All Screwed Up (1974)

          Another frenetic and noisy movie from Italian director Lina Wertmüller, whose films usually blend radical politics and social satire in challenging ways, All Screwed Up suffers for either a deficiency or an overabundance of plot, depending on how you view these things. Instead of a clear linear storyline with momentum, the picture contains a number of interconnected episodes, with a large group of characters gradually converging to form a community. It’s never difficult to track what’s happening, but it is difficult to understand why X event is shown as opposed to Y event. One gets the sense of Wertmüller barreling through her subject matter, stopping every time something catches her attention, and then barreling forward again once she’s lost interest. And yet at the same time, there’s a vague sense of an overall narrative plan, leading up to the politically charged statement of the final scenes. Plus, because a character remarks that life is “all screwed up” at one point—while lamenting the seemingly pointless cycle of working for a living—it’s tempting to define the movie as a simple criticism of bourgeoisie ideals. Chances are Wertmüller was after something more complicated than that.

          In any event, the film begins when two country bumpkins, Gino (Luiigi Diberti) and Carloetto (Nino Bergamini), arrive in the big city of Milan to start a new life. They soon encounter Adelina (Sara Rapisarda), a hysterical young woman also newly arrived and looking for her cousin. So begins the process of the bumpkins building a surrogate family. Much is made of the leading characters’ naïveté, so, for instance, a friendly hustler talks them into buying a stolen bike. Later, as the bumpkins crash and burn at various demeaning jobs, one of them tries his hand at robbery by assisting a crook during a break-in. (This occasions one of the movie’s funniest moments, because the bumpkin gets nervous about upsetting objects in the immaculate home they’re robbing: “It’s a pity to make such a mess—these people are so neat!”) Lots of other stuff happens, too. A friend of the bumpkins freaks out because his wife keeps having kids, including quintuplets, and yet the friend has a meltdown when his wife tries to refuse sex.

          Speaking of sex, Carletto becomes involved with Adelina, then resents that she won’t sleep with him for religious reasons, so he takes a friend’s advice and rapes her. (“Now you’ll be a little quieter,” he says afterward.) All Screwed Up gets uglier as it goes along, with Wertmüller’s twisted gender politics resulting in a barrage of mixed messages. And if you can tell me what the scene of a gangster demanding that an enemy’s car get “encased in moldy shit” has to do with anything, then you made a whole lot more sense of All Screwed Up than I did. The picture addresses many relevant themes, including aspiration and class and gender and greed and marriage and working conditions, but for me, the experience of watching the picture was so disjointed and unpleasant that I lost the will to search for deeper meanings—even though I’m confident they’re hidden somewhere.

All Screwed Up: FUNKY

Seven Beauties (1975)

          A nasty piece of business from Italy’s provocative Lina Wertmüller, Seven Beauties tells the grotesque story of a man who survives a violent life as a pimp only to become an inmate in a World War II concentration camp. The film is so deliberately vulgar that the climax involves the protagonist struggling to summon an erection with which to service a morbidly obese prison matron, even though she’s a despicable sadist. One of the overt themes in the challenging picture is that only whores can survive life on the sidelines of a war. Given Wertmüller’s proclivity for threading leftist politics into her narratives, it’s a fair statement of sorts; her movies depict the world as a battle zone pitting the apathetic against the engaged, with her sympathies clearly favoring the engaged. Therefore, a generous reading of Seven Beauties might identify the protagonist as a representation for everything Wertmüller finds craven in society. After all, the movie begins with a weird tone poem/dedication listing various types of people: “The ones who don’t enjoy themselves even when they laugh. Oh, yeah. . . . The ones who listen to the national anthem. Oh, yeah. . . . The ones who at a certain point in their lives create a secret weapon: Christ. Oh, yeah.”
          Seven Beauties is a Grand Statement, but it’s not the easiest one to decipher.

          The movie jumps back in forth in time, juxtaposing the main character’s civilian life with his military experience. Prior to the war, Pasqualino (Giancarlo Giannini) is a sharp-dressed hustler who seems conflicted about the carnal adventures of his sisters. He carries the pejorative nickname “Seven Beauties” because each of his siblings is unattractive. Pasqualino spends lots of time yelling at his sisters for their low morals, even though he’s a criminal. In one of the film’s many tasteless sequences, the dismembering of a corpse is played for laughs. In another, Pasqualino rapes a mental patient. If you’re wondering what the point is of watching a monster like Pasqualino, I don’t have a good answer for you.

          The protagonist’s wartime experiences are gruesome. Inside the concentration camp, he watches a rotund matron (Shirley Stoler) push inmates past their physical and psychological limits, then bonds, sort of, with a poetic activist named Pedro (Fernando Rey). That character’s ultimate fate is so vile as to approach the realm of perverse comedy. As noted earlier, the crescendo of the picture involves Pasqualino trying to gain favor with the matron through sex. Throughout Seven Beauties, Wertmüller devotes as much energy to provoking revulsion as she does to showcasing ideology. The sheer number of repugnant images and situations is distracting, as is dissonance between content and style.

          Like all of Wertmüller’s movies, Seven Beauties is beautifully photographed, and the production design is impressive. Moreover, frequent Wertmüller collaborator Giannini contributes his usual impassioned work. Seven Beauties is among Wertmüller’s most acclaimed films, having garnered accolades including four Oscar nominations, so, clearly, discerning viewers found much worth examining here. To these eyes, however, the picture has not aged as well as some other Wertmüller’s efforts. Seven Beauties speaks with more confidence than clarity, though a hint of the picture’s deeper meanings might come from Rey’s character, who claims that “a man in disorder is our only hope.” Disorder is something that Seven Beauties has in abundance.

Seven Beauties: FUNKY

Love & Anarchy (1973)

          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

Swept Away (1974)

          On a surface level, Swept Away (or, as the longer formal title goes, Swept Away . . . by an Unusual Destiny in the Blue Sea of August) is likely the most accessible film that politically charged Italian director Lina Wertmüller ever made. The plot is simple, and the polemics are easy to unpack because most of the film comprises arguments between the same two characters, one of whom represents capitalism and the other communism. Yet in some ways, Swept Away is as challenging and problematic as Wertmüller’s other work. The movie is way too long, with lots of screen time chewed up by repetitive screaming matches, and the gender politics are a hot mess. At one point, the male protagonist exclaims, “Bitch, you’re more beautiful when I hit you.” Even worse, a man successfully woos the female antagonist by raping her. Let it never be said that male filmmakers have a monopoly on demeaning iconography.

          Set in and around a rocky island in the Mediterranean, the story begins with a small yacht cruising through perfect waters for a relaxing getaway. The trip was commissioned by Pavone (Riccardo Salvino), whose wife, Raffaella (Mariangela Melato), is a narcissistic harpy. Lean and tan, with a shapely figure and bleach-blonde hair, she’s glamorous but insufferable, perpetually complaining about the servants on the yacht. Gennarino (Giancarlo Giannini) receives most of her invective. A proud communist, he perceives Raffaella as the epitome of ugly elitism. One day, she rises late and demands that Gennarino take her to a swimming cove in a small dinghy. Predictably, they’re separated from the yacht, tossed about by a storm, and stranded on an island. Circumstances allow Gennarino to change his social status by demanding that Raffaella serve him. Her screechy resistance hardens his resolve, illustrating how repression foments rebellion, until he becomes as great a monster as his companion. He beats Raffaella, taunts her diminished position, and finally rapes her.

          All of this is as unpleasant to watch as it sounds, even though the cinematography is quite beautiful, as are the locations. Also keeping Swept Away basically tolerable are flashes of humor. Yet Swept Away is far too cruel to click as a battle-of-the-sexes farce. After all, both major characters are horrible people. This makes it nearly impossible to care what happens to them, thereby sapping energy from Wertmüller’s twisted attempt at a love story. Swept Away is interesting from a political perspective, not so much from a human perspective. Nonetheless, frequent Wertmüller leading man Giannini sells his outlandish role with charisma and intensity. Nearly three decades later, pop singer and occasional actress Madonna remade this movie with her then-husband, director Guy Ritchie. Even with Giannini’s son, Adriano, assuming his father’s old role, Swept Away (2002) bombed.

Swept Away: FUNKY

The Seduction of Mimi (1972)

          Bold, political, and satirical, the ’70s movies of Italian director Lina Wertmüller can be thrilling from an intellectual perspective, challenging the viewer with philosophical and socioeconomic ideas that are presented with overwhelming passion. When Wertmüller’s stuff clicks, watching her movies is like listening to an inspired orator hold forth on something crucially important. The flip side is that when Wertmüller’s stuff doesn’t click, a screaming headache is never far behind. Take, for example, The Seduction of Mimi, in which nearly every sentence and visual flourish is delivered with either an actual exclamation point or a metaphorical one. Combined with the repulsive behavior patterns of the film’s protagonist, Wertmüller’s histrionic presentation makes The Seduction of Mimi a chore to watch, even though the film is executed with the director’s usual imagination and skill.

          Wertmüller’s go-to leading man, Giancarlo Giannini, stars as Carmelo, a small-town laborer known colloquially by his nickname, “Mimi.” In what Wertmüller presumably envisioned as a major comic flourish, Mimi is asked to vote for a Mafia-backed candidate in a rigged election, but then votes for the candidate he actually wants—a radical Communist—because he was promised the ballots were secret. When the truth comes out, Mimi becomes a target for Mafia reprisal, so he skips town, leaving his wife behind. Relocating to a big city, Mimi falls for a radical activist and visits her day after day until she succumbs to his charms. They move in together and she becomes pregnant, but then Mimi gets word that he must return to his hometown and see his estranged wife. The gist, apparently, is to explore complex intersections of female empowerment, male identity, personal responsibility, and political idealism—because amid all of the political stuff, a major subplot emerges once Mimi discovers that his wife was unfaithful. Never mind the fact that he abandoned her, and never mind the fact that he started a family with another woman. The climax of the picture involves an enraged Mimi trying to murder his wife because of the “shame” she has brought upon him.

          Maybe it’s an Italian thing, and maybe it’s a political thing, but this plot element doesn’t translate well, because Mimi comes across as a Neanderthal with monstrous double standards. As to whether this unpleasant turn diminishes the validity of the film’s political elements, I plead ignorance. It could well be that Wertmüller threaded the narrative needle in some way I’m not sophisticated enough to perceive, forming a sly satire of one political ideology versus another through the prism of male/female friction. All I know is that while I was watching The Seduction of Mimi, I didn’t care that I felt like I was missing something because I wanted the characters to stop screaming at each other. Oh, well. In an unlikely turn of events, this picture was adapted for American audiences, becoming the underwhelming Richard Pryor comedy Which Way Is Up? (1977).

The Seduction of Mimi: FUNKY

A Night Full of Rain (1978)

          After achieving notoriety on the international-cinema circuit with pictures including Seven Beauties (1976), which resulted in her becoming the first woman nominated for an Oscar as Best Director, Lina Wertmüller made her first and last English-language feature, A Night Full of Rain. (Fitting her occasional proclivity for cumbersome monikers, the picture’s full title is actually The End of the World in Our Usual Bed on a Night Full of Rain.) Like much of Wertmüller’s work, the picture is overtly political, employing a romantic storyline and avant-garde flourishes to explore questions about whether people with different ideological beliefs can find interpersonal harmony.

          Wertmüller’s frequent leading man, Giancarlo Giannini, costars with Hollywood actress Candice Bergen. They portray spouses who represent opposing sides of the ’70s debate surrounding gender roles. Paolo (Giannini) is an Italian writer who lives off the largesse of relatives while trying to build a career, and Lizzy (Bergen), is his American-born wife. When the story begins, the couple have become estranged, so Wertmüller employs flashbacks—as well as commentary from the couple’s friends, who magically appear inside the couple’s apartment, like angels or ghosts—to describe the arc of Lizzy’s and Paolo’s courtship. The two met while Lizzy was traveling in Europe as a student. During a violent political demonstration, Lizzy intervened and was nearly mauled by a mob until Paolo rescued her. They subsequently embarked on a long and flirtatious argument, leading to a near-miss sexual encounter, before Lizzy returned to the U.S. Paolo followed her there and wooed her back to Italy, where they had a child together. Then tensions emanating from sociopolitical differences caused problems, because Lizzy is a liberal feminist hewing to the values of her materialistic upbringing, whereas Paolo is a chauvinistic communist.

          Wertmüller, who also wrote the picture, tackles heavy subjects passionately but clumsily, presenting stilted speeches instead of naturalistic dialogue, while also utilizing overwrought visual metaphors. For every sharp line that Wertmüller lands (“This house is just like Italy,” Bergen’s character complains, “It’s gorgeous and there’s no money to run it”), Wertmüller also drops a lead balloon (elsewhere in the picture, Bergen’s character asks, “Do you think about love as sentiment or eroticism?”). Furthermore, it’s not fun to watch Gianini incarnate a thug who mistreats his wife—in one ugly moment, Giannini’s character crows, “I rape you, but it will give you something exciting to tell your girlfriends in America!” Adding to the abrasive quality of the picture is an overly insistent jazz score by Roberto De Simone. On the plus side, Giuseppe Rotunno’s cinematography is luminous, and Wertmüller’s blending of economics and gender is provocative. As for the acting, it’s hit-and-miss, with Bergen straining to match the naturalism of her costar. Ultimately, A Night Full of Rain is more of an intellectual experience than a visceral one, so the real value of the picture is found in the discussions it inspires.

A Night Full of Rain: FUNKY

Which Way Is Up? (1977)

          The same year their far superior collaboration Greased Lightning was released, funnyman Richard Pryor and director Michael Schultz unveiled this peculiar project, a quasi-blaxploitation comedy that was adapted from an Italian art movie. While the source material, Lina Wertmüller’s 1972 film The Seduction of Mimi, blended left-leaning sociopolitical commentary into its satire, Which Way Is Up? features a middling combination of crude sex humor and shallow take-this-job-and-shove-it posturing. One element of the original movie, a poignant exploration of the challenges faced by a blue-collar man who’s trying to navigate a white-collar world, survives the translation more or less intact, but this worthy theme is surrounded by so much stupidity it loses much of its intended impact. And though a great deal of blame must fall on the shoddy screenplay, which is designed to showcase farcical setpieces that never achieve comedic liftoff, Pryor is a major culprit for the picture’s mediocrity, since he plays three roles and therefore dominates the movie from beginning to end.

          Pryor is best as the protagonist, Leroy Jones, a poor everyman swept up in absurd circumstances. Specifically, he’s a farm worker who inadvertently becomes a poster boy for unionizing efforts and gets exiled from his small town. Relocating to L.A. and subsequently mistaken for a labor-movement hero, Leroy starts a new life with beautiful activist Vanetta (Lonette McKee), even though he’s got a family back home. Eventually, Leroy returns to his small town for a middle-management job and tries to maintain two homes—keeping Vanetta and the child she had with Leroy secret from Leroy’s wife, Annie Mae (Margaret Avery). This balancing act works until Leroy discovers that a local preacher, Reverend Lenox Thomas (Pryor), is sleeping with Annie Mae. Despite himself being an adulterer, Leroy becomes enraged and upsets the fragile life he’s built for himself. Undercutting the promising aspects of this storyline, Schultz spends way too much time on insipid sequences like Annie Mae’s attempts to get Leroy sexually excited. (She tries everything from S&M gear to vibrators.) Similarly, Pryor’s foul-mouthed rants lose their shock value quickly, especially when he’s dressed up in old-age makeup to play Leroy’s salty father. Having said all that, Which Way Is Up? has a few small insights into the black experience, the lives of the working class, and the vicissitudes of the labor movement. Yet as a whole, the picture is as unsatisfying as its “comically” downbeat ending.

Which Way Is Up?: FUNKY