Nando Cicero
W la Foca

The apple tree makes apples, the pear tree makes pears, the peach tree makes peaches, the banana tree makes bananas, the fig tree makes... SEALS!
Bombolo is Buddha: sees, foresees, realizes, provides for, envisions, reassesses, oversees. His whimpering "Tze-Tze" is the foolish grin of the enlightened. With that bald head and smooth belly, he even resembles him. He dismantles the classist slavery of verb conjugation, breaking the terror of doubt and error: "me ce innamoratti," "entratti dentro e me venitte da canta’ 'na canzone," "me la farebbe subito"...
In his cabinet of Dr. Caligari of 'sto cazzo, he caustically cauterizes pathologies by distributing unthinkable panaceas, irresistible cures mediated by a Trilussian spirit from lived hunger.

He fears nothing, encapsulating the annihilation of life's misery with a "mavattenaffanculo" that dispels for good the Adventist fogs of egobourgeois predation. His presence projects into the past and future both the immediacy of the unexpected and those big horns he gets, but on the other hand, there were really too many dishes to wash.

He cleanses the original sin of each of us through the externalization of all humors triggered by situations sought and endured. From a juggler of an unauthorized dish vendor in the square that he was, the seraphic balancing act remains even in the sphere change (read: testicle) transformed into "square": alchemical trash mutations seasoned with facial mimicry and bizarre pantomimes that bring us closer to perfection.

Jester of the double-pack "tiriamo a campare," he aspires to a permanent "uplift" of absurd existential paradigms that continually change, following the orders of the rounds of a flatulence that reeks of crude realities revealed under an unassailable pragmatism of survival: “Eh no, at ‘sto point the dishes I’ll wash them myself, but don’t give vaseline to that guy otherwise he’ll screw us both over!”

And if Bombolo is Buddha, Nando Cicero is the Demiurge who shapes anything from nothing. Concrete evidence is the foresight to already understand in 1982 the danger of the all-consuming Chinese dragon through the wondrous Viagra that deflates with a whistle. And the bubble of "bambù" costs an arm and a leg in old liras for two pills: 'cci loro...

Charming storyteller of an anarchic-mystification, the director continues piercingly in the immediacy of representation. Like a local Kafka, he strips away even possessions, dissolving them with the laser of extraterrestrial hilarity. Things from another world that are fed to us with the effect of ravaging our rational bases.

And Lory Del Santo? She's a mind-blowing beauty, that's it! Khashoggi knows it, he knows it. She falls from the clouds directly onto the absent bar of the bicycle and candidly doesn’t realize it immediately, although Lassander pulls all the lust out of her, promoting beneficial nymphomanias: after all "of 28 (cm) there is one, all others have 31"...

And the animal protection is called more for the "runaway from home" protagonists than for the seal (which is actually a sea lion), the absurd is brought to the borders of the impossible and the great school of vaudeville proves once again to be the passepartout to open invisible curtains on stages where the mystical gulf produces a resounding raspberry in odorama. But what more do we want than this type of blessing?

Cicero enjoys "pancing" Greenaway's architect with the sweeping shot of Rome in the opening titles (also recalling the shots of the eternal city on Last Tango in Zagarol), citing Hitchcock's Psycho, excluding the unrepeatable copyright of the whistle, in the shower scene, anticipating the morbid peeks of Basic Instinct in the stocking change in the taxi, reiterating the great binge of nonsense fired one after another, in such an effective manner. And then he makes the surprise of having a very young Moana Pozzi participate, expressing her most genuine mystical promiscuity, as well as a Michela Miti who everyone then, always in 1982, we will admire in that unforgettable Snow White: "eccallà, TA-TA!"

And if we want to taste something surreal, dadaist I would dare say, it is a must to pass by these parts where a coerced transcendence is brought to the highest levels of cosmic trash and the monnezzaro dust indelibly bronzes the eclectic part of promiscuous-voyeuristic of each of us. Nando Cicero's "laxativity" as a person (a regular visitor of brothels) and how he approaches directing is harmful for a continuation of our wonderful Western life but fundamental in uprooting the beams that orbit in our eyes providing an eye wash that decongests false aesthetics, this almost lands him in jail.

Apart from offering buts and other similar delights that make everyone happy, it's the concept of winning a seal through a contest that transports us to hallucinatory zones. It is a proposal to probe the unthinkable that cannot be missed for that spiritual growth confirming that "what is below, is above," as my friend from a few millennia ago used to say. And then we accelerate into infinity with the animal's indisposition, no comment.

The functional fitness of the film is then uncovered by feeling the effectiveness of the slimming method of the sodomist black man who chases the obese drawing from heart attacks narrowly avoided so as not to be "caught." And how not to choose Lory forever as the health testimonial of "think about your health" in place of a Jane Fonda, or an Olivia Newton John, who with their thinness could never lubricate the fun of watching healthy Mediterranean onanisms.

And the unsolicited excuse, manifest accusation of the film’s concealment for over twenty years brazenly reveals the validity of the "project" and rewards in the long run the deviated genius of the director of this caco-phony orchestra that eternalizes the filmed (almost all in direct take) with his artistic suicide decreed by half-erect (re)reviewers who crucified it at the time, so much so that the film lasted not even two weeks of screening in cinemas and was violently withdrawn and eclipsed for several decades.

But every layer of humanity wants its Christ and finally Nando Cicero (and this whole circus) descends from the cross thus resurrecting to pontificate his secular nonsense: "may God bless them!"