The Great Italian Films of the 1970sThere was a certain type of great art film which was being made from 1968 through the 1970s which can never be approximated. Active and engaged filmmakers were consciously wakening out of the post-war amnesia and taking a perversely erotically charged political stand against the hypocrisy of the previous generation.
Italy was the hotbed of this examination of fascism coming out of World War II. Luchino Visconti’s The Damned (1969), Bertolucci’s The Conformist (1970), Pier Paolo Pasolini’s infamous Salò, or the 120 Days of Sodom (1975). Even the American musical, via Bob Fosse’s adaptation of Christopher Isherwood’s Berlin Stories, Cabaret (1972) hinted at what the Italians went after with their full force of creative muscle.
Take Liliana Cavani’s The Night Porter (1974), set in Vienna in 1957, the film centers on the sadomasochistic relationship between a former Nazi concentration camp officer (Dirk Bogarde) and one of his inmates (Charlotte Rampling). Their sadomasochistic love is their only happiness and it paralyzes the former Nazis who have been reintegrated into polite society.
Universally reviled by U.S.’s top critics, Roger Ebert of The Chicago Sun-Times called it “as nasty as it is lubricious, a despicable attempt to titillate us by exploiting memories of persecution and suffering”. Vincent Canby, prominent critic for The New York Times, called it “romantic pornography” and “a piece of junk”. Pauline Kael wrote in The New Yorker, “Many of us can’t take more than a few hard-core porno movies, because the absence of any human esteem makes them depressing rather than sexy; The Night Porteroffers the same dehumanized view and is brazen enough to use the Second World War as an excuse.”
Susan Sontag’s essay Fascinating Facism for New York Review of Books (February 6, 1975) stated, “If the message of fascism has been neutralized by an aesthetic view of life, its trappings have been sexualized. This eroticization of fascism can be remarked in such enthralling and devout manifestations as Mishima’s Confessions of a Mask and Sun and Steel, and in films like Kenneth Anger’s Scorpio Rising and, more recently and far less interestingly, in Visconti’s The Damned and Cavani’s The Night Porter.”
However, its value was recognized by the executive producer Joseph E. Levine who quoted them on the posters of the U.S. theatrical release through his company Avco Embassy.
In a brilliant essay of the film by Kat Ellinger I quote:
Filmmakers were suddenly touching the untouchable, and it made certain people incredibly uncomfortable.”
Unlike Naziploitation, The Night Porter does nothing to cartoonise the Nazi officers that dominate the narrative. It isn’t a case of good versus evil, or that sadism is presented as a form of lasivious softcore pornography. Neither is the film a deliberate political treatise like the art films of Bertolucci, Visconti, or Pasolini. Its biggest transgression is that it humanises one of its main characters, Max (Dirk Bogarde), a former Nazi officer with a penchant for sadism, when he finds his ‘little girl’ again in the postwar period; a former concentration camp inmate Lucia (Charlotte Rampling) with whom he undertook a sadistic affair while she was incarcerated. On reuniting it is clear that their loved never died, so they continue, even though they know it will eventually contribute to their downfall and consequent death. Love in this realm is desperately profane, disgusting, something that should never be. And because of this it remains infinitely fascinating and uniquely humanistic.
Related in spirit was Bernardo Bertolucci’s Last Tango in Paris (1972), using sex to express the death of love and male causality, its own furor when it hit American cinemas still continues to court controversy; and Luchino Visconti’s The Innocent (1976), based upon the novel by the decadent writer Gabriele D’Annunzio, expressing the same but in a totally antithetical environment of the aristocracy. Bertolluci’s The Conformist(1970) twisted the repressed homosexual of its title into a sadomasochistic fascist.
One could say, as did Gabriel Jenkinson, “the dynamics of conformity present in the modern consumerist capitalist system result in repression, which in turn manifests as violent sadomasochism — and …if one does not actively rebel against this system, one is complicit in its proliferation.”
Parenthetically on the other side of the earth, in Japan, In the Realm of the Senses (1976) by Nagisa Ôshima about a woman whose affair with her master leads to an obsessive and ultimately destructive sexual relationship also came out of Oshima’s early involvement with the student protest movement in Kyoto in ‘68 and out of his concern with the contradictions and tensions of postwar Japanese society in which he exposed contemporary Japanese materialism, while also examining what it means to be Japanese in the face of rapid industrialization and Westernization.
In 2020 Vincent Canby might have revisited The Night Porter and seen it in a different light. His 2020 review of Visconti’s last film, L’innocente (The Innocent), completed in 1976 shortly before his death was “among the most beautiful and severely disciplined films he has ever made.” It was also brazenly sadistic and sexy to a point that today would be labeled pornographic, and today could not be conceived of, much less made, diving, as it does, into sex, abortion, male domination and violence.
According to The World, public radio’s longest-running daily global news program, a co-production of Prx and Wgbh, in 2012:
British scientists have finally confirmed what women worldwide have been suspecting for centuries. It’s not religious principles that start wars. It’s not even civilization’s thirst for oil. Ladies and gentlemen, it’s the penis.
According to a study published this week in the Philosophical Transactions of the Royal Society publication, the male sex drive is the cause of most conflicts in the world, from soccer hooliganism to religious wars, not to mention family disputes over the toilet seat being left up.
According to this story in The Telegraph, the scientists call it the “male warrior instinct” and claim men are programmed to be aggressive toward outsiders. It apparently used to be a handy instinct, back when you had to kill other suitors in order to gain more access to mates, but nowadays, this only works in some countries and a few US cities. For the rest of us, this unreformed sex drive only means ever-increasing defense budgets.
The magnitude of this discovery is so great, it’s difficult to estimate the potential ramifications.
At only eight inches on average (or that’s what we have been told), it’s smaller in size than most other controversial discoveries, yet — just like the atom — it has catastrophic consequences if in the hands of the wrong people.
And so these filmmakers show us the pathological drive of the unleashed male libido.
But times are different in the 21st century. These films could never be approximated by our Tik Tok generation where porn has created a quick witty and essentially violent vibrato of sexuality. These films of the late ‘60s and ‘70s took the libido at its rawest and showed its drive as an expression of political evil in very different types of stories.
And it might be worth noting that of all these films, the most reviled was written and directed by a woman and in most of the films, it is, in fact, a woman who proves the stronger of the two sexes and disarms the man. What remains viscerally true to this day is that that missile shaped 8 inch organ needs to be beaten into a plowshare.
SexFascismMoviesItalyInternational Film...
Italy was the hotbed of this examination of fascism coming out of World War II. Luchino Visconti’s The Damned (1969), Bertolucci’s The Conformist (1970), Pier Paolo Pasolini’s infamous Salò, or the 120 Days of Sodom (1975). Even the American musical, via Bob Fosse’s adaptation of Christopher Isherwood’s Berlin Stories, Cabaret (1972) hinted at what the Italians went after with their full force of creative muscle.
Take Liliana Cavani’s The Night Porter (1974), set in Vienna in 1957, the film centers on the sadomasochistic relationship between a former Nazi concentration camp officer (Dirk Bogarde) and one of his inmates (Charlotte Rampling). Their sadomasochistic love is their only happiness and it paralyzes the former Nazis who have been reintegrated into polite society.
Universally reviled by U.S.’s top critics, Roger Ebert of The Chicago Sun-Times called it “as nasty as it is lubricious, a despicable attempt to titillate us by exploiting memories of persecution and suffering”. Vincent Canby, prominent critic for The New York Times, called it “romantic pornography” and “a piece of junk”. Pauline Kael wrote in The New Yorker, “Many of us can’t take more than a few hard-core porno movies, because the absence of any human esteem makes them depressing rather than sexy; The Night Porteroffers the same dehumanized view and is brazen enough to use the Second World War as an excuse.”
Susan Sontag’s essay Fascinating Facism for New York Review of Books (February 6, 1975) stated, “If the message of fascism has been neutralized by an aesthetic view of life, its trappings have been sexualized. This eroticization of fascism can be remarked in such enthralling and devout manifestations as Mishima’s Confessions of a Mask and Sun and Steel, and in films like Kenneth Anger’s Scorpio Rising and, more recently and far less interestingly, in Visconti’s The Damned and Cavani’s The Night Porter.”
However, its value was recognized by the executive producer Joseph E. Levine who quoted them on the posters of the U.S. theatrical release through his company Avco Embassy.
In a brilliant essay of the film by Kat Ellinger I quote:
Filmmakers were suddenly touching the untouchable, and it made certain people incredibly uncomfortable.”
Unlike Naziploitation, The Night Porter does nothing to cartoonise the Nazi officers that dominate the narrative. It isn’t a case of good versus evil, or that sadism is presented as a form of lasivious softcore pornography. Neither is the film a deliberate political treatise like the art films of Bertolucci, Visconti, or Pasolini. Its biggest transgression is that it humanises one of its main characters, Max (Dirk Bogarde), a former Nazi officer with a penchant for sadism, when he finds his ‘little girl’ again in the postwar period; a former concentration camp inmate Lucia (Charlotte Rampling) with whom he undertook a sadistic affair while she was incarcerated. On reuniting it is clear that their loved never died, so they continue, even though they know it will eventually contribute to their downfall and consequent death. Love in this realm is desperately profane, disgusting, something that should never be. And because of this it remains infinitely fascinating and uniquely humanistic.
Related in spirit was Bernardo Bertolucci’s Last Tango in Paris (1972), using sex to express the death of love and male causality, its own furor when it hit American cinemas still continues to court controversy; and Luchino Visconti’s The Innocent (1976), based upon the novel by the decadent writer Gabriele D’Annunzio, expressing the same but in a totally antithetical environment of the aristocracy. Bertolluci’s The Conformist(1970) twisted the repressed homosexual of its title into a sadomasochistic fascist.
One could say, as did Gabriel Jenkinson, “the dynamics of conformity present in the modern consumerist capitalist system result in repression, which in turn manifests as violent sadomasochism — and …if one does not actively rebel against this system, one is complicit in its proliferation.”
Parenthetically on the other side of the earth, in Japan, In the Realm of the Senses (1976) by Nagisa Ôshima about a woman whose affair with her master leads to an obsessive and ultimately destructive sexual relationship also came out of Oshima’s early involvement with the student protest movement in Kyoto in ‘68 and out of his concern with the contradictions and tensions of postwar Japanese society in which he exposed contemporary Japanese materialism, while also examining what it means to be Japanese in the face of rapid industrialization and Westernization.
In 2020 Vincent Canby might have revisited The Night Porter and seen it in a different light. His 2020 review of Visconti’s last film, L’innocente (The Innocent), completed in 1976 shortly before his death was “among the most beautiful and severely disciplined films he has ever made.” It was also brazenly sadistic and sexy to a point that today would be labeled pornographic, and today could not be conceived of, much less made, diving, as it does, into sex, abortion, male domination and violence.
According to The World, public radio’s longest-running daily global news program, a co-production of Prx and Wgbh, in 2012:
British scientists have finally confirmed what women worldwide have been suspecting for centuries. It’s not religious principles that start wars. It’s not even civilization’s thirst for oil. Ladies and gentlemen, it’s the penis.
According to a study published this week in the Philosophical Transactions of the Royal Society publication, the male sex drive is the cause of most conflicts in the world, from soccer hooliganism to religious wars, not to mention family disputes over the toilet seat being left up.
According to this story in The Telegraph, the scientists call it the “male warrior instinct” and claim men are programmed to be aggressive toward outsiders. It apparently used to be a handy instinct, back when you had to kill other suitors in order to gain more access to mates, but nowadays, this only works in some countries and a few US cities. For the rest of us, this unreformed sex drive only means ever-increasing defense budgets.
The magnitude of this discovery is so great, it’s difficult to estimate the potential ramifications.
At only eight inches on average (or that’s what we have been told), it’s smaller in size than most other controversial discoveries, yet — just like the atom — it has catastrophic consequences if in the hands of the wrong people.
And so these filmmakers show us the pathological drive of the unleashed male libido.
But times are different in the 21st century. These films could never be approximated by our Tik Tok generation where porn has created a quick witty and essentially violent vibrato of sexuality. These films of the late ‘60s and ‘70s took the libido at its rawest and showed its drive as an expression of political evil in very different types of stories.
And it might be worth noting that of all these films, the most reviled was written and directed by a woman and in most of the films, it is, in fact, a woman who proves the stronger of the two sexes and disarms the man. What remains viscerally true to this day is that that missile shaped 8 inch organ needs to be beaten into a plowshare.
SexFascismMoviesItalyInternational Film...
- 2/11/2023
- by Sydney
- Sydney's Buzz
Dear readers; I aim my blog towards the newly emerging filmmakers and thought it would be great to follow one such filmmaker as he makes his way to Cannes for the first time! Meet Gabriel Jenkinson, a Los Angeleno, recent college grad, beginning his career in writing, directing and acting. We will follow him to Cannes, during the second half which is better for him as a first timer as all the dysfunctions of the ticketing and communications have been ironed out and the huge crowds have dispersed. I myself am looking forward to seeing what his impressions are as he goes through this experience, and so I hope you are too!
The only item I’m certain of is the tuxedo. I only have one, so the choice was easy. The French cuff shirt too. It’s my fanciest one – Vera Wang Black Label – the only shirt I have that’s worthy of wearing under my Calvin Klein tux (my brand loyalties are based on what’s on sale). That means the cuff links must come too. And the studs. And a bow tie. But which one? Better take all three—what if I attend more than one event at the Palais? Heaven forbid I should be caught on camera wearing the same exact outfit more than once. But I only have one formal shirt! I’ll have to make do. I’ll just wear one of my regular dress shirts if it comes down to it. Nobody’s going to care. It’s not like I’m one of the mega-celebrities whose every movement is dissected in real time by the tabloids and the trades alike (not that there’s much difference between the two at an event such as this). I’m just a lowly young actor/filmmaker attending his very first Cannes Film Festival.
And if I don’t get into any Palais screenings (or any screenings in general for that matter) – which is definitely a possibility given that I haven’t built up any “attendance credit” or whatever it is they call their overly complicated points system for ticket priority – I’ll have wasted quite a bit of space in my already overly stuffed bag. If any filmmakers reading this want to spare me this fate by donating me tickets, you’ll have my undying gratitude and a guaranteed standing ovation from at least one person (me).
Better safe than sorry, though, and I can always wear the formal attire to a party! Though even those I’m not too sure about. Are those, too, formal events? Or does it vary by party? I imagine the horror of waddling about overdressed on somebody’s yacht, standing about awkwardly as others clad in vibrant colors dance about around me. Like a penguin lost among a flock of tropical birds—a long, long way from home. Will I even get invited to any parties? What a terrifying thought. I’d better pack the party shirts and dancing shoes—for the sake of my own self-esteem, if nothing else.
Speaking of shoes, the black dress shoes are definitely coming. Elegant, versatile, and surprisingly comfortable; they go nicely with the tux. The catch: they have rubber on the bottom of the soles. I’ve been told that certain events will turn you away for such an offence, presumably alongside a spitting gesture and the phrase “que pathetique!” This has to be an urban legend. No institution, no matter how French, can be this pretentious. I’d rather not find out the hard way, though. Better bring the tough leather shoes, which I still haven’t managed to break in after two years, and throw in some moleskins for the inevitable blisters they’ll give me.
Neither of those options is good for walking up and down the Croisiette all day, so I’ll take a pair of sneakers, too. All-white Air Max 97s, a classic. Good for anything that isn’t formal or professional. So probably not good for meetings, either. But the dress shoes are too formal for those too… I need something in between; my suede loafers should do the trick. I don’t want to seem like I don’t know what I’m doing. But I also don’t want to seem like I’m trying too hard. This is the film industry, after all. The key word being “seem,” as you can probably already tell from this article that I definitely don’t know what I’m doing and even more so am trying too hard. They don’t have to know that, though. It can be our secret.
When I’m not in meetings, seeing films, or attending parties, it’d be nice to hit the beach. I’ll pack some t-shirts. Maybe a pair of swimming trunks or two, in case I want to go for a swim in the sea. But will I even have enough time to hit the beach, let alone twice? And would doing so make it seem like I have nothing better to do? No, that’s a ridiculous thought. Almost as ridiculous as someone being able to recognize me from a distance with a hat and sunglasses on.
I’ll bring those, too. For unrelated reasons, of course. For… solar protection! My caramel skin can handle quite a bit of sun thanks to the melanin I inherited from my Jamaican father. The green eyes I inherited from my Italian mother, however, can be quite sensitive. Since you now all have an idea what I look like, I have a small favor to ask; if you see me taking a dip in the Mediterranean, no you didn’t.
This bag looks like it’s going to explode. Maybe I’d better use a bigger one, just in case. It’s going to be a long week. Ideally, I wouldn’t have to worry about any of this, as nobody can see what you’re wearing in a dark theater. But if there’s one thing I’ve learned about the Cannes Film Festival already, it’s that the emphasis is on “Festival” rather than “Film,” no matter how much cinema buffs such as myself would prefer the opposite. So pack your bags, we’re in for quite the trip.
The only item I’m certain of is the tuxedo. I only have one, so the choice was easy. The French cuff shirt too. It’s my fanciest one – Vera Wang Black Label – the only shirt I have that’s worthy of wearing under my Calvin Klein tux (my brand loyalties are based on what’s on sale). That means the cuff links must come too. And the studs. And a bow tie. But which one? Better take all three—what if I attend more than one event at the Palais? Heaven forbid I should be caught on camera wearing the same exact outfit more than once. But I only have one formal shirt! I’ll have to make do. I’ll just wear one of my regular dress shirts if it comes down to it. Nobody’s going to care. It’s not like I’m one of the mega-celebrities whose every movement is dissected in real time by the tabloids and the trades alike (not that there’s much difference between the two at an event such as this). I’m just a lowly young actor/filmmaker attending his very first Cannes Film Festival.
And if I don’t get into any Palais screenings (or any screenings in general for that matter) – which is definitely a possibility given that I haven’t built up any “attendance credit” or whatever it is they call their overly complicated points system for ticket priority – I’ll have wasted quite a bit of space in my already overly stuffed bag. If any filmmakers reading this want to spare me this fate by donating me tickets, you’ll have my undying gratitude and a guaranteed standing ovation from at least one person (me).
Better safe than sorry, though, and I can always wear the formal attire to a party! Though even those I’m not too sure about. Are those, too, formal events? Or does it vary by party? I imagine the horror of waddling about overdressed on somebody’s yacht, standing about awkwardly as others clad in vibrant colors dance about around me. Like a penguin lost among a flock of tropical birds—a long, long way from home. Will I even get invited to any parties? What a terrifying thought. I’d better pack the party shirts and dancing shoes—for the sake of my own self-esteem, if nothing else.
Speaking of shoes, the black dress shoes are definitely coming. Elegant, versatile, and surprisingly comfortable; they go nicely with the tux. The catch: they have rubber on the bottom of the soles. I’ve been told that certain events will turn you away for such an offence, presumably alongside a spitting gesture and the phrase “que pathetique!” This has to be an urban legend. No institution, no matter how French, can be this pretentious. I’d rather not find out the hard way, though. Better bring the tough leather shoes, which I still haven’t managed to break in after two years, and throw in some moleskins for the inevitable blisters they’ll give me.
Neither of those options is good for walking up and down the Croisiette all day, so I’ll take a pair of sneakers, too. All-white Air Max 97s, a classic. Good for anything that isn’t formal or professional. So probably not good for meetings, either. But the dress shoes are too formal for those too… I need something in between; my suede loafers should do the trick. I don’t want to seem like I don’t know what I’m doing. But I also don’t want to seem like I’m trying too hard. This is the film industry, after all. The key word being “seem,” as you can probably already tell from this article that I definitely don’t know what I’m doing and even more so am trying too hard. They don’t have to know that, though. It can be our secret.
When I’m not in meetings, seeing films, or attending parties, it’d be nice to hit the beach. I’ll pack some t-shirts. Maybe a pair of swimming trunks or two, in case I want to go for a swim in the sea. But will I even have enough time to hit the beach, let alone twice? And would doing so make it seem like I have nothing better to do? No, that’s a ridiculous thought. Almost as ridiculous as someone being able to recognize me from a distance with a hat and sunglasses on.
I’ll bring those, too. For unrelated reasons, of course. For… solar protection! My caramel skin can handle quite a bit of sun thanks to the melanin I inherited from my Jamaican father. The green eyes I inherited from my Italian mother, however, can be quite sensitive. Since you now all have an idea what I look like, I have a small favor to ask; if you see me taking a dip in the Mediterranean, no you didn’t.
This bag looks like it’s going to explode. Maybe I’d better use a bigger one, just in case. It’s going to be a long week. Ideally, I wouldn’t have to worry about any of this, as nobody can see what you’re wearing in a dark theater. But if there’s one thing I’ve learned about the Cannes Film Festival already, it’s that the emphasis is on “Festival” rather than “Film,” no matter how much cinema buffs such as myself would prefer the opposite. So pack your bags, we’re in for quite the trip.
- 5/26/2022
- by Sydney
- Sydney's Buzz
‘Paura dell’ Ignoto’ means ‘Fear of the Unknown’ and that is the crux of this short film as well as…
‘Paura dell’ Ignoto’ means ‘Fear of the Unknown’ and that is the crux of this short film as well as the crux of the zenophobia we see it raising its ugly head, both here and abroad. In this case, in Italy.
The fear of the unknown makes ignorant people afraid of other people who don’t look like them. Once you know that all people share the same desires for peaceful lives, you become less fearful. But this could happen too late as demagogues take advantage of the fear and exploit it. This film by a new young talent as he emerges into the real world displays the fearful consequences of a tragically too-late recognition that all men are created equal.
Synopsis
As a local crime ignites racial tensions, Giulio’s mother urges him not to go to work. Giulio–a proud Italian citizen of African descent–is unafraid, but...
The fear of the unknown makes ignorant people afraid of other people who don’t look like them. Once you know that all people share the same desires for peaceful lives, you become less fearful. But this could happen too late as demagogues take advantage of the fear and exploit it. This film by a new young talent as he emerges into the real world displays the fearful consequences of a tragically too-late recognition that all men are created equal.
Synopsis
As a local crime ignites racial tensions, Giulio’s mother urges him not to go to work. Giulio–a proud Italian citizen of African descent–is unafraid, but...
- 7/16/2018
- by Sydney Levine
- Sydney's Buzz
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