Like her mentor Federico
Fellini, Italian director Lina Wertmüller generally avoids understatement.
Although technically brilliant and unrelentingly intense, her movies are often
so loud, overbearing, and vulgar that it’s hard to sift the artistry from the
assault. Plus, because she’s among the most deeply political filmmakers ever to
achieve international fame, her pictures exist on literal and metaphorical
levels, meaning that themes one discovers upon reflection add depth to what
initially seem like undisciplined statements. In other words, it’s never
prudent to dismiss a Wertmüller movie. Unfortunately, it can often be difficult
to actually enjoy a Wertmüller movie.
So it is with Love & Anarchy,
which I found almost interminable until the final act. Given the film’s
rarified critical status, it’s possible that I’m either in the critical
minority or that I just plain missed something important during the setup phase
of the narrative. In any event, watching Love
and Anarchy felt like having Wertmüller scream at me for two hours, even
though I eventually found a grudging respect for the way the piece resolved.
Wertmüller’s favorite leading man, Giancarlo Giannini, plays Antonio, a
provincial type who travels to Rome during Mussolini’s reign. (Backstory:
Antonio became radicalized when Mussolini’s thugs killed one of his friends, so
he’s determined to assassinate Il Duce.) Giving the would-be killer sanctuary
while he plans the murder is a prostitute name Salomé (Mariangela Melato).
Telling fellow sex workers at a bordello that Antonio is her cousin, she lets
Antonio stay in her chambers and even proffers carnal favors. The first
two-thirds of Love and Anarchy follow
romantic-comedy rhythms as the cynical Salomé falls for the guileless Antonio,
even as he becomes enamored of another prostitute, Tripolina (Lina Polito).
Eventually, the film catches fire because Antonio reveals that he’s terrified
about trying to kill Mussolini, leading the women to passionately argue against
Antonio throwing his life away on a likely futile assassination attempt.
This
material gives Wertmüller a fine dramatic vehicle for exploring the costs of
idealism and the roles of individuals in oppressive times. Just as the film
comes to life in its last stretch, Giannini’s performance crystallizes. His
suave good looks buried behind huge freckles and wild red hair, Giannini spends
the first two-thirds of the movie looking lost, his eyes bulging stupidly, but
then we realize he’s simply been scared out of his wits the whole time. Why
withhold that insight from the audience? Why waste time on Fellini-esque scenes
at the bordello, replete with grotesque images of painted ladies? And why get
so caught up in the romantic-triangle contrivance? Such are the mysteries of
Wertmüller’s work.
Dubious narrative choices notwithstanding, Love and Anarchy is gorgeous from a
technical perspective, with Giuseppe Rotunno contributing characteristically
vivid camerawork and a number of vibrant locations providing texture. Visual
splendor aside, so much of what makes this movie hard to watch is contained in
Melato’s performance. Her makeup is extreme, all bleached hair and pale skin,
so she looks like a vampire, and she never stops talking or lowers her volume
to less than a caterwaul. She incarnates all the extreme things that make Love & Anarchy challenging to
endure, even though the film contains many provocative insights.
Love & Anarchy: FUNKY
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