Nanni Loy
L'audace colpo dei soliti ignoti

Dedication to the Celluloid of the Belpaese:

"Italian cinema is a great untranslatable sphere that has sailed under a thousand different bridges and has lived as much in the mouths of famous and unforgettable characters as in those of more anonymous and simple ones. And it is precisely this mixture of 'sacred' and 'profane,' of shining and real, of beautiful and ugly, of gold and sauce that, without a doubt, has made it an exceptionally vibrant cinema that you can feel under your skin. Because it's our home."
(Ennio Martucci - extra from Cinecittà)

After the neorealism period, the key years for Italian cinema were undoubtedly the late fifties/early sixties and the first part of the seventies. To the first group, we can associate the splendid "Big Deal on Madonna Street" by Mario Monicelli (1958) and its brilliant sequel "Fiasco in Milan" (1959). Now behind the camera was the good Nanni Loy, to make a long story short, the one who introduced Candid Camera in Italy. And if Monicelli's film still "smelled" a lot like neorealism, this sequel in my opinion begins also to acquire new elements, leaning towards a more evident comedy form, thus opening up to what a few years later would become a proven formula for many Italian films.

The characters in the story remain the same: Gassman, Salvatori, "Capannelle," "Ferribotte," and Claudia Cardinale, except unfortunately for Marcello Mastroianni, who had been magnificent in the first film, and Totò, who had played the great Dante Cruciani(!). However, a breath of fresh air is brought by the addition of Nino Manfredi, here a suburban mechanic, who will be crucial in the film's plot and the gags. Because it is precisely the latter, the gags, that take center stage; and if overall something seems diminished compared to the first episode, nonetheless, the relentless flow of jokes and inventions and the perfect timing and dialogue organization leave nothing to be missed. The film turns out to be exceptionally lively, and in my opinion, remains one of the best Italian episodes of its genre ever. The camera perhaps seems less interested in the "realistic" element, but it does its duty, obviously immersing everything in a proven black and white world. In fact, realism comes naturally in these films: the expressions of the extras, the suburban landscapes, the real conditions of poverty in the neighborhoods, the old areas of Rome that today are completely different (I have a clear memory of where Capannelle's house was, near today's Tuscolana station). This is the beauty of old Italian cinema, that the life of the country was put on film, immersed in real situations of "real" characters. And the fact is that the "magic spark" ignited on its own. As Ennio Martucci rightly said, it's a cinema that "you can feel under your skin."

The plot is not convoluted: it's simply that our heroes have no money, as always, and a heist on the vehicle transporting the football pool money seems truly a perfect solution. There's Mario and Carmela who have to get married and Ferribotte keeps an eye on them anyway, constantly warning them ("… Watch out! Let's not make bread crumbs!…"); there's Capannelle who always overindulges in food at trattorias and then doesn't pay ("… Capannelle had a belly infarction and is in the hospital!…"); there's Gassman who has dumped the maid from the first episode and now gets convinced again to do a less than clean job; it's just a matter of contacting the old comrades in adversity. And these adversities will come promptly one after another, in all the scenarios where the story is set: Rome, Milan, train stations, car races, and, in the finale, in Piazza S. Giovanni Bosco near the Tuscolana. In 1960, shepherds still roamed around there with their sheep, as seen in the film; today, they have been replaced by sixteen-year-olds with Nikes who hang out with their low-engine scooters… Yes! Those were different times.

Finally, memorable scenes to remember include Gassman's reading of Capannelle's lunch menu ("… coffee, after coffee… beans with pork rind!…"); the discovery reading the newspaper that they might be tracked down by the police ("… They're Romans and not Milanese!! We're there!!"); the epic scene of Gassman at the end of the film on the pedestrian crossing (which I won't mention so as not to spoil it for you). All this was Italian cinema, which breathed and lived in contact with people; the cinema that, as Ennio Martucci said: "… it's our home." And which is still sailing under some bridge. Or at least trying. Let's keep our fingers crossed.

 And let one thing be clear: Ennio Martucci never existed. But in the end, it's as if he did, right?…