Nanni Moretti
Tre piani

Three Floors.

Foreword: I am not a cinephile, I can't make erudite references, I am a viewer who still loves dusty theaters and velvet seats stained with mysterious substances...

But Nanni was Nanni... in an original way, for two decades he first exposed the hypocrisies of Post-War Italy and then the pretentious hopes of Post-Tangentopoli Italy.

His artisanal camera gave us iconic scenes and frames, and each of his films was awaited for a clear and caustic reading of contemporary times.

His petit-bourgeois pedigree didn't weigh him down because it was always redeemed by a fierce misanthropy.

In Three Floors, there is no trace of our Nanni's proverbial sarcasm, and everything serves a flat and deflated script, with actors entering and exiting the frame lost, parodies of themselves.

After the first half-hour, we are grateful for the neon of the emergency exit, reassuring us with its presence.

Having passed sixty, the once splendid forty-year-old becomes a somber Nanni Moretti, a petit bourgeois telling the story of the inability to react to life's vicissitudes of a sated and hopeless world.

Could it be that this poorly executed, poorly acted, and poorly directed film is the intentional flagellation that Nanni Moretti inflicts upon himself and us? An infernal contrapasso for us who can no longer react, not even minimally, to this existential sludge.