Vittorio Mezzogiorno
di Marco Tullio Giordana

We met in 1978 because you were cast for a role in my fìlm "Maledetti vi amerò". Postponements and coincidences were such that you couldn't be in it after all. It doesn't matter, you are in it all the same. We had nursed this film together for so long that in the end, even though no one knows, it was as if you'd made it anway. The same thing happened for all the films I made or planned after that: there was always a part for you, you could just pick and choose. Even now, working on my next film, I fancy I can still cast you. Picturing you while l'm writing helps me; your voice delivers this or that line, gently modulates the intonation alerting me to any dissonance. What helps me most are the objections you would raise, your concern for truthfulness, your revulsion Jòr shortcuts.

So, I've made all of my fìlms with you. But it's not true. On record there's only "La caduta degli angeli ribelli". Remember the controversies in Venice...the insults, the scorn? The snide satisfaction at our slip? Comedowns are painful, they can creep into the best of partnerships like betrayal in a fortress. But we came out of it even stronger and closer. We learnt that growing was going to be an uphill struggle. You set off to conquer the world joining Peter Brook's multiethnic army. You climbed up the Andes with Herzog and dug into the underworld with Chereau. Before then you had portrayed honest Italians with Rosi and Montaldo, and even thugs (with Nanny Loy). You came back and you were not afraid to delve into the desperation of "Woizeck" with Martone, to challenge conventions with Bellocchio, to indulge in the scale and popularity of "La Piovra". Aristocratic and plebeian at one and the same time, you didn't fear contamination, you were able to juggle dilferent genres and milieux paving no heed to hierarchies or sneers. Behind you was Naples, and the city's distant age of Enlightenment was behind the resurrection shortly to come. Loathing its folklore and stereotypes, you loved the hidden part of your city, where the sea doesn't reach. I'm glad I got to know it with you.

Up in the mountains of Sannio you tell me about your illness. We take a long walk down a mule truck exploring derelict houses, pastures and ancient trees you are not likely to see ever again. Lying ahead of you is the most difficult of roles, the one that may turn out to frighten you, to change you out of all recognition. And yet you openly speak of your illness, you are not scared. Even now that time is precious you are not spreading your pain around, no one is to feel guilty about their good health or future prospects. You are not pretending, nor are you asking for pretence. You'd rather talk about the usual things: you've just seen "Libera" by Pappi Corsicato and its irreverent streak has won you over. You know you could well belong to the new course your city is initiating: Martone, Corsicato, Capuano (and before them Moscato e Ruccello) and others to come are brothers who could partake of your hawk-like profìle, your blue gaze, the smile that makes you look meek and child-like. I'm trying not to think we'll all have to manage without this. We set off downhill and another view opens before us: you point to a little wood you would like to buy. You're not giving up your plans: the little wood in Sannio, a screen adaptation of Schnitzler you'd like to develop involving Fabrizio Bentivoglio; you hold him in high regard and are generous as usual in your praise of a colleague. Indeed you are so engrossed that I let nayself be charmed and it is as if the actual film was rolling before my eyes, just like all the other films we have (not) made together.

At times the sense of loss assails me. At other times I happen to feel you're still around. You left many traces behind: in friends and beloved ones, in your films. I see you in Giovanna, who has chosen to be an actress: your daughter is not a replacement for you, she is an extension of you. There is a lot of you in her, in the studiousness of her choices, in her self-discipline, in her search for uneasy, restless characters. She is not moved by haste or eagerness for an easy route to success, one can see she had a good teacher Now l'm even able to write and talk about you in a way I couldn't handle not so long ago. And it's thanks to this legacy you left behind, a living legacy rather than a mournfull one, thele for anyone to trace, share and treasure at will. Those who wish to learn what it means to be a real actor only have to watch at one of your films: you used to say that cinema is more like x-rays than photography, that one cannot lie to film because it is able to see through the outer layers and expose artifice. This is what you tautght me in "La caduta degli angeli ribelli": actors are not to be directed like cattle, guided like remote-controlled devices. A director's real talent lies in enabling them to impersonate a character as truthfully and naturally as possible, enabling them to be rather than act. I would have never learnt this if you hadn't taught me.

Marco Tullio Giordana
(Tratto dal programma del Napoli Film Festival'99)

 

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