1950s – Scene by Green

Elevator to the Gallows (1958)

Louis Malle | 1hr 31min

After assassinating his boss, staging the scene to look like a suicide, and stealthily exiting the office building after hours to run away with his victim’s wife, all it takes is a single loose end to trip Julien up. The rope he used to scale the wall still hangs from the balcony, and the only way to retrieve it is to get back up, remove the evidence, and take the elevator down before making his getaway. No one will be in until Monday morning though, so surely all of this shouldn’t be too much of a setback?

Unfortunately for Julien, the fatalistic pull of destiny has other intentions in Elevator to the Gallows, playing malicious games that intertwine his tale of love and crime with a younger, more reckless couple. Louis and Véronique are a Bonnie and Clyde for 1950s Paris, but not nearly as clever in their spontaneous rebellions. Just as security turns off the building’s power and unknowingly traps Julien in the elevator for the night, these foolhardy lovers impulsively decide to steal his car, possessions, and identity, found tucked away in his wallet. After a friendly German couple they have been drinking with call out their fraudulence, Louis is similarly driven to homicide, though it is fortunately not his name that was written on the motel registration. As a result, a manhunt begins for one Mr. Julien Tavernier – just not for the crime he has actually committed.

Julien’s seemingly straightforward plot to murder his boss to run away with with his wife lands him in the titular elevator – an expressionistic box of shadow and light that Malle’s camera is endlessly creative with.

*A pair of criminal lovers in parallel, both committing murder and seeking to escape the consequences of their actions.*

With such sophisticated formal patterns knitting together these parallel plotlines in Louis Malle’s narrative, it isn’t a stretch to imagine a more comical version of this film that possesses the dry, morbid humour of the Coen Brothers, contemptuously observing amateurs botch and cover up murders. As an off shoot from Classical Hollywood’s film noir and a precursor to the French New Wave though, Elevator to the Gallows is as deadly serious as can be, prioritising a dark, seductive atmosphere over intricate plot machinations. The melancholic score warrants priority in such an analysis, typifying the jazzy musical style that many falsely associate with American noirs, even though the inspired innovation first occurred here with Miles Davis improvising trumpet lines over a steady accompaniment of piano, saxophone, double bass, and drums. Never has there been a greater sound to match Jeanne Moreau’s dour, brooding expression than this, reverberating a sombre loneliness as she saunters past streetlamps dimly illuminating her rain-drenched face, before sinking her back into the shadows of Paris’ wet, gloomy streets.

*Moreau’s face in the rain, the bleary lights of Paris behind her, Davis’ sultry jazz score accompanying it all – Malle lays the noir atmosphere on thick with tremendous results.*

*Shooting on location in Paris, bouncing lights off wet pavement and shrouding actors in darkness.*

As Julien’s lover Florence, Moreau is merely one player in Malle’s ensemble, but every scene she shares with a co-star inevitably sees her intoxicating presence dominate the screen. After working in the film industry for almost a decade, Elevator to the Gallows marked her true breakout, and would propel her on to fruitful collaborations with other French directors including François Truffaut, Jean-Luc Godard, and Jacques Demy. Her introduction here through extreme close-ups and hushed whispers over a telephone line is treacherously intimate, inviting us into a shady urban world our gut is telling us to steer clear of, yet which nonetheless piques our curiosity. Despite her direct implication in her husband’s murder, our heart still breaks when she is led to believe she has been betrayed, while Malle’s breathtaking location shooting sets her morose depression against bleary backdrops of Paris’ lights and vehicles.

*Moreau is only one player in this ensemble, but she singlehandedly walks away with the film’s best performance, earning Malle’s close-ups* *with* *her disillusioned expression*.

*Malle possesses an extraordinary eye for composition and lighting, resourcefully using headlights and street lamps in his mise-en-scène.*

Alongside Malle, credit must also go to the expressionist photography of Henri Decaë as well, who in 1958 was already on a trajectory towards greatness through his collaborations with Jean-Pierre Melville. The Venetian blinds, chiaroscuro lighting, and skilfully blocked compositions are evidently signs of two visual artists well-acquainted with film noir conventions, and how they can be manipulated to breed suspense. At the same time, the lack of studio polish in Elevator to the Gallows also signals a purposeful engagement with cinema’s avant-garde potential. Malle is clearly looking to its future here just as much as he is calling back to its past, and isn’t afraid to let his narrative wander off on tangents that we trust will eventually tie back together, paying off on the intriguing formal mirroring between these couples.

*Venetian blinds calling back to the Hollywood noirs of the 40s.*

*Harsh lighting and shadow thrown across this close-up, highlighting Julien’s scheming eyes while the mouth is blacked out.*

*A superb use of deep focus to build tension, centring Julien in these shots that draw multiple sets of suspicious eyes to him from all across the frame.*

By the time Julien manages to free himself from the elevator the next morning, his picture has already been posted in local papers for the crime committed by Louis and Véronique, who in turn have attempted suicide back home to avoid capture. Time passes slowly in the black void where Julien is captured and interrogated in a black void, drifting by on long dissolves while Florence works desperately on the outside to absolve him of his false accusation. Just as Julien’s rope had ruined an otherwise flawless murder and cover-up, so too are Louis and Véronique incriminated as the German couple’s killers by the roll of film they had stolen from Julien’s car, and carelessly left behind at the motel. Unfortunately for Florence though, so too does it contain photos revealing the truth of her affair with Julien, and thereby expose them as her husband’s executioners.

*Dissolves in an empty void of an interrogation room, as time slowly drifts by.*

Not only that, but Florence’s own future seems far rockier now that she has been implicated too, while the death sentence that Julien was previously facing seems to be downgraded to a few years in prison. As Davis’ wistful trumpet croons, Malle’s camera sits on those photos of Florence and Julien slowly developing in the rippling water, just barely catching the upside-down reflection of her sombre face. “No more ageing, no more days. I’ll go to sleep. I’ll wake up alone,” her voiceover murmurs, resigning to a destiny she still hopes will one day set her free.

“Ten years, twenty years. I wasn’t indulgent. But I know I still loved you. I wasn’t thinking of myself. I’ll be old from now on. But we’re together here. Together again, somewhere. You see, they can’t keep us apart.”

If fate can find its way back to the perpetrators of two near-perfect crimes by unexpectedly converging both, then surely it can also one day reunite these sweethearts whose love must be similarly preordained, Florence reasons. Given how much destiny seems to have a mind of its own throughout Elevator to the Gallows though, it is not so easy for us to rely on the faith of a condemned, lovesick woman, desperate to find hope in a perilously mischievous universe.

*Moreau’s face distorted in the rippling photographic chemicals, her guilt exposed.*

Elevator to the Gallows is currently streaming on The Criterion Channel, and the Blu-ray is available to purchase from Amazon.

Senso (1954)

Luchino Visconti | 1hr 57min

“I dislike people behaving like characters in some melodrama,” Contessa Livia Serpieri hypocritically proclaims in the opening minutes of Senso, particularly needling those “with no regard for the serious consequences of a gesture dictated by impulse or by unforgivable thoughtlessness.” Luchino Visconti does not merely underscore the irony of such a grand indictment – over the course of this film, her life becomes an opera itself, appropriately beginning with one fateful encounter at a theatrical production of Il Trovatore. There are few men in Venice more shameful for Livia to fall for than Lieutenant Franz Mahler, whose loyalty to the Austrian Empire during its occupation of Italy is directly at odds with her cousin Roberto’s nationalistic insubordination, as well as the old-fashioned aristocracy she has married into. Still, what do these taboos really amount to when that rare breed of star-crossed love is at stake?

Livia is not wrong to question the social conventions of her time, though the naivety with which she conducts her secret rebellion dooms her from the start. She falls hard and fast, turning a blind eye to Franz’s exile of Roberto and stubbornly suffering through his tactless womanising. Her lovesick stubbornness may be reminiscent of Scarlett O’Hara, but it is clear in Alida Valli’s taciturn performance that this does not come from the same place of petulance or vanity. Behind her sharp features she conceals an ardent desire to escape her dull, overprivileged lifestyle and uncover hidden passions that she never felt in her claustrophobic marriage to Count Serpieri, while the Third Italian War of Independence complements this rising tension with a similarly volatile backdrop of turmoil and violence.

*Senso is a prime achievement of acting for Alida Valli, who conceals an ardent desire to escape her dull, overprivileged lifestyle behind sharp, taciturn features.*

*A fine arrangement of ornaments through the frame, sinking Livia into a shiny sea of blue.*

On this level, the similarities to Gone with the Wind’s sweeping historical scope and beauty deepens, shrouding the film in a Technicolor opulence that arrived in 1954 as an unexpected shift for a renowned neorealist such as Visconti. Senso’s extravagant studio sets allowed him a level of control that he was never previously afforded, obstructing meticulously arranged compositions with oil lamps, drapes, and fine ornaments laid precisely around rooms of patterned wallpaper and faded frescoes. His staging of actors across the full breadth and depth of his frame makes for some magnificent cinematic paintings too, dressing the men in military uniforms that cut out sharp silhouettes and women in voluminous dresses which fill up entire doorways. The colours and textures of Visconti’s period décor may be worn with age, yet this only speaks to the miraculous survival of Italy’s cultural heritage across many centuries, and its bold perseverance against the newest threat to arrive at their doorstep.

*Visconti uses frescoes to tremendous effect throughout Senso, setting his characters against faded backdrops of high art, history, and wealth.*

*As always, it is Visconti’s staggered blocking that astounds, delivering an array of picturesque compositions that tell their own stories.*

*What starts as a relatively shallow shot deepens very suddenly as Valli flies into the background, throwing open doors to create frames within frames within frames.*

*Visconti’s venture into Technicolor photography is a superb accomplishment, seeming to draw inspiration from painters more than filmmakers.*

As visually sumptuous as these sets are, it is evidently the addition of Visconti’s magnificent location shooting among Venice’s most iconic sites which led to Senso becoming the most expensive Italian film at the time of its release. Aristocrats, soldiers, and activists fill the ornate golden stalls and balconies at La Fenice opera house where the film opens, setting the scene of civil unrest as green and red protest leaflets are scattered through the air, while outside the moonlight bounces off the Cannaregio Canal and dimly illuminates the surrounding stonework. As Livia wanders down the archaic city streets with her secret lover, her voiceover romantically ponders what she believes to be true companionship, submitting to the same melodramatic weaknesses she derided in others only a few scenes prior.

“There existed only a secret and unspoken pleasure I experienced in hearing him speak and laugh, and in hearing the echo of our footsteps in that silent city.”

*Visconti shoots in La Fenice opera house, filling the ornate golden balconies with extras as leaflets patriotically stealing the colours of the Italian flag rain down from above.*

*Venice has rarely looked as a beautiful as it does here, its mise-en-scène filled in with painterly, historic detail.*

It would be reasonable to suggest that Visconti can’t entirely shake his neorealist tendencies given his dedication to the authenticity of each setting, but by the time he is staging immense battles between Italian and Austrian forces, it is abundantly clear that his cinematic ambitions have also expanded to crafting breathtaking action and spectacle. His camera pans and crane shots may be simple in their execution, yet they are enormously effective in tracking the coordinated movement of rigorous military formations through wheat fields, while capturing the menacing accumulation of opposing forces atop a hill in the background. Visconti scenery is consistently layered with a remarkable level of detail here, letting fires burn across distant pastures while horse-drawn carriages pass right by the camera, and consequently breathing life into Italy’s epic, historic stand against their Austrian oppressors.

*In place of fast cuts, Visconti lets his camera drift and pan across scenes of largescale conflict, soaking in the remarkable scenery and blocking across all layers of the frame.*

*Visconti uses the full depth of his shot – fires burning across hills in the background, armed forces approaching each other in the midground, and carriages passing by in the foreground.*

The purpose of these imposing battle scenes in Senso is twofold – not only do they vividly paint out the visceral violence which Livia remains happily ignorant to, but they also directly embody the tragic consequences of her irresponsible actions. So besotted is she with her Austrian Lieutenant that she doesn’t see the cowardice in his antiwar monologue, and when he asks for money to bribe his way out of fighting, she impulsively decides to give him funds that Roberto intended for the Italian war effort. The results are catastrophic, leaving the Italians severely under-resourced in the Battle of Custoza, and incidentally guaranteeing their defeat.

*The Battle of Custoza is a humiliating defeat for the Italians, expanding the scope of Visconti’s narrative to reveal the impact of Livia’s selfishness upon the entire nation.*

For a woman who considers herself above the whims of melodrama, Livia is evidently prone to spontaneous bouts of recklessness and depression, even seeing her don a black mourning dress when she is separated from Franz. Delusions of exotic romance that exist to cover deeper insecurities can only sustain themselves for so long though, and once Franz has accomplished his goal of bribing his way out of the army, Livia’s finally come crashing down. Along with losing his social status and military rank, so too has Franz lost all dignity. Now spending his days and nights with the prostitutes of Verona, he considers himself nothing but a “drunken deserter,” and doesn’t hold back in inflicting his spiteful self-loathing upon Livia when she finally tracks him down.

The wide shots in his apartment of gold-and-crimson wallpaper are handsomely mounted, but it is Visconti’s unusual shift into close-ups which particularly astounds here, studying the mix of despair and exhaustion that unfolds across Valli’s face during her cruel humiliation. “You think the same way I do,” Franz viciously asserts when he notes her shock at his moral debasement. “Otherwise you wouldn’t have given me money to buy yourself an hour of love.”

*Countless frames here could be mounted on a wall – absolutely immaculate production design with the red wallpaper, gold trimming, and fine furniture.*

*A shift into close-ups as Livia is forced to confront Franz’s hateful misanthropy and self-loathing, building Valli’s performance to a heart-wrenching climax.*

It is a dangerous thing to shatter a woman’s heart so completely, and so it is reasonable to assume that Franz similarly recognises the seeds of self-destruction that he is sowing through such a heinous act. After all, Livia still holds proof of his treason, and what greater way for her to end this cinematic opera than with a petty act of revenge? The Austrian authorities she turns him in to see the contempt behind her actions, but there is no shame left in this emotionally ruined woman. Driven mad with anger and betrayal, she screams his name into the empty streets of Verona, poignantly mirroring Senso’s final shot of Austrian soldiers carrying Franz’s body into the darkness following his execution. Her heart may still be beating, but she has suffered an annihilation of the spirit as irrecoverable as any physical death, as Visconti sinks his historical melodrama into the depths of a grave tragedy that was fated from the start.

*Driven mad with anger and betrayal, Livia disappears into the darkness of Verona, and tragedy reigns.*

*Formally mirroring Livia’s exit, so too does Franz disappear into the darkness, killed by her bitter revenge.*

Senso is currently streaming on The Criterion Channel, and is available to purchase from Amazon.

The Earrings of Madame de… (1953)

Max Ophüls | 1hr 45min

French noblewoman Louise regularly visits the local Catholic church in The Earrings of Madame de… to pray for prosperity, though the tenets of her faith do not fall in so neatly with the Christian doctrine of 19^th century Europe. The intended recipient of her invocations is not necessarily God, but rather a fatalistic universe which has already miraculously proven itself to be on her side, whether by chance or providence. As for the sacred charm which she venerates as an icon of good fortune, one needs to look no further than those precious diamond earrings which she had previously tried to part with to pay off her enormous debts, and yet have since returned through pure happenstance. This of course can’t just be coincidence, she decides, and thus these pieces of jewellery are imbued with a mystical sentimentality that she alone has conceived of in her mind.

If destiny does exist within The Earrings of Madame de… though, then it isn’t one that can be influenced simply through prayers, wishes, or talismans. It is cold and indifferent, guaranteeing that whether it is Louise’s husband André or her paramour Fabrizio who ultimately wins their contest, she will be left heartbroken by the loss of the other. Max Ophüls may have been German-born, and yet these lyrical contemplations of fate’s ironic passages position him as perhaps the greatest inheritor of France’s poetic realism in the 1950s. Moreover, this lofty status is only strengthened by his use of Jean Renoir’s favoured cinematographer Christian Matras, crafting long, elegant tracking shots that carry the legacy of his cinematic forefathers.

*Exquisite use of frames all throughout the film, wrapping characters up in ornately designed mirrors and trapping them behind windows.*

There are few visual devices that match so gracefully to the film’s predeterministic perspective as this, seeing the camera trace the winding paths of objects and people before settling on extraordinary frames that Ophüls has perfectly arranged as the camera’s destination. Right from the very first shot, he is already laying the groundwork for this overarching aesthetic in a 2-and-a-half minute long take that begins on those fateful earrings, follows the movement of Louise’s hands through dressers and armoires, and finally catches her reflection trying them on in a small, oval mirror. As a result, she is immediately introduced as a woman defined by her abundantly lavish possessions rather than her innate qualities or relationships.

Ophüls opens his film with a masterful tracking shot that starts on the titular earrings, before following Louise’s hands through her wardrobe and dresser, and eventually revealing her face in a mirror.

Ophüls is not one to cut corners on his production design either, consuming Louise in a cluttered opulence that evokes Josef von Sternberg’s busy mise-en-scène, yet without the harsh angles of his expressionism. Hanging around the edges of her bed are thin gauze drapes patterned with floral emblems, often framing her face or lightly obscuring it as the camera peers into her intimate domain, while elsewhere dining tables laden with candelabras, glassware, and bottles obstruct our view from low camera angles. Behind the seated guests, a giant mirror stretching the length of the wall turns the ballroom dancers into a lively backdrop, surrounding Louise with upper-class splendour on every side. Even when she grows depressed, she remains totally consumed by this material lifestyle, as Ophüls sinks her body into a large armchair that leaves only her head visible at the bottom of the frame. Just as exorbitant wealth incites Louise’s romantic interest, so too does it stifle relationships, including her marriage to André whose large bed sits in the same room far away from her own. Though she has taken his surname, Ophüls underscores its complete irrelevance to her identity all throughout The Earrings of Madame de…, frequently censoring it with diegetic interruptions and convenient camera placements.

*Hanging around the edges of Louise’s bed are thin gauze drapes patterned with floral emblems, often framing her face or lightly obscuring it as the camera peers into her intimate domain.*

Behind the seated guests at the ball, a giant mirror stretching the length of the wall, turning the ballroom dancers into a lively backdrop and surrounding Louise with upper-class splendour on every side.

*When Louise grows depressed, she remains totally consumed by her material lifestyle, as Ophüls sinks her body into a large armchair that leaves only her head visible at the bottom of the frame.*

That the earrings which Louise decides to sell were a wedding gift from André speaks even more to her disinterest in their marriage, motivating her pretend to lose them during a night out at the theatre, before actually pawning them off to local jeweller Mr Rémy. At least her husband returns the sentiment, or lack thereof, as once Mr Rémy secretly sells them back to him, he presents them as a farewell gift to his mistress Lola before she leaves for Constantinople. During her travels, they are again used to pay off personal debts, winding up in the hands of another jeweller who in turn sells them to a passing traveller – handsome middle-aged gentleman, Fabrizio. That he should later run into Louise twice in the span of two weeks and eventually fall in love with her seems too strange of a coincidence, and when he unassumingly gifts her the earrings that she once owned, she too recognises the remarkable journey they took to return home.

*The earrings travel from Paris to Constantinople and back again, passing through the hands of multiple strangers yet always being guided by fate.*

Within this web of affairs though, André is no fool. He indulges Louise’s pretence of losing her treasured earrings for some time despite knowing the truth through Mr Rémy, and his observations of her apparently platonic relationship with Fabrizio stoke suspicions. From his position of power and knowledge, he maliciously toys with her, and even forces her to give the earrings to his niece who has recently given birth. Quite remarkably though, Ophüls sees them sold to cover debts for a third time in his narrative, and thus Louise is given the chance to buy them back from Rémy much to her husband’s dismay. After all, no longer do they represent their matrimonial union, but rather her relationship with Fabrizio which has reliably conquered the stacked odds against it.

With Ophüls’ dextrous camera manoeuvring the ups and downs of this affair, it isn’t hard to fall prey to Louise’s romantic idealism either. The coordination of his cranes and dollies through scenes with multiple actors become a delicate dance of blocking – quite literally too in a montage that breezes through several weeks of illicit encounters at balls. As Louise and Fabrizio waltz through large crowds, the camera delicately weaves with them, drifting further and closer to their quiet conversations in rhythmic patterns. With each individual dalliance being linked by long dissolves, Ophüls creates the impression of one long, uninterrupted dance, blissfully contained inside a dream that Louise will keep prolonging for as long as destiny wills it to live.

*A splendid montage of long dissolves weaving together multiple meetings between lovers, each time with the camera freely tracking their movements across the ballroom.*

As far is Louise is concerned though, this is barely an obstacle. “Will we meet again?” Fabrizio asks on their second chance run-in, to which she replies with absolute confidence, “Fate is on our side.” Of course, this faith rests on flimsy foundations, imbuing material objects with arbitrary meaning in much the same way her friend applies clairvoyant readings to ordinary cards. Ophüls’ formal construction of this character through multiple belief systems is impeccable, eventually rolling them into one when she returns to the shrine of St. Genevieve in the closing minutes of the film, and leaves behind her earrings as an offering to whichever God may be listening.

*Louise is a woman who relies on multiple belief systems, twice visiting the church to pray for good fortune, and giving Ophüls a solid excuse to return to this marvellous composition.*

*Ophüls is an early adopter of canted angles, subtly throwing the mise-en-scène off-balance as the drama winds out of control.*

Is it fate then which coincides Fabrizio’s death with her relinquishing of these jewels, or was this merely the random winds of chance delivering a long overdue tragedy to a woman who has never known true heartbreak? Perhaps this vast, erratic cosmos does not care so much for the life of any one individual after all, with the only meaning in it being imprinted by those actively seeking out patterns. Imposing formal structure upon chaos may very well be Ophüls’ job too as a storyteller, but in what is likely the strongest shot of The Earrings of Madame de… he also recognises the human soul’s slow fade into insignificance with romantic poignancy, watching the scattered shreds of a torn-up love letter blow out a train window and join a flurry of snow. Just as it is impossible to find any meaningful configuration in their singular paths, their destinations are similarly unknowable, and yet to follow their journey upon gusts and breezes in this beautiful, fleeting moment is to truly comprehend the inscrutability of life’s unpredictable paths.

*An astounding transition from pieces of a ripped-up letter to falling snow, blowing in the wind along unknowable paths.*

The Earrings of Madame de… is streaming on The Criterion Channel and is available to purchase from Amazon.

Nights of Cabiria (1957)

Federico Fellini | 1hr 58min

Every evening on the same Roman street, Giuletta Masina’s lonely prostitute passes time with her fellow ladies of the night, and waits to be picked up by men. Her birth name is Maria, but at some point between being orphaned as a young girl and taking on her current profession, Cabiria became the moniker which her friends and clients came to know her by. Elsewhere in the same city, a shrine to the Madonna draws believers from far and wide who desperately throw themselves on the ground and beg for their prayers to be heard. “Viva Maria!” they zealously cry out, and as Cabiria awkwardly joins the multitude to plead for a better life, Federico Fellini draws a striking parallel between the two women.

Here he presents a virgin and a prostitute both named Maria, both drawn to God, and both embodying intrinsic goodness. In a symbolic rendering of the Madonna-whore complex though, the name that is shouted in passionate ardour through the churches of Rome refers only to one of them. Men have their fun with Cabiria for a time, but too often they discard her just as easily as they pick her up, cruelly twisting the knife on their way out. She is treated with all the dignity of a used rag, while the Virgin Mary continues garnering respect thousands of years after her death.

*The Madonna and the whore have more in common than the people of Rome believe, both being paragons of goodness and innocence – a striking formal comparison.*

Of course, the modern-day Rome of Nights of Cabiria would never accept this irony. Fellini’s love of the city’s history and culture is only outdone by his disgust at its hypocrisy, and six films deep into his directorial career, that cynicism is only increasing as he watches it destroy icons of innocence. Though the narrative is far more straightforward than his later films, it is still very much a character piece, relying heavily on Masina’s extraordinary ability to command our awe and empathy as the tragically forsaken Cabiria.

As always, Masina’s large, expressive eyes and dark eyebrows constantly project longing, joy, and anguish, though Cabiria is also far more world-weary than many of her previous characters. Where Gelsomina’s shattered innocence in La Strada leads to a tragic downfall, Cabiria wears her pessimism like a protective shell, even as she quietly searches for reasons to let some shred of hope through. Her high heels do little to lift her tiny stature as she shrinks beneath both men and women, but thanks to her feisty spirit that isn’t afraid to back down from petty fights, she rarely fades into any crowd.

*Masina’s dark eyes express profound joy and sorrow, revealing the layers of emotion at war within Cabiria.*

*Through Fellini’s blocking and Masina’s naturally slight stature, Cabiria often shrinks beneath other characters, yet compensates with a feisty spirit.*

As Cabiria is so often written off as simple-minded and cheap by those looking for an easy laugh, any instance where she is lifted off her street corner by a man and placed on a pedestal becomes a moment of ecstasy, and each time she fully believes that she has found acceptance within the society she both loathes and adores. So often does this happen in Nights of Cabiria that it virtually becomes part of its narrative structure, convincing her each time that this relationship will be the one to lift her out of poverty, only to deflate the fantasy the moment something more enticing catches their eye.

*Three relationships and three cruel rejections, beating Cabiria down over and over again as she is pushed into rivers and trapped in bathrooms.*

In the film’s very first scene, it is Cabiria’s boyfriend Giorgio who steals her purse and pushes her into a river, while later movie star Alberto Lazzari takes her home on a whim simply because she is the first woman he sees after breaking up with his girlfriend. His vast, lavish villa makes for a jarring visual contrast against the seedy neon signs and worn architecture of downtown Rome, and especially the city’s barren outskirts where she resides in a small hovel. Fellini indulges in the symmetry of its grand stairway, opulent mirrors, and exotic artwork, giving her a glimpse of luxury before Alberto’s woman comes home begging for forgiveness and she is forced to hide in the bathroom for the night. The scene would almost belong in a screwball comedy if it wasn’t so demeaning, revealing just how expendable Cabiria is compared to wealthier, more ‘respectable’ women.

*Fellini shoots on the barren outskirts of Rome, relegating Cabiria to a small hovel at the bottom of society.*

The lavish mise-en-scène inside this extraordinary Italian villa is a welcome break from the rugged streets of Rome – and it is only fitting that it should be snatched away from Cabiria in such a cruel manner.

Besides this brief but extravagant detour, Fellini’s location shooting out on the streets of Rome firmly entrench Nights of Cabiria in the harsh realities of the working class and their tedious routines. His deep focus lenses allow for some magnificently staged compositions of prostitutes loitering around cars and curbs, while the occasional addition of black umbrellas to these shots underscores the cold, wet discomfort of their lifestyles.

Living in environments as inhospitable as these, it is no wonder Cabiria is so awed by acts of altruism, even being stirred to seek mercy at the aforementioned shrine of the Madonna after observing one mysterious stranger feeding the homeless just outside the city. Much like the men in her life though, religion simply turns out to be another disappointment, leaving her and all the other hapless worshippers she prays with in the same destitute position as before. Maybe she just didn’t ask properly, one priest unhelpfully suggests, but she believes the problem goes deeper than that – she is simply too small and insignificant to live in God’s grace.

*Rome becomes its own coarse character in Fellini’s location shooting, towering in dilapidated buildings and sinking its citizens into shadows.*

*Waiting for customers out on the cold streets, Cabiria and her fellow prostitutes stand beneath umbrellas, shielding themselves from the rain.*

On the other hand, there is not exactly any sanctuary to be found in Satan’s seductive allure either, taking the symbolic form of a magic show run by a devil-horned hypnotist. As she stands onstage under his spell, Fellini fades the background into darkness, leaving only her face illuminated by a single spotlight beckoning from the void. For the first time, her peaceful, dreamy expression is wiped completely of any doubt, being entirely absorbed in the perfect world the magician has built for her. To the amusement of the audience, she dances a waltz through a garden with an imaginary man called Oscar, and inadvertently reveals her most personal fantasies for the world to laugh at.

*Satanic and divine imagery captured in a single scene, lulling Cabiria into a vulnerable state through devious illusions, and composing this image of eerie peace.*

Cabiria’s humiliation at being turned into cheap entertainment might almost be the end of her were it not for the near-mystical manifestation of the man from her dream, astoundingly also called Oscar. Fellini has firmly established his narrative’s pattern of broken and mended hearts by this point, so we are aligned in Cabiria’s initial suspicion around this seemingly perfect man, but she can only keep her naïve idealism at bay for so long before falling in deep love all over again. It isn’t long before she is accepting a marriage proposal and selling her small house to move far away, partly realising how naïve she is being, and yet nevertheless committing enthusiastically to her dream of new beginnings.

Upon a clifftop, Cabiria and Oscar’s silhouetted figures look out at the sun setting over a peaceful lake, and a happy ending finally seems within reach – but Fellini is no writer of fairy tales. This magical backdrop is undeserving of the brutal narrative pay-off that taints its scenery, formally mirroring the film’s first scene as Cabiria once again faces the threat of being robbed and thrown into the water. The mercy that Oscar takes on her is not out of love, but rather sheer pity as she willingly hands over her purse and begs to be killed, her heart unable to sustain any more pain.

*This gorgeous backdrop of the sun setting over a lake is undeserving of the brutal narrative pay-off that taints its scenery.*

Still, even at Cabiria’s lowest and Fellini’s most cynical, the rekindling of hope need not be some naïve submission to the same cycle of suffering that has perpetuated throughout Nights of Cabiria. After several hours laying and sobbing on the cliff edge, the pieces of a broken woman pick themselves up again, and she dejectedly continues down a nearby road. Very gradually, the sound of Italian folk music fills the air, and she is surrounded by musicians rapturously playing and dancing alongside her. For once she is part of a crowd that is not only acknowledging her, but delighted to have her present. A single tear forms in the corner of her left eye, black with mascara, and as she looks directly at the camera in the final seconds, we find an unfamiliar self-acceptance in her tender smile. This is not the end of Cabiria’s tragedies, though for as long as she holds onto the hope that keeps her alive, neither will it be the end of her profound joy.

*Fellini of course chooses to end his film with Masina’s eyes, breaking the fourth wall with a tender smile of self-acceptance and assurance.*

Nights of Cabiria is currently streaming on Kanopy, and the Blu-ray is available to purchase on Amazon.

Il Bidone (1955)

Federico Fellini | 1hr 52min

So desperate is the working class of Il Bidone’s post-war Italy, it seems that they are ready to believe any stranger who comes bearing dubious promises of financial stability. Perhaps with some retrospect, they might realise how strange it is that government bureaucrats would promise public housing to anyone in a crowd who comes forward with a deposit. Even more ludicrous a scenario is Vatican clergymen visiting a farmer’s property, bearing papal orders to dig up their land and uncover a repentant criminal’s bones, treasure, and will that stipulates the landowner must pay the church before receiving any money. Those who carry an air of confident authority can easily gain the trust of the needy, and naturally as the oldest and most experienced of his crooked crew, that is exactly Augusto’s greatest strength.

True to Federico Fellini’s contemplations of morality and corruption in modern Italy, Il Bidone is deeply engaged with lives of parasitic cruelty and the weight they bear on one’s conscience. Religion is effectively reduced to empty icons in their hands, stripped of the virtue it preaches and irreverently wielded as a means to an end. There may not be any of Fellini’s usual carnivals or entertainers present here, but Il Bidone’s conmen are nevertheless performers who profit off their carefully constructed spectacles. Much like their show business counterparts, total commitment is required from any swindler who wishes to succeed in his craft, and Augusto leaves no room for confusion regarding what sacrifices must be made.

“People like us can’t have families. One must be free to move. You can’t have a wife. You must be alone. The most important thing when you’re young is freedom. It’s more important than the air you breathe.”

*The priest scam is a classic in the books of Augusto and his crew of conmen, displaying an ingenuity and efficiency that holds no regard for the sacrilege being committed.*

*Broderick Crawford carries an imposing, authoritative presence as Augusto, winning the trust of strangers before running off with their money.*

Not that the companionship that these men find with each other instead is terribly fulfilling. At night they excessively indulge in luxuries purchased with their stolen money, drinking and dancing their guilt away. If there is any hope of escaping this cesspool of debauchery, then it comes in the form of family members longing for their husbands and fathers to be truly present, though such clean redemption is no easy objective. Just as the friends in I Vitelloni are awed by their leader’s overconfidence, the naïve Picasso here sees his associate Roberto as a model of masculinity, and ultimately finds himself torn between his charismatic lure and his wife’s desperate pleas to leave this unethical life behind.

*Even in her small role, Giulietta Masina makes an impact as the moral centre of Il Bidone, pleading with her husband to leave his life of crime.*

Perhaps the most compelling relationship of Il Bidone though arrives through Augusto’s chance run-in with his estranged daughter Patrizia, just as he is on his way to another con. The humanity that had previously escaped his characterisation begins to manifest here with delicate caution as he attempts to rekindle this connection, offering to pay for her studies and bestowing gifts that she doesn’t realise have been stolen. It is a real tragedy that he is recognised as a conman during their outing together at a cinema – not so much for the judicial slap on the wrist, but rather for his humiliating exposure in front of the only person who still holds him in some esteem. The dramatic irony that stations Patrizia in the foreground watching the movie and Augusto’s confrontation in the background is made all the more discomforting by the crowd’s eyes slowly turning towards the commotion in a ripple effect, suspensefully edging closer to his oblivious daughter.

Salvation appears out of the blue one day when Augusto runs into his daughter Patrizia. Her discovery of his crooked line of work is heartbreaking, as Fellini foregrounds her obliviousness while her father is caught by authorities in the background. Very slowly, heads turn towards the commotion, rippling out across the crowd until Patrizia’s attention is similarly caught.

Even if Il Bidone is a step below his prior masterpieces I Vitelloni and La Strada, Fellini’s visual storytelling and blocking still land with bold dramatic impact in moments like these. His neorealist tendency towards shooting real locations with deep focus lenses constantly keeps the struggling communities being hurt by Augusto’s gang in view, and at the very least turns rough-hewn stonework and dusty rural farms into bleak backdrops. As long as the conman can keep an emotional distance from his targets, then he can continue exploiting them with little mind for their future wellbeing, and yet soon we begin to realise that his daughter’s broken belief in him has fundamentally altered his worldview.

*Neorealist tendencies in the poverty-centric narrative and location shooting, turning Italy’s towns and countryside into rugged backdrops.*

*Augusto’s encounter with the disabled girl of the family he is scamming is the last straw – his moral corruption can no longer bear the weight of his guilt.*

By laying small reckonings of morality like these all throughout Il Bidone, Fellini earns the final step in Augusto’s redemption arc, formally returning to the religious scam which he conducted so effortlessly in the film’s first scene. When realising his victim’s daughter is a polio-afflicted teenage girl with a pure faith in God, his conscience can no longer bear the weight of his guilt. Torment and shame uneasily mount in Broderick Crawford’s flustered performance, though it is only when he makes away with his crew that they ultimately manifest as a bald-faced lie – he did not end up taking the money, he claims, but instead returned it.

*Wondrous depth of field in Fellini’s blocking, as Augusto’s crew grow suspicious of their leader and turn on him.*

It is at this point that we witness a religious icon be imbued with real meaning for the very first time in Il Bidone, rather than become a weapon of exploitation. As Augusto is robbed by his associates, beaten, and left on a hill to die, Fellini symbolically alludes to Christ’s sacrifice, bearing the sins of the world on the cross. Augusto’s honourable attempt to keep the stolen money from falling into criminal hands may be in vain, yet through physical and spiritual suffering, his soul is liberated. Rocky is the path to salvation in Fellini’s cinematic parable, but so too is it purifying, stripping back the lies and depravity of a modern world to uncover the grace that lies dormant in even the most dishonest man.

*Fellini evokes Christ’s torture and sacrifice in Augusto’s death, cherishing the purification of his soul at the tragic expense of his life.*

Il Bidone is currently streaming on The Criterion Channel, and is available to purchase on DVD or Blu-ray on Amazon.

La Strada (1954)

Federico Fellini | 1hr 54min

Italy’s rich tradition of commedia dell’arte is given new life in La Strada’s neorealist update, summoning the stock characters of 16^th century theatre into a modern landscape of heartbreaking destitution. Sold by her desperate mother as an assistant to travelling strongman Zampanò, bright-eyed idealist Gelsomina soon finds herself tragically drawn to the sensitivity beneath his toxic abuse, as well as the far more jovial stunt performer, Il Matto – or ‘The Fool’ in English. He is our good-natured Harlequin, often pulling whimsical pranks on the boastful Zampanò who might as well stand in for commedia’s Il Capitano, while offering a gentle wisdom to those who seek his comfort.

Gelsomina is not quite the sad sack that the Pierrot clown was traditionally intended to be, and yet her place as a naïve, disenfranchised victim of society between these two men strongly binds her to that theatrical archetype. Especially when she puts on her striped shirt, baggy overcoat, and face of white makeup to serve as Zampanò’s musical assistant, she transforms entirely into a bumbling comedian not unlike Charlie Chaplin, completing the look with a very familiar bowler hat. Unlike the long-suffering Little Tramp though, there is no romance or comical reversal of fortune waiting for Gelsomina at the end of La Strada. Federico Fellini may hold affection for the clowns of Italian theatre and modern cinema, but so too is he deeply engaged with the hardship that haunted a post-war Europe, extinguishing the joy and laughter that its merry entertainers sought to revive.

*Giuletta Masina is our white-faced Pierrot clown, supporting the bold and brutish strongman Zampanò with her musical accompaniment, but also bringing a playful, bumbling presence like Chaplin.*

There is no doubt to be had that he is the master behind the camera here, astutely blocking his cast within a magnificent depth of field, and whisking them along stretches of dirt track between towns and roadside camps. In front of the camera however, it is Giulietta Masina as Gelsomina who commands our hearts with round, dark eyes that rival Marie Falconetti’s for the most expressive in cinema history, turning her face into an animated canvas of sincere emotion. Whether she is gazing in romantic awe at Il Matto’s fanciful highwire act or raising her brow in miserable surrender to her loneliness, Masina lives in silence, visually conveying the most nuanced of emotions that words could never capture. Even beyond Fellini’s close-ups though, her small stature, androgynous appearance, and bumbling movements reveal a naïve innocence that frequently attracts the company of children. In turn, she offers them comical entertainment, and relishes the simplicity of their playful interactions.

*Poignant blocking achieved through Fellini’s depth of field, separating Gelsomina from those she holds most dear as she is forced into Zampanò’s service.*

Gelsomina is a woman of few words, but her round, dark eyes are all we need to fill in the gaps – Masina would have thrived in the silent film era, but Fellini is very fortunate that he happened to marry the perfect subject for this tragedy.

*Fellini’s neorealist roots bleed through Gelsomina’s broken innocence, sitting with the underlying sadness of Italy’s merry entertainers.*

It is a special few people who sense the presence of something truly beautiful in this unassuming woman. The nuns who grant her and Zampanò shelter at their convent see much of their pious lifestyle in Gelsomina’s modesty, and it is clear the admiration goes both ways in the awed reverence she shows for a passing religious procession. Although Il Matto playfully comments on her “funny face” that looks “more like an artichoke” than a woman, he too possesses a powerful belief that everything in the universe carries a greater purpose, and that her humble existence is no exception.

*There is a nomadic quality to Fellini’s location shooting through Italian towns and countrysides, wandering around the edges of civilisation where buildings and streets are in disrepair.*

This message inspires Gelsomina with enormous passion, and yet it helplessly falls on deaf ears when she tries to bring it back to Zampanò. He is a brutishly close-minded man, content with performing the same rehearsed trick of breaking chains around his torso with little creativity or variation. It is the small details of their interactions that reveal enormous differences between the two companions, such as her desire to stay longer in one location and watch her planted seeds grow, and his subsequent decision to move onto the next destination. Anything that takes time and patience to cultivate is a frivolous endeavour in his mind, as he refuses to believe in any good greater than his own survival, pleasure, and ego. It is especially the latter which drives him to take violent revenge on Il Matto for getting all three of them fired from the circus, and which leads to the strongman accidentally killing the fool in the process.

Zampanò’s feat of breaking chains around chest is an uninspired bore. He is content repeating the same lines and performing the same act for years on end, unable to see any grander purpose to life beyond making a living.

*In contrast, Il Matto’s act is playful and genuinely thrilling, carrying an upbeat zest for life that attracts Gelsomina and repels Zampanò.*

True to his neorealist roots as a writer for Roberto Rossellini, Fellini wields his tragedy with a deft hand here, destroying this narrative’s icon of hope much like the cold murder of a pregnant Anna Magnani in Rome, Open City. It is at this moment with Il Matto’s demise that we see something irreparably break inside Gelsomina. “The fool is hurt,” she catatonically repeats, consumed by a maddening cloud of grief that keeps her from performing in Zampanò’s travelling act. Just as her sister who previously served the strongman died while on the road with him, so too is Gelsomina destroyed by his brutality, establishing a pattern of suffering among those women who cycle in and out of his life.

As snow settles on the barren roadside where Zampanò sets up camp with Gelsomina for the last time, he makes up his mind. She is little more than a liability in her current state, no longer of any use to him. While other neorealists were using grand European cities as illustrations of their characters psyches, Fellini’s location shooting in Italy’s countryside simply offers Gelsomina’s abandonment a harsh backdrop of frozen alps and a few crumbling stone walls as she mournfully fades away into the distance.

*Excellent location shooting on Italian farms and against its frozen alps, isolating Gelsomina from the company of children and lovers who bring joy to her life.*

Still, there is a trace of her spirit that lives on in the wind. A simple musical leitmotif reworked from Antonín Dvořák’s orchestral ‘Serenade for Strings’ resonates a nostalgic longing for brighter days, and becomes an evocative piece of La Strada’s broader form. The refrain carries mystical significance for Gelsomina, fatefully luring her to Il Matto when she first hears it on his violin, and becoming a symbol of their connection as he teaches her how to play it on the trumpet. Even strangers who may be sensitively attuned to delicate artistic expressions finds themselves inexplicably moved by her lonely brass melody, subconsciously realising that they are witnessing the distillation of her soul into music, and soon even Nino Rota starts weaving it into his orchestral score.

*A sad, evocative refrain passes between characters and instruments, but most distinctly represents Gelsomina’s nostalgic longing for brighter days, carrying on long after her death.*

Though Gelsomina may have never realised this in life, her motif is the mark she has left on the world, infectiously passing between characters and instruments long after her death. At least Zampanò is still around many years later to hear it sung by a woman hanging up washing in her yard. From her, he learns that Gelsomina survived his abandonment, but was entirely mute by the time this family took her in. Instead, she let this sweet melodic passage become her voice, imparting it as her final gift before passing away.

After all this time, Gelsomina’s undying tune finally touches Zampanò as well, forcing a gutting recognition of the divine innocence he has corrupted. As he drunkenly stumbles through the seaside town, Fellini formally returns to the beach for a third time in La Strada, calling back to their meeting in the film’s very first scene, and another brief stopover where she longingly dreamed of home. He wades through the shallow water, emotionally and spiritually lost, and yet echoes of Gelsomina surround him wherever he goes. Her legacy may not change the course of history, but one cannot help recalling Il Matto’s earlier words of comfort, considering the great purpose that lies within an apparently unremarkable pebble. Even after the worst of La Strada’s tragedies, life persists in the memory of those who are gone – weighing heavily on those who bear their guilty burden, and inspiring those who see the miracle of their mere existence.

A melancholy final scene leaves Zampanò with his own guilt back where he started on a beach, this time facing his mistakes and flaws through the memory of Gelsomina, and tragically unable to break free from their constraints.

La Strada is currently streaming on The Criterion Channel, and you can purchase the Blu-ray on Amazon.

I Vitelloni (1953)

Federico Fellini | 1hr 47min

Every so often, something genuinely interesting happens in the coastal Italian village where idle womaniser Fausto stirs trouble with his friends, and Federico Fellini eagerly latches onto those fleeting breaks from the monotony. As for the moments in between, I Vitelloni’s mysterious narrator has no issue condensing entire months into a few seconds, briefly noting the facial hair that Fausto’s friends grow as the most exciting thing to happen between their ringleader’s momentous return from his honeymoon and his first scandalous affair. This first-person voiceover is tinged with nostalgia, assuming the perspective of the entire group looking back on their youth, while largely resisting being pinned down to any individual. Still, it very gradually becomes apparent which of them in particular its attitude most aligns with – the only one to have broken free from those small-town constraints, and whose reflections come from a poignant distance.

Moraldo is not the main character in I Vitelloni, let alone his own story, though he is clearly the most introspective of his friends. While the others are chasing women, fame, and glory with a middle-class arrogance, he finds himself wandering the town’s cobbled stone streets at night, recognising his immediate surroundings as the source of his listless discontent. The trivial drama of Fausto’s sleazy escapades can only keep one entertained for so long before they grow wearisome and the call of grander adventures become louder, fading his formative years into memories kept alive through stories like these.

I Vitelloni was Fellini’s Mean Streets long before Martin Scorsese would break through with his own plotless hangout film in 1973, dwelling in vignettes languidly strung together in the lives of young, immature men.

It would be incorrect to label I Vitelloni as an autobiographical film for Fellini, though the essence of his own youth lived by the Adriatic Sea visibly carries from life into fiction. The meandering plotlessness of this hangout narrative would go on to influence everyone from Richard Linklater to the Coen Brothers, but first and foremost it left its mark on the global New Wave movements of the 1960s and 70s. The resemblance between Fellini’s work and Martin Scorsese’s breakout Mean Streets is especially striking, with Fausto’s philandering and Johnny Boy’s troublemaking both building towards a pair of crises that erupt with brutal consequences. Outside of these climactic reckonings, vignettes are also effortlessly strung together into landscapes of celebration and struggle, trapping characters in loops that continuously cycle between both.

Even if it diverges from Roberto Rossellini’s examinations of post-war destitution, I Vitelloni is a film to make Fellini’s neorealist mentor proud, resourcefully shooting on location in small Italian towns and crafting tremendous visuals from their historic stonework.

Much like Scorsese’s film, I Vitelloni similarly marked the first true work of cinematic brilliance from Fellini as well, though the introduction of characters through a floating camera and descriptive voiceover is purely Goodfellas. Even if it diverges from Roberto Rossellini’s examinations of post-war destitution, this is a film to make his neorealist mentor proud, resourcefully shooting on location in small Italian towns and crafting tremendous visuals from their historic stonework.

The heightened emotions of classical Hollywood are nowhere to be found here, replaced by day-to-day interactions and complex relationships that are consistently developed in Fellini’s naturalistic blocking. There is also no external conflict in our characters’ walk down to the town’s deserted beach on a windy afternoon where they playfully consider of how much money they would jump into the water for, and yet the bleak beauty of his coastal scenery, the uneven arrangement of their bodies, and their impassive expressions reveal an unspoken, disenchanted aloofness. Fellini’s staging in such moments often illustrates the indolence of these men who are described in the film’s translated title as layabouts, and yet never quite so explicitly as his magnificent shot of them lounging across chairs outside a café, alternating directions far into the background.

A wealth of meaning packed into the staging of bodies along the edge of a pier, staggered into the background as the men passively gaze out at the ocean – the sheer edge of the only society they have ever known.

*Bleak coastal scenery set beneath an overcast sky, with jagged metal wires foregrounded to the left. Fellini never simply throws away his frames.*

At least the small routines and traditions of this community connect them to some sense of cultural identity, even if they don’t quite keep them out of trouble. Whether they are attending the annual Miss Mermaid beauty contest or preparing for the chaotic carnival season, these festivities simultaneously break up the monotony of everyday life, and yet paradoxically become part of that predictable annual cycle. It is often during these events that Fellini’s camerawork, editing, and mise-en-scène grow busier too as extras fill his scenery, enveloping Fausto in intoxicating atmospheres that spur him on to make poor decisions.

*Traditions, rituals, and celebrations bring some excitement as they periodically break up the monotony of everyday life, and yet they also paradoxically become part of its predictable cycles.*

*Fellini designs the frame at festivals like Josef von Sternberg before him, cluttering the mise-en-scène with extravagant, maximalist detail and streamers.*

Not that it takes much for the playboy to rush headfirst into impulsive exploits and affairs, even after his shotgun wedding to Miss Mermaid contest winner, Sandra Rubini. His disloyalty borders on sociopathic, seeing him slyly flirt with another woman at the cinema while his wife curls up on his arm, before abruptly leaving and following the beautiful stranger home. Later when he is forced to finally get a retail job, he even tries on multiple occasions to seduce his boss’ wife Giulia, and retaliates with petty vengeance when he is fired in a far more gracious manner than what he deserves.

Fausto is easily the greatest character of I Vitelloni – a man his friends call their spiritual guide, yet who is completely devoid of responsibility and shame, leaving his wife at the cinema to cheat on her with a fellow moviegoer. As such, he becomes a complete representation of masculinity at its most immature and self-serving.

Of course, Fausto’s friends aren’t entirely blameless in all of this. They are enablers of the worst kind, convincing him to steal Signore Michele’s angel statue to compensate for the weeks of work he has lost, and directly lying to the hopelessly naïve Sandra about his cheating. They call him their “spiritual guide,” but it is clear that they are young men simply electing the coolest, most confident peer in their vicinity as their leader. Only when Sandra discovers his infidelity and runs away from home with their baby is Fausto forced to accept responsibility for his family, having thoroughly humiliated himself by crying to his old boss and being belted by his father. Whether or not he will fall prey to his lustful impulses in the future remains uncertain, and yet his illusion of self-composure has nevertheless begun to weaken, loosening his grasp over those who once held him as a paragon of masculinity.

*Fausto is a fitting name for the playboy of the group, constantly seeking out hedonistic excitement at the ultimate cost of his own freedom.*

The time has come to move on, these men realise, and yet only Moraldo has the motivation to set himself free from the past. He doesn’t know where his train will take him, but as he looks back for the last time, Fellini rapidly cuts through a montage of his friends lying in bed and becoming little more than distant memories. They too will grow old and perhaps even find success, but within I Vitelloni’s ruminations they are frozen in an eternal, static youth of idle recreation and empty pleasure, lazily hoping for the day that the world might finally give their lives greater purpose.

*A poignant ending, flitting through a montage of each friend asleep in their bed, before farewelling the only one among them with the courage to leave town and make something of his life.*

I Vitelloni is currently streaming on The Criterion Channel, the Blu-ray is available to purchase on Amazon.

The White Sheik (1952)

Federico Fellini | 1hr 23min

The marriage between flighty romantic Wanda and the overly practical Ivan was never going to be an easy one, though at least the wild romp across Rome that emerges from their odd mismatch of values brings both newlyweds down to earth – and the light amusement it offers to those looking in from the outside doesn’t hurt either. While Ivan has planned their honeymoon down to the exact minute, Wanda’s eyes have turned to handsome celebrity Fernando Rivoli, star of the soap opera photo strip ‘The White Sheik’. Surely it won’t be too much of an issue if she disappears for a few hours to see him, she presumes, thereby leaving Ivan alone to meet with his relatives, devise a string of excuses for her disappearance, and track her down before their imminent appointment with the Pope.

The White Sheik may be a minor effort from Federico Fellini in his early career, but to those acquainted with the Italian director’s later work, this romantic comedy also holds the key to his artistic development. In his eyes, modern day Rome is a city of glorious contradictions, infused with an air of classical romanticism that runs counter to the lies and pretensions of its morally ambiguous citizens. His filmmaking here is not true neorealism, and at this point he does not yet possess the impressive stylistic command of his mentors, but his roots in the movement are nonetheless evident in his location shooting around Rome’s streets and architectural landmarks. He evidently knows how to wield this setting in key moments, at one point cutting through a brief montage of the city’s angel statues around Wanda after having her heart broken, and yet denying any immediate salvation as they turn their backs to both her and the camera.

In this moment, it feels as if the comforting, open arms of Christianity are closed, leaving Wanda to wallow in her misery. Fellini would later interrogate the shallow pretensions of modern-day theology with greater formal acuity in La Dolce Vita, further exploring Rome as a morally broken cesspool of hypocrites, and yet beyond this scene The White Sheik also lays out that groundwork through the cultural intertwining of religion and celebrity. In this city, God is constantly displaced by whatever new, substanceless attraction seduces fans with their dazzling looks, with the hottest star at this point in time being handsome photo strip star Rivoli.

Even the very name that this deceptively charming actor adopts as his heroic character is meaningless in its cultural contradiction, with the ‘White Sheik’ applying an artificial Western lens to Middle Eastern culture for no good reason other than the exotic appeal. Of course, Wanda can’t resist – she is ready to impulsively sail away with him for an ocean adventure, and eat up his tall tale of being brainwashed into an unhappy marriage through a love potion. Only when his actual wife arrives and exposes his lies does the blinding façade fall away to reveal a pathetic, empty man desperately trying to live up to his legend, thereby ending Wanda’s romantic dreams.

Meanwhile, Ivan’s ordeal back at the hotel realising his wife has run away pushes him far outside his comfort zone to do something he has never done before – improvise. For better and worse, Fellini clearly delights in the broad comedy of this storyline more than the other, straining Ivan’s ability to keep his cool demeanour under extreme duress. He can only cover for Wanda’s absence so much before his inquisitive relatives begin to see through the lies about her apparent sickness, and eventually his mental exhaustion begins to spill out into slapstick when he is comically caught up in a marching band that almost runs him over. Unfortunately, Leopoldo Trieste’s constant mugging of the camera with a stunned gaze does not play out so well comedically, and he is even outdone by Giulietta Masina cameoing as the same character she would later play in Nights of Cabiria.

With Wanda recognising the emptiness of her dreams and Sven learning the value of flexibility, Fellini effectively reunites the newlywedded couple under their original plan to visit St Peter’s Basilica and see the Pope. His allegory for marriage’s holy union is transparent but well-earned, seeing both spouses overcome their flaws, and ultimately grow closer to God in this finale. Rome may be a city of famous icons and worldly distractions in The White Sheik, and yet there is still divine redemption to be found by those who seek it out in the right places.

The White Sheik is currently available to purchase as a DVD or Blu-ray on Amazon.

Variety Lights (1950)

Federico Fellini, Alberto Lattuada | 1hr 33min

How many times must impresario Checco fall for a young lady, throw away his life for her career, and find himself abandoned before he learns his lesson? It seems that some romantics are simply incapable of such self-cognisance, as even after the precious Liliana departs his troupe to be a showgirl in a larger company, another woman similarly catches his eye and sets off the cycle all over again. Meanwhile, Checco’s faithful mistress Melina is always there to catch his fall, constantly letting her heart be broken in the hope that one day it won’t all be in vain. The bare bones of Variety Lights’ narrative make up a fable that Josef von Sternberg had previously given extraordinary cinematic life in has masterpiece The Blue Angel, and yet the light neorealist edge that Federico Fellini and Alberto Lattuada offer here alternatively ingrains it within the bohemian landscapes of Italy’s travelling troupes with effortless style.

For Fellini especially, Variety Lights marks a significant milestone as his directorial debut, having spent the past few years working as a screenwriter for Roberto Rossellini. His love of theatre’s longstanding traditions would take on even greater symbolic meaning in later films like La Strada and 8 ½, but they emerge quite directly here as the setting of his narrative, fuelling the drama between its flighty characters. So too does he initiate two of his greatest collaborations in this film, not only with cinematographer Otello Martelli whose keen sense of blocking and depth of field would later be put to tremendous use in La Dolce Vita, but also with Fellini’s own wife Giulietta Masina who steals every scene she is in as Melina.

Carla Del Poggio may not be quite up to Masina’s level as Liliana, but even so her transformation from awkward wannabe to glamourous showgirl is well-earned. Much like the sly usurper of All About Eve, Liliana works her way into the inner circle of powerful players with a sincere naivety, winning the viewer’s trust as a reliable heroine. Her first attempt at ingratiating herself with Checco by showing him her model photos is blunt, but it isn’t until she hires a carriage to rescue his stranded troupe that she is brought into their fold. Her apparent clumsiness onstage apparently doesn’t deter male spectators from cheering on her performance, and so she officially becomes the hot new attraction, growing audience numbers by the night and drawing invitations for the group to dine with wealthy patrons.

Seeing an opportunity to make more money and keep Liliana by his side, Checco resolves for the pair of them to strike out on their own and start a new acting troupe. The following struggle for funds that sees him crawling back to Melina briefly blows Variety Lights out into melodrama, and yet not enough to detract from Fellini’s naturalism. Taking inspiration from his neorealist mentors, he chooses to shoot on location all through urban and rural Italy, composing handsome shots from cobbled stone streets, narrow alleyways, and long, dusty roads lines with trees.

This is not the groundbreaking filmmaking that would later establish Fellini as a master of the art form, but it is nonetheless an admirable starting point, absolutely fitting for this fable of luckless artists. For better or for worse, Checco will always have Melina there to foolishly take him back when other women abandon him for more lavish opportunities, leaving him broke in both love and money. It might be easy to assume that only those blinded by dreamy passion lose themselves in eternal loops of self-degradation, and yet as is evident through Variety Lights’ hapless impresario, such complete failure also takes a self-centred ego and a certain lack of wits.

Variety Lights is currently streaming on The Criterion Channel, and the DVD and Blu-ray are available to purchase on Amazon.

The Ballad of Narayama (1958)

Keisuke Kinoshita | 1hr 38min

There might not be any reliable historical record that the ritual of ‘obasute’ was practiced anywhere outside of Japanese folklore, and yet it is exactly in that heightened, mythical realm where The Ballad of Narayama dwells. In the small valley where the 69-year-old Orin lives with her grandson Tatsuhei, it is tradition for elders to be carried to a mountaintop when they turn 70, and then left alone to perish. This form of customary senicide is not something to be feared, just as the natural course of ageing is not to be shied away from. In fact, Orin’s 33 intact teeth are even a point of shame for her, becoming the subject of a mocking song that is quickly spread between neighbours, cruelly suggesting that she struck a deal with the devil.

“In a corner in the back room

My granny found herself a set of 33 demon teeth.”

The other implication here is that Orin’s appetite is unusually large for a woman of her age, and in this starving village, a gluttony like hers is worthy of public humiliation. Whether for celebration or punishment, singing is the medium through which ideas are shared among the locals, turning rumours into stories, and stories into lyrics. As implied by the title The Ballad of Narayama, narrative and music are strongly intertwined in the film’s very form, paying homage to the traditions of kabuki theatre with a singer introducing scenes and offering poetic commentary. “The harvest in autumn brings sorrow, Even as the rice ripens to a golden hue,” his wavering voice croons to the twanging of his three-stringed shamisen, evoking colourful images of workers labouring away in yellow rice fields that are only outdone by the bright, saturated visuals Keisuke Kinoshita matches to the lyrics.

*Kinoshita’s frames are paintings rendered through theatrical staging and autumnal colours, visualising the lyrics of the sung narration with an incredibly saturated aesthetic.*

*Each scene is given its own distinct colour palette, cloaking these characters here in vibrant red leaves.*

While his Japanese contemporaries Akira Kurosawa and Yasujirō Ozu were still working in black-and-white around this time, the lesser-known Kinoshita was boldly venturing into the realm of colour cinematography – still a relatively new technology in late 1950s Asia, yet one which has rarely been put to better use than it is here. Within the widescreen Shochiku GrandScope, the earthy yellows and oranges of autumnal landscapes are detailed in vast, painterly compositions, while the colour palette’s eventual shift to greys and whites as snow starts to fall visually ushers in a dreary seasonal change.

*Kinoshita eventually drains his mise-en-scène of colour as winter replaces autumn, shedding a light grey snow across spectacular sets.*

Michael Powell’s Technicolor visuals no doubt influenced Kinoshita here, especially with matte backdrops of expansive mountain ranges heavily evoking Black Narcissus, and yet the village’s fluorescent green wash at night and its striking contrast against a bright pink sky makes for an electric contrast that was still quite novel in 1958. The potential of neon lighting was established from there, paving a path for Seijun Suzuki and Mario Bava’s stylistic genre experiments in the 1960s, though it wouldn’t be until Peter Greenaway’s brightly coloured satires in the 80s that we would see another filmmaker adopt and even match Kinoshita’s grand, theatrical artifice.

*The Ballad of Narayama features some of the first neon lighting in cinema, striking a jarring visual contrast in the deep greens and pinks.*

Because as a visual and formal statement, that is what The Ballad of Narayama is – a heavily curated representation of traditional Japanese storytelling, adapted to a modern medium. Kinoshita never hides the fact that these sets are built on highly controlled soundstages, but also never lets its limitations impose on his vibrant worldbuilding. The lighting dramatically shifts with the sentiment of each scene, at one point dimming to a spotlight on two characters consumed by darkness, and later casting an angry red wash over Orin’s disturbing arrival at a festival with several of her teeth smashed out.

*A two shot contained within a spotlight, emphasising their connection through the negative space around them.*

*An angry red wash is cast over the scene of Orin’s arrival at the festival, revealing that she has smashed several of her own teeth out.*

Of course, all of this is entirely in line with kabuki theatre conventions as well, maintaining that invisible fourth wall between the scenery and the viewer as Kinoshita’s camera tracks parallel to the action, and frames interiors in wide shots like dioramas. These sets are incredibly dynamic, often moving walls and props to transition between scenes where one might expect to find a cut, and thereby manipulating our perception of time through theatrical rather than cinematic conventions.

This is not to say that Kinoshita’s direction is stagebound though, as there remains a very sharp attention to detail in his depth of field, mimicking the look of multiplane animations by dividing his frame into separate layers that move at different speeds when the camera drifts past. It is especially the final act of the film following Tatsuhei’s journey up the mountain with Orin on his back that Kinoshita delivers some of his most immaculate cinematic scenery, largely excising dialogue as grandmother and grandson traverse great mossy boulders, cascading waterfalls, and trees that grow more withered with the rising altitude.

Excellent visual storytelling in the editing and camera movement, journeying up the mountain through perilous terrains. The soundstages make for some incredibly rich compositions, obstructed by trees in the foreground while mountain ranges are painted out in matte backdrops.

Atop the craggy peak, the only sign of life are black crows standing over a number of skeletons – foreboding imagery for sure, and yet this pilgrimage is nevertheless one of serene acceptance. Through the ritual of obasute, generations are united in a cycle of life as enduring as the seasons themselves, which just so happen to shift at the exact point Tatsuhei begins his journey back down. Snow begins to fall, and again we move through the same shots as before, though this time in reverse order and with a soft, white powder concealing the vibrant colours.

*Fog and death hangs in the air, littering the mountaintop with the skeletons of elders who have perished here before.*

Though there may be peaceful closure within Tatsuhei’s family, the burst of violence that disrupts his descent is a culmination of several disputes we have witnessed up to now. His neighbour Matayan is at a similar age as Orin, and yet he does not embrace his encroaching death with such grace. Conversely, his son couldn’t be more ready to rid himself of the old man, finally resorting to dragging his fearful father up the mountain against his will. The brutality and selfishness of these villagers was also firmly established earlier with their lynching of a starving man who tried to steal food, and now as we watch Matayan and his son struggle on a cliff’s edge, we witness another cold-blooded murder. The son’s patricide is an unadulterated perversion of tradition, demonstrating an eagerness to escape the burden of the past rather than let it go with dignity as the conventions of obasute dictate. Grasping for some sort of justice as a bystander, Tatsuhei unleashes his fury upon his neighbour, and eventually succeeds in sending him plunging to his death too.

*The village’s disrespect of elders pays off in this terrible struggle between father and son, sending the senior tumbling over the clifftop.*

As if sectioning this entire tale off into a sad, distant dream of Japanese folklore, Kinoshita’s epilogue removes us completely from the vibrant sets and theatrical storytelling that have dominated The Ballad of Narayama up until now. Colours are desaturated into a miserable black-and-white, and for the first time the mountain scenery is entirely authentic, seeing a train pull into a modern-day station. The only indication of the region’s history is etched on a sign, giving the station its name – “Obasute”, or the “abandonment of old people.” A term that once carried great pride has become one of mourning, implying a desertion that is not merely symbolic, but loaded with cruel dispassion. Perhaps we can at least find some solace in the preservation of Japan’s forgotten legends through this cinematic ballad of lush, vibrant colours, healing that division between past and present with a painterly reinvention of theatrical and film conventions as we know them.

*The epilogue is a powerful formal shift to black-and-white location shooting, returning us to the modern day where trains run through the old village.*

The Ballad of Narayama is currently streaming on The Criterion Channel, and the DVD is available to buy on Amazon.