Giovanni Veronesi
Il Mio West

There are many ways to discredit oneself, but at least one should preserve their dignity. Here everyone discredits themselves, without exception. Already the title, "Il Mio West" (my? sin of presumption or simple Tuscan "prank"?), and then the cast. Seeing the name of Leonardo Pieraccioni before that of Harvey Keitel and David Bowie makes the blood run cold. Then add the extra weight of Alessia Marcuzzi, and you get the idea of what a mess Italian cinema has become. But for God's sake, for Keitel and Bowie to accept such roles, such small church parts, did they have so many debts that they had to accept any job offer just to maintain house, family, car, and whatnot?

Let's recap: the good Pieraccioni, after earning 60 billion from "The Cyclone" (still his best film, which doesn't mean it's good) and 70 from "Fireworks," helped by that jolly Vittorio Cecchi Gori, decides to take a leap in quality, to make a film that projects him into the European market. Here's the thing, Pieraccioni in the European market is already laughable; then, as in this case, presuming to rewrite the rules of the western genre (a genre, moreover, dead for over thirty years) falls into complete farce. Leonardo wants to do things properly, so he leaves the director's helm to the more experienced (well, I've exaggerated...) Giovanni Veronesi.
Here it is then, the leap in quality: a limp, illogical, and indecent little story where, for almost three-quarters of an hour, nothing happens, except a spark towards the end, only to plunge back into absolute emptiness. The West made in Tuscany, with many cows and little action. Pieraccioni plays Doc (oh yes, how many nice references to "Gunfight at the O.K. Corral"), peeking at Marcuzzi's breasts (beautiful, the most beautiful thing in the entire film, too bad they last less than half a minute!), then his father arrives, someone wants to kill him, and so it goes. It could have been a cute, somewhat entertaining operation, if not for the arrogance with which Pieraccioni takes himself terribly seriously, wide-eyed and with a deadpan expression, going through almost two hours of film without ever changing expression, without even the effort to invent a gag (but even the most ragged and overused, nothing, not even that!), and he copies.

Shamelessly copies, because he is convinced he is an auteur, an international star. He copies from John Ford, from Clint Eastwood (plagiarizes the myth of the lone hero, without Eastwood's depth and not a shred of self-irony), Kevin Costner from "Dances with Wolves," and, just not to miss anything, here served on a silver platter is the plagiarism against the late Sergio Leone. In the background, but not even that much, pass as fast as lightning a Harvey Keitel who seems more bewildered than a grouper in the Apennines (it must be tough moving from "Taxi Driver" to Pieraccioni!), and a gaunt, pitiful and pathetic David Bowie, the only hope is that he sings, someone might think. And indeed he sings. But he doesn't perform "Starman" or "Rebel Rebel," he indulges in the most insipid "Glory Glory Hallelujah." That's where even the last myth falls, and you'd want to curse Pieraccioni and all his lineage, that inept Tuscan race who thinks himself an auteur.

Curiously, and here it's a more general discussion, it's almost always the Tuscans who fall into these misconceptions (cinematically speaking, of course). The same thing happened to Francesco Nuti, who, after years of Italian-style comedies, thought himself an auteur and banged his head violently enough to fall into depression, due to that muddle (an auteur one, indeed) that was "Occhiopinocchio." The same happened to Roberto Benigni, with "Pinocchio" first and "The Tiger and the Snow" later, he wanted to elevate himself to the rank of auteur only to end up making a fool of himself at the international level. Well, these artists, truly modest (but Benigni was once two notches above Nuti and Pieraccioni), blessed a bit for artistic merit and more by sheer luck, eager to export their art abroad, never manage to accomplish anything good. And there's room for reflection. Because once upon a time, Italy exported great films so much so that it was copied by Americans ("Big Deal on Madonna Street" was the victim of a US remake for almost two decades, "Il sorpasso" inspired "Easy Rider," just to name two...), while today we export nothing more (not even at the fiction level, except for a few rare examples) and the only thing we show the rest of the world are Pieraccioni's discreditings or Benigni's feel-good turns?