Michael Radford
Il Postino

How far memories take us. Before you know it, they transport you back in time to places and atmospheres you would never have imagined just a moment ago. I, for example, found myself in a scorching June of 1994. I remember that cursed day well. It was the 4th of the month, and I had just learned that Massimo Troisi had left us. Indescribable what I felt in those moments, something that still tastes bitter even now. Yet everything has changed, nothing is as it was, the world spins differently. But the night is different, it evokes nostalgia, and you can only save yourself from it by accepting what reason suggests. I may come across as too passionate, excessively emotional when reviewing this masterpiece, the last of Troisi, and I apologize in advance for that, but as we know, the heart never takes a back seat.

''Il postino'' reclines between the sands of Procida's beaches and some mountain, too low to keep me from finding Massimo somewhere in the sky. I don't want to dwell on the fact that it's ''the most beautiful film of Troisi'' or declare that ''there will be no more like Massimo''. These are past stories that fall right into the mouths of those who know nothing about Massimo. Instead, I wanted to share the sensations of this masterpiece that many will not forget. There is everything in just under two hours: there's politics, there's the people's ideas clashing with an already too harsh reality, there's a talented Maria Grazia Cucinotta still very young, but most importantly, there are the two of them: Philippe Noiret and Massimo Troisi. So different yet so close at the same time. It's not a phrase to pad or insert a banal cliché that shouldn't even be in a review of such a film. It's just a hypothesis that transforms into reality: try observing both during the film. The mutual feeling and understanding between the two is undeniable. A brief friendship that goes beyond the camera screen, it’s deeper. Also not lacking are the honesty and the "charming" shyness of a tired and powerless Troisi. Even in the final days of a life lived to the fullest, he manages to maintain what has distinguished him throughout his career: that uncertain speech, that face always too insecure. I would venture to say that here, he adds even two eyes that "speak". It’s impossible not to grasp Massimo's message, a solemn but not too solemn farewell. In his own way, in short. Everything is sealed by the splendid melodies of composer Luis Bacalov. How can one forget the accompanying music of the end credits? With them goes a true man. And I don't fall into the superficial by asserting this because Massimo was a guy with guts, if you’ll allow me. I would challenge the best Hollywood (or Bollywood) actor to perform with a broken heart. The difference? He received a quarter of today's superstars' salary while they put a quarter of Troisi's sentiment into this work.

It may be insignificant, but to me, it means a lot, and I conclude before a tear falls and wets the keyboard. Ahh, cursed memories...