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Shit should never be underestimated; on the contrary, one should always aim to step on it. For example, the absurdity is that if you prepare the ground with good organic fertilizer, it rewards you with splendid roses. And here comes elite cinema, faced with works like this, which draw directly from real experiences, making a noisy pratfall with its fragrant aesthetics. Fortunately, with people like Sergio Citti, there's no danger of raising consolatory justifications.
And we, being Romans from Rome, sense that our friend Pier Paolo frequented boroughs and suburbs (not to mention the shantytowns on the city's outskirts) to try to acquire, if only by osmosis, the immediacy of capturing that moment of truth that always presents itself as dry, fierce, cynical, ruthless, and mostly stationed at Tuscolano. And the laments we all pursue are crushed without consideration, and the mirrors, where we tell ourselves how beautiful and talented we are and everyone else is an idiot, are shattered without mercy.
"Nun se stamo a raccontà fregnacce", Citti communicates from the detachment, here cinema is not representation, it is not a reflection of the past, here we deal with true stories unfiltered by adjustments for acceptance and without waiting for approval. And indeed, estrangement is the currency of exchange for communication finally free from preconceptions. But you see, a person reincarnates yet another time for the same boredom, and is aware of this, do you think they would still tread the false steps of the ego? Nooo... Maybe we find them enriching their millennial vagabond baggage by rummaging through the garbage bin of the collective conscience. The stew that emerges has a bitter aftertaste of well-deserved kicks in the butt for not considering that the unexpected dwells on stories that seemingly have neither head nor tail. But without the unexpected, there is no evolution.
Holy fools reveal themselves as the protagonists, the "trio monnezza," the axis Rome-Berlin-Paris to satirize the little tales around "there is an Italian, a German, a Frenchman"... And the names of Gaspare, Melchiorre, and Baldassarre in the suburbs transform into "Er fialetta, Er marana, Er tombino," for an indexed penetration to the future inflation of reinforced concrete on the Roman periphery. We are protagonists, along with those three "fools," of a vital nonsense.
The story begins well with the "Moth Circus" where the protagonists almost invoke the punishment of those who, without calculation, throw a mockery of creation. Being beaten up on every occasion grounds the presumption of having replaced the illusion: the message of peace inevitably founders upon the consumption desired by the spectators; the spectators want blood, not honey. The flight is quite opportune, what beasts...
And one roams seeking questions on an empty stomach and gets "vegetablized," unconsciously challenges authority and is hungrier than before, causing mirages, three camels appear out of nowhere... The situation starts evolving mystically: "the Wise Men must be exotic, must come from afar," but "the true Wise Men are big, hefty... and they fight," bruises more mystical than this you cannot have. Then there's pure horror: "A slaughter! The Wise Men are doing it all." Stones around their necks, boasting and condemned: "Did they knock you up, Father? All of you? Yes, all of us! Castrate them! Yes, fine, after the Nativity scene." Ahahahah! Now that's the right dreamlike! The esoteric pragmatism of Father Gastone Moschin floats in an existential gloom.
More than that, it’s just that bedecked sprawl of dreams caused by bad digestions that hide under seals of sterile coat of arms taking names such as federico, michelangelo, luchino, etc. etc. And Pasolini saves himself with a last-minute goal with that Salo, by the skin of his teeth, which cost him dearly. But Sergio is not as violent as the Friulian, he doesn't need to be because when one is from Rome, one is from Rome, one is from Rome! Citti is a timeless surpasser that kicks your ass like a bucket and you realize it after a thousand years, who uses the (very limited) cinematic medium reluctantly to almost accidentally show you where the poses that possess us end up.
And I find myself more suitable with a Nando Cicero, and one feels more in cahoots with a Greenaway and his "belly of the architect." "And so long live love," said the one born in Isola Liri. And "half do I do, half God does," as the comet carries a dream of transcendental erections. And the fumes that the director then brings out are an unrepeatable Epiphany: "Are you really You? The Almighty? Eeh yes. In flesh and bone? Do you think I look thin?" The film then (de)rails in wild lands where the "good news" is a demographic stray delirium accompanied by the music of an Ennio Morricone in great shape.
"But will this black ever come off the face?" Let's hope not...
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