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Rating: I wonder if today we lived the cinema (actors, directors, operators, etc.) of back then under the scrutiny of today's critics and vice versa? Perhaps, in the first case, the artists would have received the rightful recognition that often comes, with timing of Olympic value, posthumously, with higher percentages recorded on the day of the funeral.
In the second hypothesis, most likely no one would invest, produce, or direct, overheated Christmas trash or unspeakable atrocities created to forcibly transfer to film the pitiful television jokes of the comedian (?) of the moment.
In 1951, a good part of Great Italian Cinema unfortunately often found itself engaging in a battle against armies of unworthy moralist critics, and it was the same for the prestigious duo Steno-Monicelli, repeatedly targeted by the venomous arrows of the latter. If we then think that in the censorship commission of the time the high seats were occupied by Giulio Andreotti and the nostalgic small fascist Annibale Scicluna Sorge, I would say that we were quite well off with canine droppings.
Anyway, in any case, there is no glamour in a pair of directors if they do not direct a splendid pair of actors: Totò and Aldo Fabrizi. The first, the thief Ferdinando Esposito, spends his days gathering the uncertain proceeds of various scams, and the second, the police brigadier Lorenzo Bottoni, diligent in humanity, is, by obvious duty, compelled to prevent and repress them. The parallel lines of the protagonists meet during the delivery of parcels containing basic necessities intended for the proletariat. The person in charge of the ceremony, an American benefactor, was swindled by a Totò who for the occasion dressed as a tour guide at the Imperial Forums and who sold him a fake double-sestertius found between a colunnum and the tomb of Christopher Columbus. All it takes is for the looks of swindler and swindled to meet, and the burly brigadier, on site for formal security duty, must summon heroic physical endurance to chase the thief amidst the cars of still-barren traffic and the virgin shacks of an honest Roman suburb that smells of Pasolini.
In this sequence, it is difficult to define who is more ingenious: "Aiut', son' cadut'!" - "...e riarzate!" or, between a dog unleashed and a steep slush: "Fermateee! Brutto..." - "Non cominciamo con le parolacce eh?" - "Questo è americano! Che figura ce famo all'estero!" and perhaps, between a panting wheeze and a liver treatment: "...ormai te sei fermato! Sei preso! Vieni qua!" - "A chi? A chi? Tu vieni qua! Sei tu che mi devi arrestà!". Totò will be caught but will manage to escape, and by law, a policeman who lets a "detainee" escape risks trial and expulsion from the Corps. Unless, in a small human war more of fact than of name, where the winner would not want to prevail because it is the loser who has allowed himself to be defeated, an unnatural common sense performs the miracle.
Crafted by a formidable team of screenwriters (Brancati, Flaiano, and Maccari should suffice?) on a story by Piero Tellini which had the privilege of waving with the subtle leaves of Cannes' reed, the film will grant Totò, who was considered even as a "buffoon" by the judging pipers, his first international recognition in the form of a silver ribbon. However, it must be said that even Fabrizi would have deserved something. Among the other actors, a very young Carlo Delle Piane, the adamantine sidekick Mario Castellani, the excellent characterization of Ernesto Almirante, the raw purity of Rossana Podestà, and two lionesses of whom nothing more needs to be said: Ave Ninchi and Pina Piovani. The photography, a fascinating, expansive, bare black and white, is by Mario Bava, while the soundtrack, an unforgettable stairway for strings and winds, is composed by the Grand Master Alessandro Cicognini.
Ah, regarding censorship, the melancholy little fascist would have been irritated because he was opposed to the security guard who had to perform the execrable act of "compromising" with a criminal. Beyond the figures of Totò and Fabrizi, analyzing the context, the policeman demonstrated he was able to do his duty in a race (still?) against time, without resorting (enough!) to cruel methods and with a pinch of cunning (and luck) typical of the old fox. And without anyone's complicity. The thief, too, did his part with the same methods, even if from a diametrically opposed school of thought.
The thief tries to escape until the last moment, just as the policeman must not let him slip away until the last moment, under penalty of an inglorious end stamped by the State. The expedient of the unknowing families' intervention might even seem abject, and Totò realizes this, claiming the alleged theft of affections. However, when even a thief has a heart, it soon becomes clear that he is on the wrong side and that, as paradoxical as it may seem, prison is just, even in exchange for some postcards to send home to avoid dreadful revelations.
Therefore, the judgment expressed by the putrid regurgitation of the lictor is not free from multiple false blemishes. One who may have made even baser compromises and perhaps was lucky enough to have been pardoned by Togliatti. Eia, Eia, Vafancù!
A beautiful film never to be forgotten.
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