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In the midst of the Years of Lead, between some bombs and "l'attacco al cuore dello Stato", Mario Monicelli commits to creating an unusual work, capable of ranging from sweet to sour, so to speak, with a precise fencing touch. Inspired by a literary work by Vincenzo Cerami, he directs a film that will leave a mark in the history of Italian cinema and beyond.
Accustomed to smiling in front of mediocre films, also trying to forget the wounds inflicted by rampant terrorism, "A Very Little Man" sets a limit to this relaxation by warning the viewer, inviting them to reflect on "it's not over yet" or "there's little to smile about". Reminding me of a beautiful painting by Otto Dix, "Life and Death", where a black stripe sharply divides these opposite poles of the human genre, from the bright and floral smile of a woman to the croaking skeleton among distorted and disturbing stars, Monicelli, in 115 minutes, decides to switch from farcical to feral, from brilliant mix to visceral drama.
Giovanni Vivaldi, a ministerial clerk, spends the last months before retirement fishing for pike with a not-so-brilliant son and repeated invasions from Superiors to recommend the latter to get him the much-desired permanent position. Among employees "overburdened" with files puffing at the release of money on occasions to honor colleagues and possibilities of solutions to copious hepatic rash eruptions, the good devil Vivaldi compromises anything just to see the only heir settled. He will attempt to play dirty, polish the boss's illustrious behind, and even join a doubtful and ramshackle Masonic lodge, wearing all those little defects that were so poorly concealed and still poorly conceal behind each of us, or nearly."
What seems like a more or less normal path is swept away by an event as sudden as violent. In the middle of a robbery, an extra bullet ends the life of the son. This will mark the rather atrocious turning point in the life of the modest employee and beyond. The wife will learn the news accidentally from the television, inevitably collapsing in a venomous and devastating illness. And now? What would a father do who has suddenly been deprived of his only son? What would a husband do left alone even by his wife rendered completely invalid by the shock? And if it had to be the man's choice? It will be the latter who prevails, inevitably transforming into a beast. And the beast does not reason, at most it takes revenge. And revenge there will be.
From that moment on, every trace of morality, good feelings, remorse, will succumb to the desire for repression, tearing apart the life of the murderer until it is nebulized. As if that wasn't enough, another drama will test Vivaldi, the death of his wife drowned by too much grief. The pension will arrive, placing him into an apparently normal life among singing sparrows and babies in prams, but a too gratuitous offense will be enough to bring him back to the most caustic of wild states.
Monicelli manages to read in the heart of a dog (wolf), finds there, erasing them, the essential traces to avoid any possibility of reasoning. He gives the viewer an image of Sordi never seen before, making him tenacious, violent, greedy for feelings, corrosive, sweeping with a hand gesture the usual arriviste, humble, boastful, submissive figure.
An important film. It invites reflections so long as they don't become obsessions.
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