Changing My Mind_ Occasional Essays Part 5

Eleven.

NOTES ON VISCONTI'S BELLISSIMA "Please don't retouch my wrinkles. It took me so long to earn them."

-ANNA MAGNANI PR EFACE.

In the Piazza della Madonna dei Monti, in the ombra di colosseo ombra di colosseo, expats gather to complain. Not about the piazza itself, generally agreed to be among the prettiest in Rome. The central cafe, shrouded in pink bougainvillea, looks out upon a two-tiered fountain, mercifully cherub free. The thin white column of a Ukrainian orthodox church is discreet, unexpected. Depending on the hour, we watch mighty-calved American kids drink cheap hock straight from the bottle; tanned Roman girls, chain-smoking, dressed in the sunset silks they bought in Mumbai; hipster gays en route to Testaccio; three boxer dogs; delighted German tourists who think themselves the first to discover the place; very old Italians of suspicious vitality; two boys who use the church door as a goal mouth; and a beautiful young man who has been sleeping rough here for six months after a disagreement with his girlfriend. The young man is much appreciated-he is the sort of local color for which we came to Rome in the first place. His stench is monitored: sweet in the first month, eye watering in the fourth, cafe clearing in the sixth. And we enjoy Sundays, when the Ukrainian church congregation spills outside, bringing with it a close-harmony praise song. Everything else is complaint. Italian bureaucracy is impossible, the TV unwatchable, the government unbelievable, and the newspapers impenetrable. Expats in Rome are somehow able to consistently maintain their sense of outraged wonder, despite all reading The Dark Heart of Italy The Dark Heart of Italy two years earlier on the plane over. Italian Women is a subject to stretch from morning coffee to midday ravioli. "The land that feminism forgot!" And on cue it all rolls out like an index: the degrading s.e.xualization of, the nightly televisual humiliation of, Berlusconi's condescending opinion of, perilous abortion rights of, low wages of, minimal parliamentary presence of, invisibility within the church of, et cetera. Yet there exist confusing countersigns. The new mothers with tiny babes-in-arm, welcome at any gathering. The four women chatting at the next table, a frank, practical conversation about s.e.xual pleasure. The handsome lady grocer with her giant biceps and third-trimester belly, unpacking boxes of beer from the delivery truck, separating street fights, bullying her menfolk, lecturing the local drunks, overcharging the tourists, strategizing with the priests, running this piazza and everyone in it. Respected, desired, feared. two years earlier on the plane over. Italian Women is a subject to stretch from morning coffee to midday ravioli. "The land that feminism forgot!" And on cue it all rolls out like an index: the degrading s.e.xualization of, the nightly televisual humiliation of, Berlusconi's condescending opinion of, perilous abortion rights of, low wages of, minimal parliamentary presence of, invisibility within the church of, et cetera. Yet there exist confusing countersigns. The new mothers with tiny babes-in-arm, welcome at any gathering. The four women chatting at the next table, a frank, practical conversation about s.e.xual pleasure. The handsome lady grocer with her giant biceps and third-trimester belly, unpacking boxes of beer from the delivery truck, separating street fights, bullying her menfolk, lecturing the local drunks, overcharging the tourists, strategizing with the priests, running this piazza and everyone in it. Respected, desired, feared.

Such countersigns are not unified: they do not all point in one direction, and so as expats we find it difficult to process them-which may be the difference between a Catholic and a Protestant sensibility. The strongest countersign of all is Anna's face. It follows you everywhere, staring out from restaurants, pub bathrooms, private houses, lined up on the display table of the edicolas, edicolas, and writ large on the walls of the city itself, for this summer marks her centenary. and writ large on the walls of the city itself, for this summer marks her centenary. Nannarella Nannarella. Mamma Roma. La Magnani. Anna is a confusing countersign, in the land that feminism forgot.

1.

A chorus of women sing in a radio studio. Plain women, not actresses, of early middle age, and dressed in black, with simple strands of pearls around their necks. The credits identify them as the RAI choir.60 The lead soprano has a light but discernible mustache. The song is "Saria possibile?" (Could it be possible?) from Donizetti's The lead soprano has a light but discernible mustache. The song is "Saria possibile?" (Could it be possible?) from Donizetti's L'elisir d'amore L'elisir d'amore, a silly opera about a peasant who, in his desperation to woo a beautiful, unattainable woman, buys a love potion from a mountebank. (The potion turns out to be red wine.) Visconti pans through this choir dispa.s.sionately, even a little cruelly, as it responds with minute precision to the baton of a dashing male conductor. A chorus of Italian women, eager to please. The song ends; we move to a smaller studio. A young man at a desk speaks into the microphone, to announce the premise of the film: We are looking for a girl between six and eight years. A pretty Italian girl. Take your girls to Stella Films in Cinecitta, Via Tuscolana, km 9. It could be your and her lucky day!

The next shot is unexpected. A great waste ground: what would seem to be the ruins of a city, with the blown-out frames of buildings and a ma.s.s of women and girl children, their best clothes on their backs (being transported? fleeing some disaster?). Another beat reveals its true, benign aspect: the outskirts of a movie studio. The frames are for set facades, as yet unfinished. The women are here to audition their girl children. But still men yell at them through megaphones. ("Keep quiet and stay calm!") The camera stays very high. This is a pared-down, unfamiliar Visconti, a decade before the opulence of Il gattopardo Il gattopardo. The borrowed severity of neorealismo neorealismo is not quite natural to him. His instinctive tendency toward the fantastic has only been transferred from style to content, to the hopes of this great female chorus, who now push as one toward a narrow doorway. is not quite natural to him. His instinctive tendency toward the fantastic has only been transferred from style to content, to the hopes of this great female chorus, who now push as one toward a narrow doorway.

A woman. A woman both like and not like the rest, in a black skirt suit, nipped waspishly at the waist, spilling out at both extremes, with black shoes and wild black hair and black pouches under her eyes, wailing like a heroine of the Greeks. She has lost her child! But the camera remains aloof, a gesture we might mistake for Visconti's familiar misogyny, if it were not for what Magnani makes of the angle. Think of it as a gift from director to actress. We are so far from Magnani she is practically inaudible, yet this is no obstacle to comprehending her. We see her anger, panic, and desperation-and even that these emotions are both sincere and a little overdone, un po' esagerato, un po' esagerato, in a calculated manner, in case the sympathy thus roused might help her case later. All this is put across with her hands (the natural advantage of Italian actors) but also in the stamp of her little foot, the way her hair flies from its bun, the way her hips bend forward and back in pantomime outrage. What a silent star Magnani would have been! Now she leaves the chorus and runs alone, across this desolate city, as she did in in a calculated manner, in case the sympathy thus roused might help her case later. All this is put across with her hands (the natural advantage of Italian actors) but also in the stamp of her little foot, the way her hair flies from its bun, the way her hips bend forward and back in pantomime outrage. What a silent star Magnani would have been! Now she leaves the chorus and runs alone, across this desolate city, as she did in Roma, citta aperta Roma, citta aperta. The chorus pa.s.ses through opportunity's door without her.

Bellissima as a series of formal, ancient gestures, in which an all-female chorus threatens to swallow a single female actor, and from which that actor determinedly separates herself first, and then-by force of will-also a second actor, her child. A cinematic rerun of Aeschylus's revolutionary innovation. as a series of formal, ancient gestures, in which an all-female chorus threatens to swallow a single female actor, and from which that actor determinedly separates herself first, and then-by force of will-also a second actor, her child. A cinematic rerun of Aeschylus's revolutionary innovation.

The chorus pushes forward toward a makeshift stage. The name of the fictional film is on the wall behind them-Oggi domani mai-but so is the name of the real film: Bellissima Bellissima. The character of Director is also both fictional and real, Alessandro Blasetti.61 He walks through the crowd (taking great care over his acting, wanting to get the playing of himself right) to the tune of Donizetti's "Charlatan's Theme," although he did not know this at the time. (Visconti: "One day somebody told him about it. He wrote me an indignant letter: "Really, I'd never have believed you capable of such a thing," and so on: and I replied: "Why? We're all charlatans, us directors. It is we who put illusions into the heads of mothers and little girls. . . . We're selling a love potion which isn't really a magic elixir: it's simply a gla.s.s of Bordeaux.") The director, the a.s.sistants, the producers, the hangers-on-powerful men with their powerful boredom-climb the elevated stage and prepare to judge, positioning themselves in att.i.tudes of jolly contempt. In Italy, a woman is always the looked-at-thing, always appraised by that measure. Today, tomorrow-this beauty contest is as old as the judgment of Paris. The descendants of these men still audition He walks through the crowd (taking great care over his acting, wanting to get the playing of himself right) to the tune of Donizetti's "Charlatan's Theme," although he did not know this at the time. (Visconti: "One day somebody told him about it. He wrote me an indignant letter: "Really, I'd never have believed you capable of such a thing," and so on: and I replied: "Why? We're all charlatans, us directors. It is we who put illusions into the heads of mothers and little girls. . . . We're selling a love potion which isn't really a magic elixir: it's simply a gla.s.s of Bordeaux.") The director, the a.s.sistants, the producers, the hangers-on-powerful men with their powerful boredom-climb the elevated stage and prepare to judge, positioning themselves in att.i.tudes of jolly contempt. In Italy, a woman is always the looked-at-thing, always appraised by that measure. Today, tomorrow-this beauty contest is as old as the judgment of Paris. The descendants of these men still audition veline veline62 each Roman summer. As any expat will tell you, the queues run for miles. Now, here, in postwar Italy, the first little girl lifts her skirts, gyrates, pouts and rolls her eyes, doing "an impression of Betty Grable." The men smile. "You're starting early!" cries Blasetti. each Roman summer. As any expat will tell you, the queues run for miles. Now, here, in postwar Italy, the first little girl lifts her skirts, gyrates, pouts and rolls her eyes, doing "an impression of Betty Grable." The men smile. "You're starting early!" cries Blasetti.

2.

Bellissima, in its initial conception (a story by Cesare Zavattini), was intended as a riff on the hypocrisy of cinema. Maddalena Cecconi (Magnani), a working-cla.s.s woman from Rome's urban suburbs, wants her daughter, Maria (Tina Apicella), to be a star. She will use whatever she has-her savings, her own sympathetic s.e.x appeal-in the attempt to secure for her daughter what Italians call a raccomandazione di ferro. raccomandazione di ferro.63 In the end, she gets what she wants but, in the same moment, turns from it: too much of the empty, cruel, and capitalistic world of Cinecitta has been revealed to her. But though the cruelty of Cinecitta was Zavattini's neorealistic focus, it did not prove to be Visconti's. "The story really was a pretext," he admitted later. "The whole subject was Magnani: I wanted to create a portrait of a woman out of her, a contemporary woman, a mother, and I think we pretty well succeeded because Magnani lent me her enormous talent, her personality." This is the same as saying Magnani's personality overwhelmed Zavattini's concept. To allow Zavattini's moral tale to function, one would have to feel Magnani's soul was In the end, she gets what she wants but, in the same moment, turns from it: too much of the empty, cruel, and capitalistic world of Cinecitta has been revealed to her. But though the cruelty of Cinecitta was Zavattini's neorealistic focus, it did not prove to be Visconti's. "The story really was a pretext," he admitted later. "The whole subject was Magnani: I wanted to create a portrait of a woman out of her, a contemporary woman, a mother, and I think we pretty well succeeded because Magnani lent me her enormous talent, her personality." This is the same as saying Magnani's personality overwhelmed Zavattini's concept. To allow Zavattini's moral tale to function, one would have to feel Magnani's soul was actually in the hazard actually in the hazard. Which is not possible. Magnani as a personality being too self-reliant, too confident, with too constant an access to joy. Even when she is being blackmailed, she laughs. Her character-played by anyone else-is a tragic woman pursuing the dreams of her youth through her child. But no hint of the female zombie, no trace of Norma Desmond, clings to Magnani. Everything she wants- certainly a little money, possibly a little reflected fame-she wants directly, in a straight and open manner, as men are said to want things. Her dream is strategic, not delusional. And in her mind, the child remains only a child, come tutte come tutte: "Well, at that age they're all all pretty." This is her sensible reply to a calculated compliment from the slick young stranger, Annovazzi (Walter Chiari), a production a.s.sistant low down in the Cinecitta food chain who is willing to do certain favors in exchange for certain favors-the oldest of Italian stories. "Yes, that's true," he agrees. "But I prefer their mothers." Annovazzi is younger than Maddalena, skinnier, and in a bland cinematic sense, better looking. But she knows as we know: he is the shadow of her shadow. On the other hand, he has access to the director, Blasetti. All this pa.s.ses through Magnani's face in a mannerist instant: a sharp glance in which she responds at once to the cheek of the boy and the perfect civility and necessity of the compliment. (It would be rude of him not to notice that she is a G.o.ddess!) Few actresses are so directly appreciative of their own earthy, natural attractions. On-screen, Magnani is the opposite of neurotic. pretty." This is her sensible reply to a calculated compliment from the slick young stranger, Annovazzi (Walter Chiari), a production a.s.sistant low down in the Cinecitta food chain who is willing to do certain favors in exchange for certain favors-the oldest of Italian stories. "Yes, that's true," he agrees. "But I prefer their mothers." Annovazzi is younger than Maddalena, skinnier, and in a bland cinematic sense, better looking. But she knows as we know: he is the shadow of her shadow. On the other hand, he has access to the director, Blasetti. All this pa.s.ses through Magnani's face in a mannerist instant: a sharp glance in which she responds at once to the cheek of the boy and the perfect civility and necessity of the compliment. (It would be rude of him not to notice that she is a G.o.ddess!) Few actresses are so directly appreciative of their own earthy, natural attractions. On-screen, Magnani is the opposite of neurotic.

3.

The complicated cinematic partnership between straight women and gay men (Irving Rapper and Bette Davis, George Cukor and Joan Crawford) does not usually result in this easy, playful relation between woman and world. For Davis and Crawford the roles came laced with Grand Guignol, campy tragedy, the arch appreciation of female artifice. Both actresses traded what was transient and human in their work for the waxwork grandeur of eternal iconicity. I made her what she is today I made her what she is today may be the ultimate Hollywood sentence. Laced always with a little bitterness, perhaps because the woman-muse of the gay Svengali is a double agent. Loving the same impossible men, living in the same impossible patriarchy, but always able to apply for the love and acceptance of the public. (She can become a national treasure.) Magnani-the s.e.xy-maternal, working-cla.s.s Roman-is Italy as it dreams of itself. Visconti represents a different Italy entirely: gay, aristocratic, Milanese. Inevitably the partnership had its poisonous side. Visconti on Magnani: "Left completely to her own devices, I have to say, she would never have achieved a happy result." Hard to believe-her own devices seem to be all she has. Hyperani mate, frankly scheming, playing the odds, rolling the eyes, huffing, puffing, bursting the binds of script and taking her costars with her. may be the ultimate Hollywood sentence. Laced always with a little bitterness, perhaps because the woman-muse of the gay Svengali is a double agent. Loving the same impossible men, living in the same impossible patriarchy, but always able to apply for the love and acceptance of the public. (She can become a national treasure.) Magnani-the s.e.xy-maternal, working-cla.s.s Roman-is Italy as it dreams of itself. Visconti represents a different Italy entirely: gay, aristocratic, Milanese. Inevitably the partnership had its poisonous side. Visconti on Magnani: "Left completely to her own devices, I have to say, she would never have achieved a happy result." Hard to believe-her own devices seem to be all she has. Hyperani mate, frankly scheming, playing the odds, rolling the eyes, huffing, puffing, bursting the binds of script and taking her costars with her. Mi raccomando, eh?-uffa!-per carita!-abbia pazienza!-O dio mio!-come no?-meno male! Mi raccomando, eh?-uffa!-per carita!-abbia pazienza!-O dio mio!-come no?-meno male! Italian is a language packed with verbal Italian is a language packed with verbal fillers fillers. Magnani makes musical use of them. No gap between sentences survives without an exclamation of one sort or another. And witness her making her way back through that chorus, Maria in hand, convincing each pushy mother she pushes past that it really can be no other way; giving each woman just what they need-smile or insult-in order to let her pa.s.s. In front of Blasetti at last, Maddalena turns on the charm but with a blatant Roman cunning that no one could mistake for coquetry. Blasetti: "But I said the child has to be six or seven years old, not less . . . she looks a bit small." Maddalena: "Really? No, it must be the dress that makes her short." The legends of Davis and Crawford are built on a camp proposition, equal parts adoration and contempt. All women are artificial. All women are, in the end, actresses. Womanhood itself is an act! All women are artificial. All women are, in the end, actresses. Womanhood itself is an act! But Magnani turns the proposition on its head. She is the incarnation of that paradoxical imperative: But Magnani turns the proposition on its head. She is the incarnation of that paradoxical imperative: act natural. act natural. She is always and everywhere apparently without artifice, spontaneous, just another Roman woman She is always and everywhere apparently without artifice, spontaneous, just another Roman woman come tutte. come tutte. Which leads to a strange conclusion: the actor isn't acting-the Which leads to a strange conclusion: the actor isn't acting-the character character is acting. For isn't it is acting. For isn't it Maddalena Maddalena, and not Magnani, who puts on a bit of an act now and then, when circ.u.mstances call for it?

One morning an eccentric acting teacher approaches the family. She wants to give little Maria lessons that Maddalena can't afford. Alone in her bedroom, Maddalena considers the offer, combing her unruly hair and addressing her own reflection in the mirror: "To act . . . after all, what is acting? If I imagined to be somebody else . . . if I pretended to be somebody else . . . I'd be acting. . . . But you you can act. . . . You're my daughter and you can become an actress. You really can. I could have, too, if I had wanted to." can act. . . . You're my daughter and you can become an actress. You really can. I could have, too, if I had wanted to."

With Magnani, womanhood is utterly real-it simply does what it must to get by.

4.

Much Italian cinema revolves around the cla.s.sic Italian philosophical problem: blonde or brunette? For Fellini, the answer was, usually, both. Antonioni solved the dilemma on an abstract intellectual plane by discovering Monica Vitti, the blonde with the face of a brunette. In Visconti's Bellissima Bellissima no counterweight is put up against black-haired Anna Magnani, for what counterweight could there possibly be? Her husband Spartaco (Gastone Renzelli) has the elemental, hulking beauty his name implies (a nonactor, he was picked out by the director's a.s.sistant, a young Zeffirelli, from a crowd of bone merchants in a Roman slaughterhouse). But in character, in no counterweight is put up against black-haired Anna Magnani, for what counterweight could there possibly be? Her husband Spartaco (Gastone Renzelli) has the elemental, hulking beauty his name implies (a nonactor, he was picked out by the director's a.s.sistant, a young Zeffirelli, from a crowd of bone merchants in a Roman slaughterhouse). But in character, in personality, personality, he is no match for her. He is left to plot weakly with his mother against her ("Mamma, I won't even bother with her. She always does what she likes anyway!"), though only for the length of a lunchtime, as he eats the meals his mother still cooks for him. He seeks no real alternative to Magnani. he is no match for her. He is left to plot weakly with his mother against her ("Mamma, I won't even bother with her. She always does what she likes anyway!"), though only for the length of a lunchtime, as he eats the meals his mother still cooks for him. He seeks no real alternative to Magnani.

Bellissima is that rare thing in Italian cinema: a film in which the woman is not a question posed to a man. Even more rare: she is not in question to herself. She finds herself perfectly satisfactory, or at least, her flaws cause her no more than the normal amount of discomfort. A less common trait in a female movie star can hardly be imagined. is that rare thing in Italian cinema: a film in which the woman is not a question posed to a man. Even more rare: she is not in question to herself. She finds herself perfectly satisfactory, or at least, her flaws cause her no more than the normal amount of discomfort. A less common trait in a female movie star can hardly be imagined.

In the parrucchiere parrucchiere where little Maria is taken for a haircut: where little Maria is taken for a haircut: Hairdresser: ( (to Maddalena) I could give you a good style, too.Maddalena: Don't even try, no one has managed that. Don't even try, no one has managed that.Hairdresser: I could manage. I could manage.Maddalena: ( (laughing) You'd waste your time!

Like Davis and Crawford, Magnani is an unconventional beauty. Unlike them, she is beautiful without any cosmetic effort whatsoever, and moreover, without any interest in the cosmetic. Cosmetic beauty is not the type that attracts her.

To wit: in the courtyard of her grim casa popolare, casa popolare,64 projected on a giant makeshift screen, a Hollywood blockbuster plays. Maddalena watches, enraptured. Spartaco comes to retrieve her: projected on a giant makeshift screen, a Hollywood blockbuster plays. Maddalena watches, enraptured. Spartaco comes to retrieve her: Spartaco: Maddalena, leave the cinema alone. Maddalena, leave the cinema alone.Maddalena: Oh, Spartaco, you don't understand me. Look at those beautiful things, look at where we live. When I see these things . . . Oh, Spartaco, you don't understand me. Look at those beautiful things, look at where we live. When I see these things . . .Spartaco: Maddalena, it's a fantasy. Maddalena, it's a fantasy.Maddalena: It's not! It's not!

We might expect to see up there Rita Hayworth in Gilda, Gilda, peeling off those silk elbow-length gloves. But it is Howard Hawks's peeling off those silk elbow-length gloves. But it is Howard Hawks's Red River, Red River, a wild open plain, two cowboys on their horses. The object of Maddalena's desire, a herd of bulls crossing a creek. a wild open plain, two cowboys on their horses. The object of Maddalena's desire, a herd of bulls crossing a creek.

5.

The chorus of mothers gossip among themselves. The rumor is that so-and-so has a recommendation of iron ("He was saying how pretty the girl was . . . but he was looking at her mother!" "Ah, now I understand!" "That's how it is these days!"); the fix is in; the auditions are worthless-it has all already been decided. A typical Roman inside job. Something must be done: they'll unite to complain, it's a vergogna, vergogna, they'll confront the producer! However, upon consideration, a more attractive, less violent, solution is found: each woman will look to her own recommendation. For one lady's husband knows the director of the phone company ("What does that matter?" asks Maddalena. The reply: "He's they'll confront the producer! However, upon consideration, a more attractive, less violent, solution is found: each woman will look to her own recommendation. For one lady's husband knows the director of the phone company ("What does that matter?" asks Maddalena. The reply: "He's important important"); someone else's husband has a friend on set; yet another has a Cinecitta waiter in her family.

And Maddalena knows Annovazzi. They meet in the Borghese gardens, dappled in leafy light, the scene of a Shakespearean comedy. "I never come here!" she says, for there exists a Roman life that does not include and never comes near the expats of Monti, or the Forum, the Pantheon, or even the Colosseum. The pair walk to a tree and lean against it like lovers. Annovazzi plays the cynic: "We're so used to recommendations, both to making and receiving them. . . . In Italy we rely on recommendations: 'Please don't forget.' 'I a.s.sure you.' 'I promise you.' . . . But who are we supposed to remember and why?" The only safe thing, he concludes, is to "put the person who needs your help in a position to ask ask for that help." for that help."

He strokes her arm, offering her the possibility of the s.e.xual favor instead of the financial. She removes his hand, laughing. "No, this way is much better." He takes her fifty thousand lire, supposedly to smooth the ground for Maria, in the form of small favors ("A bunch of flowers to the producer of the film, a bottle of perfume for the lover of the producer"). In the event he will spend it on a Lambretta for himself.

"How shrewd you are!"

"It's a practical way of getting through life."

Even as she hands over her pocketbook, she knows he can't be trusted. Later, when she discovers the deception, she only laughs her big laugh. It is a plot point hard to understand if you are not Italian. She pays him for a favor. He buys a bike. She finds out. But she is not angry, because he will still remember her, especially. because he will still remember her, especially.

6.

"The big mistake of neorealismo, neorealismo," claimed Visconti, "to my way of thinking, is its unrelenting and sometimes dour concentration on social reality. What neorealismo neorealismo needs . . . 'dangerous' mixture of reality and romanticism." needs . . . 'dangerous' mixture of reality and romanticism."

He found the perfect objective correlative in the summer life of the Roman projects: reality on the inside, cinema in the outside (courtyard). Inside, Maddalena's reality is stark: she earns the little lire she has going door to door, giving injections to invalids and hypochondriac ladies, a business that survives more on Maddalena's charm than the efficacy of her "medicines." Otherwise, alliances with other women prove hard to forge. In Italy, your mother-in-law (suocera, a perfectly vile-sounding word) is your nemesis, the other mothers are your compet.i.tors and the gossiping neighbors in the stairwell, your daily tormentors. But there is also a practical, strategic sisterhood, which makes itself visible in times of crisis. When Spartaco physically attacks Maddalena (she has spent money they don't have on a dress for Maria's screen test), the women of the housing estate invade the Cecconi apartment, another chorus, heavyset and loud-mouthed, outnumbering Spartaco, who has Maria in his arms and is trying to take her away, as his paternal property. Maddalena is hysterical: she screams and weeps. It is, as far as an expat is concerned, a scene of horrific domestic terror. A raging Spartaco calls the women a perfectly vile-sounding word) is your nemesis, the other mothers are your compet.i.tors and the gossiping neighbors in the stairwell, your daily tormentors. But there is also a practical, strategic sisterhood, which makes itself visible in times of crisis. When Spartaco physically attacks Maddalena (she has spent money they don't have on a dress for Maria's screen test), the women of the housing estate invade the Cecconi apartment, another chorus, heavyset and loud-mouthed, outnumbering Spartaco, who has Maria in his arms and is trying to take her away, as his paternal property. Maddalena is hysterical: she screams and weeps. It is, as far as an expat is concerned, a scene of horrific domestic terror. A raging Spartaco calls the women balene, balene, whales (the English translation-one of many poor examples-renders it "cows"), and they sing a whale song of overlapping accusation. Visconti, an opera buff, ch.o.r.eographs the scene as an echo of the RAI choir. whales (the English translation-one of many poor examples-renders it "cows"), and they sing a whale song of overlapping accusation. Visconti, an opera buff, ch.o.r.eographs the scene as an echo of the RAI choir.

"You only do it because I'm weaker!" cries Maddalena.

"Spartaco, today you really crossed the line!" cry the whales.

"I want my daughter to be somebody. . . . Am I ent.i.tled to feel this way or not? . . . She mustn't depend on anyone or get beaten like me!"

"Spartaco, she went all the way to Piazza Vittorio to a man with diabetes!"

"I'm full of bruises! I'm all swollen!"

"Spartaco, she's made so many sacrifices!"

"Maddalena, stop acting, acting," yells Spartaco, to the outrage of the whales, as Maddalena collapses into a chair. Frightened he may have gone too far, he releases the child to the protection of one of them, and runs from the house.

"Women like me," said the actress Anna Magnani, "can only submit to men capable of dominating them, and I have never found anyone capable of dominating me." It is the sort of statement to make an expat sigh. What is this mysterious deflected Italian feminism that can only take power discreetly, without ever saying that this is what it is doing? And what is an expat to make of the sudden evaporation of Maddalena's tears (Spartaco was right!) as her face creases into a coy smile? The whales, nodding appreciatively at the art of the thing, pa.s.s the child, hand to hand, back to its mother. The crisis is averted.

Congratulations are due. Italy is truly the land of the sign and countersign, incomprehensible to outsiders. Maddalena begins to laugh.

"We've won, darling. If we didn't do that, we wouldn't get an audition. My dear, do you think I'm working for nothing?"

The director Vittorio De Sica called Magnani's laugh "loud, overwhelming and tragic." Tragic is a word men will reach for if called upon to describe women outside of their relation to men. In American cinema, a woman's laugh is almost always flirtatious, a response to a male call. The unexpected thing about Magnani is that she makes herself laugh.

7.

In Italy, the right recommendation will get you through the door, to the top of the cla.s.s, and behind the scenes. Maddalena's has got her this far, into the editing room ("Mr. Annovazzi told me to come and see you"), where a beautiful young girl lines up the screen tests, ready to take downstairs to Blasetti and the producers. Maddalena, in the process of pleading for one more favor (she wants to be hidden in the projection room to watch her daughter's test) recognizes the girl. Wasn't she in that courtyard summer movie? Sotto il sole di Roma? Sotto il sole di Roma? The girl's face contorts, a mix of pride and dejection. In Italy, a woman is the looked-at-thing, until people tire of looking at her, at which point she is cut loose: The girl's face contorts, a mix of pride and dejection. In Italy, a woman is the looked-at-thing, until people tire of looking at her, at which point she is cut loose: "I don't make films anymore. . . . I'm not an actress. They only hired me once or twice. . . . as I was the type they needed. I even got my hopes up. And I lost my boyfriend and my job. . . . I convinced myself I was so beautiful and so great, and yet I'm stuck here, doing the editing. n.o.body called me, so I'm here."

Maddalena is shocked, then calms herself. For Maddalena, the dream is the truth: "Surely it can't be that way for everyone." In the projection room, she watches, hidden in a corner. Maria's film rolls. Her tiny face is elaborately painted. She wears the dress for which Maddalena received her bruises. Here are the men again, slouching in their chairs, making their decisions. But on the screen, Maria, stumbling over her words, begins to cry, then scream. A scream of real distress, of protest. The men, finding it very funny, set each other off in rounds of cruel laughter ("What a disaster!" "She's a dwarf. Look!"), Annovazzi first among them.

A little later there is the sentimental neorealist ending: Maddalena n.o.bly refuses the contract that is eventually offered to Maria ("I didn't bring her into this world to amuse anyone. To her father and me she's beautiful!"), an impossibility given her situation and the money involved. It would be pleasant to give oneself fully to this conclusion, and to the marital, erotic frisson that seems to spring up between Spartaco and Maddalena in the final frames, but a dusting of political idealism covers it. For he does not blame her and she needn't explain herself, and as the moneymen go off with their tails between their legs, these two Romans collapse on the bed together ("This crazy wife of mine," murmurs Spartaco as his hand reaches out, not to hit her this time, but to caress her) and hold on to each other for dear life. The vitality and mystery of a working-cla.s.s marriage (hearing the voice of Burt Lancaster through the window, Maddalena, forgetting her worries for a moment, murmurs: "How simpatico simpatico he is!" Spartaco: "Now Maddalena, you really deserve a slap!" Maddalena: "What? Can't I joke now?") is not natural territory for Visconti, and the implied Marxist sentiment (They have nothing! But they need nothing!) is too smoothly sold. he is!" Spartaco: "Now Maddalena, you really deserve a slap!" Maddalena: "What? Can't I joke now?") is not natural territory for Visconti, and the implied Marxist sentiment (They have nothing! But they need nothing!) is too smoothly sold.

Really the movie ends fifteen minutes earlier. Here where Maddalena covers her child's eyes with a palm like a priest over the face of a dead man. Lowering Maria down to floor, she removes her entirely from view, out of that little c.h.i.n.k of reflected illumination cast in this dark room by the light of the screen. There is still the power of refusal. There is still the possibility of removing the looked-at-thing from the gaze of those who care for nothing but its surface. Today? Tomorrow? Never! Today? Tomorrow? Never! But Magnani's own face stays where it is, oppressively close to us and to the camera, makeup free, wrinkled, bagged under the eyes, shadowed round the mouth, masculine and feminine in equal parts, a hawk nose splitting it down the middle, a different kind of challenge to the male gaze. How beautiful she is! Then she, too, turns away. But Magnani's own face stays where it is, oppressively close to us and to the camera, makeup free, wrinkled, bagged under the eyes, shadowed round the mouth, masculine and feminine in equal parts, a hawk nose splitting it down the middle, a different kind of challenge to the male gaze. How beautiful she is! Then she, too, turns away.

Twelve.

AT THE MULTIPLEX, 2006.

For a single season I reviewed movies. Each week the section editor gave me a couple of the mainstream releases to choose from. Occasionally, if there was s.p.a.ce, I got to squeeze in a second t.i.tle. No fancy stuff, no art movies, no foreign films and only one doc.u.mentary. I wish this explained some of the enthusiasms recorded below but I don't think it does. All I can say in my defense is if you've ever seen Date Movie, V for Vendetta Date Movie, V for Vendetta starts to look like a masterpiece. starts to look like a masterpiece.

MEMOIRS OF A GEISHA.

The opening scenes of Rob Marshall's Memoirs of a Geisha Memoirs of a Geisha are washed in a gray blue light, the same light that is to be found in are washed in a gray blue light, the same light that is to be found in Million Dollar Baby, Mystic River Million Dollar Baby, Mystic River and the city shots of Marshall's own and the city shots of Marshall's own Chicago Chicago. Back in the 1970s, Oscar hopefuls had a yellowy glow to their film stock; now the color of Oscar is mineral blue. Serendipitously, this is the exact same shade as the unusual eyes of our hero, young Chiyo (Suzuka Ohgo), a nine-year-old j.a.panese girl from a poor fishing village. Chiyo's mother is dying. In j.a.pan, all is tumult: it is raining, the sea is crashing, the camera wobbles. A strange man arrives. Chiyo's father is crying. He weeps for Chiyo and her elder sister, both of whom he has decided to sell to the strange man. He weeps for the 150 pages of the original novel now crowbarred into this four-minute sequence. A panpipe plays its melancholy tune of longing. This pipe was also in t.i.tanic t.i.tanic.

Soon, sooner than anyone could imagine, the girls are dropped off at an okiya okiya, a house of repute (depending on whom you ask) where girls are taught to be geisha. The owners, Mother (Kaori Momoi) and Auntie (Tsai Chin), examine the sisters. One girl has lovely gray blue eyes. She can stay. The other does not. She must go and become a common prost.i.tute on the other side of town. Chiyo, who is to become an uncommon prost.i.tute, is therefore the fortunate one, and is shown her brand-new world by fellow trainee Pumpkin (Zoe Weizenbaum), as they climb up onto the roof and look out across miles of handsome gray blue CGI rooftops. These rooftops were also in Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon. Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon.

In a musical, the form in which Rob Marshall, originally a ch.o.r.eographer, was trained, this would be the moment for a song. But there's no time: five hundred pages of plot remain. So: downstairs in the okiya okiya lurks the evil Hatsumomo (Gong Li), a violent, imperious, gorgeous young harridan who is here to make Chiyo's life h.e.l.l. She teaches our heroine an important lesson: old geisha, like Mother, are j.a.panese. Young geisha, like Hatsumomo, are Chinese and do not look like geisha but rather like willowy Vivienne Westwood models. lurks the evil Hatsumomo (Gong Li), a violent, imperious, gorgeous young harridan who is here to make Chiyo's life h.e.l.l. She teaches our heroine an important lesson: old geisha, like Mother, are j.a.panese. Young geisha, like Hatsumomo, are Chinese and do not look like geisha but rather like willowy Vivienne Westwood models.

To escape the wrath of Hatsumomo, Chiyo wanders into the first of many ravishing street scenes, staged with all the indoor artifice of a Vincente Min nelli production. On a bridge, she comes across a dashing man in his forties called Chairman (Ken Watanabe). He is j.a.panese, as all men are. The nine-year-old Chiyo conceives a pa.s.sion for Chairman that will outlast the film itself. Why she feels this way is unclear. Perhaps it is because he buys her an ice cone. She is decided: one day she will become a geisha so that she might be bought by the Chairman himself (thus becoming, in the coy terminology, her danna danna) and they can be together forever.

Sadly, things are not so easy: being j.a.panese, it is Chiyo's fate to be a maid. Only after a number of vicious beatings at the hands of Hatsumomo does Chiyo finally get the message and grow up to be a bewitching Chinese actress (Ziyi Zhang). She is also in Crouching Tiger Crouching Tiger. Chiyo's name is changed to Sayuri and she is taken under the wing of a successful geisha from another okiya okiya called Mameha (Mich.e.l.le Yeoh), who is neither Chinese nor j.a.panese but rather Malaysian. She is also in called Mameha (Mich.e.l.le Yeoh), who is neither Chinese nor j.a.panese but rather Malaysian. She is also in Crouching Tiger Crouching Tiger.

There has been a hoo-ha in j.a.pan regarding the racial origins of these three geisha, much of which seemed to me a case of oversensitivity, until I found lurking within me the conviction that I, as an Englishwoman, can tell the difference between an Irishman and a Welshman at forty paces. I see how it must be galling, if you are j.a.panese, to look at three long-faced, high-cheekboned, patently not j.a.panese women and be told that they are j.a.panese. Although the Chinese, too, have cause for complaint: Ziyi Zhang, to Western eyes, is only slightly Chinese in the way that Lena Horne was slightly black.

This is no fault of the actress herself, whose comeliness is as self-evident and insistent as the wafting cherry blossom and the orange lanterns floating on pellucid water, the sumptuous silk of the kimono and the trimmed perfection of the formal gardens-all of which we are repeatedly encouraged to appreciate until you begin to feel that if something ugly does not appear on-screen soon you might go quite out of your mind. j.a.panese sliding screens neatly reveal the various beauties, opening on one action and closing on another as formally as the red velvet curtains in a musical revue. But inauthenticity of this kind, so well placed in Chicago, Chicago, is all to naught here. Without songs, without pleasure, without humor, all the artifice in the world goes to waste. is all to naught here. Without songs, without pleasure, without humor, all the artifice in the world goes to waste.

At times the film suffers from a lack of sufficient artifice: there is more white powder in Dangerous Liaisons Dangerous Liaisons than there is here, with each actress apparently following her own personal taste in the matter of geisha stylings. You can imagine the debate on set ("Oh, Rob . . . do we have to . . . ?"). Ziyi Zhang is a good sport- than there is here, with each actress apparently following her own personal taste in the matter of geisha stylings. You can imagine the debate on set ("Oh, Rob . . . do we have to . . . ?"). Ziyi Zhang is a good sport-ish; she'll wear quite a bit of white paint but won't black her eyebrows; Gong Li will wear a little, but she's not having her hair in that ludicrous bouffant; Mich.e.l.le Yeoh eschews the entire conceit and goes about in much the same makeup she wore for The World is Not Enough The World is Not Enough. Yet the merest Google search reveals that real geisha are square-jawed, ghost-faced, stocky women swathed in shapeless fabric and wearing six-inch clogs. In Geisha Geisha only the clogs remain. The kimono is nipped in at the waist and hugs the abdomen, the mad bud lip is gone, the big hair has been made small. Everything that makes geisha truly alien (and alienating) has been removed. only the clogs remain. The kimono is nipped in at the waist and hugs the abdomen, the mad bud lip is gone, the big hair has been made small. Everything that makes geisha truly alien (and alienating) has been removed.

The plot pushes on: war arrives. The gray blue is back, and so is the wobbly camera. The okiya okiya closes and we find Sayuri reduced to dyeing kimonos in a village far, far away that still does not look like j.a.pan. An old client arrives. He wants to help her recreate the geisha glory days. An American general is in town who wants entertaining. They hatch a plan: "We'll show the Americans just how hospitable we can be!" As a battle cry this lacks something, even as a subst.i.tute for "We'll put the show on right here!" But so begins that convention beloved of the movies, especially movie musicals: the comeback. The plot turns one part closes and we find Sayuri reduced to dyeing kimonos in a village far, far away that still does not look like j.a.pan. An old client arrives. He wants to help her recreate the geisha glory days. An American general is in town who wants entertaining. They hatch a plan: "We'll show the Americans just how hospitable we can be!" As a battle cry this lacks something, even as a subst.i.tute for "We'll put the show on right here!" But so begins that convention beloved of the movies, especially movie musicals: the comeback. The plot turns one part 42nd Street 42nd Street to three parts to three parts Lethal Weapon Lethal Weapon, except this time the lethal weapon is a kimono. Mameha is dug up; she's running a guesthouse and wants no part of it. She left all that behind, long ago. She's given away all her kimonos. All except one . . .

In the end, it is poor plotting and not cultural inauthenticity that is the true problem here. Authenticity is not everything in cinema. (Who cared about the authenticity of culture and locale in Yentl Yentl? In Meet Me in St. Louis Meet Me in St. Louis?) Memoirs of a Geisha Memoirs of a Geisha hurts the heart and the brain with its crushing monotony, inert, subhuman dialogue (made more ridiculous by being spoken in English with a faux j.a.panese accent) and Marshall's calculated attempt to sell us another Hollywood fairy tale of prost.i.tution. This tale was also in hurts the heart and the brain with its crushing monotony, inert, subhuman dialogue (made more ridiculous by being spoken in English with a faux j.a.panese accent) and Marshall's calculated attempt to sell us another Hollywood fairy tale of prost.i.tution. This tale was also in Pretty Woman Pretty Woman.

Marshall manages only one scene that dispenses with the fantasy. Sayuri is welcomed back to the okiya okiya by Mother, having sold her virginity to the highest bidder. "Now you are a geisha!" crows Mother, but her eyes are wet. Sayuri's gray blue eyes are dead. A noxious tradition continues. It is a beautiful scene. It makes the endless blossom look like scrub. by Mother, having sold her virginity to the highest bidder. "Now you are a geisha!" crows Mother, but her eyes are wet. Sayuri's gray blue eyes are dead. A noxious tradition continues. It is a beautiful scene. It makes the endless blossom look like scrub.

SHOPGIRL AND GET RICH OR DIE TRYIN'

Mirabelle is not your average L.A. girl. She works in the glove department of Saks selling a product that n.o.body buys anymore. Actually, gloves are Mirabelle's day job: she is an artist. However, due to a hefty student-loan debt, and a productivity rate of three etchings a year, Mirabelle has had to seek other employment. To her right, the disembodied arm of a mannequin is on display, seeming to reach for somebody who is not there. Mirabelle is lonely. She drives a beat-up truck. She is from Vermont. She has a cat she never sees. She takes antidepressants. She is una.s.suming, clever, innocent, kind. She would like to be in love. Most important, in Shopgirl, Shopgirl, she is played by Claire Danes. Ms. Danes is not your average actress. She has a graceful, natural body. She is in possession of a frankly enormous and unexpected nose, which she has never fixed and for which we thank the Lord. Her elastic face is kind, beautiful and expressive. Danes is to this movie what Mirabelle is to L.A.-a diamond in the rough. The rough first manifests itself in the form of her new lover Jeremy (Jason Schwartzman), a rock groupie loser whom she met in a launderette. His dream-which he has fulfilled-is to stencil logos onto amplifiers. When he can't find a condom he suggests using a plastic bag. Yet Mirabelle is optimistic about Jeremy, as she is about all things. "Are you one of those people," she asks, "who, if you get to know them, turns out to be . . . fantastic?" Alas, with Schwartzman, familiarity breeds contempt. He was spectacular in the hipster cla.s.sic she is played by Claire Danes. Ms. Danes is not your average actress. She has a graceful, natural body. She is in possession of a frankly enormous and unexpected nose, which she has never fixed and for which we thank the Lord. Her elastic face is kind, beautiful and expressive. Danes is to this movie what Mirabelle is to L.A.-a diamond in the rough. The rough first manifests itself in the form of her new lover Jeremy (Jason Schwartzman), a rock groupie loser whom she met in a launderette. His dream-which he has fulfilled-is to stencil logos onto amplifiers. When he can't find a condom he suggests using a plastic bag. Yet Mirabelle is optimistic about Jeremy, as she is about all things. "Are you one of those people," she asks, "who, if you get to know them, turns out to be . . . fantastic?" Alas, with Schwartzman, familiarity breeds contempt. He was spectacular in the hipster cla.s.sic Rushmore, Rushmore, but the emotional autism played for laughs there now reveals itself as a tic of the actor himself: he cannot say a line without mentally enclosing it in quotation marks. Anyway, the end result is the same: we are meant to despair for lovely Mirabelle, and we do. Where is her white knight? but the emotional autism played for laughs there now reveals itself as a tic of the actor himself: he cannot say a line without mentally enclosing it in quotation marks. Anyway, the end result is the same: we are meant to despair for lovely Mirabelle, and we do. Where is her white knight?

Nothing can prepare you for what comes next, not even reading the original Steve Martin novel: Ray Porter (Steve Martin himself) walks up to the glove counter and asks Mirabelle for a date. Steve Martin's face. I can't explain it. You have to see it. But whatever he has done to it, he does not look one day younger than he is. He has, however, succeeded in leaving himself only one facial expression: smug. No, that's not fair. He also looks creepy. And yet the creepy, intrusive voice-over (also voiced by Martin) a.s.sures us: "Mirabelle sizes him up and no alarm bells ring." Really? Not even the one that tolls: "He's forty years older than me"? The voice-over continues: "She doesn't ask the question foremost in her mind: why me?" Good point. Why would a successful man like Ray Porter wish to date twenty-four-year-old, exquisite, milky-skinned Mirabelle? We are at the mercy of a delusional voice-over.

This film is not entirely delusional. It is selectively truthful. As far as May-to-December love stories are concerned, Steve Martin has made a quantum leap in male self-awareness. He understands that what happens between Ray and Mirabelle is fundamentally an exchange of services. Ray Porter wants an innocent girl with whom to have a short affair. Mirabelle is vulnerable and depressed, enjoys receiving expensive gifts and is thankful when her student loan is paid off. Jeremy could do none of these things for her. So: older rich man helps young poor girl out of a rut (while sleeping with her) and then mercifully ends the relationship so both parties can go on to date someone who is their true "peer": a redeemed Jeremy for Mirabelle, and some cla.s.sy older woman for Ray. In the (very good) novel, Martin's writing is so spa.r.s.e and elegant you can almost excuse the concept. But here on film Ray Porter's unmoving, waxy face is on top of hers, he is running his crepe fingers (one place where Botox will not work) over the perfection of Mirabelle's backside-it is intolerable.

So we turn to Jeremy as Mirabelle's only escape route, but the script has overwhelmingly stacked the odds against him. His lines are moronic, his clothes are foul. He is four or five inches shorter than Mirabelle. His late redemption (he reads a self-help book called How to Love a Woman How to Love a Woman and buys a white suit) cannot obscure these facts, and as the inappropriate swirling violins crescendo and Ray graciously allows Mirabelle to leave him for her "peer," too much has already been set against Jeremy. What is styled as a happy ending looks more like the exchange of a rock for a hard place. "How do you turn yourself into a person capable of loving another person?" muses the voice-over, as if this were the universal problem. But it is only Ray's problem. It is Ray who thinks it appropriate-nay, educational-to use a person for pleasure without giving any piece of yourself apart from your credit card. Mirabelle doesn't have that problem. Mirabelle loves Ray. She accepts his gifts without guilt or neurosis because she needs them. When Jeremy is redeemed, she loves him. In her last scene she made me cry as she said good-bye to Ray's inert face and walked away, unsullied by the vanity project that surrounds her. It's hard to act your way out of so much bad faith, but somehow she manages it. In conclusion, here's that bad faith in full: (1) Ray Porter tells Mirabelle he is "past fifty." The actor who plays him was born on the August 14, 1945; (2) Steve Martin's script sneers at the vanity of fake L.A. girls and their plastic surgery; he is in no position to sneer; (3) The line that precipitates Mirabelle and Ray's breakup is this: "I'm looking for a three-bedroom place, in case I want to have a serious relationship, have some kids." Mirabelle dissolves into tears. This is meant to reveal that Ray is not serious about her. The truth is, this film is not serious. Ray Porter does not want a relationship with a peer. His real peer would be too old to have a child. He wants someone young, but not so young as to make him look foolish. Sure enough, at the end of the movie, Ray Porter turns up with a well-preserved woman in her early forties. If he'd turned up with a real peer, then this would not be a self-satisfied little indie drama. It would be a comedy. and buys a white suit) cannot obscure these facts, and as the inappropriate swirling violins crescendo and Ray graciously allows Mirabelle to leave him for her "peer," too much has already been set against Jeremy. What is styled as a happy ending looks more like the exchange of a rock for a hard place. "How do you turn yourself into a person capable of loving another person?" muses the voice-over, as if this were the universal problem. But it is only Ray's problem. It is Ray who thinks it appropriate-nay, educational-to use a person for pleasure without giving any piece of yourself apart from your credit card. Mirabelle doesn't have that problem. Mirabelle loves Ray. She accepts his gifts without guilt or neurosis because she needs them. When Jeremy is redeemed, she loves him. In her last scene she made me cry as she said good-bye to Ray's inert face and walked away, unsullied by the vanity project that surrounds her. It's hard to act your way out of so much bad faith, but somehow she manages it. In conclusion, here's that bad faith in full: (1) Ray Porter tells Mirabelle he is "past fifty." The actor who plays him was born on the August 14, 1945; (2) Steve Martin's script sneers at the vanity of fake L.A. girls and their plastic surgery; he is in no position to sneer; (3) The line that precipitates Mirabelle and Ray's breakup is this: "I'm looking for a three-bedroom place, in case I want to have a serious relationship, have some kids." Mirabelle dissolves into tears. This is meant to reveal that Ray is not serious about her. The truth is, this film is not serious. Ray Porter does not want a relationship with a peer. His real peer would be too old to have a child. He wants someone young, but not so young as to make him look foolish. Sure enough, at the end of the movie, Ray Porter turns up with a well-preserved woman in her early forties. If he'd turned up with a real peer, then this would not be a self-satisfied little indie drama. It would be a comedy.