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Rating:
Do you feel mildly cheerful, or worse? If today you're leaning more towards the latter of the two options, it's better that you forget this movie suggestion; or at least set it aside. Better to shelve it for an indefinite period somewhere; how do you call it during that nice evening risotto with the beautiful tie? Memory drawer! Yes, I'd say it fits well there.
It's been 5 minutes, and 300 seconds aren't few, that I've been looking for the right adjective and in the end, maybe the one that describes it best is intense. Quite the tease. Intense like that rum, the first spirit I drank and then rigorously vomited 3 hours later. At the beach, on the shoreline. God, in three pirate-flavored sips, I was convinced I had turned into James Dean. I hadn't. I felt good even yesterday: perched between two silent wall wardrobes in the short line waiting for the cashier for the numbered ticket. B5. But once I got up from the seat, with end credits rolling without a soundtrack, I found myself on the ground bleeding in a Las Vegas ring: yes, let's say it was the Bellagio. Nine and ... ten!! One of those human carcasses that were fed to Tyson for half a minute on his return. In short, this film really hits hard.
It could pass for a work of accusation against electricity: that directed to the brain to reactivate and stretch lazy neurons, to the pills put under the tongue for severe headaches, to the slightly tight shirts on the sleeves to calm overly effervescent hands and spirits. And they're j'accuse that scratch, damn it. Headbutts on the wall: blood and piss dripping on the floor. There are also moments to laugh, but they have the flavor of a half-liter glass of iced Fernet Branca at 7 in the morning.
Blows, sharp, brilliant, sarcastic slashes. But I'm not entirely sure that “La pecora nera” is just that. The continuous seesaw, the messy and almost obsessive temporal and spatial flashback, between the nice condominium with closed gates and doors and the open air, instead aims to create a bridge. To reveal how the seemingly huge differences between inside and outside aren't so massive as they might initially appear. Because it’s the entire society that is decaying and going mad, and Celestini captures its stupidity and immorality. From the fabulous '60s to today.
Rather than a voiceover, it's a hammer. Between this heavy tool rising and the anvil waiting with iron indifference, initially my balls are right there. Then I don't know; it might be masochism or simply you get used to everything with time: like the fly-killing morning air of a room full of teenagers at a campsite. Fact is this voice, deliberately monotone and expressionless, never leaves us and keeps childhood and the present of the protagonist connected like slightly adhesive tape. Nursery rhymes, lullabies obsessively repeated between scenes, and excellent long monologues: you really seem to hear it the wood of the stage creaking.
And on the other hand, Celestini has been roaming like a tramp with this namesake show throughout half of Italy for 2 years. He even wrote a book. Maybe I should read it. But combining theater and camera isn't such a simple task.
Thus, a round of applause for a unique debut: a bit repetitive and predictable in terms of plot, but powerful and original in its disorderly development. “La pecora nera” is impeccably acted by the cast and here, a bow, and a mea culpa, I owe to Tirabassi. I had seen him, his nose gave him away, during some cushy channel surfing on very low-level TV series. And so I had labeled him a talentless actor. He surprised me. A bit like when I watched “The Son's Room”. The more I looked at Kim Rossi Stuart, the more it reminded me of “The Boy with the Golden Kimono” and “Fantaghirò”. Nutella and peppers.
3 full, 4 slightly unripe.
ilfreddo
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