Bicycle Thieves (no 13) *****

 

by Allan Fish

(Italy 1948 90m) DVD1/2

Aka. Ladri di Biciclette/The Bicycle Thief

My kingdom for a bike!

p  Umberto Scarparelli  d  Vittorio de Sica  w  Cesare Zavattini, Oreste Biancoli, Vittorio de Sica, Adolfo Franci, Gherardo Gherardi, Gerardo Guerreri, Suso Cecchi d’Amico  story  Cesare Zavattini  novel  Luigi Bartolini  ph  Carlo Montuori  ed  Eraldo de Roma  m  Alessandro Cicognini  art  Antonio Traverso

Lamberto Maggiorani (Antonio Ricci), Enzo Staiola (Bruno Ricci), Lianella Carell (Maria Ricci), Gino Saltamarenda (Bajocco), Elena Altieri (the lady), Vittorio Antonucci (the thief), Fausto Guerzani (amateur actor),

Okay, it might not be Shakespeare, but it’s no less powerful for it.  De Sica’s seminal neo-realist film is probably the most universally praised Italian film ever made, a spare, simple, but devastating odyssey into one man’s misfortune that cannot help but both move and haunt the viewer long after the credits roll. 

            Antonio Ricci has been out of work for some time.  So long that he has had to start selling his goods off to pawn shops so he and his young wife and child can eat.  However, he doesn’t realise when he pawns his bike that he would need it a few days later, when he is offered a council job as bill poster.  With a family allowance and overtime it seems his dream has come true.  He sells the family linen to buy his bike back but, on the very first day of the job, his conveyance is stolen by an opportunistic thief.  Failing to capture him, he reports the theft to the police, who couldn’t care less.  Reluctantly, he sets off with his small son to look for it, but unable to find it he is eventually driven to contemplate stealing another bike.

            As with the later Umberto D, Thieves concerns a noble, honest man driven beneath his dignity to consider acts he would once have decried as the antithesis of acceptable behaviour.  In the case of Carlo Battisti in the later film, the idea of begging, here it is the contemplation of thieving.  Driven to it by circumstance he is of course captured, not having the cunning, guile and coolness required to be a successful thief.  When he is finally released into the crowds, it’s a freedom of anonymity.  He’s back amongst the throng of unemployed, waiting for handouts on the steps of the Employment Office.  Chances are it will be a long wait. 

            Looking back from the safe distance of over half a century some might wonder what all the fuss was about, but they shouldn’t.  Thieves is as timeless today as it was then, though perhaps now the two-wheeled conveyance would be replaced by one with four wheels.  Through its simplistic and direct storytelling and naturalistic performances, it contrives to build up its story with the power of Shakespeare, Hugo or Sophocles.  A true modern tragedy of relevance to the entire world, and with the odd drop of the hat to Hollywood for good measure (recall the loving way Maggiorani pastes the poster of Rita Hayworth to the billboard, almost caressing her as he straightens out the creases).  And Hollywood took note, rewarding the film with a special Oscar (this was before the days of the Foreign Film Award) and even Altman’s The Player has a murder take place outside an academy movie house showing de Sica’s film to hungry cineastes. 

            What is perhaps most remarkable about de Sica’s film, however, is the poetic script (full of true observations not only about life but also about luck – particularly ill luck), especially when one considers that it was written by seven pairs of hands.  Of course it’s de Sica and Zavattini’s soul that is really the heart of the film, but one cannot forget the truly awe-inspiring work from his actors, particularly Maggiorani and Staiola as the pitiful father and son.  How can one forget Staiola clutching his father’s hand throughout their epic, fruitless search, or trying to take an innocent pee but being interrupted?  And if Montuori’s photography may not quite be as rich as that of his contemporary Otello Martelli, it does possess a certain sombre poetry that seems entirely appropriate.  All in all, a love letter to Rome, but one written in poison ink.

Advertisements