Stefano Incerti
Gorbaciof

In a city that might not even be the one you imagine. That despite everything, you recognize it unfortunately. To which you might dare a comparison for a pretentious misdirection. But despite everything, it never denies itself. Oily hair pulled back, little care about the rest, almost the bare minimum. An open shirt down to the lower edge of the sternum and a suit. Always the same one. When a day begins with a cold, worn-out look in a correctional facility, it can't be a good day. A strange nod of greeting, the smells of fats lingering on the makeshift metal detectors, the heavy, sweaty moods of the inmates' families, the overly handled banknotes to count, the certain, brisk step, and a cruddy cold sandwich to bite into with a greed that doesn't even spare the aluminum foil. And if the day ends with the first and only word uttered, a stilted "vafàmmocc'". No, it wasn't a good day.

Marino Pacileo is one of the cashiers at Poggioreale prison. A kind of not exactly recommendable man if analyzed summarily. Extremely reserved and possessed by the demon of gambling. His after-work is a hidden room in a dismal Chinese restaurant. No aperitif or cigarette to ease the nerves, quite the opposite. A poker for ringing euros between some camorrista, slippery scoundrels, and a dirty corrupted and usurious lawyer. A mournful grotto massacred by the spongy smoke of cigarettes and the 66cl national beers served by the only ray of sunshine in this bleak, foggy, and all too familiar atmosphere. Lila, the restaurateur's daughter. When diamonds don't grow anything and flowers grow from dung. Thanks, Faber. The only pure, living petal of a dead plant burned at the roots. Daughter of that father who for debts may also become an ogre. Until she meets the most unlikely of avengers who will care for her.

The debts multiply and Gorbaciof replenishes his pockets at the expense of the prison coffers. Everyone knows it by now. To fill the empty safe, he's forced to resort to reprehensible, criminal methods. But he seems accustomed to it. Lila will try to abduct him from that dark life, but a bastard whirlpool will sweep them away.

Toni Servillo is excellent. That's it. And the skill of Stefano Incerti manages to turn him into a piece of shit, in the sense that he opens a furnished wardrobe of masks and dark souls for a free choice. And Servillo knows very well which shelf to probe. A scoundrel not like the one too exposed with a sly smile, cunning and the hand on the backside ready to pick you up of "Gomorra". No. Gorbaciof, so nicknamed for a birthmark on his forehead that recalls the lamented Soviet leader, is a piece of a man. One who lives only because somehow he was thrown on earth like garbage. Devoid of feelings, affections, characteristically icy, egocentric in his useless dimension, indifferent and slimy. In the end, no matter how much he wants to wear the guise of the roughest of minerals, there is always a heart that, reluctantly, beats. Even stones melt with time, and in that anomalous love, devoid of kisses and predictable engaging effusions but rich in enchanting looks, devastating smiles, hinted caresses, treated wounds, and airport carts, there is truly everything. Beyond any fervent speculation.

Few words, many looks that nevertheless contain them. The soul of the movie. Yang Mi is beautiful and manages to pierce your heart. A touching, warm tenderness that touches the tuning fork of emotion in a scene where, to my memory, only Mastroianni succeeded. A subdued cry where there is a single tear to traverse the face. Also noteworthy is the already established skill of the good Geppy Gleijeses, in the role of the vile magistrate. Great movie by the excellent Stefano Incerti, truly. Waiting for them to decide to transfer "Il verificatore" to DVD.