Dino Risi
Il Commissario Lo Gatto

Hello everyone, Debaser folks, welcome back!

I've returned to you from my buen retiro where I'm undergoing a rehabilitative treatment with massive doses of German cinema - Pabst, my mentor Erick Von Stroheim, Fassbinder - like those old neighbors who, accidentally passing in front of your doorbell, knock to see how you are, bringing a cordial memory from the faded past, hypocritically telling you how well you look and how unchanged you are, even though they think exactly the opposite.  Or like when you go back to high school during your University years: hoping the janitor is "always him" (semper lü), the one who let you smoke in the bathroom, only to find an old man hoping to reach retirement in at least decent physical condition.

Sic transit gloria mundi, as I love to say, bearing in mind that Your Il_Paolo says what he thinks: and finds you strong and vigorous even if he is no longer part of the story and the site goes on without him, like a train continues running without passengers, a car keeps going even after the change of ownership.

Anyway, let's cut the chatter, and to justify this courtesy visit, let's take cue from one of the films I've underestimated throughout my life, yet reviewed as a form of penance three or four times last summer, and a small crossroads of the things and places I love most in the world: it's "Il Commissario Lo Gatto" by Dino Risi ('87), the last truly edgy work of the late Milanese director and the best film of the equally adored Lino Banfi; according to an expert like me, even more effective here than in the much-praised "L'allenatore nel pallone".

The plot flirts with the Mediterranean-set mystery genre with sociopolitical tones of Manuel Vasquez Montalban and the then semi-unknown Camilleri, declining it to the "ciuri ciuri" or Sicilian cannoli, spiced with tales reminiscent of the decadent Spanish nobility of De Roberto, Prince Tomasi (I even visited his house once), and also the sociopathic irony of Brancati, a story mixing sex and blood: Lo Gatto, transferred ex officio and with vaguely punitive intentions to the remote Favignana, investigates, together with his deputy Griselli (a splendid Maurizio Ferrini) the presumed death of a beautiful red-haired woman (Isabel Russinova), intersecting the beautiful holiday world, the reportorial ambitions of the Savoy-Apulian reporter Vito Ragusa (a great Maurizio Micheli), the village life, initially sleepy and then explosive like the hot summer sun, between Bourbon nobles (a beautiful characterization by the talented Galeazzo Benti, the Italian Fernando Rey), fake moralistic maiden aunts with the fire smoldering inside according to the classic Sicilian mood (the legendary Patanè sisters!) and various humanity, like the barber, the village priest, the bar boys.

I won't reveal the mystery's conclusion, which presents, like all small masterpieces of foresight, some link to our current Italian events (besides, Russinova herself is the ex-wife of Igor Marini!) and with some bedroom stories that made our 2009 so atypical and busy, dwelling instead on the things that make this film a true cornerstone of my "minor" cinematography.

The film's main merit is in abandoning vulgar comedy, in favor of a sophisticated comedy of errors, amusing, and at times poetic, especially in the relationships that Commissioner Lo Gatto develops with his main adventure companions: agent Griselli and the reporter Ragusa.

With the latter, Lo Gatto adopts a competitive stance, both having the ambition for a final career boost by uncovering the intrigues behind the red-haired woman's murder, and at the same time forming a bond of solidarity, with the typical camaraderie among losers and underdogs: the dialogue at the Patanè restaurant is very successful, with the revelation of shared Apulian origins skillfully hidden by the fake Turin-native Ragusa. Lo Gatto and Ragusa, both frustrated seekers of hidden truths, end up being mirrors of each other, in a doubling that re-proposes the classic themes of the best commedia dell'arte.

Even more interesting, however, is the relationship that develops between Lo Gatto and Griselli: Ferrini delivers the film's best line when, watching the Commissioner at work, he exclaims "I was beginning to understand the meaning of charisma," identifying in his superior a true model of behavior, someone to imitate and emulate, implicitly, as a surrogate paternal figure (the resemblance between the two is not coincidental). The duo doesn't function so much in an investigative and comedic key - better in this perspective are Commissioner Auricchio and De Simone in "Fracchia the wild beast..." ('81) - but as protagonists of a story within the story, with counterpoints that can remind one of Silva and Lituma protagonists of a beautiful novella by Vargas Llosa, "Who Killed Palomino Molero?", also, coincidentally, a mystery set in an exotic and marine setting.

Unfortunately, as we must conclude, I would like to finally highlight Risi's smart stroke, evidently a good reader of Faulkner, to break the story into multiple narrative voices, not so much to propose different viewpoints of a complex reality lacking unequivocal meaning, but to amplify, like a polyphony, the depth and rhythms of the comedy, forcing the viewer to perceive the many nuances of the story and the colors of beautiful Sicily.

Having said that, I bid you farewell while my gramophone plays an old vinyl, and the Stranglers ask me, "Whatever happened to all the heroes?".

Dear Stranglers, Lino Banfi is known to the younger generation as "Grandpa Libero", Ferrini, after donning terrible women's clothes, dissipated himself in the "Isola dei Famosi".

And this, my dear ones, is it not like returning to old neighbors, or old janitors, and not recognizing them anymore, pretending to find them well?

Gratefully Yours,

Il_Paolo