‘Furbizia’

An Italian term which encapsulates the enduring perceptions of Italians as suspicious of authority, and who ‘cut corners’ and ‘dodge the system,’ is furbizia. Since the seventeenth century, dictionary definitions of furbizia or furbo have been variations of ‘thief’ or ‘cheat’, or, more recently, ‘clever; cunning’. These do not adequately reflect the nuanced and idiosyncratic nature of the term. For one to be considered furbo or furba is not merely an indication of intelligence, but of cunning, guile and an aptitude for manipulating rules to one’s advantage. The notion that Italians have consistently adapted to their fluctuating socio-political environment is rife in Italian comic conventions and culture. This stereotype can be traced back to the masked ‘type’ of the commedia dell’arte of the sixteenth century: Arlecchino or Harlequin. Most scholars also acknowledge the basis of this caricature in classical Roman and Greek theatre; in the beffa (medieval farce); and in the Renaissance comedies produced by Niccolo Machiavelli and by Giovanni Boccaccio in his Decameron. A rogueish clown and trickster (zanni), Arlecchino is the most enduring of the stock characters of la commedia dell’arte. Jean-François Marmontel (quoted in Nicoll Reference Nicoll1963, 70–73) describes this figure as

One of the consistent traits of Arlecchino is that he not only gleefully disobeys his master, Capitane, but he also outsmarts him. Despite his defiance of those in power, he is not malicious and rarely seeks revenge upon his oppressors. While it is beyond the scope of this article to outline the evolution of the furbizia concept from the sixteenth century up to the commedia all’italiana genre in the late 1950s, an explicit precursor to the figure of the ‘Opportunist’ in these films could be found in the Neapolitan comic and theatric tradition of varietá. This produced comedy icons and dramatists such as Eduardo de Filippo and Totó, who embodied the stereotype of the impoverished, yet wily, Southern Italian. Totó also relied upon the quotidian ‘art of getting by’, which would later be ‘reused and perfected’ by la commedia all’italiana (Lanzoni Reference Lanzoni2008, 26). Another forerunner was Luigi Zampa’s trilogy on opportunism: Anni Difficili (1948); Anni Facili (1953) and finally, L’Arte di Arrangiarsi (The Art of Getting By) (1954), which starred Alberto Sordi. Sordi’s portrayal of the Italian ‘everyman’ who survives at any cost – a social and political chameleon – was a significant prototype for the endearing yet flawed antiheroes of la commedia all’italiana. The ‘imprint’ of this figure upon the Italian popular imagination is due not only to the fact that he is an endearing rogue who is constantly ‘down on his luck’, but that heis, ultimately, a survivor, who is skilled at adapting to a constantly changing environment (Nicoll Reference Nicoll1963, 73).

A nation that ‘gets by’

The archetype of the Opportunist provided the basis for the filmmakers of la commedia all’italiana. Similarly to Arlecchino, the protagonists in these films were furbi in the sense that their guile and charisma allowed them to survive their own various social milieux in post-war Italy, in the context of the memory of Fascism, the devastation caused by the Second World War and the political turbulence and social unrest of the immediate post-war period. These are all evident in Mario Monicelli’s 1958 film, I Soliti Ignoti (Big Deal on Madonna Street), which is often considered the pioneer of the commedia genre. Monicelli depicted variations of the Opportunist archetype through a group of hopeless Roman crooks, as they fumbled their way through quotidian post-war Italian life. The pervasiveness of this caricature and its ability to not only adapt to, but to capitalise on an ever-changing society, also highlights the time-honoured Italian tradition of l’arte di arrangiarsi, ‘the art of getting by’ which features prominently in these comedies. Similarly to furbizia, the custom of social adaptability and resilience is deeply rooted in Italian history and culture. The tradition of l’arte di arrangiarsi is often considered by scholars to be the early prototype for Italian film comedy. Maurizio Grande (Reference Grande1986, 71) defines this tradition as

Although the protagonists of la commedia all’italiana embodied this ‘art of survival’, they were nonetheless a departure from established theatrical and cinematic conventions because they were a product of Italy’s economic ‘miracle’ (1959–1964). This tradition of social adaptation was apparent in Monicelli’s I Soliti Ignoti, whereby the bumbling thieves attempted to acclimatise themselves to the vast transformations of post-war Italian society.

The film occupies a significant space in Italian history, as it signified a nation emerging from the devastation of the post-war era, whilst on the cusp of the economic euphoria and consumerism of the 1960s. I Soliti Ignoti was made following a particularly tempestuous decade in Italian politics: despite the nation’s need for political and economic stability following Liberation in 1945, there were five coalition governments in Italy from the end of 1945 to 1950, all of which were led by Alcide de Gasperi, the leader of the Christian Democrats. De Gasperi surmounted the Democrazia Cristiana (DC)’s two main obstacles: the first being the immediate removal of the monarchy through referendum; and the second in 1947, the exclusion of the Italian Communist Party (PCI) in the drafting of the new Constitution, based on its ties with the Soviet Union (CPSU) (Pasquino Reference Pasquino2000, 73). Paul Ginsborg (Reference Ginsborg2003, 165) argues, however, that despite the Christian Democrats’ election victory in 1948, the institutions underpinning Italian society had by no means been ‘fixed’ and nor had they achieved political, economic or social stability. The DC’s much vaunted objectives for the 1950s (‘full employment, the gradual reduction of the economic gap between North and South, and elimination of the payments deficit’) were never accomplished. Issues such as the reduction in wages caused by inflation and poor working conditions, as well as vast levels of unemployment, were too drastic overcome in the space of a decade. By 1947 there were 1.6 million Italians unemployed (Ginsborg Reference Ginsborg2003, 450). Not only were Italian workers receiving meagre wages, or none at all, but the Allied bombardment of the major cities had also resulted in hundreds of thousands of Italians being homeless (Ginsborg Reference Ginsborg2003, 79–83). Additionally, the national cost of living had increased almost 23 times since 1938, despite wages having risen only half that amount. In this economic climate, the Christian Democrats won one of their greatest triumphs of the post-war period, becoming the party of the middle classes, whilst retaining the support among the rural electorate. This consolidated the low-wage economy which was the foundation for the vast economic growth of the 1950s onwards. Unlike the minority of workers in the North, who, despite their bleak conditions, were bolstered by the memory of the Resistance, in the Centre and the South this was rarely the case. After two decades of Fascism, the majority of the Italian working population was either antagonistic or apathetic towards class-based ideology, or indeed political authority in general.

The ‘usual suspects’ of post-war Italy

I Soliti Ignoti encapsulated this transition of late 1950s Italy between the growing pains of post-war reconstruction and the opportunity and economic growth of the following decade. Monicelli, however, did not depict the turmoil of high politics during this period, but rather exposed its broader effects on Italian society’s most economically vulnerable and marginalised: the unemployed, the workers, and the desperate urban poor trying to ‘get by’. According to Lanzoni (Reference Lanzoni2008, 43), the commercial success of the film was due to the ‘collective nature of its representation of Italian life’. Indeed, the film made a total profit of 987, 670,000 lire at the Italian box office (Chiti and Poppi Reference Chiti and Poppi1991, 341) and ranked the third most financially successful of all Italian films distributed in its first year of release. The film was a parody of the French crime drama, Rififi (1955), directed by Jules Dassin, and details the story of a group of professional criminals who organise a bank robbery. In Deborah Young’s interview with Monicelli, (Reference Young2004, 36) he stated that his aim with I Soliti Ignoti was to satirise the French by casting a group of Roman ‘good-for-nothings’, floundering in their attempts to pull off a robbery. It was also a mockery of American gangster films, which had become increasingly popular during this period (Bondanella Reference Bondanella2001, 145). Vittorio Spinazzola (Reference Spinazzola1958, 252) one of the few Italian critics who was initially supportive of the film, stated that it was ‘fun, but also one of the most honest and serious among those produced in Italy in recent times’. Despite its popularity with Italian audiences, it took longer to be widely well received by critics in its native Italy. The French critics’ support for the film, as well as its Academy Award nomination for Best Foreign Film, undoubtedly influenced Italian critics who had originally disparaged the film (Lanzoni Reference Lanzoni2008, 42). This delayed response from Italian reviewers was also a consequence of the film’s departure from the critically-acclaimed neorealist cinema of the immediate post-war era. It also differed from the broader, slapstick comedies of the neorealismo rosa of the 1950s. Monicelli’s film thus established a shift in cinematic vision which sought a more critical gaze on post-war Italian society, but through established comic conventions.

Much like the masks of la commedia dell’arte, the characters in the film were played by stock figures who became the stars of the commedia genre, such as Vittorio Gassman and Marcello Mastroianni. Notably, the film’s resident con-man was played by Totò. Amongst this group is the failing artist, Tiberio (Mastroianni) whose wife is in jail and he is constantly occupied with looking after their child; the former boxer (Gassman) enamoured with the beautiful maid of the apartment intended for the burglary; and Mario, the young man devoted to his mamma and besotted with the locked-away sister of the overprotective Sicilian, Ferribotte. Capannelle is the most obvious counterpart of Arlecchino (an elderly, hunch-backed thief in rags, constantly scavenging for food). Nevertheless, all of these characters embody different facets of the Opportunist caricature, as they struggle to ‘get by’ in their own ways through post-war quotidian life. Finally, even the respected ‘expert’, the ageing con-man, Dante (Totὸ), seems exasperated by this group of no-hopers. The conflict between these caricatures and their combined incompetence generates the comedy of the film, and leads to the inevitable failure of the crime. After breaking through the wrong wall of theapartment, the would-be criminals give up trying to open the safe and end up feasting on leftover pasta e ceci (pasta and beans). Their distinct lack of commitment to the crime is reinforced when Tiberio, thoughtfully chewing on his food, comments that ‘if I was being picky, I would add one more drop of oil’. The group discuss this and eventually, pack up and disperse into the cold morning, with full bellies and empty pockets.

Aldo Vigano (Reference Vigano1995, 71) argues that it is ‘no coincidence’ that at the end of the film, Capannelle is the only character left who has not been ‘absorbed into the ethical and social standards’ of Italian society. He argues that this is because Capannelle is the only character with the ‘explicit connotations of a commedia dell’arte mask’. Conversely, the film does not suggest that this archetype is immune to the external forces of Italian society, but rather that it is a product of its ever-shifting environment. In the case of Capannelle, this means finding new ways to ‘get by’: i.e by avoiding salaried labour and defying the law. Moreoever, by making the men fail, Monicelli is criticising l’arte di arrangiarsi, as he suggests that a group comprised of opportunistic ‘individuals’ will never succeed as they will not act according to the interests of the collective – or of wider society – as a whole.

Throughout the film, Monicelli plays on the stereotype of Italians as ‘work-shirkers’ and people who exploit the system for their own advantage. This was especially pertinent due to Italy’s rife unemployment, homelessness and poor working conditions during this period. It is apparent in the caricatures’ familiarity with the Italian legal system. When Cosimo is in gaol and planning the heist, he considers each of the various pieces of legislation that he can manipulate to his own advantage: ‘hmm, maybe this one …’ He even demands of his lawyer: ‘Counsellor, let’s find a legal loophole ’cause I gotta get out … Get the penal code out. Listen here, Article 403 is no good. Go to 117, page 128’. To which the lawyer responds, ‘you’re an old offender … If anything we might claim 521 …’ Their eventual failure to commit the crime also reinforces the idea that it is harmless: when they gather around, eating pasta e ceci, they appear unfazed, as if they had never expected it to work in the first place. Tiberio says to Peppe: ‘stealing is an important profession. You need serious people … all you can do at best is work’, to which Peppe sighs: ‘But working is tiring’. This disregard, even complete resentment, of the need for ‘work’ and salaried labour is further emphasised in the final scene of the film, when Peppe hides from the police in a queue of construction workers, representing the many Italians who were desperate for employment during this period. He ends up trapped amongst the throng of workers and pushed into the construction site, leaving Campanelle yelling after him: ‘Peppe, they’ll make you work!’ Monicelli here is not reifying prejudices of Italians as lazy and idle. The final scene of I Soliti Ignoti, in which Peppe is being literally trapped by the labour force, underlines the poor working conditions and unemployment which characterised post-war Italy. Lanzoni (Reference Lanzoni2008, 48) argues that this sequence foreshadows the social and economic conflict of Italian society, which would occur a decade later. The ending, however, appears as a bleak depiction of the lives of the ‘forgotten’ and marginalised: the workers, the unemployed, and the listless urban poor who are trying to ‘get by’ following the desperation of the past decade.

‘Getting by’ vs ‘getting ahead’ in the economic boom

Five years following Monicelli’s I Soliti Ignoti, Dino Risi’s film Il Sorpasso (or The Easy Life) also explores the archetype of the Opportunist and the nature of ‘getting by’ in Italian quotidian life during the 1960s. Risi’s film, released at the height of the country’s ‘economic miracle’, examines the consequences of such rapid industrial and economic growth. According to most historians, this period of prosperity reached its apogee between the years 1958 and 1963, during which Italy finally asserted itself as a modern, developed nation in the European free market. Two decades after Fascism and the devastation of the immediate post-war period, the Italian populace glimpsed opportunity, hope, even leisure as part of their immediate future. The ‘hope’ represented all things ‘new’ and ‘modern’: faster, ritzier cars; new electric domestic appliances; family holidays and television sets for the home. Even the title of the film, Il Sorpasso, derives from the verb superare, meaning ‘to surpass’ or ‘to exceed’. Risi emphasises that in 1960s Italy, it was no longer sufficient to ‘get by’. Now, an individual needed to ‘get ahead’; to overtake others with wealth and consumer goods – and quite literally in a new Fiat Cinquecento.

The economic boom is considered a result of two primary factors. The first was the establishment of the European Economic Community in 1957 by the Treaty of Rome. The EEC was critical in facilitating exports from Italy to the rest of Western Europe. The other major contributing factor was the Marshall Plan. An American aid initiative designed to help rebuild Western Europe, it enabled an ‘influx of American machinery and know-how’ as well as creating many opportunities for Italian firms and industry (Ginsborg Reference Ginsborg2003, 213). Americanisation also had a huge impact on Italian popular culture. The introduction of supermarkets, cigarette vending machines, pay phones, beach bars, jukeboxes, rock ’n’ roll music and discotheques during the 1960s all reinforced the influence of the United States and Hollywood on Italian society. The newfound consumerism, witnessed by Italians either on the screen or in their immediate surroundings, pervaded their everyday lives. Paolo Scrivano (Reference Scrivano2005, 323–336), however, argues that the influence of the United States went beyond a model for imitation, as this exposure to domestic norms and lifestyles from the United States redefined and ‘loosened’ the socio-cultural expectations of Italian society. Indeed, Americanisation changed the very notion of Italian citizenship, traversing boundaries between public and private life, as living rooms replaced courtyards, streets and piazze. After 20 years of dictatorship, the appeal of ‘the individual’ seemed entirely feasible, especially as it directly opposed the ‘populist myth of the masses’ which had so strongly defined the Fascist regime (Scrivano Reference Scrivano2005, 323).

The 1960s also marked the end of protectionism in Italy. This allowed the sectors which were already flourishing to be rewarded in the European market. Between the years 1958 and 1962, industrial production increased by 90 per cent and sectors such as the automotive industry (which quadrupled during this period) and metallurgical companies were the vanguard of the nation’s industrial enterprises (Ginsborg Reference Ginsborg2003, 53). The automotive industry, dominated by Fiat, had become the powerhouse of the Italian economy, further facilitated by the Italian government’s extension of the autostrada (motorway), which accompanied a vast increase in popular car ownership (Celli and Cottino Jones Reference Celli and Cottino-Jones2007, 85). In 1958, Fiat produced what would be considered the ‘car of the century’ in Italy: the Cinquecento (Fiat 500). Italy’s exports became such a point of national pride that brands such as Fiat, Maserati and Ferrari were now symbols of national identity, individual freedom, prosperity – beacons of the ‘new’ Italy. After two decades of reconstruction and the emergence of the free market, this influx of consumerism was now accessible to lower middle-class Italians, who in turn were exposed to a lifestyle they had never expected to be possible. As Stephen Gundle (Reference Gundle1986, 584) remarks: ‘it was the glamour, the tempting appeal of new goods, more than the actual goods themselves, which offered workers and their families a whole new range of aspirations and desires’. Italy thus had become the seventh most industrialised country at the turn of the decade: cars, holidays, luxury goods and even university education were now all attainable aspects of Italian daily life. In the space of five years (1958–1963) the percentage of Italian families in possession of a television increased from 12 to 58, and of washing machines from 3 to 25 (Lanzoni Reference Lanzoni2008, 55).

Despite the increase in television ownership, however, Italians continued to be avid cinemagoers. Natalie Fullwood (Reference Fullwood2013, 21) maintains that ‘rather than an arrival which immediately sounded the death knell for cinema’, in the case of la commedia all’italiana, television ‘coexisted’ with cinema in a ‘mutually influential relationship’. Between 1960 and 1970, annual audience spending on films increased from 120,987 billion lire to 181,896 billion lire (Lanzoni Reference Lanzoni2008, 54). Whether or not the economic boom had positive or adverse effects on the nation as a whole, it undoubtedly permeated all aspects of Italian life. Even if this new lifestyle was not as widely attainable as initially anticipated, it nonetheless provided Italians with the hope that, after two decades of Fascism and a war, a ‘better’ life was possible – even if only in the form of a family washing machine.

The ‘easy life’?

Risi’s Il Sorpasso exemplifies this moment of euphoria for Italy’s future, as well as a reluctance to relinquish the traditions and ‘simpler’ times of its past. Superficially, Il Sorpasso is a picaresque road movie, but the film is also a cynical take on 1960s Italy. The filmmaker exposes the cultural binaries of Italian society and the systemic growing pains which arose from these conflicts: industrial/agrarian, urban/rural, progression/tradition, North/South, and – more broadly – ‘old’ versus ‘new’ Italy. The film unspools over the course of two days, following the escapades of two vastly different men: Bruno Cortona (Gassman), the epitome of furbizia and an eternal optimist who charms his way through life; and the serious law student, Roberto (Jean Louis Trintignant), who becomes enamoured with ‘the easy life’ to which Bruno exposes him.

Unlike the auteur cinema of filmmakers such as Michelangelo Antonioni throughout this period, Risi’s portrayal of themes such as growing consumerist alienation, loneliness and incomunicabilità (‘incommunicability’, a term coined by Antonioni) was less of a judgement on and more of an observation of 1960s Italy (Lanzoni Reference Lanzoni2008, 62). Due to Il Sorpasso’s humorous depiction of these issues it excelled at the Italian box office. While Antonioni’s film L’Eclisse (1961) earned 304,000,000 lire, it was surpassed by Il Sorpasso’s 1,187,000,000 lire, making it the highest grossing film of 1962 (Poppi and Percorari Reference Poppi and Pecorari2007, 188; 508). Not unlike I Soliti Ignoti, Risi’s film was initially unpopular with Italian critics. In an interview (Criterion Collection 2005), the screenwriter of the film, Ettore Scola, explained that once the film had become successful elsewhere in Europe, these critics rewrote their ‘savage’ reviews to praise the film. One of these scathing reviews was by Gian Maria Guglielmo (Reference Guglielmo1963, 134–135) who scorned Risi’s ‘bland moralism’ and argued that the film’s protagonist, Bruno, was not an endearing rogue, but rather, his ‘extroverted nature and his aggressive recklessness’ spoke of the ‘demise of a man with no conscience’. These critics’ dismissal of the film, however, underestimated the ability of humour to first engage spectators, then prompt them to become spectators of themselves. According to Aldo Vigano (quoted in Lanzoni Reference Lanzoni2008, 77) this process was accompanied by disagio fisico (physical or moral discomfort), which produced a heightened sense of critical self-awareness. Therefore, the commercial success of Il Sorpasso did not render it frivolous entertainment, but rather Risi’s use of established comic conventions enabled him to transmit his ideas to wider audiences.

The first sequence of Il Sorpasso makes it easy to see why the film was an instant hit with audiences. The film opens with Bruno speeding through the streets of urban Rome in his Aurelia sports car. Fast-paced jazz music accompanies the opening titles. It is the public holiday, Ferragosto, and the streets are deserted. Bruno spies Roberto hovering at an open window and asks if he can make a phone call. Despite their being complete strangers, he persuades Roberto to join him in search of a bar or restaurant open for lunch. Roberto hesitates, but Bruno’s persuasive charm forces him to relent. We then follow the duo’s journey from Rome to the coast, with a series of encounters along the way which provide the plot and character arcs of the film. The voyage along Italy’s roads grants us historical insight into the nation’s vast economic and socio-cultural transformations, as well as the parts of it that are struggling to ‘keep up’ with these advances. We view these widespread changes through two perspectives: Bruno’s enthusiasm for all things fast and modern, and Roberto’s reluctance to let go of a more idyllic, provincial Italy of the past. As Bruno represents the ‘new’ Italy, his convertible embodies the advances in Italy’s automotive industry, and also the extent to which these brands have become emblems of cultural identity of a modern, developed nation. Cars were no longer merely modes of transportation, but were representative of a certain kind of lifestyle, of what kind of person you were. This also reinforces the burgeoning cultural significance of surpassing others, either in a fast car, or in social standing, power and reputation. Fullwood (Reference Fullwood2015, 160) argues that ‘stasis or slow-movement’ is an indication of ‘inferior, or backward social-status’ in the film. This is emphasised in the frequent scenes of overtaking, with Bruno mocking the cyclist (‘get a Vespa!’) or the entire family packed into a sidecar.

Italy’s restless energy to ‘get ahead’ in all aspects of life is evident in Bruno’s dismissal of the past in the film (scoffing at the Etruscan tombs they pass; at medieval architecture; even at Sophia Loren). This contrasts with Roberto’s reverence for the ‘old’ Italy, which he views as being corrupted by external, modernising influences. The contrast is apparent when the pair encounter a group of priests stranded on the side of the road. Roberto communicates with them in Latin, and, much to Bruno’s delight, they discover that the priests need a car jack. This exchange emphasises a nation unwilling to relinquish the cultural mores of their past, but also its need to embrace the industrial progress of their future. Moreover, signs of an increasingly consumerist culture are apparent at the various gas stations, bars and roadside cafés. Cigarette vending machines, walls plastered with photos of Hollywood starlets, as well as jukeboxes blasting rock ’n’ roll tunes also reinforce the nation’s infatuation with American pop culture. An amusing example of this is when the two men pass a group of villagers in a field attempting the ‘twist’, Bruno dubbing it the ‘clodhopper twist’. This picture of provincial Italians moving as if they were in a dance hall in the United States presents us with a dichotomous image of the ‘old’ versus the ‘new’ Italy. Despite the pair’s laughter at their expense, it is an oddly poignant moment.

This sense of nostalgia is also palpable when they visit Roberto’s relatives. The bucolic stone farmhouse surrounded by rolling hills seems a world away from fast cars, jukeboxes and ‘the twist’. Roberto wanders through the rooms he used to spend summers in as a child: ‘I imagine the boys’ room is called the TV room now.’ Bruno, however, though impressed, is unaffected by the rustic charm of the house and landscape. He peruses the family’s possessions, tapping furniture and saying ‘late nineteenth-century. How much for this? Family heirlooms … But what if the price were right?’ Despite this image of the provincial, ‘pure’ Italy of the past, Risi is not glorifying it. There is a sense of it being ‘stuck’ in the past. This is reinforced by the men’s departing conversation, as Roberto reflects on the ‘distorted illusions’ of youth: ‘You know why we always say it was such a wonderful time? We don’t remember what it was really like.’ It is clear that even Roberto’s romanticised image of the ‘old’ Italy is waning. This reminds the audience that Italy’s recent past was far from tranquil and that the memory of Fascism, the war, and post-war devastation cannot be erased so easily. Therefore, Bruno’s enthusiasm to forget the old and embrace the new takes on a grimmer connotation, appearing less of a choice and more of a necessity, in order to suppress the horrors of the past and seek the possibility of a better future.

This cultural convention of adapting to one’s fluctuating social environment is thus embodied by Bruno, the quintessential furbo. An instance where he manipulates his surroundings to his own advantage is when he and Roberto pass a wrecked truck on the side of the road. Bruno pulls over and, instead of being concerned about the injured parties, immediately capitalises on the situation. He examines the broken appliances everywhere, demanding of the driver: ‘Who’s your boss? I’d like to take these damaged goods off your hands.’ Bruno then explains to Roberto how he must always adapt his profession according to whatever circumstances are presented to him:

Bruno encompasses all of the traits of Arlecchino: cunning, charismatic and always manoeuvring his surroundings in order to ‘get by’. According to Phillip Lopate (Criterion Collection, Reference Lopate2014), ‘it would be easy to dismiss Gassman’s Bruno as merely an opportunistic con-man’, yet he is much more complex than that. He is a departure from previous manifestations of this caricature. Risi does not overlook the flaws of his character, nor does he exonerate them as ‘necessary’ for survival. Rather, the filmmaker constantly reminds us that a life of ‘getting by’ and ‘getting ahead’ takes its toll. Bruno’s fast-living, fast-talking lifestyle does not come without consequences, and not only to himself, but to those around him. Glimpses of a flawed, lonely man emerge from beneath his charismatic exterior throughout the film: first, when he admits to Roberto the lack of relationships in his life; secondly, when we encounter his family. After a night out partying, Bruno takes Roberto to his wife’s house, from whom he is separated. The shot of the pair approaching from outside in the dark, as Gianna appears in the glowing interior, highlights Bruno’s distance from his loved ones.

The consequences of Bruno’s lifestyle reach their apogee at the end of the film. As the duo glide along winding coastal roads, there is a sense of euphoria and freedom. Roberto confesses to Bruno that he has spent the best two days of his life with him. He urges Bruno to go faster, and they overtake the other vehicles on the road with ease. This culminates in their attempt to overtake yet another car, but this time they do not succeed. They veer off the edge of the cliff, the car tumbling with great force into the ocean. Bruno survives with a few minor injuries, but Roberto plummets to his death. The police and bystanders flock to the scene, questioning Bruno about the passenger, to which he responds: ‘His name was Roberto. I don’t know his last name. I only met him yesterday.’ Bruno’s devastated expression as Roberto’s death dawns on him, demonstrates that the ‘easy life’ has a cost: cutting corners – quite literally – does not render one invincible to human tragedy and loss. The film’s conclusion also implies that a society which has undergone such rapid transformations must experience an aftermath. As Ettore Scola (Reference Scola2005) put it: ‘You cannot have a boom without a crash.’ Unsurprisingly, Scola stated that the ending was unpopular with the film’s producers. Despite this, he argued:

The film’s conclusion was also unpopular with critics such as Argentieri (Reference Argentieri1963, 48), who asserted that, despite the ‘existential bitterness’ of the ending, its ‘abrupt and sudden’ nature made it seem too forced and ‘mechanical’ in the tragic context. Conversely, the juxtaposition of the tragic ending with the comedic nature of the rest of the film is what makes it so memorable – and shocking – to the spectator. It enabled Risi to transmit his ideas in a palatable manner for Italian audiences, whilst also giving them something to reflect upon. Risi thus presented audiences with an observation, not a judgement, of reality: a culture which had so rapidly and unwittingly embraced a lifestyle of euphoria, leisure and wealth. Whether the consequences of ‘getting ahead’ were manifest on an individual level, as with Roberto’s death, or in a broader, abstract loss of cultural identity, the film suggests that this way of life is not sustainable. No matter how hard a nation tries look forward, it cannot do so without acknowledging its past.

Furbo in the ‘grey zone’

Similarly to Monicelli and Risi, Wertmuller examines the archetype of the Opportunist in her film Pasqualino Settebellezze (Seven Beauties) (1975). The film is a different kind of historical text to the two films previously discussed, as Wertmuller’s is set during Fascist and wartime Italy. Pasqualino Settebellezze is a grotesque reflection of the past, yet it is depicted through the lens of its own social milieu, 1970s Italy. The protagonist, Pasqualino, is essential in the trajectory of the Opportunist, because he is the most extreme culmination of this figure. Pasqualino is much less likeable than the charismatic Bruno, and is a parody – even a perversion – of the furbo archetype. With his swaggering gait, his slicked-back hair and cheap suit, Pasqualino is affecting the persona of the rogueish Lothario, but the means by which he ensures his survival are far more destructive. Pasqualino thus occupies a unique historical space: Wertmuller presents him as both a forerunner of the charming swindlers of the 1960s, and a bitter corollary of these figures, a decade later.

Through Pasqualino, Wertmuller extends the definition of ‘getting by’ beyond the quotidian form of survival, to the context of Fascist Italy and the Holocaust. She examines the Italian custom of l’arte di arrangiarsi under the most extreme circumstances, provoking the spectator to consider the lengths they would go to for the sake of their own survival. Kriss Ravetto (Reference Ravetto2001, 35) asserts that, unlike the neorealist cinema of the previous decades, Wertmuller chose ‘less politically-charged characters’. Pasqualino is an anti-hero: he is not Jewish and nor is he involved in the military Resistance or an ideological collaborationist. He is merely an Italian army deserter who is captured and placed in a concentration camp. This allowed Wertmuller to explore the interaction between survivors, Nazis, resisters and collaborators, whose actions and means of surviving are far more complex.

Pasqualino’s self-serving nature is evident in the beginning of the film, when he and a fellow army deserter, Francesco, passively observe a group of Jews being executed by Nazis. Afterwards, when Francesco laments their lack of resistance, Pasqualino remarks that it would have been ‘useless suicide’. Francesco counters that in the ‘face of certain things, you’ve got to say no; instead I said yes, to Mussolini, to duty and all that crap!’ A flashback returns us to pre-war Naples, where Pasqualino, a small-time gangster, reigns as head of his family over his mother and seven sisters. After discovering that one of his sisters, Concettina, has been coerced into prostitution by ‘eighteen carats’ Totonno, Pasqualino murders the villain to reclaim his family’s honour. He sends luggage containing the mutilated carcass to several cities, is arrested and sequentially sent to prison, an insane asylum, the army and eventually, a concentration camp. In an obscene fulfilment of furbizia, Pasqualino adapts to these settings by committing betrayal, rape and murder. Grace Russo Bullaro (Reference Bullaro2006, 89) points out that, until his incarceration in the camp, Pasqualino ‘takes a great deal of pride in his ability to take advantage of the system’. Even when confronted by a sentence in a criminal asylum he is sure of his ability to thrive: ‘It’s just a question of getting things organised, becoming friendly with some doctor or nurse. In Naples we’re very inventive, I’ll be on easy street.’ The seemingly boundless lengths of Pasqualino’s need for self-preservation reaches its apogee when he seduces the grotesque female Nazi commandant. He is thus promoted to kapo and ordered to kill the inmates in his cell block, including Francesco. After the war, Pasqualino returns to Naples, discovering that, due to poverty and the occupation of Allied forces, his seven sisters have resorted to prostitution. He is left alone, deadened by the atrocities he has experienced and perpetrated. In Pasqualino Settebellezze, ‘getting by’ is no longer associated with hopeless yet endearing thieves, or even speed-hungry Lotharios. It is self-preservation at any cost – no matter how inhumane. This correlates with the idea that surviving under Fascism and Nazism often meant the disintegration of moral and ethical binaries.

This notion, however, is hardly novel in survivor scholarship of concentration camps. Drawing connections between Wertmuller’s film and Primo Levi’s ‘grey zone’ or la vita ambigua del lager (the ambiguous life of the lager) is particularly meaningful. Levi (Reference Levi1986, 685) described how ‘the lager offered some individual slaves a privileged position, a premium probability of surviving … and certainly no-one could refuse.’ Wertmuller highlights the ‘grey zone’ of surviving in the camps by contrasting the horrific and burlesque. In Seven Beauties, Wertmuller juxtaposes the pre-war comic scenes of Naples with those of ‘Appleplatz’, the fictional concentration camp. Eli Pfefferkorn (Reference Pfefferkorn1982, 21), survivor of Majdanek, states that this contrast effectively ‘projects a vision that blurs the distinction between good and evil, morality and depravity, courage and cowardice.’ Conversely, Bruno Bettelheim (Reference Bettelheim1979, 275), another survivor of Majdanek, critiques Wertmuller for her use of macabre comedy in depicting the camps. He argues that she has committed an ‘unimaginable abomination: she has reduced the unspeakable horror of yesteryear … into a farce.’ Bettelheim states that mocking irony does not enrich our understanding of the Holocaust, but ‘neutralises the horror’. The candour and provocativeness of Pasqualino Settebellezze, however, does not ‘neutralise’ the experience of the camps, nor does it minimise the atrocities. Instead, it revives our shock and disgust.

The filmmaker emphasises how sex is able to blur the boundaries between victim and perpetrator. This is evident when Pasqualino woos the female Nazi commandant in order to survive. Ben Lawton (Reference Lawton1983, 40) raises the moral paradoxes inherent in this scene. He suggests how the naked, emaciated Pasqualino on the swastika rug could imply that Pasqualino is yet another victim of Nazism. Lawton adds, however, that if we connect this image with Pasqualino’s promotion to kapo, and his execution of Francesco, he in fact becomes the ‘essence of Fascism’. This image of Pasqualino, however, reinforces the fact that he is the agent of his own degradation. The Pasqualino we see crouched on the floor, whimpering with hunger and shyly undressing himself does not reveal a cunning, opportunistic criminal, rather he reeks of pathos. We feel simultaneously disgusted that he has committed such a despicable act, and that he has been driven to such lengths. In this scene, Wertmuller disorientates our moral compass by exploring the will to live in its most ignoble forms, and the ‘impure places where humans become animal’ (Pfefferkorn Reference Pfefferkorn1982, 20). This is evident in Hilde’s remark to Pasqualino:

As Kriss Ravetto (Reference Ravetto2001, 224) argues, by presenting the limits of human reasoning in the face of survival, Wertmuller challenges ‘demands of “historical correctness”’. This is especially prevalent in Bettelheim’s critique of the film. Bettelheim suggests that every prisoner operated with some sort of innate moral code, which helped them not only to ‘get by’ in the camps, but to do so with dignity. Pfefferkorn (Reference Pfefferkorn1982, 22), however, opposes Bettelheim by recounting his own experience of the ‘death march’ out of Majdanek in 1944, stating that ‘it would be hard to determine – in fact impossible to do so – how many of us standing there made it to Theresienstadt ghetto because of an adherence to Bettelheim’s principles of self-assertion.’ By depicting a survivor who occupied both victim and perpetrator status – one of the many Pasqualinos of the camps – Pasqualino Settebellezze similarly sheds light on the nature and consequences of ‘surviving’ at any cost. It does not follow that Wertmuller is endorsing a nihilistic perception of survivors, Italians, or more broadly of humankind. Several critics ignore the fact that Pasqualino is a caricature of a survivor, an anti-hero. Pasqualino survives, but without dignity or honour.

At the end of the film, it is a broken man we witness staring vacantly back at himself in the mirror. Pasqualino is left paranoid, without vitality, his tired eyes more closely resembling what Levi (Reference Levi1996, 90) refers to as Muselmann or ‘the walking dead’. Nevertheless, Ralph Tutt (Reference Tutt1989, 201) insists that after ‘having learned the price of political apathy’ Pasqualino is ‘reborn at the end of the film’. Tutt overestimates Pasqualino’s moral ‘rebirth’. When Pasqualino’s mother says to him ‘The war is over … it’s useless to think about these miseries. You’re alive, Pasqualino, alive!’ his response is ‘sì, sono vivo’ (‘yes, I’m alive’). Pasqualino’s remark, however, reveals flat resignation. He is not a man who has been resurrected from the atrocities he has suffered, nor from those that he has inflicted on others. All that remains is the debris of a lifetime of unrelenting adaptation, exploitation and survival. Wertmuller suggests that Arlecchino may have indeed ‘survived’ Fascism, the camps, and the ‘grey zone’, but he was no longer laughing.