Back Row Book Club: The Poignant & Grotesquely Funny Cinema of Ettore Scola
Stop me if you’ve heard this one: the golden age of the economic boom has collapsed, leading to political turmoil and a resurgence of fascism, which has boiled over from protests into violent clashes on the streets. No, it’s not present day America, it’s 1970s Italy, and now is the best time to get into Italian cinema if you’ve been dragging your feet. Lucky for you, there’s a brand new book from Wayne State University Press all about The Cinema of Ettore Scola, edited by Remi Lanzoni and Edward Bowen, that can get you started. A collection of film criticism and research by various professors and academics, The Cinema of Ettore Scola is most notable for being the first English-language book on Ettore Scola’s filmography–an endeavor that is as welcome as it is long overdue.
There’s a reason Ettore Scola is typically name-dropped with the likes of Italian film legends Federico Fellini, Dino Risi and Mario Monicelli. With his deft ability to mix wickedly funny satire, bittersweet drama, and strong social commentary, it’s no surprise he’s taken home the Golden Globe for Best Foreign Film, not to mention several Academy Award nominations. Beyond being a talented director and screenwriter, Scola was also heavily involved in supporting progressive political causes throughout his life. These passions were overtly reflected in his filmmaking, which used focused character study to address larger commentaries on contemporary politics and gender roles, as well as socioeconomic history. His epic We All Loved Each Other So Much (1974) covers a decade of Italian social, cinematic and political movements as told through the lives of three friends who met as resistance fighters during the war. A Special Day (1977) focuses on Sophia Loren as a Fascist housewife and Marcello Mastroianni as a closeted homosexual who meet cute in their apartment complex the same day Hitler is set to give a speech in Italy. While Scola’s films are largely accessible to foreign audiences, the majority of his work does require some degree of historic and artistic context in order to fully unlock its true charm. In that way, The Cinema of Ettore Scola is an essential addition to the shelves of anyone who has wondered what contextual nuances they might have missed out on the first time around.
Monica Vitti and Marcello Mastroianni in Dramma della gelosia (tutti i particolari in cronaca) (1970)
Separated into four sections, this volume focuses on Ettore Scola’s work in the commedia all’italiana genre, his critiques on Italy past and present, his use of space and setting in film, and his own personal political involvements. As with most compilations, the chapters in this book vary in quality from the genuinely engaging and enlightening to the extremely dry–I enjoyed reading about how Scola got his start at Marc’Aurelio, a weekly satirical magazine that attracted a variety of talented comedy writers and artists in a time of fascism. It was at Marc’Aurelio that Scola was introduced to screenwriting, starting out as a punch-up joke writer and eventually becoming a collaborator on various notable scripts, such as Il Sorpasso (1962), The Monsters (1963), and one of my favorites, Adua and her Friends (1960). Following close behind fellow Marc’Aurelio alumni and friend Federico Fellini, Scola eventually turned to directing.
According to this book’s opening chapters, Scola’s sketches directly informed his filmmaking process throughout his life, offering a clear link between how he crafts a visual joke and how he plots his scripts. It’s a concept I’m wholeheartedly onboard with, but I have to admit this particular contributor lost me in their need to justify Scola’s notebook margin sketches (which include but are not limited to Santa Claus fixing a flat tire, a man with a football for a head, and various geometric shapes) as they relate to the neuroscientific habits of Renaissance artists such as Leonardo da Vinci. (On second thought, I’ll whole-heartedly accept this direct link as long as its excessive reverence extends to me, another serial margin doodler.) The quotes included from both Scola and Fellini on why they continually doodle are much more direct–anybody who draws seriously already knows that sketching is just a compulsive exercise in improv and meditation.
Jean-Louis Trintignant in La Terrazza (1980)
As a fan of Ettore Scola going in, I was pleased to be introduced to a handful of his films I hadn’t heard of and some I had been reluctant to venture into blind. Nicoletta Marini-Maio’s chapter comparing The Most Wonderful Evening of My Life (1972), a film about Alberto Sordi as a corrupt businessman who is forced to confront his dirty deeds in a mock trial, to the rise of Silvio Berlusconi is delightfully engaging. The now disgraced former Prime Minister of Italy looms large in multiple essays, as his government lead to Scola’s abandonment of fictional narratives for a decade, strictly on the basis that he didn’t want Berlusconi’s media monopoly owning the rights to his work. That Ettore Scola is one of the few Italian filmmakers to confront Italy’s active role in the holocaust through filmmaking was also news to me. Millicent Marcus’ captivating chapter on what she calls Scola’s Roman Jewish Trilogy shows not only Scola’s willingness to confront anti-semitic complicity but also to reflect on his own possible insensitivities–as portrayed in a rather meta vignette from Gente di Roma (2003) about an elderly Holocaust survivor’s trauma at having mistakenly walked onto a film set full of actors in Nazi uniform.
The Terrace (1980) is another film that gets a lot of attention in this book, a frame narrative that focuses on aging male guests at a ritzy dinner party and their struggles within modern Italian society. It’s a film that when watched without context can feel a bit like a pity party, especially with Scola’s pointed decision to cast a host of sympathetic and beloved acting legends, including Marcello Mastroianni, Vittorio Gassman, Ugo Tognazzi, and Jean-Louis Trintignant. However, reading Francesca Borrione’s chapter explaining the film in the context of the downfall of the Italian Communist Party, the rise of the pro-consumerist 1980s, and Pier Paolo Pasolini’s political writing, suddenly The Terrace shines as the rich social and political commentary it was clearly meant to be; a sharp and cynical musing on the failures of left-wing intelligentsia to evolve with the times, including a rather interesting subplot on the rise of feminism in Italian culture.
Brutti, sporchi e cattivi (1976)
The most engaging chapter is editor Remi Lanzoni’s explanation of Ettore Scola’s unique comedic style. Scola’s true genius lies in his ability to play up the juxtaposition between ideals and reality to the top of his cynical intelligence. Even his cheapest laughs are rooted in some level of honesty, typically at the expense of the audience’s sensibilities; he readily pushed past boundaries as long as it allowed him to get closer to a universal truth. Look no further than A Drama of Jealousy (And Other Things) (1970) and Ugly, Dirty and Bad (1976), both brilliant examples of Scola at his most hilarious and scathing. A Drama of Jealousy plays out like a bitingly sarcastic love letter to Italy, revolving around a contrived love triangle between Marcello Mastroianni’s perpetually dirty brick layer, Monica Vitti’s manic pixie flower seller girl and Giancarlo Giannini’s pizzaiolo. The film pokes fun at Italy’s reputation, replacing golden fields with mounds of garbage, operatic lovers with screaming public brawls and the glorified worker with bitter, lazy schlubs. In comparison, Ugly, Dirty and Bad (1976) plays out like a full on hate letter, following Nino Manfredi and his poverty stricken family living in a shanty town on the fringes of Rome. Ugly, Dirty and Bad takes everything from Drama of Jealousy and turns it up to 11; indulging in comedy based on rape, objectification, incest, violence, vomit, and general meanness.
Lanzoni points to Scola’s focus on this sort of shock comedy as a direct reaction from having lived through a period of chaos and violence. This period in Italy between 1969 up through the late 1970s, known as the “Anni di piombo” or Years of Lead, was marred with open social unrest and domestic terrorist attacks from fringe political movements. Scola’s comedic style during this time became a direct reaction to what he felt was complacency towards social evils. Politically minded as he was, he decided the only way to fight chaos was by humorously reflecting that chaos back onto itself. Lanzoni cites Scola’s push towards the grotesque as his desire to amplify the severity of Italy’s situation in order to slap his audiences with self-reflective truths they had been avoiding.
Beyond just being illuminating to Scola’s filmography, it’s an interesting concept to consider in light of obvious parallels to the present day. Taking a plunge into The Cinema of Ettore Scola feels like the intelligent and thoughtful antidote to both the grind of Hollywood escapism and the chaos of this bizarre year. Scola’s continued relevance now seemingly acts as an omen of things to come, an echo of the past shining a light onto a potentially avoidable future.
The Cinema of Ettore Scola is available now in hardcover, paperback and on Kindle.
