Stefano Incerti
Il verificatore

When I discovered that someone had uploaded it online, I could hardly believe it. I had searched for it for years, hoping to one day see it converted to digital, but every attempt proved to be ultimately futile. I remembered that explosion compounded by a look of chilling astonishment when they broadcast it in the late evening on the third channel at least fifteen years ago. Three, three, three. Perfect.

Dusted off, devoured with the eyes, and downloaded in anticipation that some distributor will give a nod to their conscience and choose it over yet another terribly Italian commercial "panettonata."

In a Naples that doesn't seem geographically in its place, Crescenzio, a thirty-three-year-old corpulent, puffing, and extremely reserved man, daily breathes the discomforts of a perverse, crazy, rogue, and hypocritical city, among the walls of houses where he goes to record gas meter readings.

Crescenzio has a brother, Beniamino, who works as an antenna installer for a lowly, greasy television dealer. As tradition dictates, character-wise, he is the exact opposite, the black sheep of the family, inclined to illicit acts, boastful, superficial.

Both have a woman, or at least a female figure by their side. Crescenzio, despite not being reciprocated, loves Giuliana, a timid, melancholic soul incapable of reacting to the pitfalls of a life lived far from family warmth. Giuliana would work as an accountant for the aforementioned shady dealer, forced to omit invoices and endure explicit advances from the murky boss. Valeria, on the other hand, a simple, good-natured, naive girl, lets herself be teased by Beniamino who openly shows he prefers much else, besides being so cowardly as to indiscriminately distribute venomous slaps to settle any quarrel.

Among complacent spinsters, improbable necromancers, misunderstood poets, and sophisticated erotomaniacs, unfolds the sterile life of the gauge reader, the chiattone mocked by the neighborhood's young ruffians, the bear who hasn't yet found a dimension to lay down in to survive.

Crescenzio is used to, wrongly, keeping everything inside. Everything is fine until he can no longer absorb the numerous disappointments he's forced to endure. And when a dormant volcano decides to erupt, there's really a lot to be seriously afraid of. Peeling off his own shell, he would have liked it to be the illegality of a friendly gun to curb his revenge, but courage failed in the face of a kitchen worn out by apathy. One word too many convinces him to rely on the only faithful ally that also allows him to carry on: the gas.

Stefano Incerti, a sumptuous Neapolitan director, debuted in 1995, with a David di Donatello included in the package, signing this terrifying snapshot of surprising modernity. The respectable company “Teatri Uniti,” founded by Mario Martone, Toni Servillo, and Antonio Neiwiller, produces this film which, with a little effort, can be considered a feature film (it barely lasts 74’).

Audaciously photographed by Pasquale Mari, cold colors reign sovereign, making Naples appear like an anonymous, icy, and uncontrolled Northern European town. It's no coincidence if a critic compared it to Glasgow and indeed no one would recognize it, so prematurely overpopulated by pummarò, poorly lit with nostalgic commercial signs or nearly regularly burnt-out street lamps. The passage of anomalous rain constantly emerges in the puddles created by asphalt superficially spread on those busy and/or trash-strewn streets. And the emergency of the latter is still distant. On the ignoble stage proposed on film, various byproducts of the most savage humanity parade.

Antonino Iuorio is excellent in the role of Crescenzio, with his vacant gaze, few spoken words that disdain the dialect but not the accent, and a passive calmness that provokes anger. Roberto Di Francesco is excellent in the role of Beniamino, just as the unfortunately forgotten Elodie Treccani playing the poor Giuliana. Of high quality are the choir members of the tragedy, the already tested Antonio Pennarella, Teresa Saponangelo, Carmen Scivittaro… Nothing to take away from these jewels, but class is something entirely different if the role of the brutal boss is covered by Renato Carpentieri.

A then semi-unknown Paolo Sorrentino appears in the opening credits as a production inspector, and there’s an interlude sequence (today a seasoned eye would recognize it in a heartbeat) that looks all too much like his offspring…

A globally good work (excellent if Peter Gordon’s music had better commented on the scenes) that should, in my opinion, be re-evaluated and highlighted. In your spare time, take a look online, perhaps while sidestepping the overflowing nonsense of Warholian stamp and low-order rubbish. It's really worth it. And it lasts a short time, after all.