Ricky Tognazzi
Ultrà

How can you make two or more men agree and be in perfect harmony? Just talk about pussy. And to make them discordant and in perfect contrast with the possibility of even becoming potential murderers? Just talk about football or politics.

Can you go insane over a leather ball? Can you become crazy for an hour and a half, not counting injury time and intermission, and then return to a more or less normal life? Unfortunately, the stubborn ignorance of mankind reaches even further so it's preferable to make the sign of the cross just before entering the stadium, and if you're not a believer, a good tug at your scrotum will suffice, or both gestures. You can die because of football. And you can kill. For a football match. Motive: the difference in the social colors of a scarf (!).

You can die with a flare stuck in your eye launched from the opposing stand, cut down with stabs, condemned to the stake by YOUR kind on a state railway carriage because YOUR team was relegated (!!), or falling from a moving train while trying to save your life. You can die crushed, attacked by a platoon of ferocious madmen. And after losing your life for a football match, there are those who have the horrific courage to remember you with atrocious chants from vile and putrid stands et/aut even worse banners. I'm a Juventus fan and I remember those of MY kind who mocked the plane crashes at Superga and Baretti. The invites to gaze at that all-black-and-white cemetery referring to Heysel, those who don't care if Paparelli is at Prima Porta by paraphrasing a popular folk song, those about heart patients, the Tiger Arkan, the Jews in the ovens... Absurd. Abominable.

Tognazzi's film, raw and brave, paints in a very realistic manner and with a pinch of romance that doesn't hurt, the absurd world of the typical stadium fanatic. At the time of its screenings in theaters, the film was contested by many Roma fans because it was considered not to conform to the figure of the "ultrà giallorosso." WHAT? I remember the assault on an ambulance trying to transport an injured fan to the hospital. Claudio Amendola was forced to move under protection for a while because of threats from his peers, guilty of having played an ultrà who goes to the stands armed with a knife. REALLY? I even remember axes and Molotov cocktails seized at the Olimpico, which, in fact, are not knives. Perhaps, the violent fans (because not all of them are violent, thank heavens) of Roma forget their feats. Just like those of other Italian teams because in every fan base there is a violent fringe. Some more, some less.

The ulras in the film, those of the "Brigata Veleno," a name that says it all, live only for football. They live for Roma. They would sell their families for a game of the "Magggica." They think of it in jail and beyond the bars, not caring about how the family is doing while waiting for their longed-for release. They need to clutch a red and yellow shirt, smell it, especially if it was handed over by Falcao after a derby. They worry about missed away games, pride themselves on having smashed cars, caused arrests, bruised, wounded. They boast about entering without a ticket and reach the cities of the hosting team for the sole purpose of clashing with the opposing fans and rendering the special train that ferries them to the battlefield unusable. They also underscore the lust to make the city a living hell by penning a sonnet in the carriage. Then, if there's a denied goal to Turone as a pretext to unleash a bloody hatred, everyone agrees. Until in the confusion, a knife suddenly emerges that should calm the fury of a black-and-white fan but instead pierces the stomach of a red-and-yellow fan rushing to help. What do you do in this case? Here, the stupidity of the violent fan in general is highlighted. The criminal metaphor. Taking advantage of the situation to incite even fiercer clashes, even if it's about a friend killed by mistake. A dead friend is worth much less than soccer faith. All the actors were excellent, perhaps too authentic. Amendola, Memphis, Tognazzi younger brother, Vidale, De Nicola, Morrone... Antonello Venditti's soundtrack was truly beautiful.

I'm a Juventus fan. And I don't give a damn about the goal denied to Turone. Whether Juventus has 29 or 27 championships doesn't satisfy my nutritional needs or increase my bank account. I'm pleased if they win, and it tickles my muscles for five seconds in case of a loss. There are fanatics like those described in the film. I know some, and honestly, they make me reflect on their dangerousness, and others I have experienced. Roma-Juventus, an unspecified year due to amnesia. 0-1 thanks to a free-kick from Zidane that decrees Juventus' victory and the death sentence of its followers. From the den of ravenous beasts and certain death, a mighty dividing iron grate separated me. I was in the distinct section reserved for guests, in the corridors for accessing the stands, sheltered from glass bottles, belts, and lighters hurled at the end of the match by furious losers. I swore I would never again warm the bleachers of the Olimpico. Then I have Romanista friends, but moderate ones, who entertain me with jokes about the championship that drag on punctually until the start of the next match. Will there be a peaceful solution?

I want to dedicate this review to the story that moved me the most. Antonio De Falchi, a Roma fan, 18 years old, goes to San Siro to follow the team against Milan. It's June 4, 1989. Antonio has his scarf hidden in his jacket to avoid confrontations. He is stopped by some Milan fans who ask him for a cigarette and the time. The Roman accent is the spark that makes another group of Rossoneri ultras spring out with nothing good in mind.

Antonio tries to escape but his heart doesn't help much.

He falls, is caught, and massacred with kicks and punches.

There were THIRTY against ONE!