Mark Herman
Il bambino con il pigiama a righe

I've just walked out of the theater, and with a determined step, I head for the exit. The cold wind attacks my exposed neck, but I don't care: I am still struck by the power of the film which, I am certain, will stay with me for a long time. I walk lost in my thoughts through the cold Trentino night. I remove the shy layer of ice that has formed on the windshield during the hour and a half spent in the theater and drive slowly; in truth, I am an automaton and I reflect on the film. It's not so much the violence of the images, almost non-existent, but the fact that the cinematic adaptation of the namesake book offers an original and effective perspective.

The first is a realistic portrait, starting with the decision to use black and white, which makes us witnesses from within of the devastation of the labor camps, with strong images and few sharp dialogues. It is an attempt at a desperate escape to the outside, towards life.

The second is a daring and ingenious work because it managed to make millions of people laugh (albeit with bitter-tasting laughter) while addressing a tragic event. Our director is crazy, running on a knife-edge for two hours (imagine what reactions an excess in the screenplay or dialogues could have provoked), giving us a probably unrepeatable film; a sweet fairy tale paradoxically optimistic in relation to its context. An ode to life even during one of the most infamous testimonies of human monstrosity.

When I entered the cinema yesterday, not having read any reviews, I was convinced I would encounter a sort of "Schindler's List" or "Life Is Beautiful". Instead, the film pivots on the vision of a German boy, the son of a Nazi officer, who with an innocent and curious gaze tries to understand what is happening. He perceives that something is changing, but this change has unclear contours. It is a blurred and confused vision, like the first look in the morning before rubbing our eyes. If, as mentioned before, in Spielberg's film the focus was on the escape from the camp towards salvation, in "The Boy in the Striped Pyjamas" we face an apparently illogical attempt to enter. Bruno, in fact, after moving from a crumbling Berlin to the vicinity of a labor camp, unexpectedly gets to know "strange farmers who dress in pyjamas" and particularly a boy. He cannot understand why they are imprisoned within the barbed wire fence, and the answers do not convince his vivid blue eyes thirsting for morbid childish curiosity. His innocent questions are, in reality, pure slashes of pain for the audience. Although nothing is shown, everything is inferred. The family shelters him indoors, closes the windows, tries to indoctrinate him through the use of ad hoc tutors, but the friendship he establishes with the boy in the pyjamas is stronger and more moving, and that fence becomes an irresistible magnet. After all, he just wants to play, and this simple instinct, combined with his constant "whys?" puts us against the wall, making us understand the absurdity of war perhaps better than many atrocious images.

A very convincing dark fairy tale, perfectly accompanied by Oscar-worthy music and meticulously crafted cinematography. The cast is sparse and includes, besides the two small and talented protagonists, the glassy mother (Vera Farmiga) and the solid (David Thewlis), who demonstrate their value especially in the finale which enjoys a deliberately confused and well-suited editing for an emotional scene that will remain long impressed in the minds of the audience.

A film that makes you reflect and that, in my humble opinion, for all the elements I have tried to bring to your attention deserves to be seen, preferably in the cinema.

ilfreddo