Pier Paolo Pasolini
Il Decameron

Adapting a work like the Decameron by Giovanni Boccaccio for the big screen is like choosing a couple of songs from the discography of Pink Floyd or Battisti, selecting a painting from those of Caravaggio or Titian, or picking a film from the filmography of Scorsese or Kubrick: it’s easy.

Try reading the story of Lisabetta from Messina and the basil pot to an audience of children or teenagers, have them act it out, then watch what happens: they will adore it. They will remember it by heart, forever.

Try reading the story of Chichibio and the Crane with them: they will laugh too.

Boccaccio's work is so true, natural, and human that it takes the director by the hand and accompanies them into the minds, bodies, and hearts of the viewers. It's an easy game.

And indeed, Italian cinema has always drawn directly and generously from the mine of Boccaccio's plots. By eliminating the profound love for all that is deeply human from the Decameron, the stories have been used as mere templates to produce sexy comedies of fluctuating value.

But making a film about the Decameron is also partial. One has to make a selection: the material is so rich and varied that it won't be possible to remain completely faithful to the original work. The film will be a deeply personal work. One hundred and one stories could be represented in a TV series, not in a movie.

In 1971, Pier Paolo Pasolini entrusted his adaptation of the Decameron to cinema. And he reduced it to a film of about two hours.

First of all, he eliminated the frame: away with Florence, the plague, and the band of ten gentle young storytellers. They will not be the ones to unite all the stories.

The thread that connects the stories is Naples, a crowded, noisy, and colorful city: stories with "exotic" settings are excluded from the film.

The dances are started by young Andreuccio, played by the ever-present Ninetto Davoli, who finds himself in Naples with a handsome sum to invest. Naples swarms with people. Here he is deceived twice but ends up becoming rich. In the city where we follow Andreuccio's adventures, wandering around covered in excrement because of a prank, we listen to another story being translated into very tight Neapolitan: we enter medieval convents. Among the crowd listening, there's a pickpocket luring a cross-dresser.

Boccaccio had taken the vows: but in this Middle Ages, in his Middle Ages, everyone naturally embraces the body's impulses, and the quickness of intellect, expressed through sudden witticisms, is always rewarded. And it tells of an abbess who reprimands a fellow sister but is in turn reprimanded for the same sin. The abbess understands the sister's witticism, appreciates the discretion with which she is reprimanded, and then ensures that everyone continues to enjoy themselves as best they can.

We move to the Campanian countryside. Young Musetto hears about a convent of very pedantic nuns. So he pretends to be a deaf-mute to enter as a servant into this convent of young, curious nuns.

Meanwhile, in Naples, Peronella is entertaining her lover. Her very in-love and very ugly husband returns earlier than expected. Peronella will be forced to hide her lover and will find a way to mock that poor fool.

Speaking of foolish believers, Boccaccio does not refrain from mocking the gullibility of many holy men who have retired from worldly life. Thus, Ciappelletto, a usurious pederast, to save the honor of his hosts, mocks a priest on his deathbed.

Minor and interrupted by the other stories is that of Giotto's pupil waiting for the right inspiration: in this representation, we observe a cameo of Pasolini himself. And one laughs less, but admires the pragmatism of medieval men, observing the story of Caterina, who sleeps on the balcony to meet her beloved at night.

Pragmatic are the men, but especially the medieval women. Lisabetta, who despite her age still hasn't married, falls in love with her brothers' servant: Lorenzo. Lisabetta's three brothers take revenge on her lover, leading to a tragic end of an absolute and destructive love.

Finally, a prank is represented that needs no comment: the cunning Don Gianni tries to seduce the wife of his friend, explaining to his host how to perform the metamorphosis of his wife into a donkey. The clerics aren't always naive people.

In Pasolini, there is a peculiar characteristic of the Italian film school: not everything shown is essential for the plot. Like in a documentary, we observe the streets, the bodies, the faces, the eyes, and the smiles.

But above all, there is Naples, Naples teeming with people. No filter and no selection are made in the representation of the lives of these medieval men and women. And there are no filters in the lives of these characters. The superstructures towards the true essence of life are only in the background: the rules dictated by family, society, and the church are lightly circumvented. By everyone, no one excluded. There are only pranksters and those who are fooled in the human comedy we witness. This is an ode to enjoying life in its fullness: Boccaccio's medieval men and women seem to succeed, while postmodern men and women much less so.