Well, I don't. I can't. I can hardly breathe. And I'm not the only one in the small screening room where we are invited for a preview of Sergio Castellitto's movie, DON'T MOVE, some weeks before its official premiere in London.
I missed the beginning. But even as I was finding my seat in the darkness, I could feel from the vibe in the room that something was actually happening on the screen: One could feel the hot stifling air of a summer afternoon; the sheltering shadows of midday in the Italian south; the smell of dust in the streets; the smell of poverty. I know the out-of-the-way alleys and secret passages that hide Italia amidst the construction sites of a cancerous urban development; where I come from, these are not poetic metaphors. A young girl is urgently admitted to the Hospital where her father, Timoteo (Sergio Castellitto), works as a doctor. As he is helplessly waiting for the surgery to save his daughter's life, Timoteo begins his confession: a painful account of his early years, of his suffocating relationship with his wife, Elsa (Claudia Gerini), of his acquaintance with a destitute Albanian émigré, Italia (Penelope Cruz), and of their tragic love-affair which started with her rape by Timoteo and ended with her death. I have met people like Timoteo: academic over-achievers who escaped poverty, successful professionals seeking comfort and oblivion in a new house by the beach, in a piece of jewellery or in a bottle of wine. The boundaries between social classes are nowhere less distinct than in southern Europe. Stepping out of your class, for the south is not the exception but the un-written rule that creates a colourful social landscape, an everyday Almodovarian comedy. The same imperative often brings forth forces of tragedy, like those that crashed Italia's heart and body. But as the story was unfolding on the screen, I was starting to realise that this sense of familiarity was due not only to the characters and their misgivings, but also due to the artistic filter through which they were reaching my eyes. There is an almost painterly quality in this film. Materials are tangible, shimmering through the counterpoint of light and darkness, contradicting each other: soft linen against coarse hair, a black suit against a white dress, the daughter's shaved hair on the linoleum of the hospital floor; an agitated universe of colour and texture; just like a Caravaggio painting. And as beautiful in its harshness.
There is definitely no beauty in rape. Or death. But they are both happening every day, right this moment, in nature, in civilized society, perhaps next door. And there is fear and awe whenever we encounter these forces. They are real as much as we are. Invisible forces that play us, with us, against us, in a cruel, mesmerizing puppetry. Forces within people, real people, just like us. The rape-scene in DON'T MOVE has been re-viewed unfavourably by some critics. Perhaps because it is shot with a clinical detachment that renders the account of a violent crime even more violent. The camera is gradually moving away as if closing its eyes from what is happening to Italia. As if God is absent from the scene. Surely, it could have been done in a different way. But would that have made a rape-scene equivalent to the self-evident message that "rape is a crime"? Do we even need a movie to tell us that? Or are we being hypocritical in our effort to shout to the world how politically correct we are? Moralizing from the safe pedestal of normality and sanity does not offer society protection from the dark forces within human nature. Putting these forces under the psychological microscope of an artistic medium gives us an opportunity to feel their power, reflect on the complicated nature of crimes and misfortunes and re-enact the agonizing struggle of their protagonists. A poetic re-enactment of tragic events, whether in theatre or in cinema, is still serving an almost therapeutic purpose. To quote a reliable authority on the subject, this is done by depicting " incidents arousing pity and fear, wherewith to accomplish its catharsis of such emotions " (Aristotle, Poetics) DON'T MOVE is more of a vehicle for catharsis than middle-class escapism through vice; who ever saw this movie as an erotic male hallucination had better seek professional help or do some research on the subject. Italia is not exactly standard male-fantasy material. She is too real for that. Repulsively real. In this light, the issue of the characters' and the story's credibility requires a slightly different approach: Timoteo is more complex a character than a rich, well-educated philanderer desperately trying to have it both ways; as Italia is a lot more than a provocative, vulgar, unrefined girl who happened to be raped; Timoteo's wife, Elsa, has a private life of her own, safety exits and frustrations of her own; they all make choices and they all have to suffer through them. The story is fictional. The characters, however, very soon acquire a life of their own. They allow us to see their imperfections, their flaws and their crimes. Just like an assortment of ordinary people posing for Caravaggio in a dark, humid basement.
I missed the beginning. But even as I was finding my seat in the darkness, I could feel from the vibe in the room that something was actually happening on the screen: One could feel the hot stifling air of a summer afternoon; the sheltering shadows of midday in the Italian south; the smell of dust in the streets; the smell of poverty. I know the out-of-the-way alleys and secret passages that hide Italia amidst the construction sites of a cancerous urban development; where I come from, these are not poetic metaphors. A young girl is urgently admitted to the Hospital where her father, Timoteo (Sergio Castellitto), works as a doctor. As he is helplessly waiting for the surgery to save his daughter's life, Timoteo begins his confession: a painful account of his early years, of his suffocating relationship with his wife, Elsa (Claudia Gerini), of his acquaintance with a destitute Albanian émigré, Italia (Penelope Cruz), and of their tragic love-affair which started with her rape by Timoteo and ended with her death. I have met people like Timoteo: academic over-achievers who escaped poverty, successful professionals seeking comfort and oblivion in a new house by the beach, in a piece of jewellery or in a bottle of wine. The boundaries between social classes are nowhere less distinct than in southern Europe. Stepping out of your class, for the south is not the exception but the un-written rule that creates a colourful social landscape, an everyday Almodovarian comedy. The same imperative often brings forth forces of tragedy, like those that crashed Italia's heart and body. But as the story was unfolding on the screen, I was starting to realise that this sense of familiarity was due not only to the characters and their misgivings, but also due to the artistic filter through which they were reaching my eyes. There is an almost painterly quality in this film. Materials are tangible, shimmering through the counterpoint of light and darkness, contradicting each other: soft linen against coarse hair, a black suit against a white dress, the daughter's shaved hair on the linoleum of the hospital floor; an agitated universe of colour and texture; just like a Caravaggio painting. And as beautiful in its harshness.
There is definitely no beauty in rape. Or death. But they are both happening every day, right this moment, in nature, in civilized society, perhaps next door. And there is fear and awe whenever we encounter these forces. They are real as much as we are. Invisible forces that play us, with us, against us, in a cruel, mesmerizing puppetry. Forces within people, real people, just like us. The rape-scene in DON'T MOVE has been re-viewed unfavourably by some critics. Perhaps because it is shot with a clinical detachment that renders the account of a violent crime even more violent. The camera is gradually moving away as if closing its eyes from what is happening to Italia. As if God is absent from the scene. Surely, it could have been done in a different way. But would that have made a rape-scene equivalent to the self-evident message that "rape is a crime"? Do we even need a movie to tell us that? Or are we being hypocritical in our effort to shout to the world how politically correct we are? Moralizing from the safe pedestal of normality and sanity does not offer society protection from the dark forces within human nature. Putting these forces under the psychological microscope of an artistic medium gives us an opportunity to feel their power, reflect on the complicated nature of crimes and misfortunes and re-enact the agonizing struggle of their protagonists. A poetic re-enactment of tragic events, whether in theatre or in cinema, is still serving an almost therapeutic purpose. To quote a reliable authority on the subject, this is done by depicting " incidents arousing pity and fear, wherewith to accomplish its catharsis of such emotions " (Aristotle, Poetics) DON'T MOVE is more of a vehicle for catharsis than middle-class escapism through vice; who ever saw this movie as an erotic male hallucination had better seek professional help or do some research on the subject. Italia is not exactly standard male-fantasy material. She is too real for that. Repulsively real. In this light, the issue of the characters' and the story's credibility requires a slightly different approach: Timoteo is more complex a character than a rich, well-educated philanderer desperately trying to have it both ways; as Italia is a lot more than a provocative, vulgar, unrefined girl who happened to be raped; Timoteo's wife, Elsa, has a private life of her own, safety exits and frustrations of her own; they all make choices and they all have to suffer through them. The story is fictional. The characters, however, very soon acquire a life of their own. They allow us to see their imperfections, their flaws and their crimes. Just like an assortment of ordinary people posing for Caravaggio in a dark, humid basement.