Tag: neorealism

Ossessione (1943)

Luchino Visconti | 2hr 20min

Ossessione’s derelict inns, sweaty singlets, and messy kitchens are far removed from the glamour of Hollywood’s film noirs, yet its forbidding tale of lust, murder, and fatalism nevertheless runs parallel to those expressionistic fables. When Gino’s hitchhiking lands him in a roadside tavern, the contempt that its co-owner Giovanna holds for her husband and business partner Giuseppe is revealed to be as strong as her attraction towards this new visitor. From there, an affair that maliciously seeks to remove Giuseppe from the picture unravels, revealing the dark hearts of those involved. Luchino Visconti’s camerawork is elegant here, navigating this conspiracy with intrigue as it turns towards a mirror during their nefarious plotting, and wanders through lives bars where secrets lurk between lovers.

With that said, Ossessione’s narrative is also impossible to remove from the social context it was made in. With Italy still under Fascist occupation in 1943, the hardships of the working class were at an all-time high, significantly deteriorating the nation’s sense of cultural identity and moral clarity. Neorealism was not yet a full-fledged movement, yet Visconti is thoughtfully sowing its seeds here, offering an unrelenting window into the life of the poor and the extremes to which they go simply for a taste of pleasure. His location shooting along provincial roads and in the seaside city of Ancona serves to underscore that authenticity as well, even as the narrative veers beyond the mundane and into gritty crime drama.

A crane shot lifting us above the truck, and introducing us to the roadside tavern where love and resentment will equally bloom.
A murder conspiracy unfolds in this reflection, catching Gino and Giovanna’s doubles as they sink to new, nefarious depths.

Still, Visconti’s merging of naturalism and fatalism was not exactly unheard of before his remarkable directorial debut. France’s poetic realism gracefully merged the two in the 1930s, seeing directors like Jean Renoir and Marcel Carné navigate tales of moral corruption with a floating visual style that no doubt influences Visconti here. Meanwhile, the fact that the film is based on the 1934 novel The Postman Always Rings Twice binds its roots close to American noirs, even as it introduces a devious femme fatale whose screen presence is far removed from the allure of Barbara Stanwyck or Mary Astor. Clara Calamai is no doubt a beautiful actress, but Visconti does not shroud her in soft lighting and trendy outfits. Giovanna’s lonely dinners in a grimy kitchen reveal a far sadder existence than her Hollywood counterparts, surrounding her with towers of dirty dishes as she reads from a newspaper and eats a bowl of pasta.

An early progenitor of Italian neorealism, using stone streets and buildings to imbue this tale with an unrelenting authenticity.
Visconti using the littered ground as his mise-en-scène in this high angle, composing a sparse yet messy shot.
Poverty encompasses Giovanna on every side with these stacked dishes and bottles – a beautifully crowded shot.

When two young, attractive people such as Gino and Giovanna fall into each other’s orbit then, it is plain to see just how easily their dreams of escape escalate into destructive delusion. After initial talks of murder lead to their first breakup, destiny seems to draw them back together in a bar, coaxing the lovers to believe in a greater force at play. “Before, the world seemed a big place. Now, there is only your shop,” Gino romantically murmurs as an oblivious Giuseppe performs onstage. Putting off their plans any further seems pointless – the time to strike presents itself when all three drive home together, and the two conspirators ultimately find the perfect opportunity to stage a deadly car accident.

Visconti’s camera is truly free as it drifts through this lively bar.
A secret affair hiding in plain sight, drowned out by drunken crowds and live singing.
Darkness wraps around the murderous lovers and their oblivious victim as they approach the point of no return.

Upon Gino and Giovanna’s return to the tavern, its atmosphere is more unwelcoming than ever, as if recognising the violence that has been inflicted upon its owner. It is dark and quiet inside, resurfacing Gino’s feelings of guilt as he realises what he has done. Giovanna’s desire to reopen shop with him is met with harsh rejection, which is only aggravated further by the discovery that she took out a life insurance policy before the murder. The more distance he places between them though, the greater her jealousy becomes, and Visconti’s camera soaks up the emotional drama as we follow her stalking him through streets. When Gino goes even further and confesses a heavy conscience to his new lover Anita, he is visually trapped behind his bed’s mesh netting in one aptly framed shot, effectively caught in Giovanna’s web while the police close in.

The tavern is dark and lifeless upon their return, the chairs stacked upon tables and visually imposing upon this shot.
The camera attaches to Giovanna as she stalks Gino through the streets, obsessively tracking his movements.
Mesh netting suffocating Gino as he begins to feel the consequences of his actions.

Clearly Gino is not the sort of man to learn from his mistakes though. When Giovanna comes forward with news of her pregnancy, he reconsiders their future together at an empty, overcast beach where they ultimately reconcile. As shallow pools of water catch their upside-down reflections, Visconti composes a scene of meagre romance in this lifeless locale, and even Giuseppe Rosati’s score continues its tense, foreboding melody. Giovanna may finally agree that leaving town is the best course of action, but they are fools to believe that they can simply start a new life together after all they have been through. Besides, that wicked hand of fate isn’t quite done with them yet, drawing Ossessione closer than ever to its film noir contemporaries.

Bleak, miserable romance on this wet beach, the lovers’ reflections caught in its shallow puddles.

The moment these lovers hit the road, we see inevitable tragedy take ironic shape and finally solidify when Gino tries to overtake a truck passing by an embankment. Just as Giovanna killed her husband by veering his car off-road, so too does her own story end at the hands of another driver, nudging her vehicle down a steep drop and into the water below. That the police should arrive a few moments later as Gino pulls Giovanna’s limp body from the wreckage only twists the knife deeper, delivering a far more degrading punishment to the man who blatantly ignored his own conscience on multiple occasions. Redemption is a luxury that the poor cannot afford in Ossessione, and through Visconti’s unvarnished, cynical naturalism, he adeptly delivers a solemn condemnation of moral decrepitude that cannot be swayed by fleeting hopes or half-hearted regrets.

Bitter justice is served twice over, both by the police and the invisible hand of fate.

Ossessione is currently streaming on Prime Video.

La Terra Trema (1948)

Luchino Visconti | 2hr 45min

The villagers of Aci Trezza do not speak Italian, La Terra Trema’s opening text is sure to inform us. Theirs is a Sicilian dialect which most people would have trouble comprehending, but Luchino Visconti is not interested in rounding off these rough edges for the sake of his mainland audience. His ensemble is made up of real townsfolk rather than professional actors after all, so why compromise on those details which give their insulated community such character and complexity? Moreover, why not use its rugged coastlines and bustling marketplaces in place of artificial studio sets, capturing their lives with even greater authenticity?

Visconti was not the only neorealist pushing these innovations forward in the 1940s, though where Vittorio de Sica and Roberto Rossellini used real locations to tell the stories of individuals, La Terra Trema leans into the story of its setting. The omniscient Italian voiceover which describes Aci Trezza’s daily routines and power structures does not compromise the naturalism on display – rather the opposite in fact, effectively shaping this literary adaptation into a work of docufiction which observes the village with a distant curiosity. It speaks in present tense, underscoring the spontaneity of each narrative development, but there is also no doubt regarding Visconti’s meticulous craftsmanship. This tale of one fisherman’s attempted revolution against the greedy local wholesalers is given an epic stage here, tracing the sort of rise-and-fall archetype that once belonged to Roman mythology, yet which Visconti transposes to a microcosm of modern Sicily.

Leading lines into the background, using blocking of actors to design the frame while remaining completely organic.
La Terra Trema is a family saga, and Visconti matches his visuals to the epic scope – not so much with vast landscapes than the sheer density of his crowded shots.

As is typical of these grand sagas as well, we find a family at the centre of its drama, rich with history and traditions which have thrived for generations. “The women always worry about the men at sea, as the family has always had a boat at sea, ever since the name Valastro has existed,” the narrator informs us, introducing the clan to whom our working-class hero Antonio belongs. Long have they been exploited by the wholesalers, but now that he has returned home from war, he has also brought with him radical new ideas. Uniting his fellow fishermen, he encourages them to resist budging on their prices, and ultimately claims victory despite the violence which breaks out. With the wholesalers temporarily out for the count, Antonio has the whole town on his side, yet this is only the beginning of his grand ambitions to reform Aci Trezza’s fishing industry.

Revolution among workers, using Eisenstein’s ‘monistic ensemble’ to transcend individualism.
Staggered blocking of the wholesalers’ faces in this frame – a wonderful composition imposing smug superiority.

It is no surprise that Visconti was commissioned by the Italian Communist Party to create this film, even if he diverged a little from their instructions to shoot a documentary. The product is ideologically akin to the Soviet Montage films of the 1920s, though formally the only significant influence here emerges from Sergei Eisenstein’s theory of the ‘monistic ensemble’, blocking large crowds as single units that transcend individualism. When it comes to the pure visual composition of bodies in the frames as well, few are Visconti’s equal. The full depth and scope of his frame are used to build out social hierarchies within the Valastro family and beyond, staggering actors in dynamic tableaux that seem to emerge organically from their weathered environments. Even when his camera is tracking through masses pulling boats ashore or haggling at the market, still these hundreds of people are staged with a piercing clarity, revealing the unity and tension which pervades everyday life in Aci Trezza.

Intricate staging within the Valastro home, distinguishing men, women, and children.
Masterful work with crowds, amplifying the scope of this saga.
Incredible complexity and desnity in Visconti’s composition, filling the frame with bodies in different poses as the Valastro family hits rock bottom.

Perhaps just as impactful in characterising these people are the textures of the village itself, its rough stonework worn to debris and rubble by decades of exposure to the elements. Upon walls tarnished by discoloured stains, we also occasionally find the hammer and sickle symbol, blatantly pointing to the rising Communist sentiment in the area. Despite the complex social structures which see military officers perversely leer over impoverished women, it is clear that no one here is truly wealthy. These people are trapped by their unfortunate circumstances, ravaged by a capitalist system which equates them to their economic value and condemns them to squalid living conditions.

Weathered textures framing Visconti’s actors, encompassing them in destitute poverty.
Much of this village has collapsed into debris and rubble, and Visconti’s location shooting does not shy away from exposing this side of Italy.
Communist symbols graffitied on walls, pointing to rising anticapitalist sentiments in the region.
Class and status depicted through height, with military officers often leering over the women of the town.

This is not to say that Aci Trezza lacks beauty, though its magnificence is entirely inseparable from the greyscale austerity of its land and seascapes. From the hours spent gazing longingly at the Mediterranean Sea and waiting for their men to return, the Valastro women may know this better than anyone too. Visconti’s low angles capture their black imprints against grey skies with great severity, their flapping cloaks giving the impression of crows as they brave the wind on the rugged headland. Jutting out of the water, craggy outcrops obstruct our view of the horizon, yet these also stand as familiar, welcoming landmarks to departing and returning sailboats. Meanwhile, high angles of the shoreline itself crowd the mise-en-scene with these wooden vessels resting between trips, blending in with the coarse sand and rock.

The Valastro women stand upon rocks in flapping, black cloaks like crows, gazing out at the sea – a masterfully bleak composition in this low angle.
Craggy outcrops beyond the shore interrupt the horizon, standing as familiar landmarks to sailors.
Rocky shorelines and wooden boats – Visconti loves setting these elemental textures against each other.

So bleak is this environment, it is difficult to see how Antonio’s success could ever be sustainable here. His dreams of becoming independent, buying a boat, and cutting the wholesalers out of the supply chain manifest through pure willpower and effort, yet still the narrator foreshadows an inevitable downfall. “Well, Antonio? You have everything. All you dreamed of is yours,” it sardonically reflects, moving beyond its once-detached tone. As much as we remain at a distance from these events, we can’t help but feel some resentment towards the cruel hand of fate which unleashes a destructive storm upon Antonio’s work, as well as the unforgiving capitalist system which kicks him while he’s down.

Antonio ostracised from his community, one man against the crowd.

Pressure mounts on the Valastro family when the bank comes to repossess their house, and soon even the town turns on them, effectively cutting Antonio’s sister Lucia off from any prospect of marriage. No longer is he a hero of the working class, but a reckless pariah who tried to enact change too quickly, and Visconti’s blocking continues to evolve with these new dynamics as the fisherman finds himself isolated among his own people. “One by one, the tree’s branches wither and fall,” the narrator laments, watching a once-respected clan collapse by the actions of one man who gambled their possessions away on a brighter future. Desperate and hungry, he returns to the smirking wholesalers in a moth-eaten shirt, and resigns himself to working under them once again as an underpaid labourer.

Antonio remains isolated even within his own fractured family.

It takes solidarity to spark revolution, and although it is this missing ingredient which sinks Antonio’s economic ambitions in La Terra Trema, the narrator does not lose hope in the slow wheel of progress. “No one will help him until they all learn to live and support each other,” it reflects, “and within himself he’ll find courage to start a new life.” Its impression of neutrality has faded, yet Visconti’s writing maintains a sincere conviction in the spirit of Aci Trezza – even if it continues to lie dormant beneath the cumbersome weight of inequality. For as long as these progressive ideals remain alive as a mere thought or feeling, human dignity endures in La Terra Trema, ingrained in the very fabric of a society sustained by its indispensable, tenacious working class.

A humiliating return to the status quo, meeting the wholesalers in a moth-eaten shirt and no bargaining power whatsoever.

La Terra Trema is currently streaming on Amazon Prime Video.

Journey to Italy (1954)

Roberto Rossellini | 1hr 26min

The tension between middle-aged couple Alex and Katherine Joyce has been slowly eroding their patience throughout their vacation, so when they finally resolve to divorce on the final day, a forced, impromptu visit to Pompeii is the last thing they want. As we have witnessed during their wanderings in Journey to Italy, this land is simultaneously alive with geothermal activity and stagnant with the sombre air of history, and here at Mt Vesuvius’ dig site we see both collide in the discovery of two exhumed bodies – a man and a woman. “They have found death like this together,” the archaeologist reflects, and all at once Katherine is mournfully hit by the sorrowful impermanence of her own marriage.

What are we to do with the small amount of time we have been granted on Earth, Roberto Rossellini ponders in Journey to Italy, and how do we let that define our relationships? Turning away from the war-ravaged European cities that defined his previous films, the Italian neorealist shoots among the ancient ruins and villas of southern Italy, where the past is petrified in worn, ageing stonework. The visual metaphor here is strong, casting Alex and Katherine’s decaying marriage against crumbled walls and weathered pillars, while the bones of those who passed away millennia ago are preserved in an adoption program run at Fontanelle cemetery. Life is short, yet its remnants may survive the rise and fall of empires – so even after Katherine inevitably becomes dust one day, is her bitter contempt somehow destined to live forever?

A man and a woman exhumed from the ruins of Pompeii, their love immortalised in plaster.
Rossellini uses the ancient, crumbling structures of Italian history to stand in for Alex and Katherine’s withered, destitute love.
A heavy sense of mortality hangs over these characters’ journeys, morbidly represented in the cemeteries and catacombs that Katherine visits.

This trip from England to Naples makes for a powerful framing device in Journey to Italy, tearing this rocky marriage away from its routines, and forcing husband and wife to navigate unfamiliar territory together. The death of Uncle Homer has left his villa in their possession, and now as they venture far out of their comfort zone with the intent to sell it, Katherine’s sensitivity and Alex’s bluntness begin to amplify each other. “How can they believe in that? They’re like a bunch of children,” he disdainfully remarks upon encountering a religious street procession, to which she gives a simple, sentimental response.

“Children are happy.”

Majesty and authenticity in Italy’s architecture, setting this relationship breakdown against cultural and historical landmarks.

This trip is the first time they have been alone since they were married, Katherine reflects, though given the harsh visual divide Rossellini draws between them through the car windscreen, clearly their shared isolation also extends to them as individuals. From within the silence, insecurities emerge as savage barbs, and her popularity among the locals only inflames Alex’s jealousy. “It’s a long time since I’ve seen you in such a good mood,” he spitefully remarks, and soon enough they are at each other’s throats, fuelled by the ferocious strength of Rossellini and Vitaliano Brancati’s cynical screenplay.

Divisions in framing, slicing this beam in the car windscreen right down the middle of the argumentative couple.
Conflict carries through into the blocking, here splitting Alex and Katherine between background and foreground, top and bottom of the frame.

Ingrid Bergman and George Sanders are magnificent in their natural rapport, revealing years of resentment in offhand reactions and pointed jabs, and sustaining their commanding screen presences even when they briefly go their separate ways. Uninterested in the museums and historical sites that Katherine wishes to explore, Alex seeks out the company of women on the island of Capri, starting with one beautiful local. A short walk by the rugged coastline seems to be the perfect romantic setting, but when she begins to speak of her absent husband and his return that evening, Alex’s interest fades. Perhaps then the prostitute he picks up off the street corner will fulfil his longing for companionship, yet her depression and open confession of suicidal thoughts only deepen his own malaise.

Alex seeks the company of other women, yet finds only disappointment, even when he approaches a street prostitute.
Tremendous, introspective acting from Ingrid Bergman studying the faces of history with mystique and awe.

While Sanders’ performance coasts along waves of perpetual disappointment, Bergman is entranced by the mystique of Italy’s history and geography, her silent expressions reflecting a melancholy, existential awe. As a tour guide at the Naples Museum provides commentary on each exhibit, Rossellini’s camera glides across the marble faces of legendary figures, and later the Cave of Sibyl arches high over her path into the subterranean complex. “Temple of the spirit. No longer bodies, but pure, ascetic images,” her internal voiceover ponders as she wanders its rough-hewn tunnels, recalling the words of an old poet friend who passed away far too soon. Cinematographer Enzo Serafin’s gorgeous location shooting may offer her journey a raw authenticity, though this obsession with the mystical also lifts it into a spiritual realm, summoning memories of those whose spirits linger in the land of the living.

The Cave of Sibyl arches high over its visitors, transporting its visitors back in time – excellent architecture in location shooting.
Even this simple conversation between spouses is set lower down in the shot, allowing for this volcano in the distance to rise up behind them – always the threat of eruption.

The parallels to Michelangelo Antonioni’s drifting, existential dramas are evident here, reflecting the forlorn lives of privileged characters through the architecture that surrounds them. Rossellini’s blocking too is an extension of that loneliness that constantly keeps Alex and Katherine at least an arm’s length away from each other, and which finally manifests their separation as they are physically pulled apart within a frenzied crowd. Suddenly feeling the reality of their impending divorce, Alex’s usually cold demeanour dissipates. Pushing through the current, he takes her in his arms and immediately denounces his callous behaviour.

“Catherine, what’s wrong with us? Why do we torture one another?”

Alex and Katherine’s separation manifests as she is carried away by the crowd, forcing them to face the reality of their impending divorce.

Their reconciliation is moving, if a little sudden, perhaps belonging more in a classical Hollywood melodrama than a naturalistic study of marriage and death. Even if their problems aren’t so easily resolved though, this acknowledgement of love’s endurance through adversity and estrangement is a touching final grasp at that which transcends life itself. Nowhere is its value more evident than here in the land of the dead, and as Rossellini’s reflections upon his own complicated relationship with Bergman so poignantly reveal, nowhere is one’s mortality felt more deeply than in the throes of nostalgic longing.

Rossellini’s camera lifts above the crowd as lovers reconcile – a slightly contrived Hollywood-style ending, but not a major point of contention.

Journey to Italy is currently streaming on The Criterion Channel.