appear-
ance in Pasolini and foreshadows the direction that his film theory and
practice will take’ (124). ‘They [obsessive frontal close-ups] aim at wringing
out “at least psychological truth” and allow the viewer to perceive the physi-
ognomy of lying. In fact, lying is nothing but the obedience to codes of self-
representation, the codes of the mask’ (124).
65 Siciliano, Vita di Pasolini, 270–2. Laura Betti was one of Pasolini’s closest
friends in Rome. They met in 1958, when the singer-actress was performing
songwriter cabarets, and Pasolini composed some of her pieces. In 1963, he
cast her in La ricotta; in 1966, in La terra vista dalla Luna; in 1968, in Teorema;
and in 1973, in I racconti di Canterbury. From the time of Pasolini’s death until
her own in 2002, Betti worked assiduously to preserve Pasolini’s memory
with retrospective and commemorative events, as well as publications and
films revisiting his work, influence, and life. She was also the president of the
Fondo Pier Paolo Pasolini in Rome.
66 See Siciliano, Vita di Pasolini, 438–40. ‘Nacque, dall’incontro fra i due, fra
autore e personaggio, la leggenda di un amore. Fotografie sui rotocalchi:
fotografarono un bacio sulle labbra, scambiato, forse, in un aeroporto. Pier
Paolo seguì Maria in una vacanza nelle isole greche –.’ (A love legend was
born from the meeting between the two, the author and his character. There
were pictures in magazines: they photographed a kiss on the lips, exchanged
perhaps in an airport. Pier Paolo accompanied Maria on a trip to the Greek
islands –.) See F. Tripeleff’s novel, Un amore di Maria Callas (Pavia: Liber,
1994).
67 See the discussion on Pasolini’s posthumous novel, Petrolio, in chapter 7.
68 Pasolini, Bestemmia, 637.
2. Mothers
1 Pasolini, Bestemmia, 637. ‘... E io, feto adulto, m’aggiro / più moderno di
ogni moderno / a cercare fratelli che non ci sono più.’ (And I, adult fetus,
wander about / more modern than any other modern man / seeking
brothers who no longer exist.)
2 Siti and Zabagli, eds., Pier Paolo Pasolini per il cinema, 1:158.
3 Ibid., 159.
4 See Fioravanti, Zulficar and Natale, ‘Una visione del mondo ...’, 12–41.
5 Consider also these moments: the beginning of the film, when Mamma
Roma enters with the pigs; when she is in church; when she observes Ettore
during his first day at work; and every time she stares out of her window.
6 Jessica Benjamin, ‘The Omnipotent Mother: A Psychoanalytic Study of
Fantasy and Reality,’ in Donna Bassin, Margaret Honey, and Meryle Mahrer
Kaplan, eds., Representations of Motherhood (New Haven: Yale University Press,
1994), 132.
7 Siti and Zagagli, eds., Pier Paulo Pasolini per il cinema, 1: 162. Initially we read:
‘Così passa e ripassa davanti agli occhi di Mamma Roma. E non lo si può mai
vedere bene: ora gli si osservano gli occhi, ora le mani posate sul grembo,
ora tutto il corpo di adolescente, bruno, umile e agile.’ (This way he appears
and reappears before Mamma Roma’s eyes. And one can never see him well:
first we see his eyes, then his hands posed on his lap, then his whole brown,
humble, agile, adolescent body.) And then: ‘... Al quarto o quinto giro,
Ettore non è più sul suo sedile. È scomparso. La giostra vortica vuota. La
povera faccia di Mamma Roma, fino a quel momento beata, si deforma in
una infantile angoscia; come se la scomparsa di Ettore dalla giostra volesse dire la
scomparsa dalla sua vita.’ (Emphasis added.) (By the fourth of fifth turn,
Ettore is no longer on his seat. He has disappeared. The empty carousel
continues turning. Mamma Roma’s poor face, up until that moment satis-
fied, deforms with infantile anguish; as if Ettore’s disappearance from the
carousel meant his disappearance from her life.)
8 Ibid., 164.
9 Nancy Chodorow, Feminism and Psychoanalytic Theory (New Haven: Yale
University Press, 1989), 107. Chodorow points out that since the psyche can
recognize the mother as both ‘like subject’ and ‘needed object,’ ‘there is a
psychic force of differentiation that counterbalances omnipotence’ in the
child. In Pasolini’s films, it is precisely this psychic process that challenges
the mother’s omnipotence. It manifests itself as the son’s struggle – his
simultaneous attraction and repulsion to her present world and to the past,
or metaphoric womb.
10 Siti and Zabagli, eds., Pier Paolo Pasolini per il cinema, 1: 226.
11 Ibid., 255–6.
12 Benjamin, ‘The Omnipotent Mother,’ 132.
13 Siti and Zabagli, eds., Pier Paolo Pasolini per il cinema, 1: 260. Pasolini added
‘parole da inventarsi’ (‘words to be improvised or invented’) at the end of
this set of lines for Ettore. In the film, he specifically adds to Ettore’s dying
words the request to be taken back to Guidonia, where he lived when he was
a little boy. Although in truth only a few months have passed, Ettore has a
more distant temporal concept of the cultural roots he left behind by mov-
ing to Rome.
14 Ibid., 132.
15 The subject of borders is more fully developed in the discussion of prosti-
tutes. See chapter 3.
16 Although this is not one of Pasolini’s studied ‘compositions’ or specific
artistic citations, the ‘mother and child’ allusion is obvious.
18 For a discussion of Bruna as a prostitute, see chapter 3.
19 To render the sacred connection between Bruna and Ettore more distinct,
Pasolini uses one of his rare zoom shots to show Ettore’s instinctive view of
Bruna’s small, bulging breasts, where the mother and child pendant he just
gave her hangs.
20 The group of boys – supposedly also Ettore’s new friends – beat Ettore to a
pulp when he tries to protect Bruna and suggest she is his girlfriend.
22 Ibid., 245.
23 For purposes of readability, I retain the name Edipo, since this is the title of
the film, but use Jocasta instead of Giocasta.
24 Stelio Martini, ‘La Mangano mi ricorda mia madre,’ Tempo, 16 March 1968,
18. ‘Per me la Mangano ha una certa aria di famiglia; coi suoi zigomi alti, il
viso allungato, così spirituale e sensuale al tempo stesso, così misteriosa, mi
ricorda mia madre.’ (For me, Silvana Mangano has a certain family air about
her; with her high cheekbones and elongated face, so spiritual and sensual
and, at the same time, so mysterious, she reminds me of my mother.)
25 It is Mozart’s Quartet in C Major, K. 465. See Guiseppe Magaletta, La musica
nell’opera di Pier Paolo Pasolini (Rome: Quattroventi, 1998), 311.
26 Siti and Zabagli, eds., Pier Paolo Pasolini per il cinema, 1: 1009. ‘È un attimo: ma
il suo sguardo si ferma su di lei. Una rapida espressione intima e indecente è
in quello sguardo: lo sguardo sul seno bianco’ (emphasis in original). (It
lasts only a second: but his look stops on her. A quick, intimate and indecent
expression is in his look: a look which takes in her white breasts.)
27 Ibid., 1010. ‘Ormai, nello sguardo che scambia con la Regina, egli è
padrone dei propri sentimenti; la guarda con l’ipocrita innocenza del
rispetto.’ (By now, in his exchanged glance with the Queen, he is master of
his sentiments; he looks at her with the hypocritical innocence of respect.)
28 Michel Chion, The Voice in Cinema, trans. Claudia Gorbman (New York:
Columbia University Press, 1998), 18–19.
30 Kaja Silverman, The Acoustic Mirror: The Female Voice in Psychoanalysis and
Cinema (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 1988), 78.
31 Ibid., 1039.
32 Ibid.
33 Benjamin, ‘The Omnipotent Mother,’ 132. Ideally, says Benjamin, both
fantasy (the experience of one subject) and intersubjectivity (the shared
experience of the two) coexist in a relationship of tension in the mother-
child rapport. This is particularly important during the Oedipal phase, when
‘the mother becomes dreaded and repudiated,’ and the son ‘turns the table
on the female, and the reversal of power relations (to the Father) becomes
enmeshed with male cultural hegemony.’
34 Siti and Zabagli, eds., Pier Paolo Pasolini per il cinema, 1: 1036 ‘... per un istinto
nuovo e più violento di ogni altra cosa, anche la mano di Giocasta si alza, e
scosta dalla spilla, coprendola, la mano di Edipo. / I due, così, uno di fronte
all’altro si guardano. / È lo sguardo di un attimo, inespressivo. / Poi
Giocasta si stacca da Edipo e si allontana con un passo che è quasi di fuga.’
(‘Driven by a new instinct, more violent than anything, Jocasta lifts her hand
and moves Edipo’s hand away from the clasp. The two, face to face, look at
each other. It lasts only a moment and is inexpressive. Then Jocasta separates
from Edipo and runs off so quickly that it seems like an escape.’)
35 Ibid., 1040–1.
36 Ibid., 1037.
37 Naomi Greene, Pier Paolo Pasolini: Cinema as Heresy (Princeton: Princeton
University Press, 1990), 162.
38 Siti and Zabagli, eds., Pier Paolo Pasolini per il cinema, 1: 1030. He uses pre-
cisely the expression ‘contagiosa calma’ when Jocasta interrupts Creonte
and Edipo in their final confrontation: ‘... Decisa, dolce, con quella sua
contagiosa calma di chi non vuole sapere, va a prendere per mano Edipo,
che subito arreso come un ragazzo, si lascia condurre via.’ (... Determined
and sweet, with the contagious sense of calm of one who does not want to
know, she goes and takes Edipo by the hand, Edipo, who surrendering like a
boy, lets himself be led away.)
39 Again, for purposes of readability, I retain the name Medea (since this is the
title of the film) but use Jason instead of Giasone.
40 For an interesting discussion of Medea’s eye and practice of looking, see
Nadia Fusini, ‘Il grande occhio di Medea,’ in Laura Betti and Michle
Gulinucci, eds., Le regole di un’illusione (Rome: Fondo Pier Paolo Pasolini,
1991), 393–4.
42 Ibid., 1279.
43 Fusini, ‘Il grande occhio di Medea,’ 592.
44 Ibid., 593. ‘Nel sesso Medea riscopre il potere del sacro.’ (Medea rediscovers
the power of the sacred in sex.)
46 Ibid., 1280.
47 Ibid., 1288.
48 Consider, for instance, the prelude to the fertility rite, when she must cleanse
her spirit by passing barefoot over burning coals.
49 Biancofiore is one of the prostitute characters discussed at greater length in
chapter 3.
50 For a discussion of Lucia (Teorema) see chapter 6; for a discusson of Paso-
lini’s Virgin Marys, see chapter 5.
3. Prostitutes
1 Sergio Citti collaborated on nearly all of Pasolini’s films and, in 1971, de-
buted as a film director with Ostia. Some of his other films include Storie
scellerate (1973), Casotto (1977), Duepezzidipane (1979), Il minestrone (1981),
Mortacci (1989), and I maggi randagi (1996).
2 Citti also introduced Pasolini to his brother Franco, who would later play the
prototypical pimp in his first films; in subsequent films, he played Oedipus
the King and other important, if secondary, roles.
3 Ragazzi di vita describes a group of boys who survive from day to day in
Rome and the borgate. The prostitutes they encounter experience everything
from adolescent pranks to physical abuse and theft. Once in a while, they
cheat or steal, too. Una vita violenta depicts a similar group of teens but
focuses more on the burgeoning political consciousness of Tommaso, who
prostitutes himself now and then to men to make money (see, for example,
301–308).
4 For an exhaustive list of Pasolini’s film collaborations, see Siti and Zabagli,
eds., Pier Paolo Pasolini per il cinema, 2: 2133–584.
5 Pasolini’s film Comizi d’amore (1964) has a segment on the Merlin law that
outlawed state brothels in 1958 and it contains some brief interviews with
Neapolitan prostitutes. Here, I do no discuss these women because my focus
is on fictional prostitute figures.
6 See Mary Gibson’s chapter, ‘Italy,’ in Nanette Davis, ed., Prostitution: An
International Handbook on Trends, Problems, and Policies (Greenwich, CT:
Greenwood Press, 1993), 158–65. See also Russell Campbell, Marked Women:
Prostitutes and Prostitution in the Cinema (Madison: University of Wisconsin
Press, 2006); Mary Gibson, Prostitution and the State in Italy 1860–1915 (New
Brunswick, NJ: Rutgers University Press 1986); Giovanni Greco, Lo scienziato e
la prostituta: Due secoli di studi sulla prostituzione (Bari: Dedalo, 1987); Pierre L.
Horn and Mary Beth Pringle, eds., The Image of the Prostitute in Modern Litera-
ture (New York: Ungar, 1984); and Khalid Kishtainy, The Prostitute in Progres-
sive Literature (London: Allison and Busby, 1982).
7 De Sica’s Filumena (Matrimonio all’italiana, 1964) is an adaptation of
Edoardo DeFilippo’s theatre character.
8 When the prostitute Maddalena is beaten up in Accattone, the sequence ends,
as mentioned, with a shot of her laying on the ground, then a close shot of
one high-heeled shoe and then another of her handbag. Similarly, when
Mamma Roma gets teased by a group of no-good boys in her stairwell, she
throws a high-heeled shoe at them. Her pimp, Carmine, retrieves the shoe
and hands it back to her, in a gesture foretelling her return to the streets.
10 Accattone, in fact, grows out of the Italian neo-realist tradition in cinema,
which vividly portrayed the poverty, unemployment, and emotional despair
characterizing the lives of the masses in postwar Italy. Yet it differs signifi-
cantly in terms of its style and approach because it defies the laws of pleni-
tude, naturalism, and continuity that defined neo-realism in the decade
before. Pasolini’s debut picture instead favoured fragmentation and the
visible reconstruction of reality. See Viano, A Certain Realism, 69.
11 Pasolini employs the same technique of contamination during Accattone’s
fist fight with Ascenza’s brother. Many scholars have commented on the mix
of high and low culture in Pasolini’s films. For a detailed account of the
music used here and elsewhere, see Magaletta, La musica nell’opera ..., 215.
12 See Dante’s Inferno (III, 9).
14 Ibid., 7, 11, 14.
15 Teresa De Lauretis, Alice Doesn’t: Feminism, Semiotics, Cinema (Bloomington:
Indiana University Press, 1984), 13–23.
16 The women’s names all appear to be purposeful choices. In contrast to Stella
and her positive connotations, we have Maddalena, who recalls the re-
deemed biblical figure, and Ascenza, whose name suggests that, with her
father’s and brother’s help, she is ‘ascending’ from the borgata’s lowest
depths, as embodied by Accattone.
18 Ibid., 106
19 Ibid., 51.
20 Ibid., 106.
21 Ibid., 11–12. The woman-angel connection is first established during Accat-
tone’s early death-defying leap from the Sant’Angelo Bridge. Just before he
jumps, Alfredino cynically asks to whom he will bequeath his two possessions
(his gold chain and his woman, i.e. his, breadwinner, Maddalena) if he dies.
A cut then shows Accattone alone on top of the bridge with large stone
angels looming in the frame behind him. They sit just over his shoulder as
if offering their protection or as if functioning as a moral reminder. In this
medium shot, Accattone himself is barechested and statuesque, which
creates an association between the pimp and the angels on the bridge. The
adjacency of the stone figures and the moocher foretells his imminent
encounter with Stella (the angel on earth), thus connoting the salvific
potential of women.
22 Further exposing his intent to make the wrong choice, Accattone casts
Stella’s mother’s prostitution as a noble endeavour, telling her that her
mother did it for her: ‘Tu’ madre nun se l’è comprato, quer mestiere, l’ha
fatto per te! Non capisci te, ’sta cosa!’ (Your mother didn’t choose that job,
she did it for you! Don’t you see that!)
23 Maddalena is in jail, and Ascenza won’t have him, but Stella represents a new
window of opportunity because she is not hardened and street-smart like the
others. Initially, when he takes her out and ‘woos’ her, he capitalizes on her
innocence and naiveté, first joking about her virginity and then expressing
compassion when the mortified Stella tells him her mother was a whore.
Once he gains her trust and prepares her with the right clothes and accesso-
ries, Accattone manipulates Stella for his own benefit. While they are at
dinner one night – on what otherwise seems like a nice date – Accattone asks
her to keep company with another man. The next day, he intensifies his
attempt to trap Stella by violently accusing her of whoring for her own
pleasure.
24 Siti and Zabagli, eds., Pier Paolo Pasolini per il cinema, 1: 50–1.
25 Ibid., 119–20.
26 Ibid., 133.
27 After the opening titles in Accattone, accompanied by Bach’s St Matthew
Passion, we read the citation from Dante about Buonconte who was saved for
a tear (Purgatorio V, 104–107) in an intertitle: ‘... l’angel di dio mi prese, e
quel d’inferno / gridava: ‘O tu del ciel, perché mi privi? / Tu te ne porti di
costui [Buonconte] l’etterno / per una lagrimetta ch ‘l mi toglie.’ For one of
many good translations, see Allen Mandelbaum, Dante Alighieri, Purgatorio: A
Verse Translation (New York: Bantam, 1983), 43: ‘I was taken by God’s angel, /
but he from Hell cried: “You from Heaven – why – do you deny me him? For
just one tear / you carry off his deathless part.’ For an interesting analysis of
this citation see Viano, A Certain Realism, 71–2.
28 For a discussion of Bruna as a mother figure, see chapter 2.
29 See chapter 2 in this volume.
31 Ibid., 213.
32 Ibid, 234. During one of his manipulative outbursts, Carmine accuses
Mamma Roma of stealing his innocence. ‘Io ventitré anni e te quaranta! Te
lo sei saputo pappà, Carmine, eh? ’Sto pischello! Te, m’hai fatto conoscere i
soldi! ... Io me ne venivo dal paesello, che nemmeno lo sapevo che esistevano
le donne come te! E te m’hai rovinato! Te, m’hai fatto diventà un pappone!’
(I was twenty-three and you forty. You sure knew how to enjoy Carmine, huh?
This kid! You turned me on to money. I came from a little town, I didn’t even
know there were women like you. You ruined me! You made me become a
pimp!)
33 Ibid., 190.
34 Ibid., 213.
35 Ibid., 229.
36 For a more detailed discussion of Mamma Roma’s relationship with her son,
Ettore, see chapter 2.
37 Siti and Zabagli, eds., Pier Paolo Pasolini per il cinema, 1: 165. The Casal
Bertone housing project is described as if it were hell: ‘Casal Bertone si erge
giallastro contro il cielo, come la città di Dite.’ (Casal Bertone rises up a
grayish yellow against the sky like the city of Dis.)
38 A lower-class housing zone on the outskirts of Rome, Cecafumo is now
considered part of Rome’s greater metropolitan area. In Mamma Roma,
Cecafumo represented a significant step up from the previous place (Casal
Bertone) in which she lived. These apartments were all financed by the state
and were all the same. Their grayness and squalor characterized the zone,
making it in many respects an extension of the borgata.
39 Siti and Zabagli, eds., Pier Paolo Pasolini per il cinema, 1: 175–180; 236–9. Both
of Mamma Roma’s departure scenes provide biographical information
explaining her difficult childhood, her motivations for becoming a whore,

her current emotional state, and her vision of the future.
40 Pasolini chose Vivaldi’s music for the most emotional moments in this film,
believing it common cultural patrimony.
42 In an intertitle appearing between the Franciscan myth and the return to
the men’s contemporary journey, Pasolini specifies that the crow is a com-
munist ‘of the type that existed before Togliatti’s death.’
43 Jon Halliday, Pasolini su Pasolini (Parma: Guanda, 1992), 97.
44 Siti and Zabagli, eds., Pier Paolo Pasolini per il cinema, 1: 796. Though the film
makes no direct references to Luna’s potential for mothering or nurturing,
the description of Luna in the published screenplay reads: ‘Lungo il ciglio di
questa strada bianca, accanto a un paracarro, è seduta una bella ragazza
vestita a fiori, con un golfino. Seduto ai piedi sta un ragazzino bianco come
un gattino, buono, buono, obbediente come la donna fosse sua madre. Non
è sua madre, è una puttana. Ma il seno è mezzo fuori, impudico come quello
delle madri.’ (On the side of this white road, near a guardrail, a pretty
woman is sitting in a flowered dress with a sweater over it. Sitting at her feet is
a little white boy, like a cat. He is very good and obedient, as if the woman
were his mother. She is not his mother, she is a whore. But her bosom is half
naked and immodest, like that of a mother.)
45 In the screenplay, Pasolini describes her this way: ‘La donna è persa in un
silenzio lieto e malinconico, in attesa: bambina, e antica come la natura.’
(Lost in the happy and melancholic silence, waiting: she is a child, ancient
like nature.)
46 Siti and Zabagli, eds., Pier Paolo Pasolini per il cinema, 1: 795. The screenplay
reads differently. The crow says, ‘Now that we have arrived in the city, would
you mind telling me where you are going? ... Pardon my curiosity, but by
now knowing where you (humanity) are headed is my obsession.’ The
intellectual naturally wishes to understand where common man (humanity)
is going.
47 Ibid., 801. His rambling speech is interrupted by a still frame with a full
moon and intertitles, which reads, ‘and the crow began to speak, speak,
speak …,’ before Totò loses his patience and decides to kill him.
48 This line is in the film, but not the published screenplay. ‘I professori vanno
mangiati nella salsa piccante ... Ma chi li mangia e chi li digerisce diventa un
po’ professore anche lui.’
49 This line is in the film, but not the published screenplay.
50 In this, the urge to have sex with Luna is not much different from the urge
to relieve one’s bowels, which is the excuse Totò uses to run off with her. This
puts the notion of defecation as instinct on a par with the ingestion of the
bird’s rhetoric. Both processes are connected to the authentic in that the
authentic human subject will digest and retain what is positive and vital,
discarding what is waste.
51 An intertitle before the film starts asks: ‘Dove va l’umanità?’
52 Siti and Zabagli, eds., Pier Paolo Pasolini per il cinema, 1: 750. ‘È la luna che cià
‘na forza de gravità, co’ la quale l’acqua se alza ...’
53 The prostitute’s male counterpart, whether pimp or son, is resistant to the
borderline existence she embodies for instinctive, subconscious reasons, not
rational, ideological ones. For Pasolini, he represents the pre-post-war, pre-
economic boom/pre-consumer culture mentality, therefore he has no sense
of moral responsibility in the bourgeois sense. Marxist critics criticized
Pasolini’s novels and early films on this account. While for Pasolini the lack
of moral/political conscience was a positive condition, for Marxists it was
disengagé and weak.
54 Pasolini, ‘Studio sulla rivoluzione antropologica in Italia, 10 giugno 1974,’
Scritti corsari (Milan: Garzanti, 1975), 39–44. Throughout the 1960s and
1970s, he often lamented the anthropological mutation or profound cul-
tural changes that had taken place, as if overnight. According to Pasolini,
neo-capitalist values were running so rampant at that time that they pen-
etrated nearly every layer of society. Conformist, middle-class thinking was
defining every aspect of Italian culture to the extent that even the subclasses
began assuming the traits and mentalities of the bourgeoisie. In his view,
l’Italia dell’omologazione consumistica (the Italy of consumer homogenization),
surpassed the achievements even of fascism with the thoroughness of its
penetration and conformist effects. For other metaphors for this phenom-
enon, see also ‘Il “Discorso” dei capelli, 7 gennaio 1973’ and ‘L’articolo delle
lucciole, 1 febbraio 1975’ in Scritti corsari.
4. Daughters
1 Pasolini takes great interest in the relationship between generations in some

of the essays gathered in Scritti corsari, and in literary works such as Il padre
selvaggio (Turin: Einaudi, 1976) and ‘Gennariello’ in Lettere luterane (Turin:
Einaudi, 1976). It was around the mid to late 1960s, when he passed the
ages of forty and then forty-five, that Pasolini realized that he now belonged
to the generation of fathers.
2 In the mid-1960s, Pasolini wrote six dramas, all of which focus on genera-
tional conflicts within the bourgeoisie. Some have male protagonists
(Pilade, Affabulazione) and others female (Calderon). See Pasolini, Teatro

(Milan: Garzanti, 1988). For two very insightful analyses of these texts, see,
William Van Watson, Pasolini and the Theater of the Word (Ann Arbor: Univer-
sity of Michigan Press, 1987), or the more recent book by Franca Angelini,
Pasolini e lo spettacolo (Rome: Bulzoni, 2002).
3 Mark 6:22; Matthew 14:6–8.
4 Siti and Zabagli, eds., Pier Paolo Pasolini per il cinema, 1: 558. ‘Essa è tutta
coperta, dal collo alle caviglie, dalle leggiadre vesti che può avere un angelo
del Botticelli – o la sua Primavera. Anzi, essa è proprio vestita come l’ha
immaginata Filippo Lippi in un suo affresco severo.’ (She is completely
covered from neck to ankles, by the light clothing that might cover one of
Botticelli’s angels – or his Primavera. In fact, she is dressed just as Filippo
Lippi imagined her in his harsh fresco.)
5 The ‘gaze’ is a cinematic term used to denote different acts of looking. The
gaze may be that of one character to another, of the character towards the
extradiegetic viewer, or of the viewer(s) towards the character onscreen.
Many scholars consider the cinematic gaze in classic cinema to be generally
masculine, exerting an objectifying effect on female figures who provide
viewing pleasure. See, for example, Laura Mulvey, ‘Visual Pleasure and
Narrative Cinema,’ Screen 16, no. 3 (1975): 6–18.
8 Ibid.
9 Siti and Zabagli, eds., Pier Paolo Pasolini per il cinema, 1: 557. ‘Primo piano
della madre, della figlia, assorte, ansoise, cattive.’ (Close up of the mother, of
the daughter, both absorbed, anxious, evil.)
10 Ibid., 557. ‘La vestizione ha qualcosa di funebre: avviene in silenzio, e le
facce delle donne non hanno nulla di festoso. Intorno, intorno, continuano
a scoppiare le voci e le frasi musicali che annunciano la festa’ (The dressing
ritual resembles a funeral: it takes place in silence, and the women’s faces
show no signs of celebration. Voices and musical phrases that announce the
party continue to explode all around them).
11 Students protested against the universities in this period, reacting to the
unwieldy power of professors and the unfair examination system by which
they were judged. Soon after, the targets of these protests broadened to
include several conservative institutions (Church, family, political parties,
etc.). Like their peers in so many other nations, Italian student activists
aspired to direct democracy and a society of equals.
12 Pier Paolo Pasolini, Teorema (Milan: Garzanti, 1968), 16. ‘Odetta ha un
ragazzo che la corteggia ... I discorsi tra Odetta e il suo corteggiatore
imberbe vertono un album di fotografie, che Odetta stringe gelosamente,

insieme ai libri di scuola.’ (Odetta is being courted by a boy ... The talk
between Odetta and her inexperienced suitor centres on a photo album that
Odetta guards jealously along with her school books.) See also Viano, A
Certain Realism, 209–10: ‘As she aimlessly walks amidst parked cars, with her
books guardedly held against her breast, Odetta is immediately defined as a
wanderer who has something to protect ... She wanders in an attempt to
escape the expropriation of what she needs to protect … a photo album with
a page-size portrait of Paolo, the father.’
13 Pasolini, Teorema, 15–17. ‘È dolcissima e inquietante, la povera Odetta con
una fronte che sembra una scatolina piena di intelligenza dolorosa, anzi,
quasi, di sapienza.’ (She is extremely sweet and disquieting, poor Odetta
with a forehead that seems like a box full of painful intelligence, or rather,
knowledge.)
14 Ibid., 16.
15 Ibid., 210.
16 Ibid., 15.
17 Ibid., 69.
18 Ibid., 70. ‘La scoperta improvvisa ... della presenza dell’ospite, ormai è un
dato di fatto ineliminabile, che non solo si impone a lei come una novità, ma
pare renderla addirittura incapace di dominarsi.’ (The sudden discovery ...
of the guest’s presence, by now a given, not only imposes itself as something
new, but apparently makes her even lose control.)
19 Ibid., 211.
20 Ibid., 70. ‘Attraverso il piccolo quadrato dell’obiettivo, essa lo osserva non
vista. Vede qual è il suo viso, le sue spalle, il suo grande torace e il suo piccolo
bacino di giovane genitore; ...’ (Through the small eyehole, she observes
him without being seen. She studies his face, shoulders, large chest, and his
small pelvis of a young parent; ...)
21 Ibid., 72. ‘È vero che se appena si voltasse, si troverebbe davanti al grembo,
immacolato e potente, in fondo alle due colonne protettrici (gambe): ma
essa non si volta: i suoi sguardi passano quasi supplichevoli dall’album delle
fotografie alla faccia dell’Ospite, che le sorride buono, nella sua potenza.’
(It is true that if she turned around, she would find herself before his lap,
immaculate and powerful, at the base of two protective columns but she does
not turn: her look passes almost imploringly from the photo album to the
guest’s face, who smiles kindly at her, in all his power.)
22 Ibid., 99–100.
23 Ibid., 119.
24 Ibid. ‘Non ci sono più smorfie, sorrisi, lezii, umorismi, insomma distrazioni
o manovre di difesa. Essa è diventata inespressiva, immobile, attenta: guarda

il vuoto, in alto, e solo una specie di stupore non l’ha ancora abbandonata
alla completa atonia.’ (There are no more grimaces, smiles, affect, sense of
humour, no more distractions or defense mechanisms. She has become
inexpressive, immobile, watchful: she stares into the void up high, and the
only thing that hasn’t left her completely abandoned to silence is a sense of
stupor.)
26 Along the lines of Viano’s claim that ‘a radical reading suggests that Odetta
is the character who most breaks with the past, as if her quiet and seemingly
vicarious existence hides a subterranean flow of uncompromising determi-
nation ...’ (212), I find that father and daughter in Teorema make equally
conscious and concise breaks with the past via their opposite claiming/
disclaiming of identities through their outer appearances (clothes and/or
masks).
27 Paolo disrobes and leaves society to wander in the desert, symbol of an arid
society and a spiritual void. Alternatively, the mother will stay in society, as
will the son, Pietro, despite his similarity to Odetta. Pietro cannot internal-
ize, and he does not have a clear image of either the guest or the self. That is
why he cannot reproduce them on canvas, not even in his mind enough to
imagine them. The experience has confused him, whereas it has clarified
things for the girl, his sister. The maid, Emilia, not only stays in society but
literally buries herself in it, hoping to regenerate pure, simple, and authentic
roots in the midst of industrial Milan.
28 Viano, A Certain Realism, 212. ‘And her clenched fist seems the ironic sign of
her failure to grasp herself in any way.’
29 Ibid. ‘Once we see her case as the outcome of a woman’s impossible relation
to patriarchy’s petrifying gaze, Odetta’s case arouses less pity than rage ...
Reacting against the historical duty of fitting into the symbolic order of
phallo-centrism, these women (Odetta and others) stray from the path and
risk the dangers of radical difference. Odetta, the Deviant.’
30 Anne Wiazemsky gained fame as a young actress in the nouvelle vague films of
Godard.
32 Ibid.
33 Ibid., 1121. ‘Beh, oggi io non ho diciassette anni; ne ho quarantasette,
come tua madre, che non li dice, e non mi scappi. Ti conosco con i tuoi
colpetti d’ala. Oggi non starò qua a guardare confusa con la bocca aperta
le tue fantastiche evoluzioni con l’aquilone mentre te ne vai nei posti
meravigliosi che sai solo tu. Oggi stai qui e parliamo di noi.’ (Well, today I’m
not seventeen; I’m forty-seven, like your mother, who won’t admit to it, and
you can’t escape me. I know you and your whims. Today I won’t stand here
open-mouthed and confused watching your flights of fancy to marvellous
places that only you know. Today you will stay here and we’ll talk about
us.)
34 Ibid., 1126.
35 Ibid.
36 Ibid.
37 Ibid., 1160.
38 Ibid., 1125.
39 Ibid., 1126.
40 Ibid., 1141.
41 Ibid., 1141–2.
42 Originally published in Nuovi Argomenti 10 (April–June 1968).
43 The springtime student uprisings in Prague and Paris motivated many
university-level students to conduct similar manifestations in Italy, initially
intended to denounce a backward and insufficient school system. This
political theme eventually broadened to encompass more general themes
that overlapped with the concerns of factory workers in the ‘autunno caldo’
(hot autumn) of 1969.
44 Pier Paolo Pasolini, Heretical Empiricism, ed. L. Barnett, trans. B. Lawton and
L. Barnett (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 1988), 150–5.
45 The Orestia (458 BC) is the only trilogy to survive ancient times. Its three
parts, the Agamemnon, Choephoroe, and Eumenides, dramatize the curse on the
House of Atreus from the time of Agamemnon’s return from the Trojan War
to Orestes’ matricide and purification. Drawn from Greek myth, the plot
involves dramatic themes such as vengeance, retribution, and divine justice.
Shortly after his return, his wife, Clytemnestra, and her lover, Aegisthus,
murder Agamemnon and claim his throne in Argos. Spurred by the gods, his
son Orestes returns home shortly thereafter, where he meets his sister
Electra at their father’s tomb and vows to avenge his death. Indeed Orestes
kills Clytemnestra and Aegisthus, but he is then persecuted by the Erinyes,
goddesses of violence and ancestry. The goddess Athena has him tried by the
first human court in Athens, where he is eventually absolved and freed from
persecution. Human democracy and freedom prevailed.
46 Pasolini’s film notes or notebook-style films almost comprise a genre of their
own within his filmography. In Sopraluoghi in Palestina (1965), Appunti per un
film sull’India (1968), Le mura di Sana’a (1968), and Appunti per un’Orestiade
africana (1970), Pasolini visits certain geographical regions to scout out and
assess their ability to represent authenticity in modern times.
47 Siti and Zabagli, eds., Pier Paolo Pasolini per il cinema, 1: 1177. In an introduc-
tory voice-over, Pasolini reveals the indistinct and malleable nature of the
film-note genre: ‘Sono venuto evidentemente a girare, ma a girare che cosa?
Non un documentario, non un film, sono venuto a girare degli appunti per
un film: questo film sarebbe l’Orestiade di Eschilio, da girarsi nell’Africa di
oggi, nell’Africa moderna.’ (I have clearly come to shoot something, but to
shoot what? Not a documentary, not a film, I have come to shoot notes for a
film. This would be a film of Aeschylus’ Orestes, to be shot in Africa today, in
modern Africa.) The provisional nature of these notes is most clearly ex-
pressed through his use of a conditional mood in all of his narrations, which
contributes to the film’s hypothetical and exploratory tone.
48 Ibid., 1178. ‘Elettra è il personaggio più difficile da trovare, nell’Africa
d’oggi.’
49 Ibid. ‘Le ragazze africane, come vedete, sembrano prive di quel sentimento
di fierezza, di durezza, di odio che animavano invece Elettra.’
50 Ibid. ‘Esse ridono. Pare che non sappiano fare altro che ridere, e accettare la
vita come una festa, con i loro bei fazzoletti di tutti i colori, rossi, gialli,
azzurri, violetti.’
51 Pasolini hypothesizes her future film role and mysticism through modern
jazz music and singing. In Appunti, Cassandra is an Afro-American singer.
Her voice is strong and penetrating, but musically and verbally difficult to
understand.
52 Following Aeschylus, we might reasonably assume that Clytemnestra, who
commits murder and adultery, is a negative role model for these reasons
also.
53 Siti and Zabagli, eds., Pier Paolo Pasolini per il cinema, 1: 1188. ‘E questo è
quindi un appunto su quello che potrebbe essere l’arrivo di Elettra a pregare
sulla tomba del padre. Traduciamo i versi di Eschilio ...’ (‘And therefore this
note could represent Electra’s arriving at her father’s tomb
to pray. Let’s translate Aeschylus’ verses ...’)
55 Ibid. ‘To be sure, the equation of femininity with irrationality is rooted
in a millenium-old stereotype. But once it is freed from the inevitable by-
products of humanist ideology, Appunti, qua celebration of the Other, is not
without its powerful feminist subtext. If the mythical subtext of the Erinyes
offers a cure for Western, male rationality, the tribute to black women
satisfies the need to give visual attention to nonsexual images of women
and femininity.’ Viano, in fact, notes that the Orestiade’s ‘visual interest in
women: women dancing, laughing, coming out of factories’ sets it apart from
other works in Pasolini’s filmography. ‘For the first time,’ he says, ‘Pasolini’s
camera refrains from searching out male beauty and focuses on women
instead, so much so that this, rather than Il fiore delle mille e una notte, is
Pasolini’s true “feminist” film.’
56 Glauce is never shown as an alluring rival, but rather as a reverent, almost
fearful and timid daughter/wife-to-be.
57 Siti and Zabagli, eds., Pier Paolo Pasolini per il cinema, 1: 1259. The term
‘colpevole’ (guilty) is used to describe Glauce in reference to Medea’s suffer-
ing and collapsing world. Creonte, as well as her maid servants, tells Glauce
to refuse the wedding garment Medea sends her, but Glauce’s impulse to try
it on is stronger than her wish to heed their warning.
58 Ibid., 1285. ‘Tanto che per lei, queste nozze con Giasone sono ragione di
lutto, anziché di felicità. E perché tu, senza colpa, non la opprima con la tua
presenza che io voglio disumanamente cacciarti via dalla mia terra.’ (So
much so that for her, this wedding with Jason has caused mourning rather
than happiness. And so that you, without blame, do not oppress her with
your presence that I must inhumanely banish you from my land.)
59 Adalgisa Giorgio, ed., Writing Mothers and Daughters (New York: Bergham
Books, 2002), 120.
5. Saints
1 Halliday, Pasolini su Pasolini, 29. In this interview, Pasolini explains the

unusual nature and foundation of his religious sentiments.
2 Naldini, Pasolini, una vita, 20. ‘Mi provocavo finte effusioni di sentimento
religioso (tanto che varie volte mi convinsi di vedere le immagini della
Madonna muoversi e sorridere), e nelle brevi discussioni sulla religione io
ero un deciso uomo di parte.’ (I caused myself fake outbursts of religious
sentiment [so much so that several times I was convinced I saw the images of
the Madonna move or smile], and in our brief discussions about religion I
was a believer.)
3 Ibid.
4 His early poetic collections had an array of ‘Vergine,’ ‘Maria,’ and other
madre fanciulla characters.
5 Concise Oxford Dictionary, 9th ed. (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1995), 1215.
6 For example, Ninetto Davoli and Totò play two Franciscan monks (Fra’
Ninetto and Fra’ Ciccillo, respectively) in the allegorical interlude in Uccel-
lacci e uccellini. Playing upon the mission of St. Francis, they teach hawks to
love sparrows rather than oppress and consume the weaker species. (See
chapter 3.) Pasolini also wrote a screenplay for a film about Saint Paul (San
Paolo), his most tenacious religious figure in terms of unmasking the hypoc-
risy of the ruling class and preaching self-sacrifice to effect positive cultural
changes.
7 Mulvey, ‘Visual Pleasures and Narrative Cinema,’ 58–9.
8 Silverman, The Acoustic Mirror, 6–32.
9 Ibid., 104.
10 Hélène Cixous, ‘The Laugh of the Medusa,’ in Elaine Marks and Isabelle de
Courtivron, eds., New French Feminisms: An Anthology (New York: Schocken,
1981), 343. ‘If woman has always functioned “within” the discourse of man, a
signifier that has always referred back to the opposite signifier which annihi-
lates its specific energy and diminishes or stifles its very different sounds, it is
time for her to dislocate this “within” to explode it, turn it around, and seize
it; to make it hers, containing it, taking it in her own mouth, biting that ton-
gue with her very own teeth to invent for herself a language to get inside of ...’
11 For Pasolini, the issue of spoken and verbal language was intricately bound
to his concerns about cultural authenticity. According to Pasolini (see, for
example, I dialoghi, Lettere luterane, and Scritti corsari), standard Italian lan-
guage (as increasingly diffused by television, public schools, and consumer-
ism throughout the 1950s and 1960s) was a both a vehicle and a product of
cultural hegemony. Pasolini sustained that, in Italy, certain State entities rose
to power differently than they had in other European states, which had
evolved after the political and industrial revolutions of previous centuries.
Because these changes occurred virtually overnight in Italy, the media, the
schools, and even the church’s language reflected the falsity and oppression
of the Christian Democratic leadership that had been in place since 1946.
See Paolo Falossi, ‘Il processo subito,’ available at http://www.radioclash.it/
testi/recensioni_b/2004/pasolini04.htm.
12 Cixous, ‘The Laugh of the Medusa,’ 340.
13 Ibid., 337–8.
14 Giacomo Manzoli, Voce e silenzio nel cinema di Pier Paolo Pasolini (Bologna:
Pendragon, 2001), 30.
16 For an engaging discussion of the body and its meaning in Pasolini’s oeuvre,
see Giuliana Bruno, ‘Heresies: The Body of Pasolini’s Semiotics,’ Cinema
Journal 30, no. 3 (1991): 29–42. See also Karsen Witte, ‘Die Körper des Ketzers
(Berlin: Vorwerk 8, 1998); Patrick Rumble, Allegories of Contamination: Pier
Paolo Pasolini’s ‘Trilogy of Life’ (Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 1996);
Rohdie, The Passion of Pier Paolo Pasolini; and Pino Bertelli, Pier Paolo Pasolini:
Il cinema in corpo (Rome: Edizioni Croce, 2000).
17 The basic tenet of speech act theory, began by Wittgenstein and further
developed by Austin and Searle, is that our words do not have meaning in
and of themselves. Rather, their meaning depends on several elements, such
as the interlocutors and the context or situation in which they are used.
18 The representation of the Virgin in La Ricotta is part of a parodic tableau of
Pontormo’s Deposition of Christ. The extremely colourful, mannerist style of
the illustration does not contribute to the interwoven discourses on myth
and reality in Accattone and Mamma Roma. However, the use of real, non-
professional, and clearly lower-class actors for the biblical figure contami-
nates the plastic perfection of the tableau with base touches of realism. For
detailed analyses of Pasolini’s figurative citations, see, for example, Jill
Ricketts, Visualizing Boccaccio: Studies on Illustrations of the Decameron from
Giotto to Pasolini (Boston: Cambridge University Press, 1994); Alberto
Marchesini, Citazioni pittoriche nel cinema di Pasolini: Da Accattone al
Decameron (Florence: La Nuova Italia, 1994); Ben Lawton, ‘The Story-
teller’s Art: Pasolini’s Decameron (1971),’ in Andrew Horton and Joan
Magretta, eds., Modern European Filmmakers and the Art of Adaptation (New
York: Ungar 1980), 182–202.
19 See Zygmunt Baranski, ‘The Texts of Il Vangelo secondo Matteo,’ in Zygmunt
Baranski, ed., Pasolini Old and New (Dublin: Four Courts Press, 1996), 285–6.
20 For a thorough and illuminating examination of Pasolini’s adaptation of
Matthew’s Gospel, see ibid., 280–320.
22 For example, after Joseph returns from the Annunciation, smiling at Mary
with understanding and happiness, Mary is shown in the opposite field, in a
doorway and wearing a dark headscarf around her face. In this shot, the
scarf and the doorway meld into one abstract black background that effec-
tively isolates and elevates the Virgin’s face.
24 Halliday, Pasolini on Pasolini, 88.
25 Siti and Zabagli, eds., Pier Paolo Pasolini per il cinema, 1: 489. For further
citations on the Angel of the Lord see pages 494, 496–7, 649–50.
26 The same actress first appeared in La ricotta (1963) as Stracci’s daughter,
who, during a meagre family picnic, goes off with a boy (dressed as an angel)
to make love. Di Rocco also reappears in Uccellacci e uccellini (1966). In a brief
scene designed to reveal Ninetto’s boyish, playful nature, she plays the part
of a friend or girlfriend. Coincidentally, she is dressed as an angel as part of a
church pageant.
27 Pier Paolo Pasolini, Heretical Empiricism, ed. L. Barnett, trans. B. Lawton and
L. Barnett (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 1988), 182–3.
28 Ibid., 182. See also Christopher Wagstaff, ‘Reality into Poetry: Pasolini’s Film
Theory,’ in Baranski, ed., Pasolini Old and New, 185–227.
30 Ibid.
31 Ibid., 624.
32 For a contrast, Scorsese’s Last Temptation of Christ (1989) makes her past and
present lives an important part of his film.
34 Ibid., 778.
35 Ibid., 650. ‘P.P. delle donne a una a una, con gli occhi stravolti, dalla gioia,
dal sacro timore, che guardano Cristo, in F.I. che le guarda sorridente.’
(Close shots of the women one by one, eyes contorted with joy and fear, as
they watch Christ in a full shot, who looks back at them with a smile.)
37 Jesus later reveals his emotional tie to Mary and the origins she represents
when, on his way to Jerusalem, he passes by his childhood home. As he turns
to look at the humble house, a poor young woman comes to the door,
standing before him in a long shot. The distance is just enough to make us
believe we are once again looking at the young Mary, waiting for Joseph to
return.
38 Siti and Zabagli, eds., Pier Paolo Pasolini per il cinema, 1: 649–50; Matthew 28:
1–10 New Testament. It is the Angel, not Mary, who speaks the holy message
to the small group of faithful observers: ‘Venite, vedere il luogo dove
giaceva. E presto andate e dite ai suoi discepoli: egli è risorto dai morti, e vi
precede in Galilea; là lo vedrete. Ecco, io ve l’ho detto.’ (Come, see the
place where he lay. And go quickly to tell his disciples: he has risen from the
dead and goes before you to Galilee; there you will see him. There, I have
told you.)
39 Michelle Boulous Walker, Philosophy and the Maternal Body (New York:
Routledge, 1998), 135–6.
40 Throughout Il Vangelo, Pasolini makes Christ’s own silence seem as impor-
tant as his words. A few examples from just one scene read as follows: ‘dopo
un breve e carico silenzio’ (569); ‘Cristo rompe di nuovo il silenzio’ (570);
‘Nuovo lunghissimo silenzio’ (571); ‘Cristo riprende a parlare’ (576);
‘Cristo che tace a lungo’ (576). Siti and Zabagli, eds., Pier Paolo Pasolini per il
cinema, 1.
41 When the truth of Edipo’s origins seems clear, Jocasta says she does not want
see it or hear it. Medea, on the other hand, communicates with Apollo and
the realm of the gods through the sense of sight and silent communication.
See chapter 2.
42 Viano, A Certain Realism, 144. ‘Pasolini decided to dispense with Mary Mag-
dalene altogether and gave the part of Mary of Bethany to writer Natalia
Ginzburg, who was neither young nor sensuous.’
43 Boulous Walker, Philosophy and the Maternal Body, 136.
44 Ibid.
45 Ibid. Boulous Walker cites Domna Stanton’s claim that ‘the maternal and
metaphor remain locked within a paternal logic.’ Both scholars maintain
that the metaphorical trope and the image of a productive maternity rein-
force phallocentric notions of self-presence and identity.
46 Halliday, Pasolini su Pasolini, 86.
47 After having sex with the guest, Pietro acknowledges his homosexuality and
says: ‘Tu mi hai reso diverso’ (You made me different); Lucia becomes aware
of the emptiness of her life and says: ‘Non ho mai avuto interessi reali per
nulla – ho vissuta in tanto vuoto’ (I’ve never had real interest in anything –
I’ve lived in such a void); Odetta, by taking interest in a man other than her
father, has a glimpse at normality and says: ‘Mi hai fatto diventare una
ragazza normale ... non conoscevo gli uomini, avevo paura.’ (You made
me become a normal girl ... I didn’t know any men, I was afraid); Paolo
becomes aware of his own degeneration and says: ‘Sei venuto qui certa-
mente per distruggere – l’idea che ho sempre avuto di me’ (You undoubt-
edly came here to destroy – the idea that I have always had of myself). The
effect of the guest on the father clearly has more overarching and collective
consequences, since his ‘truth’ is the foundation upon which all others in
our society are built. Paolo’s final crisis takes us off topic here but remains an
interesting subject for analysis, given the religious analogy conveyed through
his reading of Tolstoy’s The Death of Ivan Illych. See, for example, Millicent
Marcus, Italian Film in the Light of Neorealism (Princeton: Princeton University
Press, 1986), 256–60.
48 Pasolini, Teorema, 106–7.
49 Siti and Zabagli, eds., Pier Paolo Pasolini per il cinema, 1: 1981–90. Pasolini
created Medea in similar way, writing a treatment with lengthy narrative
descriptions of scenes, panoramas, character traits, and movements, and
then a separate group of dialogues for the film. See also Pier Paolo Pasolini per
il cinema, 1: 1207–88.
50 Viano, A Certain Realism, 211. ‘Everything in Emilia’s trajectory is designed to
arouse the feeling of the sacred ... The courtyard in which she sits and
levitates enjoys the privilege of the only 360-degree slow pan in the film, and
is thus charged to signify the “curved space” of the harmoniously cyclical life
(civilization of the circle) that Pasolini opposed to the incessant forward
movement of so-called progress (civilization of the line).’
51 The women’s camaraderie is also of double interest because the roles are
played by Pasolini’s mother and one of his best friends, Laura Betti. Betti
(May 1934–July 2004) was a cabaret singer and actress whose film career
included five of Pasolini’s works. She was the diva in La ricotta, the disguised
male tourist in La terra vista dalla luna, and Desdimona in Che cosa sono le
nuvole? In 1968, she won the Coppa Volpi at the Venice Film Festival for
Emilia in Teorema, and, in 1972, she played the insatiable Wife of Bath in I
racconti di Canterbury. See chapter 6 of this volume.
52 Pasolini, Teorema, 185–6. In the novel, Pasolini included another interesting
miracle scene, following the site of Emilia’s small pool of tears: A group of
factory workers see the tiny spring and use the water to wash the bleeding
wound of a ‘poor old co-worker, who certainly comes from the countryside.’
With their capacity to recognize the sacred even in a modern construction
site or factory environment, these men stand in ‘profound silence’ before
voicing their ‘cries of wonder.’ Their non-verbal existence in this instance
mirrors that of Emilia, who nourishes ‘the people’ with her tears.
53 Pasolini, Teorema, 107.
55 Ibid., 959. Emilia’s use of negative structures is consonant with a remark
about language and truth in Che cosa sono le nuvole? In this short film (the
third part of a compilation film called Capriccio all’italiana [1968] with other
episodes by Steno, Bolognini, Zac, and Monicelli), made just before Teorema,
Othello (Ninetto) asks Iago (Totò): ‘Ma allora ... qual è la verità? (Well then,
what is the truth?), to which the latter retorts: ‘... sssst ... non bisogna
nominarla, perché appena la nomini non c’è più.’ (Shhhhh! Don’t name it,
because as soon as you do, it disappears!) In effect, what Iago does is affirm
the power of the spoken word to annihilate what is true – or, in the case of
Pasolini’s films, the power that ‘naming’ as opposed to ‘showing’ has to
destroy what is authentic and life-giving.
56 Pasolini, Bestemmia, 243–63. For an English version see David Wallace,
Gramsci’s Ashes (Peterborough, ON: Spectacular Diseases, 1982).
57 Piero Gobetti was an anti-fascist intellectual (1901–25) of liberal tendencies.
Born in Turin, he attended high school and university and by age seventeen
published his first journal, Energie Nove. He also published La Rivoluzione
Liberale with leftist intellectuals Gramsci, Salvatorelli, and Amendola. Be-
tween 1923 and 1924, he was arrested several times by the fascist police. In
1924, he founded ‘Il Baretti’ but was attacked by fascists. That same year he
fled for France, where he died a year later.
58 Not surprisingly, many low-level imitations of the film ensued. See Peter
Bondanella, Italian Cinema: From Neorealism to the Present (New York: Con-
tinuum, 1995), 291; or Viano, A Certain Realism, 270.
59 For a discussion of Lisabetta (IV, 5) and Caterina di (V,4) and their creative
subjectivity, see Colleen Ryan-Scheutz, ‘The Unending Process of Subjectiv-

ity: Gendering Otherness as Openness in Pasolini’s Decameron,’ Annali
d’italianistica 21 (2000): 359–74. See also chapter 6.
60 See chapter 2 of this volume, note 24.
61 Magaletta, La musica nell’opera ..., 331.
62 This is the second of two tableaux vivants in the Decameron, the earlier being a
rendition of Bruegel the Elder’s Battle of Lent and Carnival. See Ben Lawton,
‘Theory and Praxis in Pasolini’s Trilogy of Life: Decameron,’ Quarterly Review of
Film Studies 4 (1977): 395–417, and Lawton, ‘The Storyteller’s Art,’ 182–202.
64 Several scholars have commented on the triptych. See, for example, Lawton,
‘Theory and Praxis ...’; Rumble, Allegories of Contamination; Ricketts, Visualiz-
ing Boccacio; and Millicent Marcus, Filmmaking by the Book: Italian Film and
Literary Adaptation (Baltimore: John Hopkins University Press, 1993).
65 Marcus, Filmmaking by the Book, 9. In her introduction, Marcus comments on
the ideological nature of the film’s inconclusiveness.
66 Umberto Eco, The Open Work, trans. Anna Cancogni (Cambridge, MA: Har-
vard University Press, 1989), 21. ‘We have seen that (1) “open works,” inso-
far as they are in movement, are characterized by the invitation to make the
work together with the author and that (2) on a wider level (as a subgenus
in the species “work in movement”) there exist works which, though organi-
cally completed, are “open” to a continuous generation of internal relations
which the addressee must uncover and select in his act of perceiving the
totality of incoming stimuli. (3) Every work of art, even though it is produced
by following an explicit or implicit poetics of necessity, is effectively open to a
virtually unlimited range of possible readings, each of which causes the work
to acquire new vitality in terms of one particular taste, or perspective.’
67 Nico Naldini, Nei campi del Friuli; La giovinezza di Pasolini (Milan: Pesce
d’Oro, 1984), 351. ‘Cosa significa la mia presenza nel Decameron? Significa
aver ideologizzato l’opera attraverso la coscienza di essa ...’ (What does my
presence in the Decameron mean? It means that I ideologized the work
through my consciousness of it ...)
68 Gianrenzo Clivio and Marcel Danesi, The Sounds, Forms and Uses of Italian: An
Introduction to Italian Linguistics (Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 2000),
168. Children, for instance, ‘invariably pass through an initial stage of
pointing and gesturing before they develop vocal language.’
6. Sinners
1 See chapter 4 of this volume.

2 Of course, Emilia and Odetta have sex out of wedlock, too. But their condi-
tion as ‘saint’ and ‘daughter,’ respectively, within the bourgeois family

environment, addresses ‘innocence’ in a different way. Their embodiment of
authenticity does not have to do with language and/or the active search for a
‘penis’ to replace that which grants Lucia the lucidity (note the play on
terms) to see herself for what she really is.
3 Elisabeth Grosz, Lacan: A Feminist Introduction (London: Routledge, 1988),
148.
4 The reader will recall that Pasolini read Rimbaud in high school. This
experience not only heightened his interest in poetry but also helped him
come to terms with his homosexuality.
5 Like Paolo and Francesca, Lucia is led to sin after reading the guest’s book
(Les Oeuvres) by Rimbaud. Rimbaud was a young, gay poet whose works
abounded in highly symbolic imagery, often erotic or drawing upon subcon-
scious sources. A close reading of ‘Le bateau ivré’ was also a catalyst in
Pasolini’s own sexual awakening and intellectual formation as a teen.
7 Grosz, Lacan, 148.
8 The novel Teorema gives Lucia a longer monologue. This and the other
speeches constitute the rare instances of spoken language for each charac-
ter, both in the novel and in the film.
10 Pasolini, I dialoghi, xlvii. In the context of his newspaper column ‘Caos,’
Pasolini expressed his disappointment with the student demonstrations
and other political movements of the late 1960s by collapsing the whole
Western-capitalist world into this one pessimistic vision. He believed that
contemporary society was a ‘winning transnational industrial power,’ one
that ‘associates diverse and opposite social-economic systems and ideo-
political orientations, in a single “sacrilegious” logic.’ ‘Caos’ was a weekly
newspaper column that Pasolini periodically wrote during the late 1960s and
early 1970s for the Corriere della Sera. Earlier periodic columns featuring
letters or essays of the same ‘conversational’ nature were ‘Dialoghi con
Pasolini’ (in ‘Tempo’ and ‘Vie Nuove,’ 1960–65). For a complete overview and
collection of these columns, see I dialoghi, xi–liv.
11 Marcus, Italian Film in the Light of Neorealism, 254.
12 Teorema was denounced and seized for obscenity on 13 September 1968 and
was released (for unsubstantiated evidence) some two months later. See
chapter 4.
13 There are far too many films and sinner characters than can possibly be
examined here, so this chapter focuses on the following films: Teorema
(1968), Il Decameron (1971), I racconti di Canterbury (1973), and Il fiore delle
Mille e una notte (1974). The particular array of sinners and settings chosen
260 Notes to page 173
demonstrates the broad range of ways in which Pasolini’s women appropri-

ated language – a primary instrument of power – to realize their desires and
challenge the limits that patriarchal society imposed on them.
14 For a thorough and engaging analysis of the Trilogy of Life films, see, for
example, Steven Snyder, Pier Paolo Pasolini (Boston: Twayne Publishers,
1982); Rumble, Allegories of Contamination; and Repetto, Invito al cinema di
Pasolini. For a brief discussion of the poor, quasi-pornographic imitations
they followed, see Bondanella, Italian Cinema, 291, or Viano, A Certain
Realism, 270.
15 Antonio Repetto, Invito al cinema di Pasolini, 120. ‘La sua sfiducia nella storia,
la sua disperazione in ogni forma di progresso conducono Pasolini a rifugiar-
si nel sogno di un modo popolare realizzabile soltanto con il cinema.
Compiendo questa meridionalizzazione del mondo narrativo boccaccesco,
ambientando le novelle scelte in un mitico universo sottoproletario napole-
tano, Pasolini può ridare vita così a volti e corpi sottoproletari, rappre-
sentadoli come l’unica alternativa umana al mondo borghese dell’universo
orrendo contemporaneo.’ (A mistrust in history, a sense of desperation
towards every form of progress leads Pasolini to take refuge in his dream of a
popular world feasible only in cinema. By achieving the southernization of
Bocac-cio’s narrative world, with the chosen stories set in the mythical,
subpro-letarian universe of Naples, Pasolini can revitalize the faces and
bodies of the subproletariat and represent them as the only human alternati-
ve to the bourgeois world of today’s horrendous universe.) For a detailed
discussion of Pasolini’s ‘horrendous universe,’ see Giancarlo Ferretti,
L’universo orrendo (Rome: Riuniti, 1976).
16 Pasolini, Lettere luterane, 72. ‘In primo luogo, si inseriscono in quella lotta per
la democratizzazione del “diritto a esprimersi” e per la liberalizzazione
sessuale, che erano due momenti fondamentali della tensione progressista
degli anni Cinquanta e Sessanta. In secondo luogo, nella prima fase della
crisi culturale e antropologica cominciata verso la fine degli Anni Sessanta –
in cui cominciava a trionfare l’irrealtà della sottocultura dei “mass media”
e quindi della comunicazione di massa – l’ultimo baluardo della realtà
parevano essere gli “innocenti” corpi con l’arcaica, fosca, vitale violenza dei
loro organi sessuali. Infine la rappresentazione dell’eros, visto in un ambito
umano appena superato dalla storia, ma ancora fisicamente presente (a
Napoli, nel Medio Oriente) era qualcosa che affascinava me personalmente,
in quanto singolo autore e uomo.’ (In the first place, [the supposedly pure,
subaltern figures] had become part of the struggle for the democratization
of ‘free expression’ and for sexual liberation, which were two fundamental
moments in the progressist tensions of the fifties and sixties. In the second
place, in the first phase of cultural and anthropological crisis towards the
end of the sixties – in which the unreality of the subculture of mass media
and therefore mass communications began to triumph – the last glimpse
of reality seemed to be the ‘innocent’ bodies with the ancient, dark, vital
violence of their sexual organs. Finally, the portrayal of Eros, shown in a
human environment recently surpassed by history, but not yet present (in
Naples or the Middle East) was something that fascinated me personally, as
an individual author and man.)
17 Ibid., 71–6. Originally published on 15 June 1975. In this article, Pasolini
disclaimed the positive spirit of vitality that initially inspired these films and
that he aimed to capture there within.
18 Ibid, 71–2.
19 Pasolini explains his motivations in Giacomo Gambetti, ‘Popolare erotica
libera,’ Sipario (May 1971), 300. ‘Sì, in un certo senso io rimpiango ciò che
nel Boccaccio rappresenta un passato contadino e artigianale rispetto a un
presente che tutto questo ha distrutto: ma rimpiangendolo non posso
rifarlo, non posso sostenere quel mondo oggi superato ... ho ricostruito quel
mondo come un mondo di classi popolari e sono andato a Napoli. Per
ritroverle, come ho detto, un rapporto autentico del popolo con la realtà, un
rapporto che il popolo, quale che sia la sua ideologia, riesce a stabilire senza
le distorsioni ideologiche del piccolo borghese.’ (Yes, in a certain sense, I
regret that which in Boccaccio represents a peasant and craftman’s past with
respect to a present that has destroyed all of this: but regretting it, I cannot
recreate it, I cannot sustain that world that has been surpassed today ...
I reconstructed that world like a world of common classes and I went to
Naples. To rediscover them, as I said, [I focused on] an authentic relation-
ship between the common people and reality, a relationship that the people,
whatever its ideology, can establish without the ideological distortions of the
petty bourgeoisie.)
20 Ibid. ‘L’idea di fare un film dal Decameron mi è venuta all’improvviso, in
modo quasi casuale, mentre ritornavo in aereo dalla Turchia dopo aver
girato la sequenza del sacrificio umano di Medea. Era un brano popolare e
corale insieme: allora ho pensato a qualcosa del genere, ma su un piano più
leggero.’ (The idea of making a film from the Decameron came to me sud-
denly, in an unexpected fashion, as I was returning by plane from Turkey,
after filming the human sacrifice sequence in Medea. It was a popular, choral
segment: so I thought of something similar, but lighter in nature.)
21 Pier Paolo Pasolini, Trilogia della vita, ed. Giorgio Gattei (Bologna: Cappelli,
1975), 28.
22 Ibid.
23 In Italian, l’uccello is a common slang term for the penis. The nightingale
more specifically, alludes, as its name indicates, to a bird that comes out at
night. In particular, the male nightingale is known for singing out with
beautiful song during the mating season.
24 Pasolini, Trilogia, 37. The citation continues to play upon the uccello or bird
image: ‘La casa nostra è piena di servi armati, e se vorrà andarsene sano e
salvo, bisognerà che se la sposi e senza fare tante storie ... Così avrà messo il
suo usignolo nella gabbia sua, e non in una gabbia altrui.’ (We have plenty of
armed servants, so if he wants to leave in one piece, he’ll have to marry her
quietly ... That way he will put his bird in her cage and not in others.)
25 In Boccaccio’s tale, Lisabetta visits Lorenzo’s room. Pasolini instead makes
Lisabetta’s room the predominant site of their amorous relations.
26 Pasolini, Trilogia, 41.
27 Ibid., 39. And when, in the beginning, the one brother informs the others of
Lisabetta’s transgression, note the double use of the possessive nostro, indi-
cating the men’s ‘ownership’ of both the woman and the workhand: ‘Nostra
sorella Lisabetta è stata con il nostro garzone siciliano ...’ (Our sister was with
our Sicilian workhand ...)
28 Ibid., 41.
29 In Boccaccio’s tale, Lisabetta’s brothers discover the buried head and take it
away.
30 Compared to the rather implicit treatment given by Boccaccio, Pasolini
lends much attention to the prelude to Lorenzo’s death. In the film, the
brothers lure and coax Lorenzo throughout the afternoon, postponing his
fate and rendering their motivation for murder somewhat ambiguous.
31 Boccaccio’s Lorenzo was from Pisa. For further discussion, see Bondanella,
Italian Cinema, 288; Marcus, Filmmaking by the Book, 142.
32 The unhappy outcome/course of the narrative (the brothers kill Lorenzo,
and they don’t stop trying to control, limit, repress Lisabetta) shows that not
every authentic gesture leads to a happy ending. Also consider Medea,
whose connection to the authentic and divine was reinforced through death
and destruction. Though Lisabetta briefly manipulates language to be free
of her brother’s command, she cannot change the result of their actions.
33 Viano, A Certain Realism, 281–2.
34 Larry D. Benson, ed., The Riverside Chaucer (London: Oxford University
Press, 1987), 163.
To any woman for to gete hire love,
I can nat seye’ but grete God above,
That knoweth that noon act is causelees,
He deme of al, for I wole holde my pees.

But sooth is this, how that this fresse may
Hath take swich impression that day
Of pitee of this sike Damyan
That from hire herte she ne dryve kan
The remembrance for to doon hym ese (lines 1973–81)
35 Pasolini, Trilogia, 65. ‘Non appena Maggio ode russare il marito, si leva dal
letto e silenziosa va verso lo scrittoio. Siede e scrive ...’ (As soon as May hears
her husband snore, she silently gets up from bed and goes to the desk. She
sits and she writes ...)
36 Ibid., 66. There is a play on words here between il moro and the dark-haired
Damian, who waits like the mulberries (le more) up in the tree.
37 Ibid., 67.
38 Her excessive/obsessive speech, it turns out, is an instrument and metaphor
for sex.
39 Laura Betti, the actress who played Alyson, constituted a purposeful and
personal choice on Pasolini’s part. A dear friend – assertive, frank, and a bit
of a leftist rebel – Betti was much like the Wife of Bath herself, and the fact
that she was close to forty at the time of filming meant that she no longer
radiated youth and innocence so simply.
40 Pasolini, Trilogia, 62–3.
41 Ibid., 79. ‘La donna di Bath e il marito stanno dempiendo i doveri del
matrimonio. Lei, sdraiata sul letto, chiacchiera a più non posso; lui, di sopra,
si sta dimenando faticosamente. La moglie lo incita.’ (The Wife of Bath and
her husband are carrying out their marital duties. She is lying on the bed,
chatting beyond compare; he is on top of her, working hard. The Wife spurs
him on.)
42 Ibid., 79.
43 Ibid., 80.
44 Ibid., 81. ‘“Tu, Giannozzo ... mi hai fatto un incantesimo, è inutile che lo
neghi … tutta la notte ho sognato di te! Volevi uccidermi ... Tu mi hai
stregata e perciò dovrai sposarmi, Giannozzo!” (mentre dice questo affretta i
movimenti).’ (‘You, Giannozzo ... you have cast a spell on me, don’t deny it ...
all night long I dreamt of you! You wanted to kill me. You have enchanted me
and thus you will have to marry me, Giannozzo!’ [she speeds up her hand
movements as she says this].)
45 Ibid. ‘… il mio sogno è di buon augurio perché “sangue” significa “oro”!’
(My dream is a good sign because ‘blood’ means ‘gold’!)
46 Ibid., 82.
47 Benson, ed., The Riverside Chaucer, 116. ‘The Wife of Bath’s Tale,’ lines 812–
14: ‘To han the governance of hous and lond, / And of his tonge, and of his
hond also’ / And made hym brenne his book anon right tho.’
48 Viano, A Certain Realism, 281: ‘while stressing the attendant stereotype of
men dying from too much sexual exertion ...’
49 Ibid., 289.
50 Il Fiore delle Mille e una notte was filmed for the most part in Eritrea, Africa. For
an overview of the physical qualities of the people there, as well as the
inspiration Pasolini drew from the women in particular, see Pasolini, ‘Le mie
Mille e una notte,’ Playboy (September 1973), 44. ‘... Ero in Eritrea solo per
scegliere attori; specialmente ragazze, che nei paesi arabi è impossibile
trovare. Le eritree sono di una particolare, apprensiva bellezza. Quando ho
visto negli uffici della PEA una meticcia eritreo-italiana (Ines Pellegrini),
mi sono commosso fin quasi alle lacrime davanti a quei piccoli lineamenti un
po’ irregolari, ma perfetti come quelli di una statua di metallo, a quel
cinguettante, interrogativo italiano, e a quegli occhi sperduti in una
incertezza implorante.’ (I was in Eritrea just to choose actors, particularly
girls that are impossible to find in Arab countries. The Erirtrean girls have a
special, anxious beauty about them. When suddenly in the PEA offices, I
noticed a half-breed Eritrean-Italian [Ines Pellegrini], I almost cried looking
at her small, somewhat irregular features, perfect for a metal statue, hearing
her chirpy, interrogatory Italian, and seeing those eyes lost in a pleading
uncertainty.)
52 Ibid., 97.
53 Zumurrud’s choice of Nur ed Din can also be seen as an autobiographical
reference, given Pasolini’s regular solicitation of humble young men for sex.
It is not by chance that Zumurrud also reads and recites poetry in this film.
She, like the older poet Sium, is a self-referential figure for Pasolini, like
many other artists and intellectuals throughout his works.
55 Ibid.
56 Judith Butler, Bodies That Matter: On the Discursive Limits of ‘Sex’ (London:
Routledge, 1993), 122.
57 Ibid., 125.
59 Viano, A Certain Realism, 289–90.
60 Ibid., 290. ‘Zumurrud’s travesty as a man is in a sense just a cinematic transla-
tion of Lacan’s idea that “it is in order to be the phallus, that is to say, the
signifier of the desire of the Other, that the woman will reject an essential
part of her femininity, notably all its attributes through masquerade.”’
61 Naturally, scenes representing homosexuality can be interpreted in an
autobiographical key.
63 Viano, A Certain Realism, 291. ‘Aziz’s vaginal penetration by means of a
bronze phallus mounted on the tip of an arrow ritualizes Woman’s desire to
be filled at any cost.’
64 For an interesting analysis of this scene, see Joseph Boone, ‘Framing the
Phallus in the Arabian Nights: Pansexuality, Pederasty, Pasolini,’ in Valerie
Wayne and Cornelia Moore, eds., Translations/Transformations: Gender and
Culture in Film and Literature East and West: Selected Paper Conferences (Hono-
lulu: University of Hawaii Press, 1993), 22–33.
65 Pasolini, Trilogia, 115. ‘Comunque se non ti voglio più per me, non lascerò
neanche che tu sia per lei.’ (Even though I don’t want you any longer for
myself, I won’t leave you for her either.)
66 Lucy Bland, ‘The Domain of the Sexual: A Response,’ Screen Education 39
(Summer 1981): 56.
67 Ibid., 57.
68 Silverman, The Acoustic Mirror, 31. ‘Woman’s words are shown to be even less
her own than are her “looks.” They are scripted for her, extracted from her
by an external agency, or uttered by her in a trance-like state. Her voice also
reveals a remarkable facility for self-disparagement and self-incrimination –
for putting the blame on Mame. Even when she speaks without apparent
coercion, she is always spoken from the place of the sexual other. It is a
simulation which covers over that other scene of castration with its represen-
tations of phallic men and wounded women.’
69 Grosz, Lacan, 176.
70 Kelly Oliver, ‘Kristeva’s Revolutions,’ Introduction to Julia Kristeva, The
Portable Kristeva, ed. Kelly Oliver (New York: Columbia University Press,
1997), xxii. For Pasolini’s theoretical essays on film, see Pasolini, Heretical
Empiricism.
71 Grosz, Lacan, 150–2. Grosz summarizes Kristeva’s general mode of signifying
practice as ‘derived from Lacan’s integration of Freudian psychoanalysis and
structural semiology. Her conception of the semiotic and the symbolic
functions operating in psychical, textual, and social life seems to be based
on the distinction Freud developed between the pre-oedipal and oedipal
sexual drives. The semiotic and the symbolic are two modalities of all signify-
ing processes whose interaction is the essential even if unrecognized condi-
tion of sociality, textuality, and subjectivity.’ See also Julia Kristeva, Revolution
in Poetic Language, trans. Margaret Waller (New York: Columbia University
Press, 1984).
72 On the subject of the women portrayed in I racconti di Canterbury, see Natalia
Aspesi, ‘Dialogo armato con Pasolini, Il Giorno, 31 January 1973; and Dacia
Maraini, ‘Ma la donna è una slot-machine,’ Espresso, 22 October 1972. For a
more general interview on the subject of women, see Maria Teresa Clerici,
‘Ci dica Pasolini: è con noi o contro di noi?’ Amica, 18 August 1974.
Throughout the 1960s, Pasolini also responded to letters from women and
about women in his newspaper columns. (See Pasolini, I dialoghi.) Neverthe-
less, the current volume attests to the fact that even the most downtrodden
and diminished images of women in Pasolini’s films contribute to a gener-
ally constructive and life-giving notion of women able to resist, in both
blatant and subtle ways, the codes and conditioning of Italy’s dominant
culture.
73 Mulvey, ‘Visual Pleasures and Narrative Cinema,’ 58–9.
74 The father–daughter is the only parental relationship one discerns via
human interactions in Teorema. Even the maid shows more concern for
Odetta than the girl’s own mother, Lucia. See chapter 4.
75 Mulvey, ‘Visual Pleasures and Narrative Cinema,’ 59.
76 Ibid., 59.
77 Ibid., 60.
7. Salò and Petrolio
1 See A. Robert Lauer, ‘A Re-evaluation of Salò,’ Comparative Literature and

Culture 4, no. 1 (2002), available at http://clcwebjournal.lib.purdue.edu/
clcweb02-1/lauer02.html. In this article (Point 5), Lauer offers a detailed
explanation of the numerology that Pasolini borrows from the Marquis
de Sade and upon which he expands to convey the excess implied in his
film.
2 Ibid., (Point 4).
3 Ibid. The distinction is made by Barthes, qtd. by Greene, Pier Paolo Pasolini,
236.
4 Ibid.
6 Ibid., 298. Viano also made a similar observation: ‘What counts is that he was
regretting the disappearance of an outside reality and the reduction of
everything to one discourse: the discourse of whoever makes the rules in the
social text. Pasolini was left with a signifying system that had totally lost its
referential dimension, its capacity to represent an outside. As a consequence

of this, he could no longer conceive of reality. For a discussion of Pasolini’s
term il palazzo (the palace), see: Pasolini, ‘Fuori dal palazzo,’ in Lettere
luterane, 92–7.
7 The pianist plays mostly Chopin. There are also pieces by Orff and Puccini.
For a complete discussion of the music used in this work, see Magaletta, La
musica nell’opera ..., 387–99.
9 Ibid.
10 Ibid., 2048. ‘Possano essere maledetti i miei occhi se questa lagna non è la
cosa più eccitante che io abbia mai udito.’ (May my eyes be damned if this
cry is not the most stimulating thing I’ve ever heard.)
11 Viano, A Certain Realism, 308–9. According to Viano, ‘her silent behavior was
due less to shyness than to a conscious choice, the choice of being different
through indifference. She is, in other words, the only sign which consistently
refuses to play in the text of bliss.’ He also notes that, although others com-
mit small acts of dissension here and there throughout the film, they did not
have enough screen time to ‘evoke a sense of identification in the viewer,
who can, instead, attach his/her feelings to the pianist.’
12 Ibid., 2056–7.
V: Femmes, femmes! Alors, monsieur Loyal, vous avez eté payer le loyer?
P: Mais bien sur, monsieur Joujou.
V: Est-ce-que vous avez pensé qu’il faudrait aussi payer mon loyer?
P: Et pourquoi donc, monsieur Joujou?
V: Parceque deux et deux font quatre e che je n’ai plus d’argent.
P: Il faut en gagner, monsieur Joujou.
V: Et commes fait-on pour un en gagner?
P: On fait en travaillant de vos mains.
V: Mais je ne sais pas.
P: Alors ... il faut jouer la comédie.
V: Oh la la, c’est difficile!
P: Bien, alors ... vous na’avez qu’à écrire ... n’importe quoi, alors ...
(la Pianista grida disperata)
V: Ma cosa fa, cosa succede?
(anche la Vaccari grida, fingendo che il grido della pianista faccia parte della
recita)
V: Women, women! So, Mr Loyal, have you paid the rent?

P: Why of course, Mr Joujou.
V: Did you think that it would be necessary to pay my rent, too?

P: Why, Mr Joujou?
V: Because two plus two makes four and I have no more money.
P: You have to earn it, Mr Joujou.
V: And how does one earn it?
P: By working with your hands.
V: But I don’t know how.
P: Well, then you have to play along ...
V: Oh, my. That’s tough!
P: Well then, you just have to write ... anything will do, ...
(The Pianist cries out in desperation)
V: What are you doing? What’s wrong?
(Then Vaccari cries out, too, pretending that it is all part of the show)
13 Ibid., 2057.
14 See Lauer’s extraordinary analysis in ‘A Re-evaluation of Salò’ (Point 9) of
movements right to left, which are, in this regime, indicators of power and
subservience and (often) immanent death.
15 Carlo Testa, ‘Requiem for a Utopia: Salò or the 120 Days of Sodom,’ in Masters of
Two Arts: Recreation of European Literatures in Italian Cinema (Toronto: Univer-
sity of Toronto Press, 2002), 109.
16 Stefano Murri, Pier Paolo Pasolini (Milan: Il Castoro, 1994), 154.
17 Lauer, ‘A Re-evaluation of Salò’ (Point 7.2). ‘In effect the only witness of the
pianist’s death at the end of the film is the camera, which seems to be an
additional mechanical victim of claustrophobic internal space. This is
dissimilar from the suicides in Pasolini’s Medea, where Glauce and Creonte
jump frontally as they face a camera in a low angle position.’
19 La terra vista dalla luna was part of a compilation film called Le streghe (1967),
in which Visconti, Bolognini, Rossi, and De Sica participated with other short
films.
21 Luca Roncaglia, ‘Nota filologica,’ in Pasolini, Petrolio, 572. ‘L’incompiutezza
si palesa non soltanto nella quantità di ciò che manca, ma anche nella qualità
di ciò che resta. Il grado d’elaborazione degli Appunti, anche dei più
consistenti, è assai disuguale. Per alcuni, la stesura, seppure non definitiva,
ha un respiro sostenuto e appare stilisticamente curate. In altri, la mano è
più febbrile e i segni di provvisorietà spesseggiano.’ (The incompleteness [of
the manuscript] is visible not only in the amount of material missing, but
also in the quality of that which is there. The level of elaboration of the notes,
even the most consistent, is unequal. Even if the draft is not final, some
[notes] seem sustained and stylistically polished. Others show a more fever-
ish hand and signs of their temporary nature abound.)
22 Ibid., 55. As Carlo II moves to rape his mother, the narrative notes,
‘cominciava la manovra, l’attesa manovra, in cui era in gioco il cosmo’ (he
began his move, the awaited move, in which the whole cosmos was at stake).
23 Ibid., 194, 265. Calling it a poema serves two purposes: it underscores the
subjective and lyric nature of the work and adds to it an epic dimension as
opposed to the regular ‘poem’ equivalent of poesia.
24 Ibid., 202. ‘Tutto il cosmo era lì in quell pratone ... era sotto forma di
miracolo che si presentava il cazzo.’ (The whole cosmos was there in that
field ... it was in the form of a miracle that the penis came out.)
25 Gordon, Pasolini: Forms of Subjectivity, 290. Citing Giueppe Zigaina, Pasolini e
l’abiura (Venice: Marsilio, 1993), 318, he says, ‘There is, therefore, a hierar-
chy between the two Carlos: “Carlo II is necessarily subordinate to Carlo I for
reasons of social hierarchy, but II is also prior to I as the matriarchal, fluid
goddess Tetis precedes the patriarchal Polis.”’
26 Pasolini, Petrolio, 191. ‘Era la fine di novembre del 1969. (Tutti quei giovani
parevano appena rinati in una nuova forma. Anticipavano qualcosa che stava
per succedere: anche il modo di essere, il corpo dei giovani uomini. I ciuffi
sulle fronti e le nuche ben tosate erano quelli dei figli ubbidienti di tutti i
decenni e i secoli precedenti. Ma nel loro atteggiarsi si racchiudeva una
novità che riempiva, irragionevolmente, di lieta sorpresa, di ansia per il
futuro, e anche di partecipazione ai nuovi eventi.) Questi non erano
studenti, ma operai.’ (It was the end of November in 1969. [All of those
young men seemed newly reborn in a new form. They were waiting for
something about to happen: even their way of being, the bodies of the young
men. The curls on their foreheads and shorn napes were those of obedient
children from every previous decade and century. But there was something
new in their mannerisms, that irrationally filled others with happy surprise,
with anxiety about the future, and also participation in new events.] These
were not students, but workers.)
27 Ibid., 191.
28 Ibid., 193.
29 Ibid., 194.
30 Ibid., 203.
31 Ibid., 229. But even if the image Pasolini sought to conjure was that of a
vessel of some great good, the passive female figure admittedly remains
problematic from any even slightly feminist perspective.
32 The whole, lengthy episode has an epic tone that conveys this sense of
history and ritual. In addition, ‘note 55’ uses repetitive devices and an
epistolary register of confidenza (intimacy) between the narrator and reader.
Thus, it reads like a diary or memoir of Carlo II’s life-altering event, and it
effectively confounds the borders between autobiography and fiction by
integrating first and third-person narration. The Carlos’ rebirth as women
not only establishes a clear ideological connection between subjectivity,
sexuality, and gender, but it also makes us return to origins with the author,
as he lives out this epiphany in the same impoverished borgata fields where
his earliest real and recounted erotic adventures took place.
33 Ibid., 203–4.
34 Ibid., 205, 207.
35 Ibid., 248.
36 Ibid., 265.
37 Ibid., 260. His symbolic name encapsulates his role and image as well as
Pasolini’s guiding cultural ideal. Prevalent in his physical description, for
example, are the typical features of the Ninetto/ragazzo di vita-type, such as
thick black hair, expressive eyes, and a virile central erogenous zone (ventre,
grembo, and even calzoni), which, like a tabernacle, seals (suggello, suggellare)
and protects his mystery.
38 Ibid., 257. ‘... quanto a Carlo, non si era MAI soffermato con la sua
attenzione su un personaggio simile. Forse era così che si manifestava il suo
naturale razzismo di borghese. Non aveva provato odio, disprezzo, schifo,
dolore, incomprensione ecc. per una simile forma di umanità: no,
semplicemente i suoi occhi non si erano mai posati su essa.’ (As for Carlo, he
had never stopped to notice someone like this. Perhaps this was a manifesta-
tion of his natural bourgeois racism. It’s not that he felt hate, disrespect,
disgust, pain, incomprehension, etc. towards this kind of humanity. No. It
was simply that he had never paid attention to it.)
39 Ibid., 258.
40 Ibid., 267.
41 Ibid., 291.
42 Ibid., 289.
43 Ibid., 290.
44 Ibid., 293.
45 Gordon, Pasolini: Forms of Subjectivity, 276. At several points, it is hinted that
repetition essentially expresses a desire for a single, solitary, totalizing act,
for a ‘sentimento di totalità’ (Petrolio, 42) that renders the pleasures of so
many sex acts ‘each time unique, sublime, and inexpressible’ (‘ogni volta
unici, sublimi e inesprimibili’).
46 Pasolini, Petrolio, 543. In the original ‘tracci’ or outline of the book, the plot
continues as follows: Eventually Carlo I receives a visit from the devil, who
asks him how he would like to attain power. Carlo rejects worldly life and opts
for sainthood, going on to preach faith, hope, and charity. This experience
as a saint makes him become aware of values beyond the universal
split between good and evil – of ‘unspeakable things, even unintuitable
things.’ But the whole notion of sainthood proves to be inconceivable in
modern times. In his prayers, Carlo I asks God to save his castrated double
who is being ridiculed among fascists of his day. Because Carlo I
had left the same corrupt world to become initiated in spirituality through
Middle Eastern religion, God listens and sends an angel to ‘cure’ both
Carlo II and the fascists, who all became disfigured during acts of terrorism.
Finally, in the notes for further development of Petrolio we read: Now that
they have been cured, they [the fascists] have to decide what to do. They
decide that everything should continue as before. (Adesso che sono guariti,
devono decidere cosa fare. Decidono che tutto continui come prima.)
47 Bruna Pischedda, ‘Petrolio, una significativa illeggibilità,’ Studi novecenteschi
1, no. 2 (2000): 19, citing V. Spinazzola, ‘La sessuologia di Pasolini,’ in
Tirature 93 (Milan: Baldini and Castoldi, 1993).
48 Ibid., 19.
49 Ward, A Poetics of Resistance, 100.
50 Giuseppe Conti-Calabresi, Pasolini e il sacro (Milan: Jaca, 1993), 140–3.
51 Gordon, Pasolini: Forms of Subjectivity, 1.
52 Ibid., 2.
53 Repetto, Invito al cinema di Pasolini, 139.
54 He originally intended to have poet and friend Sandro Penna play Giotto
(Giotto’s best student).
55 Repetto, Invito al cinema di Pasolini, 140.
56 See also Gordon, Pasolini: Forms of Subjectivity, 196–8. The author describes
the main distinction in Pasolini’s practice of self-reference in terms of self-
representation (personal appearances) and archetypal figuration (veiled
autobiographical self-portraiture).
57 Pasolini’s presence was easily felt throughout his filmography, even in the
compilation films and documentaries in which he did not appear, such as
La rabbia (1963) and Le mura di Sana’a (1974), in which his poetry and prose
voice-over commentaries were an integral part of the film’s ideology and
form. However, these works lie beyond the scope of the current discussion,
which is to examine Pasolini’s physical fashionings or instantiations of self in
cinema.
58 Gordon, Pasolini: Forms of Subjectivity, 139. ‘The founding figure in the gallery
272 Notes to page 225
of figures of identification in Pasolini’s poetry is Narcissus, who embodies a

pure self-contemplation which fails to break out of the limits of reflexivity.
See also Ward, A Poetics of Resistance, 13; and Guido Santato, Pier Paolo
Pasolini: L’Opera (Vicenza: Neri Pozza, 1980).
59 Pasolini, Petrolio, 419.
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Index
‘L’Abiura alla Trilogia della vita’ 173, Angel of the Lord 141, 142, 143, 144,
201 148, 152, 254, 255
Absirto 69, 72 Annunciation 139, 148, 254
Accattone 3, 5, 8, 14, 46, 50, 77, 78, 80, ‘L’Annunciazione’ 25
86, 90, 91, 94, 100, 101, 141, 146, anthropological mutation 101, 246
172, 210, 211, 242, 254 anti-fascism 21
Accattone (protagonist) 78–85, 87, Antonioni 221
88, 100, 210, 242, 243 Apollo 73, 126, 255
acoustic mirror 63 apostles 139, 142, 144, 148
activism 107, 117, 118, 124, 247 ‘Appendice alla “Religione”: Una
adaptation (literary) 173, 202, 223 luce’ 29, 34
Adoration 139 Appunti per un film sull’India 223,
adultery 103, 105, 185 250n46
Aegisthus 128, 129, 250 Appunti per un’Orestiade africana 9,
Aeschylus 124, 126, 250 102, 124, 129, 133, 223, 250n46
Africa 124, 128, 129, 174, 223, 250, Argonauts 69, 70
264 Artist, the 160–3
Agamemnon 124–8, 250 Ascenza 78, 80, 83, 141, 242, 243
agency. See subjectivity asceticism 155
Althusser, Louis 192 Assurdina 210
Alyson. See Wife of Bath Athena 125, 126, 128, 250
Amore (in Accattone) 79, 80 Atreus, The House of 124, 125, 126,
angel: and Accattone 82–3; and 250
Ninetto 58, 148, 152; and Rossana auteur 221–2
Di Rocco 143, 254; and Salomè authenticity 7,12, 19, 20, 36, 39, 50,
104, 247; and Stella 82–3, 243 59, 69, 92, 124, 148, 149, 157, 180,
Angelino (postboy in Teorema) 152 189, 191, 201, 202, 210, 257; and
286 Index
art 163, 209; and culture 11, 15, Biancofiore 74, 86, 87, 89
35, 55, 73, 74, 75, 98, 104, 117, 119, Bible 104, 186, 255
122, 125, 133, 158, 199, 220, 224, Boccaccio, Giovanni 159, 175, 260,
253; and daughter 103, 108, 109, 261, 262
114, 130; and human 34, 40, 42, 44, body, the 98, 99, 111, 112, 148, 150,
53, 70, 71, 72, 87, 94, 97, 101, 107, 152, 175, 194, 201, 217, 253;
119, 134, 136, 138, 159, 163, 173, and authenticity 148, 209–10, 221,
175, 181, 186, 194, 199, 201, 203, 224, 225; and innocence 173, 225,
214, 225, 246; and language 136, 261; and male 177, 225
138–9, 150, 151–2, 191, 259; and Bologna 3, 19, 20, 58, 156, 233
mother 47, 67, 73, 92, 142, 160; Bolognini, Mauro 3, 76
and poetics 4, 13, 24, 86, 147, 152, borders 56–7, 85, 86, 88, 91, 92, 100,
163, 165, 167, 221; and resistance 101, 246
77, 181, 262; and sex 111, 114, 159, borgata 47, 78, 79, 80, 81, 83, 85, 86,
193 88, 95, 99, 100, 135, 158, 219, 241,
authority 17, 92, 93, 100, 102, 109, 244
130, 132, 138, 161, 164, 176, 180, Botticelli, Sandro 247
189, 191, 204, 206, 207, 209; and Bruna 46, 47, 56–7, 74, 86–9, 95, 183
gender 63, 188–9, 192; and marriage Budur 194–7
17, 60, 184, 185, 188–9, 264; and Buonconte da Montefeltro 84, 244
mother 103, 117, 163; and pimps 86, Butler, Judith 192
87; and ruling class 104, 105, 107,
122, 123, 130, 134, 138, 172, 182, Calcaterra, Carlo 233
189, 199, 201–2, 253 Callas, Maria 43, 237
autobiography 4, 10, 11, 34, 59, 74, Cambria, Adele 35, 236
134, 143, 147, 160, 182, 211, 220, cannibal 115
225, 264, 270, 271 Caos 259
awakening 56, 84, 130, 131, 132, 133, Carlo I (Polis) 211–19
153, 155, 169, 210, 214, 259 Carlo II (Tetis) 211–19
Aziz 194–7 Carlo Alberto (Pasolini) 15–17, 18–
Aziza 194–7, 211 22, 27, 29, 232
Carmelo 216–19
Bach, Johann Sebastian 243 Carmine 46, 48–50, 87, 90, 91, 242,
Ballila 7 244
Bassani, Giorgio 37, 39 Casal Bertone 47, 244
Bemporad, Giovanna 20, 21 Casarsa della Delizia (in Friuli) 15–16,
Benjamin, Jessica 50, 54 18–24, 42, 229, 231
Berlin 116, 117, 124 Casilina 214
Bestemmia 3, 200 Cassandra 125, 251
Betti, Laura 43, 151, 185, 237, 257, 263 Castelli, Mrs 205
Index 287
castration 194, 197, 199, 219, 265 Colchis 68, 69, 70, 73
catatonia 108, 117, 120, 155, 171, 204 Comizi d’amore 5, 35, 41–2, 223,
Caterina di Valbona 177–9, 184 242
Catholic(s) 16, 27, 28, 135 communists 212, 215, 269
cazzo. See penis community 73, 74, 80, 91, 92, 99, 100,
Cecafumo 47, 90, 92, 244 114, 119, 128, 130, 132, 149, 150,
Le ceneri di Gramsci 229 153, 155, 166, 201
censorship 78, 173 compagno di strada 52, 223
Centaur 67, 70, 71 co-opting 40, 49, 92, 107, 115, 116,
Les 120 journées de Sodome 202 117, 118, 122, 132, 133, 157, 166,
Chaucer 182, 183, 186, 188–9, 220, 204, 205, 206, 209
224 conformist/ism 103, 115, 117, 118,
Che cosa sono le nuvole? 149, 257 123, 124, 174, 177, 181, 204, 216,
Chiarchossi, Graziella 43 220, 246
chiaroscuro 82, 91 consciousness (coscienza) 229; and
Chion, Michel 63 civic 37, 91, 92, 94, 246; and class 4,
Ciampino 76 37, 52, 56, 154; and moral 83, 84,
Ciccio (in Accattone) 78 91, 100, 130, 154, 246; and social 8,
‘A Cinema of Poetry’ 143–4 12, 28, 29, 47, 48, 57, 78, 87, 89, 98,
Circle of Blood 206 156
Citti, Franco 58, 78, 86, 222, 241 consumerism 5, 74, 174, 201
Citti, Sergio 76, 241 contamination 83, 242
city centre 47, 49, 54, 55, 56, 57, 78, contradiction (ideological and
80, 84, 86, 89, 90, 91, 92, 95, 100 emotional) 7, 20, 29, 34, 37, 42,
Cixous, Hélène 138, 253 118, 169, 192
class conflict 129 Conti-Calabrese, Giuseppe 221
classic cinema 137, 139, 150 Contini, Gianfranco 233
close shots (filming) 105, 124, 198, conversion (religious ) 68, 72, 132
222, 255; Caterina di Valbona 177; Corinth 58, 59, 68, 71, 72, 129, 130
Comizi d’amore 237; Emilia 153; corruption 7, 36, 55, 65, 67, 73, 101,
Giotto’s Virgin 160; Jocasta 59, 60, 105, 107, 108, 115, 117, 118, 132,
61, 62; Mamma Roma 49, 50, 90; 145, 159, 170, 179, 182, 203, 204,
Medea 69, 73; Odetta 109; old 210, 214
Virgin 148; young Virgin 140, 141, cosmos 73, 81, 212, 226, 269
143, 144; Wife of Bath 187 creativity/ion 163, 180, 194, 198,
Clytemnestra 126, 128, 129, 250, 251 206–7, 224, 226
co-existence 204; and Mamma Roma Creonte 66, 71, 72, 129, 130–4, 211,
and Ettore 46, 86; and Medea and 252, 268
Jason 71; and passion and reason crisis 108, 151, 174, 261; and
103, 125, 128 Accattone 83–4; and Emilia 151;
288 Index
and Lucia 167–8, 169; and Odetta 159, 163, 167, 173, 174, 175, 182,
112; and Paolo 256 189, 220, 223, 258, 261
cross-dressing 191, 192–3, 206 De Lauretis, Teresa 165
cross-gender 218–19 Delphi, Oracle of 58
crotch 176 Democrazia Cristiana (DC) 6, 28, 253
crow, the talking (in Uccellacci e uccel- Deposition 146, 148
lini) 93–9 Deposition of Christ, The 135, 146
Crucifixion 139, 146, 148 de Sade, Marquis 202, 266
cultural clash: and Mamma Roma 51– desecration 36, 69, 72, 73, 74, 75, 101,
5, 89, 90, 93; and Medea 72–3, 131; 103, 107, 114, 119, 126, 129, 130,
and Porcile 115, 118; and La rabbia 132, 151, 158, 159, 203, 204, 205,
40; and Uccellacci e uccellini 94; ‘The 206
Cursor’s Tale’ 182 desert 58, 114, 148, 157, 249
De Sica, Vittorio 77; desire 40, 52, 56,
Damian 183–5 59, 66, 68, 69, 75, 102, 105, 107,
Dante Alighieri 79, 83, 172, 210, 242, 108, 111, 120, 126, 133, 134, 137,
244 166, 167, 175, 176, 179, 181, 182,
daughter 102–34, 135, 204; and 183, 187, 189, 191, 196, 198, 199,
mother 103 203, 217, 218, 224, 260
Davoli. See Ninetto I dialoghi 236, 253
death 17–8, 20, 21, 78, 97, 98, 163, differentiation. See individuation
204, 225, 233; and Accattone 78, diversity (social, sexual). See ‘Other’
81, 84, 85; and Agamemnon 126, divine 68, 70, 74, 110, 125, 130, 139,
127; and Aziza 195–6; and Carlo 142, 147, 148, 149, 150, 153, 161
220; and Christ 139–50; and com- divorce 35, 41
munism 96, 99; and Emilia 155–8; La dolce vita 76
and Ettore 53, 54, 55, 93; and drag. See cross-dressing
Glauce 129, 132, 133; and Jocasta drama. See theatre and Pasolini
66, 67; and John the Baptist 106, Dulcimascolo, Salvatore 215
139; and Julian 124; and Laio 63; dynamism. See vitality
and life (contrast) 24, 25, 28, 31,
34, 97, 98, 100, 115, 155, 163, 181– Eco, Umberto 162
2, 201, 210, 225; and Lorenzo 181– economic miracle 41, 42, 85, 246
2, 262; and Marilyn Monroe 39–40; Eden 179, 185
and mother 31–2; and Odetta 115; Edipo 58–67, 71, 166, 210, 240, 255
and Pasolini 200; and Renata 206; Edipo re 8, 17, 45, 74, 149, 160, 166,
and Salò 202–11, 268; and Salomè 167, 172, 223
106; and Thebes 66 Electra 124–9, 130, 251
Il Decameron 9, 135, 136, 137, 139, Electra complex 109
Index 289
emancipation 184, 185 female discourse 9, 10, 35–6, 41–3,

Emilia 108, 114, 136, 137, 151–8, 210, 230
249, 256, 257, 258–9 female universe 9, 11, 35, 44, 61
Emilia Romagna 154, 156 feminism 35–6, 41, 129, 133, 138, 149,
Emmer, Luciano 76 170, 175, 197, 198, 231, 252, 266,
energy. See vitality 269
epiphany (sexual) 211 Ferretti, Giancarlo 170
equality (gender) 166 feto-adulto 47
Erinyes 125, 128, 250, 251 Il fiore delle Mille e una notte 9, 173,
eroticism 173, 178, 193, 198, 270 174, 189, 192, 211, 252
Ettore 45–57, 71, 74, 86–91, 100, 210, Foucault, Michel 135
239 freedom 42, 48, 114, 166, 172, 173,
Eumenides 125, 128 174, 183, 185, 189, 191, 201, 203,
Euripides 67, 73 216, 234, 250, 260
excavator 156, 158–9 free indirect subjective (shot) 143
eyes 52, 147, 163, 232, 255; and Freud 22, 109, 231, 265
Accattone 84, 85, 100; and Carlo I Friuli (see also Casarsa della Delizia)
218; and Edipo 61; and Emilia 151, 3, 34, 37, 44, 76, 229, 232
152, 153, 156, 157; and Ettore 238; frontal shots (filming) 49, 50, 79, 90,
and Ines Pellegrini 264; and Jocasta 160, 222
61; and Lucia 171; and Medea 68,
70, 71, 241; and Odetta 108, 109, gaze 247; and male 105, 106, 137; and
115; and old Virgin 148; and young Masetto’s nuns 176; and Odetta
Virgin 141, 142; and Zumurrud 190 110, 249; and saints 163; and
Salomè 105, 106, 107; and young
Fallaci, Oriana 35 Virgin 142
false tolerance 174 gender 103, 115, 133, 143, 175, 176,
family triangle 103, 105, 106, 110, 197, 217, 225, 270; binary 10, 15,
112, 113, 126, 130, 131 54, 138, 166–99, 217; in cinema 9,
‘Il fanciullo morto’ (‘Il nini muart’) 192; divide in family 9, 15, 17, 23,
24 115, 151; and female discourse 9,
fascists 20, 21, 28, 202, 233, 234, 246; 35, 41–3, 192; and feminist theory
and Carlo Alberto 17 10, 192
father 10, 17, 27, 64, 98–9, 103, 107, generation 28, 86, 98–9, 107, 108,
115, 133, 157, 199, 240; and Paolo 114, 115, 117, 118, 120, 121, 123,
109–11, 114–15; and Pasolini (see 124, 129, 130, 133, 134, 178, 203,
Carlo Alberto); and Totò 93, 98–9 246
Fellini, Federico 3, 76, 77, 222 ‘Gennariello’ 246
female agency. See subjectivity Germany 6, 115, 120
290 Index
gestures 24, 65, 136–64, 188. See also Herod Antipas 103, 104, 105, 107,
body; non-verbal language; silence 142, 144
Giacomina di Valbona 178 Herodias 103–7, 110, 111, 119
Gianozzo 187–8, 263 High Priest (Pasolini in Edipo re) 223
Ginzburg, Leone 145 Hollywood 36, 37, 40
Ginzburg, Natalia 144–5, 256 Holy Mother. See Virgin
Giotto (Giotto’s best student) 136, homosexuality 7, 9, 19–20, 21, 28, 41,
137, 159–63, 220, 223 70, 138, 167, 173, 182, 193, 196,
gioventù 19 216, 224, 233, 256, 259
Giustizia e libertà 145 hooliganism 122
Glauce 68, 71, 129–33, 211, 252, 268 horrendous universe 169–71, 260
Gobetti, Pietro 257 humiliation 212, 214
god(s) 68, 69, 70, 125, 127, 128, 214,
215, 216, 255 Ida 115–24, 130, 249–50
God 7, 65, 105, 142, 143, 153, 175, Immaculate Conception 139
190, 195, 206 individuation 9, 54, 55, 57, 61, 63, 65,
Godesberg 116, 119 74, 106, 108, 110, 118, 119, 120,
Golden Fleece 68, 69, 70, 71, 72 121, 126, 128, 129, 131, 134, 231
Gordon, Robert 212, 221, 270, 271, incest 58, 59, 60, 65, 210
272 L’inferno 79, 83, 84, 127, 172, 210, 242
Gospel According to St Matthew. See Il innocenti. See Ninetto; Totò; Uccellacci e
Vangelo secondo Matteo uccellini
Gramsci, Antonio 4, 5, 257 intersubjectivity 34, 50, 51, 52, 54, 61,
gravedigger 84, 158 62, 63, 67, 72, 86, 106, 148, 195
Greece 129, 237 Irigaray, Luce 197
Greene, Naomi 67
grembo 50–1, 212, 214, 216, 217, 238, January 183–5
248, 270 Jason 67–75, 129–133, 252
Grosz, Elizabeth 165, 167 Jesus Christ 3, 7, 8, 104, 105, 107,
Guest, the 108, 110–15, 151–8, 166– 135–50, 155, 160, 255
72; and goodness 154 Jewish women 140, 145
Guido (Pasolini) 17–18, 233 Jocasta 4, 45, 58–67, 160, 166, 208,
Guidonia 47, 54, 88, 90, 239 210, 240, 255
Guttoso, Renato 39 John the Baptist 103, 104, 106, 139,
142
Halliday, Jon 94 Johnson, Barbara 150
hammer and sickle 156 Joseph 141–2, 254
hawks 94, 97, 99 Judas 142, 145–6
Hayat 191–2 Julian 115–24, 210
Herdhitze 119, 120, 121 Kalcm, Pina 20, 22, 234
Index 291
kinship 81, 85, 101 163; and Jocasta 58, 60; and
Klotz, Mr 115,118, 119, 120 Mamma Roma 48, 55; and Marilyn
Klotz, Mrs 117, 118, 120 Monroe 35, 36, 42; and May 184;
Kristeva, Julia 198, 265–6 and old Virgin 147; and Petrolio 218;
and Stella 81; and Susanna Pasolini
Lacan, Jacques 64, 231, 264, 265 30–2, 147; and young Virgin 141;
lack 137, 138, 152, 167, 170, 199 and Zumurrud 190
Laio (Laius) 58, 60, 63, 64, 66 Maggi, Mrs 205
Last Judgment, The 160–3 maiden mother. See madre fanciulla
Last Supper, The 139, 144, 145 maîtresses. See narratresses
Lauer, A. Robert 202–3 male agency. See subjectivity
Leone, Sergio 222 Mamma Roma (protagonist) 4, 45–
Leonetti, Francesco 223 57, 68, 74, 85–93, 100, 135, 141,
lesbianism 196 210, 242, 244
Lettere luterane 220, 236, 253 Mamma Roma 5, 8, 45–57, 58, 74, 77,
levitation 137, 155 85, 90, 94, 100, 101, 141, 163, 183,
libertines 201, 203–9. See also regime 211, 254
Lippi, Filippo 247 mammismo 235
Lisabetta da Messina 179–82, 184 Mangano, Silvana 43, 58, 59, 60, 160–
Lisabetta’s brothers 179–82 3, 167, 239
Lizio di Valbona 177–9 Manzoli, Giacomo 138
Lizzani, Carlo 229 Maraini, Dacia 18, 35, 189, 192, 236
long shots (filming) 2, 69, 90, 187, Marcus, Millicent 162, 171
255 margins 7, 8, 11, 15, 35, 36, 39, 43,
Longhi, Roberto 233 47, 48, 49, 55, 59, 72, 74, 77, 78, 86,
Lorenzo 178–82 87, 90, 93, 96, 100, 101, 119, 125,
love triangle 194, 195, 196 129, 130, 137, 138, 147, 150, 151,
Lucia 74, 108, 119, 155, 166–72, 184, 155, 186, 198, 206, 208, 239
259 Marilyn Monroe 4, 35, 36–41, 204,
Luna 94–101, 245 236
‘Marilyn’ 37–41
Maddalena 78, 80, 82, 83, 85, 95, 141, marriage 35, 71,98, 119, 129, 131,
146, 242, 243 132, 167, 179, 183, 184, 185–9, 191,
Madonna. See Virgin 192, 194, 263
madre fanciulla 24, 25, 27, 28, 32, 34, Marturana, Filomena (Matrimonio
35, 36, 41, 42, 44, 46, 48, 56, 58, 60, all’italiana) 77
134, 160, 163, 214, 222, 252; and martyr 41, 120, 147, 148
Aziza 194; and Bruna 56; and Cate- Marxism 7, 42, 94, 98, 138, 246; and
rina di Valbona 177; and Comizi the crow 94, 96, 223
d’amore 41; and Giotto’s Virgin 160, Marys 74, 139
292 Index
Mary of Bethany 136, 139, 144–6, 150 mother: and Clytemnestra 126, 128,
Mary Magdalene 79, 136, 146, 150 129; and Herodias 103–7; and
Masetto di Lamporecchio 175–6 Jocasta 58–67; and Lucia 110, 166–
Masina, Giulietta 222 72; and Mamma Roma 45–57; and
mater dolorosa 147 Medea 130–4; and Mrs. Klotz 116–
maternal: and desires 59, 166; and 21; and old Virgin 147–50; and Pier
figures 42, 47, 56, 57, 59, 62, 66, 89, Paolo Pasolini (see Susanna
117, 118, 119, 120, 136, 140, 144, Pasolini); and screen 45–6, 76, 77,
145, 205, 216, 217–18; and identity 101, 204; and Stella 79, 80; and
48, 89, 166, 184, 199; and poetics young Virgin 140–4
36, 45–6, 150; and sphere 15, 17, Mother Nature 127
18, 43, 61, 67, 148, 149 Mother Superior 175
matricide 205, 206 Mount Olive 144
Mauri, Silvana 20, 22–3, 235 Mozart, Wolfgang Amadeus 157,
May 183–5, 263 239
Medea (protagonist) 4, 45, 68–75, Mulvey, Laura 137, 199
129–33, 252, 256, 262 Le mura di Sana’a 250, 271
Medea 9, 45, 67, 74, 102, 124, 129, murder: and Absirto 69, 72; and
149, 172, 211, 261, 268 Agamemnon 128
La meglio gioventù 24, 235 Murri, Stefano 209
‘The Merchant’s Tale’ 182, 183, 184, Musatti, Cesare 41
189 myth 4, 9, 58, 60, 67, 93, 95, 96, 100,
Merlin law, 242n5 110, 129, 131, 133, 149, 204, 221,
Merope 58, 59 223, 224, 245, 250
Meuccio 159
Middle East 174, 261, 271
Milan 108, 109, 171 Nannarella (in La ricotta) 146
miracle 141, 143, 147, 148, 150, 152, Nannina (in Accattone) 80, 83, 141
155, 176, 212, 215, 217, 219, 257 Naples 161, 260, 261
mirror 92, 120, 132, 152, 204, 205, narcissism 222, 224
213, 215 Narcissus 24, 272
mise-en-abîme 192 narratresses 201, 204, 206
misogyny 198, 214, 266 Nazi regime 201
modernity 202 Neapolitans 78, 174, 242
moon 94, 99, 190, 245, 246 neo-capitalism 4,7, 32, 44, 50, 80, 85,
morality (bourgeois) 5, 82–5, 91, 93, 96, 97, 101, 115, 118, 121, 154, 158,
94, 100, 102, 104, 172 164, 170, 201, 246
Morante, Elsa 43, neo-fascism 202
Moravia, Alberto 41, 200 neo-realism 242
Morricone, Ennio 222 Nigeria 128
Index 293
Ninetto (Davoli) 3, 58, 93, 194, 222, 138, 151, 152, 155, 171, 190, 197,
254, 257, 270; and Uccellacci e 204, 206
uccellini 93–8 outside, the 202, 208, 220, 266–7
non-verbal language 136–64, 194, 257
La notte brava 76 Il padre selvaggio 246
Le notti di Cabiria 76 palazzo 202, 208, 267
nudity 159, 178–9, 192, 201, 215, 222 Paolo (in Teorema) 108–11, 113–15,
nuns 175–6 155, 248, 249
Nur ed Din 190–3 parents 102, 103, 104–7, 109–14, 115–
33, 177
Odetta 108–15, 116, 133, 155, 209, Pascoli, Giovanni 19, 233
248, 249, 258–9 pater familias 114, 157
Oedipus 3, 58, 64, 240 patriarchy, 36, 41, 42, 109, 126, 130,
omnipotence 50, 51, 55, 63, 64, 67, 132, 133, 134, 137, 138, 142, 143,
72, 98, 238 159, 160, 164, 166, 177–8, 180, 186,
oppression 10, 17, 29, 35, 36, 41, 43, 196, 199, 249, 260, 269
48, 60, 61, 73, 77, 86, 91, 92, 93, 95, PCI (Partito Comunista Italiano) 6, 7,
100, 109, 114, 116, 128, 129, 131, 96, 121–3, 156; in Friuli 19
149, 170, 180, 182, 186, 189, 193, Il PCI ai giovani! 121–3
198, 201, 207, 253 Pellegrini, Ines 264
Orestes 124–8, 250 Pellissier (in Mamma Roma) 87
Orestia 125, 250, 251 penis 111, 113, 170, 178, 185, 188,
Orgia 115 190, 196, 212, 213, 215, 216, 217,
origins 11, 25, 34, 43, 46, 50, 53, 55, 220, 259, 262
56, 57, 59, 63, 74, 133, 157, 198, Penna, Sandro 271
225; and Herodias 106; and identity perversion 116, 202, 203
60, 61, 62, 67, 133; and Jocasta 63, Peter 142
65, 66, 67; and Mamma Roma 87, Petrolio 11, 12, 13, 200, 201, 211, 219,
91, 100; and Medea 68, 69, 70; and 220, 221, 222, 224, 225, 268, 269,
Merope 59; and old Virgin 148, 271
255; and Petrolio 270; and Stella 81; phallocentrism 161, 165, 187, 193,
and young Virgin 141 197, 199, 249, 256
Other(s): concept of diversity 5, 19, Pharisees 104, 105, 142
23, 29, 71, 92, 115, 119, 123, 124, Philip the Tetrarch 103
129, 130, 134, 138, 142, 152, 155, pianist, the 202–11, 267
164, 182, 196, 202, 204, 209, 214, ‘Il pianto della scavatrice’ 158–9
215, 217, 220, 225, 251, 265; in Pasolini, Pier Paolo: in Il Decameron
mother-son relationship 46, 47, 50, 136, 160–4; in Edipo re 66; in I
56, 61, 64, 74 racconti di Canterbury
Otherness 114, 115, 116, 119, 133, Pietro 102, 108, 155, 249
294 Index
pigs 115, 116, 124, 238 La ragazza nella vetrina 76

Pilade 45 Ragazzi di vita 5, 29, 76, 241
Pilate 142 ragazzo di vita 194, 222, 270
Pio (in Accattone) 82 regime 129, 192, 210, 203–11
Pischedda, Bruna 219–20 La religione del mio tempo 27
Pluto 183, 185 religion 5, 7, 8, 12, 16, 29, 30, 62, 82,
Poesie a Casarsa 19, 22, 24 103, 124, 135, 136, 137, 138, 182,
Poesie in forma di rosa 32 225, 229, 252, 253, 256
poetic vision 43–4 Renata 205–6
Polibo (Polubus) 59 Repetto, Antonio 223
police 78, 85, 122–3 Resurrection 139, 146, 147, 148
Porcile 9, 102, 115, 121, 124, 133, 173, ‘A Revaluation of Salò’ 202–3
210 revolution 117–18, 134, 135, 253
Porno-Teo-Kolossal 211 Riccardo 177–9
postmodernity 162, 198 La ricotta 8, 135, 139, 146, 223, 230,
power 42, 105, 107, 120, 128, 137, 254
138, 154, 161, 164, 170, 175, 176, Rimbaud, Arthur 167, 233, 259
177–8, 190, 191, 192, 193, 195, 196, Rinaldi, Antonio 233
197, 198, 201, 202, 204, 208, 209, Rohdie, Sam 236
211, 260, 268, 271 Rome 27, 28, 30, 34, 43, 46–57, 76,
prehistory (preistoria) 7, 40, 85, 164, 77, 78, 82, 85, 86, 89, 90, 91, 101,
230 102, 121, 145, 158, 200, 211, 212,
priestess 68, 71, 72 214, 223, 237, 239, 244
prison 53; and Ettore 92; and John Rota, Nino 222
the Baptist 106; and Maddalena
243; and Salò 202; and Salomè 106 sacred 8, 12, 70, 71, 115, 131, 138, 149,
profane 72, 93, 105, 131, 133, 204, 150, 152,156, 166, 221, 225, 229,
209 230; and Emilia 151, 152, 156, 256,
Prosperina 183, 185 257; and Giotto’s Virgin 161; and
prostitutes & prostitution 27–8, 35, Medea 68, 72, 73, 74; and music 8,
41, 46, 48, 53, 57, 74, 76–101, 166, 79, 92, 160, 222; and Odetta 112–13,
167, 204, 205, 214, 235, 242, 243, 115; and old Virgin 148–50; and
246 saints 138, 144, 146, 148, 149
psychoanalysis 265 saint 108, 120, 135–64, 204, 271
Puby 118 Sair, city of 190, 191, 192
Salò o le 120 giornate di Sodoma 11, 193,
La rabbia 35, 36, 40, 41, 204, 230, 236, 200, 201, 202, 203, 204, 210, 211,
271 220, 221, 225
I racconti di Canterbury 9, 173, 174, Salomè 103–7, 108, 110, 111, 130
182, 186, 189, 220, 237 Salvatore (in Accattone) 78
Index 295
Sant’Angelo Bridge 210 sexuality: female 165–99, 224, 260;

Satan 182 language 166–99, 260
Saviange, Sonia 203 sexualized position 165, 167, 169
scavatrice. See excavator; gravedigger sexual object 142, 147, 176, 197, 205
screenplay 11, 50, 53, 105, 106, 139, silence 106, 115, 128–9, 135–64, 204,
140, 141, 144, 146, 154, 189, 230, 208; and Budur 194; and Christ
245 255; and Emilia 153–8, 257; and
Scritti corsari 246, 253 Giotto’s Virgin 161; and Joseph
secret 63, 116, 119, 124, 192, 210; self 142; and Medea 255; and old
10, 71, 103, 109, 110, 111, 112, 113, Virgin 147–50; and the pianist 203,
119, 125, 131, 134, 138, 167, 172, 267; and sociocultural 137; and
177, 199, 205, 207, 209, 213, 224, young Virgin 140–2
225 Silverman, Kaja 63, 137, 197, 265
self-expression 13, 154, 166, 170, 177, sin (carnal) 165, 166, 172, 175, 176
180, 183, 197, 198, 220, 222, 260 sinners 165–99, 259
self-knowledge 47, 65, 103, 107, 108, skit (in Salò) 207–8, 210
113, 154, 168, 198, 222 Slaughter of the Innocent 139
self-reference 220, 221, 223, 264, 271 slave 190, 193
self-reflection 24, 169, 221 smile 39, 48, 51, 63, 104, 107, 148,
self-representation 9, 222, 223, 237, 177, 179, 190, 191, 194
271 Sometimes I Feel Like a Motherless Child
self-sacrifice 155, 157, 194 141
semiotic (and symbolic) 198, 265–6 son 10, 27, 32–4, 46, 55, 74, 102, 102,
Sessantotto. See 1968 133, 134, 147; and Christ 134, 135,
Il setaccio 22, 234 147; and Edipo 64; and Julian 117,
sex 19, 41–2, 56, 59, 62, 64, 65, 94, 99, 133, 134; and Medea 68, 73, 130–1;
111, 138, 149, 152, 159, 165–99, and Ninetto 93, 98–9; and Orestes
201, 213, 225, 270; and Biancofiore 128, 133; and Pasolini 147; and
89; and Edipo and Jocasta 59, 62, Petrolio 217; and Pietro 102, 108,
64, 66, 67; and Emilia 137; and Et- 133, 134
tore and Bruna 56, 87, 88; and Sopraluoghi in Palestina 223, 250
Jason and Medea 70, 71; and Julian Spagnol, Tonuti 234
115, 118; and Lucia 155, 166–72; sparrows 94, 97, 99
and Luna 95, 96, 97, 98; and speech act theory 254
Maddalena 79, 80; and Marilyn speech. See verbal language
Monroe 36–41; and the Marys 150; Sphinx 58, 60, 62, 67
and Odetta and the Guest 108, 112; Spinazzola, V. 219
and Petrolio 212–21; and saints 137; spirituality 124, 126, 130–4, 137–50,
and Salomè 105; and woman 150; 161, 166, 170, 199, 204; and Emilia
and young Virgin 142 151–8; and Erinyes 125; and Medea
296 Index
68, 69, 70, 72; and Odetta 112, 113; subversion 8, 9, 106, 190, 192, 198,
and Petrolio 271; and Silvana 199, 208
Mangano 239 suicide 103, 210, 211, 225, 268; and
spiritual mother 72, 74, 131 Accattone 84; and Creonte 132,
spoken language. See verbal language 268; and Glauce 130, 132, 268; and
Stella 50, 78–85, 95, 100, 135, 141, Jocasta 66, 204; and Mamma Roma
243 92; and the pianist 207–10
St Chiara (church) 159–63 ‘Suite furlana’ 25
St Francis (of Assisi) 94, 96, 136, 245, ‘Supplica a mia madre’ 32–4
252 survival 14, 15, 29, 46, 69, 76, 77, 79,
St Matthew (Gospel) 139 80, 81, 83, 99, 101, 110, 114, 165,
St Matthew Passion (Bach) 79 169, 206, 207, 210
St Paul (San Paolo) 136, 253 Susanna Pasolini 14–20, 29, 30–1, 32,
St Sebastian 120 34, 35, 43, 44, 58, 135, 147–50, 155,
Stracci 7, 254 160, 167, 229, 231, 232, 257
student demonstrations 103, 107, 116, sustenance 80–1, 85, 87, 88, 89, 95,
117, 122–3, 247, 259 100
subjectivity 10, 103, 183, 270; and art symbolic order 137, 166, 167, 176,
206–7, 209; and suicide 210–11; 191, 196, 197, 199, 204, 205
sublimation 213, 215
subjectivity female 41, 134, 137, 138, Il tempo 235
150, 163–4, 166–99, 222, 260; the Teorema 8, 74, 102, 107, 108, 114, 115,
Artist 162; Aziza 193–7; Bruna 57; 124, 133, 136, 137, 151, 166, 172,
Budur 193–7; Caterina di Valbona 173, 210, 249, 257
177–9; Electra 125–7; Emilia 152–8; teppismo 122
Giotto’s Virgin 160–3; Glauce 131– La terra vista dalla luna 210, 237
4; Ida 120–1; Jocasta, 65–7; Testa, Carlo 208
Lisabetta 179–82; Lucia 166–72; teta-veleta 18
Mamma Roma 53; Masetto’s nuns theatre and Pasolini 246–7
176; May 183–5; Medea 70, 73; Thebes 58, 60, 63, 65, 66, 67, 74
Odetta 110, 111; old Virgin 147–50; threshold. See border
the pianist 206–10; Salomè 106, Tingozzo 159
107; Wife of Bath (Alyson) 186–9; Tiresias 58, 66
young Virgin 142–4; Zumurrud Togliatti, Palmiro 6, 94, 96, 99
191–3 torture 205, 208
subjectivity male: Aziz 195–6; Ettore Totò (Antonio De Curtis) 3, 93–8, 257
50, 53, 57; Jason 72; Pietro 102, 133 transcendence 91, 212, 219
subproletariaiat 5, 8, 28, 29, 55, 56, transgression 171, 176, 177, 182, 192,
76, 77, 78, 81, 82, 86, 89, 91, 93, 193, 199, 210 , 212, 216, 221, 262
151, 153, 156, 211, 214 transubstantiation 212–21, 225
Index 297
triangle. See family triangle; love 106, 145, 162, 174, 225, 261; and
triangle African women 129; and Emilia
La trilogia della vita 172, 173, 174, 175, 155; and Luna 76, 96, 98; and
180, 182, 185, 189, 193, 197, 236 Mamma Roma 88–9; and Masetto’s
triptych (in Il Decameron) 161–3, 258 nuns 175; and May 184; and prosti-
Troy 124, 125 tution 28, 88, 89, 90, 94, 100, 101;
Turin 145, 212, 257 and Susanna Pasolini 31
Una vita violenta 5, 29, 76, 241
Uccellacci e uccellini 5, 8, 77, 93, 97, Vitti, Monica 222
100, 101, 146, 223, 254 Vivaldi, Antonio 245
Uganda 128 voice 109, 138, 161; female 137; male
underworld (Roman) 80, 81, 91 137
L’usignolo della Chiesa Cattolica 27 voice-over: in La rabbia 36, 37, 39; in
Appunti per un’Orestiade africana 126
Vaccari, Mrs 204, 205 void 110, 112, 115, 124,133, 155, 158,
Valle Giulia 122–3 167, 169, 172, 214, 256
Valli, Alida 58
Il Vangelo secondo Matteo 8, 50, 74, 102, Welles, Orson 223
103, 104, 107, 110, 135, 136, 137, Western World/Culture 4, 5, 8, 36,
139, 146, 149, 150, 160 37, 44, 49, 74, 94, 95, 129, 146, 151,
Veni Sancte Spiritus 160 158–9, 165, 197, 198, 221, 251, 259
verbal language 165–99, 263; and whore. See prostitutes & prostitution
power 260; and reading 167, 171 Wiazemsky, Anne 116, 249
Versuta 21 Wife of Bath 185–9, 263
Viano, Maurizio 105, 109, 115, 128, ‘Wife of Bath’s Prologue’ 182, 185
147, 202, 251, 267 witness 41, 139–50
victim 29, 78, 79, 80, 86, 87, 94, 105, woman and transformation 212–21
132, 171, 182, 186, 192, 193, 201, womb 44, 45, 50–1, 60, 62, 67, 172,
204, 205 199, 214, 225, 238
Vie Nuove 32, 235 women: and Accattone 81; and Africa
Virgin 4, 88, 135–50, 159, 254; and Il 124–5, 129; and goodness 12, 31,
Decameron 160, 161–3; old 136, 146– 41, 67, 68, 74, 75, 81, 83, 84, 85, 98,
50; young 136, 139, 141 101, 107, 136, 141, 180, 211, 220;
virginity 83, 104, 113, 186, 191 and Pasolini’s poetics 10, 11, 12, 13,
virtue 49, 81, 82, 104, 105, 106, 108, 23 43–5, 59, 74, 81, 96, 129, 177, 206,
114, 120, 136, 141, 159, 160, 165, 224
180, 220
vision (sense of) 136, 148, 163 Zumurrud 190–3, 194, 206, 264
vitality 10, 13, 27, 44, 55, 75, 94, 98,

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SEX, THE SELF, AND THE SACRED:

WOMEN IN THE CINEMA OF PIER PAOLO PASOLINI

Sex, the Self, and the Sacred

UNIVERSITY OF TORONTO PRESS

Printed on acid-free paper

Toronto Italian Studies

Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication

University of Toronto Press acknowledges the financial assistance to its

University of Toronto Press acknowledges the financial support for its

1 Susanna Pasolini and the Female Universe 14

Appendix: Filmography of Pier Paolo Pasolini 227

... Il mio amore

influenced by Gramsci, Pasolini’s interest in the postwar period and

whether poems, narratives or films, would forever reflect the cultural

vis-à-vis the mass desecration of genuine subcultures, both throughout

quent development as artist and intellectual. Second, the focus on/

inclusion of Petrolio might beg a more comprehensive analysis of women

ally invested in the hope of recovering genuine human relations, Pasolini

Although Pasolini certainly shared moments of closeness with his father,

simplicity of their existence and the loyalty of their bond remained

From as early as Pasolini himself could remember, his childhood and

family that accounted for a large part of Casarsa’s population.2 Carlo

While this declaration innocently embraces both parental spheres, it

Ora so che era un sentimento acutamente sensuale. Se lo riprovo sento con

inhabitants would also denote broader concepts having great political

denoted certain painful realities, making it yet another source of deep

his sexuality, and explore his poetic mandate as a leftist drawn to an

Insegnavamo tutto il giorno insieme, ... e stavamo tutto il pomeriggio

The first collection of poems, Poesie a Casarsa (1942), depicts several

Sera luminosa, nel fosso cresce l’acqua,

[Bright evening, the water is rising in the ditch,

modest in appearance. She personifies the mystery of life, and her

I figli: Madre, cos’hai

[The Children: Mother, what is

Mother, may you die ...

In fondo a quel candido ponte nuovo sul Tevere

[At the end of that bright new bridge on the Tiber

coscienza’), all of which blatantly contrast with questo mondo, or the

Pur sopravvivendo, in una lunga appendice

– so che una luce, nel caos, di religione,

[Still surviving, in a long extension

– I know that a light, amidst the chaos, of religion,

È una povera donna, mite, fine,

coi suoi radi capelli, le sue vesti dimesse,

con la sua forza, adoperata nei muti

compensi: una povera donna che sa amare

[She is a poor, mild, delicate woman,

with her thin hair, her modest clothes,

with her strength, she used in silent

never received: a poor woman who only knows how to love

La casa è piena delle sue magre

coprono ogni cosa: e una pietà così antica,

[The house is full of her thin

cover each thing: and such an ancient

Because Susanna symbolizes ‘old’ life, in terms of an essential goodness

È difficile dire con parole di figlio

Tu sei la sola al mondo che sa, del mio cuore,

Per questo devo dirti ciò ch’è orrendo conoscere:

Sei insostituibile. Per questo è dannata

E non voglio esser solo. Ho un’infinita fame

Perchè l’anima è in te, sei tu, ma tu

ho passato l’infanzia schiavo di questo senso

Era l’unico modo per sentire la vita,