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Rating:
”Francuzzo, you have to go to Rome. Rome, the capital of China!”
We begin in the best possible way, completely laid-back from the start for a product that parodies the very films it aims to parody, thanks to the director's surgical in-depth examination. Nando Cicero: never was a name more communicative of one of the greatest directors of all time, because it's easy to move ethereally in a refined-artistic context, addressing themes and existential problems intimately exposed; it's another matter to be like a true chef who can create a delicious dish from a spit.
In short, usually the more you stir shit, the more it stinks. But here, we cheerfully find that with Nando, the emulsion arising from the organic-filmic movement produces a sparkling odor. And here's where the issue lies: the control of shit is reserved for a chosen few, and the "big shot" director under examination is the litmus test that unmasks all those (many) bourgeois living room directors. The various "first-class" directors (I won’t name names now to avoid causing nervous breakdowns) with their dream-onanistic pomp (essentially passive wankers) have always misled viewers, insulting them with intellectual and judgmental ravings, often falling into the same Catholic-bourgeois rhetoric of "do as we say, not as we do," disguising the representation of reality with their distorted and deviant vision and an upsetting presence of their vanity. Hence, we must always keep in mind the thin, in this case brown, line separating shit from chocolate.
And here we truly embrace the Hermetic condition of the below being equal to the above and vice versa, obtained from the perfect balance that Cicero, with his setup made of goofing around, mystification, exaltation, and healthy swagger, cooks in his alchemical oven, aided by the active participation of the actors who consciously understand and enjoy themselves.
And we all end up laughing our heads off, doubled over with tears in our eyes, in this irresistible mix of coarse and sparkling ideas where the mocking becomes self-legitimizing. And among all these directors peddling divinity but yearning for the blowjob, finally, one who calls a fart a fart and not flatulence, one who doesn’t put on airs.
Having said that, we dive into the heart of a work that manages to stand next to and even surpass a champion of lengthy shots like Kubrick. The exhausting tour de force to which Stanley subjected the unfortunate inferior actors by paroxysmally repeating each scene to exhaustion for perfection (his perfection) is downsized by the hilarious expanded times of Ku Fu due to not being able to finish shooting scenes because they were constantly interrupted by the hilarity produced at the moment. Long story short, when they were shooting, they were laughing to death, to the point of barely managing to complete the shot after countless attempts.
Then, the unfolding of the story is a shining example of Socratic maieutics where questions and answers solely aim at reaching the truth: “Kon Chi Lay? Lho Kon Te!”
Solid values and classic schemes are mythologically recounted: good and bad guys facing off to win the position offered by the City Hall that will allow “command over Rome” - Franco’s dedication to the cause and devotion to the Master, “you have to kiss my hand, not yours!”, the ultimate life philosophy unraveled by an extraordinary Gianni Agus, “in life, I’ve always minded my own business”, the expansionist ambitions dictating rapid decisions, “Whoever wins will get the job and will be the master of Rome!”
Shots, framing, and camera movements turn out to be impeccable, even from the perspective of freewheeling cinematographic meticulousness that follows form rather than substance. Only a first-rate jokester could have thought of making someone swallow a sword with the tip sticking out of the ass, attached to the puzzled looks of the performers themselves.
The potpourri is served: an assortment of unexpected, undefinable, improbable delusions accompany us without respite along the tracks of transcendence: “Break this twig with a single blow! But that’s a tree…” - “Don Vito sent me. And who’s that? The Mandarin of Sicily” - “I heard through Asian channels about the contest in Rome” - “You’ll never be a Chinese!” - Ku Fu? Kung Fu, in Chinese dialect indeed” - “Kung Fu, what’s that, a Chinese mushroom?” - “Zikke zakke zikki ze learn karate, zikke zakke zikki zu learn Kung Fu” - Kikakamai, Tuttilitui, and Vaffà - Kekor Nuto. And further equivocations of the "hand of travertine", Jimmy il fenomeno's wine shower, the beer duel, the slice of porchetta, vermicelli, rice smuggling, the restaurateur's head, acupuncture, sudden screams, Aldo Marama...
But shall we talk about the pantomime by Franco Franchi that would hold its own in both Sergej Paradjanov's films and as a Michael Jackson dancer.
If nothing else, from the scene of the Chinese theatrical performance, faithfully reproduced by Irina Maleeva to ancient texts, we finally understand where Richard Benson took inspiration for his fruit and vegetable performances. And the usurer who, thirty years before, sheds light on what the Euro did to us: “What can ruin a man or a nation? Protest.”
But it is the film's foresightedness that strikes, specifically in the scene where the master (Agus) inspects the athletes, revealing an inglorious and painful end for a potential defeat and seeking a combative confirmation, he finds an unsettling response: “If you continue like this, you won’t win that tournament. Do you want not to win it? Yessssss. But how yes... No! Your opponents will do all kinds of things to you; Attila said he’d do this to you, do you want that? Yessssss!”...
Thus, the film, like an oracle, deifies the current situation of the human condition: Do you want the current species that controls and inquisits everything to continue screwing us with chemtrails, geoengineering, poisonous vaccines, nanotechnology, the systematic destruction of values, gender fashion, and triptorelin shots, GMOs, the new electronic ID card with automatic consent for organ donation, etc., etc.? Yessssss! But how yes... The resignation to corruption and moral decay is the fuel of the greedy ignorant, and that’s how those who stay silent, those who do not fight, those who mind their own “business”, become the cause of evil.
The film’s exotic-burlesque disguise also performs a supreme humanitarian function, which is the warning that the reality surrounding us is not as they want us to believe, and so Cicero would exclaim, and I with him: “Fools, are you going to wake up?”
And the cinematic product reveals itself for what it is, an “esoteric” film where the invisible message manifests not through turquoise horse apparitions but through loud farts.
He who walks with a lame man learns to limp; with Ku Fu, we limp well... A box office champion at the time, it maintains its indissoluble black belt to this day.
“These Romans took us for tourists.” AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA
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