I’ve assumed in the past that Antonioni’s films, like Bergman’s, typified the idea of a cerebral but sexy European art cinema in the 1960s. My feelings about Antonioni were much like my feelings about Bergman. I admired the performances of the actors, the mise en scène and cinematography, each of which I recognise as influenced by the directors but also by their collaborators. My problems tended to be with what they perceived as the purpose of their films. I found both directors more interesting when they steered closer to genre forms and less when they appeared enigmatic. Of course, they could be enigmatic and offer some form of social commentary or insight into human emotions and social/political discourse without focusing on genre, but I suppose I think there is some form of discipline that genre provokes. I’ve since seen Bergman’s early films and adjusted my position slightly. L’eclisse is the third film in what some critics see as a trilogy by Antonioni, following L’avventura (1960) and La notte (1961). I don’t think I’ve seen all of L’avventura and although I did see La notte in the early 1970s, I can remember little of it apart from the casting of Marcello Mastroianni and Jeanne Moreau, two of my favourite actors from the 1960s onwards. MUBI earlier offered me The Lady Without Camellias(La signora senza camelie, Italy 1953) which I wrote about at some length including an exploration of Antonioni’s early career. I rather liked that film so I decided to give L’eclisse a go. It’s on MUBI in UK for the next three weeks.
I do find watching films on streaming difficult as I’m too easily distracted by what else is happening in our ‘locked down’ house. On this occasion, however, I found that watching the film in four parts actually paid off. There is little narrative ‘drive’ but a great deal happening with the performances, the mise en scène and the camerawork – and occasionally the music. It’s a long film (125 minutes) and watching it in roughly 30 minute bursts helped me focus. The setting is Rome, mainly two important specific Roman locations – a new housing development for the wealthy named EUR and the borsa or stock exchange. EUR has an informative page on Wikipedia which explains that it was the district to the South-West of Rome designed to be the site of Mussolini’s planned World’s Fair of 1942 that would have celebrated 20 years of Fascist culture. In the event, the area under state and local authority control was eventually completed in time for the Rome Olympics of 1960 and has subsequently become a business, sporting and government office district as well as an architectural attraction in which competing classical and modernist styles present a kind of dialogue. The central character Vittoria (Monica Vitti) is a young translator with an apartment in an EUR block and at the beginning of the narrative she is in the process of breaking up her relationship with Riccardo (Francisco Rabal) who also lives in the spacious EUR district. The break-up is a protracted scene in the early morning. Later Vittoria will visit the borsa to see her mother, an investor. Vittoria also meets Piero (Alain Delon), a young stockbroker (a ‘whizz kid’ as my friend the money dealer might describe him) who has her mother as a client. The rest of the narrative deals with the question of whether Vittoria and Piero can get together – and stay together – for any length of time.
L’eclisse is famous as an example of the difficulty of communication in ‘modern’ bourgeois society. That’s ‘modern’ for 1961 when the film was made. I was 13 when the film was first released and at that age not really aware of what ‘modernity’ meant. But I was aware of the world and what struck me most in the opening sequence in which Vittoria and Riccardo don’t communicate about their split is something I obviously dredged from memory. I was entranced by Monica Vitti and in particular her clothes. A shift dress with a boat neckline, bare legs and open-toed slingback shoes with a low slim heel – why do I know these terms? (I’m almost oblivious to fashion now.) I must be remembering the girls I knew a few years later in 1963-4 when such styles were percolating through to the north of England. But it’s not so much the dress but the way that Ms Vitti moves within it. That was the point of the shift rather than the ‘sheath’ dress, I think. It allowed a woman to walk elegantly and fluidly with her hips swaying within the dress. I don’t find Ms Vitti ‘beautiful’ but her face is attractive and interesting and she exudes erotic power in this film even though there is little physical in her relationships except when Delon later kisses her neck. Francisco Rabal is a powerful Spanish actor cast in a role which constrains him here and the filming captures that frustration.
The contrast between the open spaces of EUR and the crowded stock exchange is perfectly captured by cinematographer Gianni Di Venanzo. At this time he was working for Fellini and Rosi as well as Antonioni but he died in 1966 aged only 45 when Italian cinema lost a very talented filmmaker. There are so many scenes in the film that I could happily watch again and again partly for the mise en scène and what seems to be both a commentary on what’s happening between Vittoria and Piero and a more general commentary on a moment in Italian society, partly for the fluid camerawork and partly for the performances. Just one example – when Piero’s attempt to kiss Vittoria passionately ends with her dress ripping at the shoulder (the same shoulder her mother is touching in the shot above), Vittoria heads off into the other rooms in Piero’s parents’ home. She goes into what was presumably Piero’s room as a boy and finds his novelty striptease pen. She goes into his parents’ room and opens the window to look out as two small portraits of grandparents(?) seem to watch her. She looks down to the street below and sees two nuns, tiny figures coming down the street. The camera switches to exterior shots of buildings from different angles and then a reverse long shot to capture Vittoria looking out of the window. back inside the room, Vittoria looks out and down to see two men in an outdoor restaurant, a soldier on a street corner and then varuious people coming out of a building that might be a civic building – perhaps they have been registering a birth or a marriage or a death? Vittoria is an observer of ‘ordinary life’ in Rome.
Will Vittoria and Piero ever consummate their affair? At one point she tells him she loves him not all or far too much. It sounds like a line from a song (and I haven’t really thought about the music in the film yet) but it might be perceptive on her part. Alain Delon is very beautiful, arguably more beautiful than Monica Vitti, but he is younger than her and in this film more adolescent. 1961-2 saw him at an early peak in his career at only 26. After his first major hit as the Tom Ripley character in René Clair’s Plein soleil (Purple Noon) in 1960 he’d worked for Visconti on Rocco and his Brothers (1961) and would do so again in 1963 as Tancredi in The Leopard. Although he had some Italian heritage and presumably spoke some Italian he seems to have been dubbed in this film (which I think was the norm for many actors in Italian cinema). Piero here seems to represent the materialistic young upper class man in Rome and in a way I think he is just a toy for Vittoria but perhaps that’s just me? There are so many aspects to this film. I haven’t even mentioned the racist woman who is a settler in Kenya and Vittoria’s use of blackface. Is she being satirical? The brief sequence featuring a plane trip to Verona seems to mark this period of Roman filmmaking, reminding me of Fellini’s La dolce vita (1960). There are many commentaries on the film and it has received the full Criterion treatment including an essay by John Rosenbaum.
The film famously ends with a seven minute sequence in which Vittoria and Piero don’t feature. Baffled distributors in the US are said to have cut this sequence because they couldn’t see what it adds. It’s almost like a self-contained poetic documentary. It shows scenes of EUR and how ‘ordinary people’ interact with the environment, ending with the street lighting that illuminates the corner where Vittoria and Piero meet. Many of the shots feature characters we have seen before or objects that have featured like the nurse and her charge and the sprinkler. The ‘new’ element is a distinct sense of disturbance and foreboding (especially during this coronavirus lockdown). The disturbance is achieved partly by the camera slowly tracking, partly by the soundtrack of musical notes, chords and ‘runs’ and sound effects and partly by the reminder (via a newspaper held by a bus passenger) that this is the time of ‘The Arms Race’ and Khrushchev engaged in a ‘game’ with the Pentagon. The Cuban Missile Crisis was 6 months away when the film premièred in Milan . In addition there are still frames, large close-ups of trees, and pavements and ‘natural’ sounds (wind, water). There is a possible joke – is that Vittoria, oh, no it’s not. I find this sequence fascinating and it is almost like an avant-garde short – but meticulously shot and edited with the resources avant-garde filmmakers can only dream about. It’s a fitting end to a film I began with some trepidation but found in the end that I enjoyed it a great deal.
What is the status of Michelangelo Antonioni today? In the 1960s he was in some ways the archetypal figure of the European art director. His three English language films, Blow-Up (1966), Zabriskie Point (1975) and The Passenger (1975) then transformed him into a new kind of celebrity artist. For older cinéphiles his great works might be the trilogy of ‘alienation’ films from the early 1960s, L’avventura (1960), La notta (1961) and L’éclisse (1962). But what about the 1950s? Antonioni was born in 1912, making him roughly a contemporary of Bergman (b. 1918) and Kurosawa (b. 1910), but unlike those two prolific filmmakers who were active in their film industries by the early 1940s, Antonioni’s progress is more hesitant. He co-writes A Pilot Returns with Rossellini in 1942 and directs eight documentary shorts between 1947 and 1950 before making his first feature, Cronaca di un amore (A Chronicle of Love) in 1950. Penelope Houston, editor of Sight and Sound from 1956, made the observation that unlike the Cahiers du Cinema writers who became filmmakers in La nouvelle vague or the Free Cinema directors in the UK who formed part of the British New Wave, Antonioni had no clear beginning, no celebrated first film and no clear ‘film movement’ identity. She quotes an interview in 1959 for Positif in which Antonioni explains that in 1943 he was directing a documentary about fishermen on the Po River – the same location used by Visconti for Ossessione, often quoted as the first neo-realist film in 1942. “Today, perhaps I would be cited in a discussion about the birth of neo-realism”, Antonioni suggests. (In Cinema: A Critical Dictionary Vol 1: Aldrich to King, Richard Roud (ed) 1980, Martin, Secker and Warburg.)
What then of La signora senza camelie?, one of three films that Antonioni directed or part-directed in 1953. Neo-realism was still a recognisable influence in Italy in the early 1950s and it certainly informs some of Enzo Serafin’s cinematography in the film. (Serafin worked continuously from 1942 and in 1954 shot Rossellini’s Viaggio in Italia.) The narrative is familiar. Clara (Lucia Bosè) is a shop girl from Milan, an outstanding beauty who has been snapped up by a pair of film producers. They have put her into a mundane exploitation film and when the narrative of La signora senza camelie begins she is waiting in the street outside a cinema where her debut is being previewed in a public screening. These opening shots seem to promise distinctive location shooting. What follows certainly has neo-realist moments, especially because of the cinematography, but it is primarily a melodrama and in generic terms, a film about the film ‘business’ rather than about filmmaking per se – though there are some direct comments about performance. There are ‘pre-echoes’ of certain well-known films. It’s difficult not to think of Godard’s 1963 Le mépris (1963) in which an American producer wants to put Brigitte Bardot into a ‘classical drama’. In La signora senza camelie, Clara marries one of her producers, Gianni (Andrea Checchi) who installs her in a beautifully furnished by soul-less apartment and then casts her in a version of Joan of Arc. She goes to the Venice Film Festival and is humiliated when the film fails. In the meantime she has linked up with another hopeless lover, a diplomat who is not prepared to risk being seen with her publicly. She would be better off with the experienced actor Lodi played by Frenchman Alain Cuny, who in one scene teaches her how to make love for the camera. The film’s title presumably refers to The Lady of the Camellias or simply ‘Camille‘, a novel and play by Alexandre Dumas, an opera, La traviata, by Verdi and then a film made famous by Greta Garbo. Poor Clara has none of the mystique of Camille (though possibly all of the beauty).
La signora senza camelie is very much a film about mise en scène – the apartments, the beautiful clothes – and the cinematography. I’m sure there is music too – Clara sings in her début, but I didn’t really notice the music. Cinecitta, the great studio complex in Rome plays a role in the closing stages of the narrative, as do the paparazzi of Rome, ever-present in the studio canteen. Earlier, the two producers (the other one is much more pragmatic) first find a beautiful house belonging to the aristocracy and then fail to make use of its possibilities. Overall, I found the film beautiful to watch (and that includes the luscious Lucia Bosè, who I realise was in the Spanish film The Death of a Cyclist a couple of years later – she married a Spanish bullfighter). The narrative is in one sense quite cynical and in another an exposé of the celebrity culture of Italian cinema and what eventually came to be known as ‘Hollywood on the Tiber’. Fellini’s films make much more sense when you’ve seen this film and perhaps Visconti’s Bellissima (1951) the more ‘neo-realist’ film that traces the story of a mother’s attempt to get her child into the film world. I feel I appreciate Antonioni’s skill more than I did before, but he still feels a bit like a ‘cold fish’.
Like all Italian films of the period the dialogue is dubbed. I was surprised that this is very badly done at one point.
I watched the film on MUBI. It is currently available on a Masters of Cinema dual format DVD/Blu-ray. In the clip below (no English subs) we see Clara and Lodi playing the love scene in her second film. The director is the man in charge, though both the producers are also on set. What are those extras, seen through the window, doing outside?
This paper was submitted by Giuseppe Raudino (see contact details below)
Michelangelo Antonioni’s Blow-Up (UK 1966) is a deep reflection about reality and meaning. What is real? Why is that real? And what does it mean? These are the questions that the viewer is obliged to ask himself/herself throughout the film.
The opening scene establishes the interpretative challenge the audience is repeatedly asked to accept: a group of mime artistes – masked merrymakers – are acting strangely in London, riding an overcrowded Land Rover and suddenly spreading themselves in the city streets, among the traffic, with no apparent reason or goal. What are they actually doing? What are their visionary gestures trying to accomplish? They seem so unreal within such a familiar context . . .
The film tells the story of Thomas (David Hemmings), a photographer who encounters a series of people, most of the time in quite odd circumstances. As a photographer he is meticulous, especially when he has to arrange the set and give orders to his models. Nothing he wants to depict in his photographs is left to chance, there is no space for the random in his shots: the photographer’s will requires accurate composition of the images even if that entails grabbing and stretching a model’s leg or engaging in an ‘intimate’ photo session with Veruschka von Lehndorff, with whom Thomas is even ready to mock-up a sexual encounter to make her reveal her sensuality to the utmost.
This concept of a full control over the product (and the related message conveyed by it) comes to a crisis when Thomas, after having blown up a picture of a couple in a park, accidentally discovers that there is a man hidden in the background, beyond a hedge. Further enlargements will show that the man is holding a gun. This third person could have never been spotted in a normal-sized photo, where his presence would have remained just a meaningless stain, but now he is there, unexpected, vigorously included in the photograph despite the photographer’s intention.
The new presence in the picture suddenly changes the original meaning of the picture itself. This implies that an (unnoticed) element may affect the reality and the context it refers to. In Thomas’ case, the armed man adds a dark connotation to the entire scene, bringing the idea of mystery, murder and drama to what was simply a romantic rendezvous in a park.
Thomas is puzzled by what he found out and feels the need to investigate more. He is overwhelmed: probably, for the first time, the reality in his pictures is different from the reality he had in mind, that reality he wanted to construct.
The film is actually disseminated with elements in strong opposition to their contexts, and this clearly is a narrative means by which Antonioni invites the viewer to rethink the significance of something in relation of its environment and vice versa. Let’s consider, for instance, the episode of the propeller.
Thomas goes to an antiquarian shop, which is full of statues, boxes, paintings and a lot of rare objects. What does Thomas finally choose? A wooden propeller, which is a piece of something else (i.e. an element of an aeroplane). The propeller will be later placed in Thomas’ studio, totally out of its original context, far away from aerodromes, hangars and so on, but it will certainly bring a new meaning to its new environment.
Another example of out-of-the-context elements occurs in the scene at the Ricky Tick, the famous club in which the Yardbirds are playing live. After having experienced some problems with the amplifier, the guitarist lets his inner aggressiveness come out and smashes his instrument, throwing some pieces to the public. As Thomas picks up the guitar neck, he realises that the crowd is ready to fight in order to obtain that precious relic. Then he runs away, chased by the Yardbirds’ fans, but when he gets rid of them and finds himself outside the club, he throws away the guitar neck. Some pedestrians have a glance at this strange object laying on the sidewalk but eventually do not show any interest for it. All at once, the so much contended memento of a great rock band loses its value as soon as it is placed out of its original context.
Something similar happens when Thomas pays a visit to his neighbour Bill, an abstract painter. The latter shows a canvas onto which there are painted some rectangular and trapezoidal objects. Out of that (apparent) confusion, Bill points out an area, saying that it is a leg. Considered in absolute terms, that shape is just a rectangle, but within the painting it clearly becomes a leg, and it would be as such even without the interpretative endorsement of the author, because the context and the opposition with the other elements would make it a leg anyway. The parallel between Bill’s painting and Thomas’ photograph is more than evident: a shape and a stain are meaningless until a closer look (or an enlargement) unveils a new truth, urging further interpretations.
Finally – yet the examples might be more numerous – there is another scene in which the interpretation of what is supposed to be real and true is questioned. At a certain point, Thomas again meets Veruschka. There is a party going on and Thomas is surprised to see her, since she had told him that by that time she should have been in Paris. Once asked, Veruschka claims under the effect of some drugs that she is in Paris. Is the model’s imagination less real than her factual location? The psychedelic dimension and culture presented in the film seems to suggest a clear alternative way for reading the signs that surround every character and build up each situation. Towards the end of the film, Thomas is somehow aware of this. What is commonly called “reality” isn’t something objective; on the contrary, it’s something subject to vary due to any little element, even an overlooked element. Perhaps it is with these thoughts that Thomas abandons himself on a bed after having smoked marijuana.
The final scene is strongly connected to the opening and shows the brand new attitude of Thomas about reality, meaning and interpretation. The mime artistes encountered in the initial frames of the film are now playing (or pretending to play?) a tennis match, but with no rackets and no balls.
Thomas is an improvised spectator who observes the match outside the court. Unexpectedly, the players throw the invisible ball beyond the fence and then stare interrogative at Thomas. Great suspense. Thomas makes some steps, stoops, picks up the ball and with an ample movement returns it to the visionary players. Then he resumes following the match, turning his head right and left, like everybody in the audience of a “normal” tennis match would do.
Thomas has learned a lesson. Fetching the ball means that he is now conscious about the fact that the reality goes beyond any straightforward appearance and a supposedly meaningless situation may become meaningful thanks to some elements, even overlooked, even imagined or dreamed. And the mime artistes don’t dream of anything but a better world.
The final section of the film on YouTube (but you’ll have to watch it there):
Giuseppe Raudino is lecturer at the Hanze University Groningen (the Netherlands) where he teaches Media Theory and Media Skills. He graduated in Communication Sciences from the University of Siena with a dissertation in Semiotics about Umberto Eco. His homepage is http://raudino.webs.com/