Paolo Sorrentino
Il Divo

Let's talk about another Italy.

But then, are we really talking about another Italy?

The fact is that the film is truly masterful, very well made, simply beautiful.

A film that leads you to think (hypothesis 1) that Italian cinema is not completely dead, or (hypothesis 2) that one swallow doesn’t make a summer. Today, in a mood of phantasmagorical optimism, riding the wave of enthusiasm for such an enjoyable and unexpected view, I would opt for the first hypothesis. Even if the contemporaneous reading, in the newspapers, of the public funding allocation, as a cultural work, for "Natale A Beverly Hills," did everything to depress me. But I remain optimistic. Especially due to a matter of schooling: this film has taken advantage of schooling, indeed the teachings of the best Italian cinema and beyond, keeping far away from cloning or embarrassing imitations, and merely making it clear that our past, in that indefinable field that knows how to enthuse, which is "style," might still have something to say. And that not everything seems lost.

And appreciation for this film should be detached from political judgment on the character Andreotti and the Italy of the so-called First Republic.

Because, simply put, this work is well done, and it should be acknowledged even by those who might feel offended based on certain political affinities.

We can see the ethereal visionariness of Fellini, the comical and fierce bewilderment of Moretti, staying at home, or even the written and slowed-down character presentation of Tarantino, who gladly serves as an inspiring guest in our home. This is to cite just some of the evident sources that, I repeat, are not presented at a level of cloning, nor imitation, but -as happens with the best musicians- as a lesson learned by a good student, surely intent on making long strides on their own legs.

The character Andreotti is rendered in a caricatured manner without being banal. Well, let's consider: the original was -also- voluntarily caricatured, lived on deadpan humor, and had a slightly "autistic" demeanor and word choice. Here, however, everything is exaggerated without being ridiculous (here's the true miracle), and much credit goes to the protagonist, truly monstrous in interpreting -let’s repeat it: without ham acting or unnecessary acrimony- the character and the person Andreotti.

The surroundings are surreal, also exaggerated and caricatured without banality, dramatically similar to the original, if we try (with no painful effort) to remember it well.

Because, with a work that is aesthetically and technically perfect, one can understand a great deal about that time and can see, with hallucinatory clarity, where the pillars (of well-reinforced concrete) of the Italy that came later, the one of today, are rooted.

Thus, absolute enjoyment for the impeccable exterior of the work, and double enjoyment (double delight, with a ribbon) for those, like me, who, beyond the form, fully share and appreciate the content as well.