Federico Fellini
Le notti di Cabiria

There is the surreal, baroque, and lysergic Fellini, and then... then there is the Fellini who traps desperate realities in celluloid, while simultaneously imprinting them with that poetry of which only the great are capable, a poetry that does not need affectation to captivate the audience and transport them to another dimension.

The one from "Le notti di Cabiria" is undoubtedly the latter: here the director (and screenwriter, together with his usual collaborator Ennio Flaiano, Tullio Pinelli, and none other than Pier Paolo Pasolini) doesn't need stylistic flourishes and continuous dreamlike incursions to keep the audience's attention alive.

All it takes is the defenseless Cabiria (who could only be the ever-praised Giulietta Masina, Fellini's muse and life partner), with her disarming spontaneity, with those large, bright eyes that speak for themselves even when she says nothing, to take us by the hand and lead us into a world that manages to be fairy-tale-like even in its painful reality.

Cabiria, despite what my previous lines might suggest, is "one who makes her living," yes, a prostitute working at the "Passeggiata archeologica" alongside other women (and friends) with whom she has a terribly conflicted relationship.

Because she, despite the afflictions and sufferings she is forced to carry on her back every day, is not ready to accept her condition with bowed head, she is not disillusioned like her colleagues. Behind an only seemingly tough exterior (formed due to the various disappointments received over her lifetime) hides, in fact, a kind spirit, a desire for redemption, and the wish to change.

Cabiria is a symbol of an Italy (in the film, we see the post-war Rome, in various parts still to be rebuilt) that, despite everything, rises again after the devastations of the war; but in a broader sense, it could also be said that Cabiria is Life, which reemerges more determined and optimistic than before despite repeated attempts to trample it. She is a creature that, like the leopard's broom, blossoms amid desolation, in a world that believes it understands her but not only fails to do so, does not even deserve her.

The film results from a series of episodes almost independent of each other (the meeting with the famous actor, a grumpy Amedeo Nazzari; the episode of the man doing charity to the poor; the scene at the little theater and what follows) where the common thread is constituted by this naive little woman.

The poor prostitute (even though it is Masina herself, with her gestures and her priceless expressiveness, who suggests to us that her Cabiria is an atypical prostitute and that such a definition feels too tight) is used by all the men she encounters but... despite everything, cannot help but continue to believe in love. Or more generally in some form of reward owed to her by divine justice after all she has endured and continues to endure.

The influence of Pasolini is strongly felt in this sense, both in the screenplay and in the dialogue writing: it's impossible not to notice a certain commonality of themes, settings, and narrative outcomes between this work and those of Pasolini's early stages, especially "Mamma Roma." Both Cabiria and Mamma Roma perform the world's oldest profession, have been under men's yoke for much of their lives, deceive themselves into thinking they can leave a murky past behind, but both... are destined for checkmate.

And both, right when they believe they're finally a step away from happiness, are brutally mocked by fate. There is, however, a substantial difference between the two works: whereas the Pasolinian film descends, in its conclusion, into the darkest pessimism, "Le notti di Cabiria" still shows a glimpse of hope that fights with all its might not to be swallowed by darkness and disillusionment. In the end, after the last terrible wrong suffered, the young woman rises and walks through the woods with a band of cheerful itinerant musicians. Accompanied by their liveliness and vibrancy, with a tear of mascara rolling down her cheek, Cabiria smiles again, ready to face what life still has in store for her.

In the work, a sincere painting of the Italy that was, from the perspective of a wayward young girl, there are also jabs at the established power, at institutional religion revealing all its falsehood and artificiality, preying on the credulity of the poor folks. The Church's detachment from the humble and the oppressed becomes more evident when Fellini shows us figures like the mysterious man helping the poor grotto dwellers or the likable Fra' Giovanni, all iconic and significant figures though relegated to fleeting scenes.

Memorable is also the part related to the show put on by a charlatan magician who hypnotizes Cabiria and exposes her candid and innocent dreams (despite the sordid life she leads) to public ridicule. Few have been able to honestly give a voice to the marginal creatures, and among them, Fellini undoubtedly deserves an honorable mention.

The more cynical will say that little Cabiria is the triumph of naivety (sometimes hidden behind a mask of arrogance), but I prefer to read her story as a parable of purity.

And in the absence of more worthy words to conclude the review of a work that has truly touched me deeply, I join Cabiria's tear, one of the most sincere and heartfelt characters in Fellini's vast gallery and in all cinematography.