Joel Schumacher
Un Giorno Di Ordinaria Follia

I have often wondered why, in almost continuous cycles, I feel the need to watch this movie again. Regardless of the genre, which I clearly like.

The first answer is that Bill, in his melodramatic madness, makes me laugh. Or rather: he acts as a mirror. This is because any man, crushed by the daily grind, at least once has wished to break free, let go, become a lucid architect of a cataclysmic catharsis.

For instance, I am so captivated by his performance that I overlook the counterbalance offered by an inspired Duval, who positions himself exactly opposite the protagonist. Where the former is instinctive and romantically sadistic, the latter is reflective and gentle. Prendergast's goodwill ends up being disturbing, but it is indispensable to exacerbate the other.

The initial accumulation of images is a viaticum that unites everyone. Heat, flies yearning for our fluids, noise, a sense of claustrophobia. It is curious how this annoyance-laden and oppressive setting triggers in the protagonist the instinct of a cornered beast yearning to reach its den, making the love for his daughter (real, pure however unhealthy) an inexhaustible fuel. Too bad a skittish, paranoid wife, who just won’t reunite the little family for the desired occasion, ruins everything. Another disruptive element, however necessary.

Bill candidly opts for an own-goal, in the wake of noise and blood he generates. He extols equal opportunities while wielding a baseball bat. Points a finger at Nazism, ensuring those obstructing his perverse path are sidelined. The fact is he does it with a meticulous nonchalance, thumbing his nose at the most basic rules of peaceful cohabitation. He politely asks for passage but brandishes a bag full of revolvers. He doesn’t miss shades that tend to provide him glimpses of reality: not by chance, the probably most beautiful moment of the film sees him nodding at a desperate man, in the throes of strike and protest, forcibly removed by law enforcement, as they cross paths.

So much so that during the tale, at every crossroads, the ultimate contrast is born (even in the least attentive viewer): but what do we want? Who are we rooting for?

The answer, or rather the solution, I believe finds reflection in the common sense residing in our hearts. Bill and Prendergast want the same thing. To take care of their family, reunite it, give it form and substance. For this reason, Prendergast ideally ends up taking Bill’s hand, accompanying him to the exit, giving him a bit of his grief to return him to the human condition he upended: surviving for loved ones, replacing the sense of hatred for the surrounding world with compassion, the denominator that sadistic or violent people have not ingrained, because it requires talent even to break free, to liberate the sick part dwelling in each of us.