Movies compliment and critique the 20th century in such a way that one can almost trace world history through the aesthetic development of the cinema alone. One of the most pivotal movements in film, for example, was Italian neorealism, a style predicated on engaging the realities of postwar European life.
Born in antagonistic response to the polished “white telephone” films of upper class fantasy promoted by the Fascist Italian government of the ’30s and ’40s, neorealism exhibited eviscerated street locations, nonprofessional actors, natural lighting, and an intense social awareness. Its greatest successes (Open City, Shoeshine, Paisan, La Terra Trema, Bicycle Thieves, etc.) flowered for several years immediately following WWII.
One of the final masterpieces of the movement was Vittorio De Sica‘s Umberto D. (1952), released this week on DVD by the Criterion Collection. It’s a model of narrative simplicity, emotional directness, and insights into the human condition.
Like many neorealist films, it opens in the streets of Rome. Retirees are picketing for higher pensions, but are suddenly dispersed by police and dashed into alleys because they lack the proper permits. One of those fleeing is an elderly man who, gasping for breath, reaches out and shakes the hand of a fellow demonstrator. His name is Umberto Domenico Ferrari, he says, and he briefly introduces himself: he’s running out of money, has no children, and his landlady is increasing the rent. As he speaks of her, his emotions boil: “She’s a . . .” but he restrains himself. He clutches his small dog and simply shakes his head.
Thus begins the story of a man’s struggle to retain his dignity in an undignified world. As Umberto slowly perseveres through old age and pitiful means, selling the few items in his possession day by day, his small dog Flike becomes his sole companion and grateful recipient of his care, as well as a perpetual reminder of Umberto’s intrinsic worth. In fact, not only is it a landmark neorealist film, it’s probably the greatest dog movie ever made.
70-year-old Carlo Battisti inhabits the role of Umberto with such urgency and completeness, it’s remarkable to remember that acting wasn’t his profession–teaching glottology in Florence was. Like Renee Falconetti in Dreyer’s The Passion of Joan of Arc, it’s one of those rare performances which is so perfectly realized that it automatically negates the possibility of future roles. Battisti’s enduring gift to audiences–Umberto’s tired eyes and determined lips, his inner fire and helpless embrace of Flike–remains indelibly imprinted in our memories.
Sometimes criticized as melodramatic or simply depressing, the film actually balances its overt emotional components with a great deal of honesty and complexity. We never learn, for example, why Umberto is alone or much about his past. And virtually his only sympathizer is a young maid, Maria (Maria-Pia Casilio), who lives across the hall–a woman whose living situation is similarly threatened when she discovers she is pregnant and doesn’t know who the father is. Umberto is hardly a helpful father figure, but an exhausted man so wrapped up in his own troubles that he addresses hers almost as an afterthought.
The film is famous for its depictions of ordinary life. One scene presents Maria’s morning ritual–killing the day’s ant trail, grinding coffee, and boiling water–while she sleepily gazes at nothing in particular. The simplicity and peacefulness counterbalance the chaos and hopelessness which threatens her destiny. De Sica never resorts to cheap effects and the film is all the more emotionally powerful because of it.
Running beneath the film is a current of social critique. When Umberto attempts to sell his watch or a few old books, it becomes exercises in cutthroat haggling. When he considers leaving Flike at a kennel, the owners warily discuss the financial arrangements while dogs yelp from caged inattention. Everywhere Umberto goes, people are afraid to give in, to offer something they could miss later on, and every interaction reveals a constant concern for self-preservation.
Worse, the general economic problems separate the have-nots from the have-nothings, and in a society where everyone struggles, those who struggle the most are ostracized. The street sellers and acquaintances Umberto encounters never seem more personally remote than when they catch on to the fact that he is in a desperate situation. Umberto recognizes this, and one of the film’s most famous scenes occurs when he begrudgingly resorts to begging, but cannot physically bring himself to do it, and thus commands Flike to stand upright with his hat while Umberto hides behind some Roman columns–ancient symbols of social stability and justice which are now merely fleeting ideals.
Such scenes reveal the true beauty of Umberto D., with its ability to juxtapose the struggles of life with the simple joys found in relationships. Like the father and son in De Sica’s earlier Bicycle Thieves, the film is not so much a dreary examination of social malaise as much as an affirmation of the quiet power of love and its ability to provide dignity and meaning in an otherwise indifferent world.
The neorealist movement continues to be felt in a wide variety of films today, particularly in the New Iranian Cinema of the ’90s and beyond. Its emphasis on barebone narratives, natural locations and day-to-day living conveys the human spirit with piercing conviction. Presenting a world destitute and crumbling, it quietly proclaims life worth living, if for no other reason than for love and companionship–even between a man and his dog.