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Rating: I have to play the bad guy. And I'm quite enjoying it. Here's the review of a film that needs to be taken apart immediately, "Il piccolo diavolo," by His Majesty Roberto Oscar Benigni. Apart from the haughty attitude with which the Tuscan roams around the world with a smug smile and jokes recycled a thousand times, with the arrogance with which he reminds us that he won two Oscars (but did only he win them?), aside from all this, I've always liked Benigni. Not always, but certain theatrical performances now gathering dust (stuff from twenty years ago) were genuinely hilarious.
I've loved some of his films, from "Johnny Stecchino" (I think it's his comedic peak, years and years of comedic clichés rearranged in a jiffy) to "Il Mostro," but even further back, from that mythical "Berlinguer ti voglio bene" to the American adventures of "Down by Law." And I've seen, like everyone else, "Il piccolo diavolo."
The grandeur of "Non ci resta che piangere" (not exactly a perfect film, but upheld by an overwhelming comedy) is more attributable to the comedic genius of Massimo Troisi than to Benigni's antics, capable of even ruining, by poorly mimicking it, the cult scene of the letter dictation by Totò and Peppino. And while Troisi continues with his great auteur films, often funny, sometimes ambitious, Benigni turns to television, theater (there's a "Tuttobenigni" that should be immediately revisited!) and cinema. With "Il piccolo diavolo." And he goes big, bringing from America the rugged Walter Matthau (a man who always looked twenty years older than he actually was), enlisting Vincenzo Cerami, Evan Lurie for the music, Robby Müller for the cinematography, and Nino Baragli for the editing. Wow, what a great team!
And yet, as often happens in cinema, the mountain has given birth to a mouse. And perhaps, in this case, not even that. The little story is as flimsy as a leaf in autumn, brutally divided into two parts: the arrival of the little devil Benigni and the disruption in the life of poor priest Matthau, and the departure for Monte Carlo with Nicoletta Braschi (already a wet fish at that time) as a sexy (well, let's say attractive) little devil. Both the first and second parts evoke intermittent laughter. The jokes are often forced, vulgar, or recycled from theatrical performances from a few years earlier, including the usual anticlerical tone and the stereotypical jokes about the reproductive apparatus of men and women (those who've seen or know "Televacca" know those are recycled jokes). The second part, however, is a bore, dull from the first lines, sentimental, with that air of Fellinian fantasies (dancers having fun with puppets, soldiers saluting Braschi just off the train) that inspires sadness, aiming to soar high without ever actually succeeding. So, the only gag that is saved is that famous fashion show during Mass. But it's too little.
Walter Matthau is disoriented, in a role that doesn't feel like his and in an environment he understands little. The great actor cherished by Billy Wilder in the role of a priest being mocked by the little devil Giuditta Benigni? What an insult! And the chemistry between Matthau and Benigni doesn't work; the two struggle to connect, unable to set off the fireworks because they restrain each other too much. The cynical and irreverent Matthau of "The Fortune Cookie" has the same beaten-dog look, not helped by a disjointed script from the Benigni-Cerami duo that's directionless at some points, so much that it separates the two main actors for nearly the entire second act.
While Benigni acts quite decently, his insistence on being the director at all costs holds him back, limits him. He's never been a great director; here, he almost never nails the timing, and the gags are blatantly stretched. The Benigni-director often halts the Benigni-actor without reason, because the director's timing doesn't match the actor's, and if these two cannot intersect, the film inevitably cannot take off. It's a bit like a soccer team trying to win matches without a goalkeeper, without defense, with a lean midfield and a striker who doesn't score. Impossible to win.
Interestingly, after this film (who knows why it became a cult!) Benigni would work with Fellini in "La voce della luna" (which isn't a cult, but it is a great film). From someone like Fellini, the Benigni-director should have learned many things. Didn't he learn them? So be it, great directors are born, not made.
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