By Christian Viveros-Fauné
By Alanna Schubach
By Alan Scherstuhl
By Stephanie Zacharek
By Stephanie Zacharek
By Aaron Hills
By Melissa Anderson
By Alan Scherstuhl
The most influential movement in film history consisted of about 20 movies produced between 1944 and 1952. Italian neorealism was the original new wave. The inspiration for Jean-Luc Godard and John Cassavetes, Satyajit Ray and Ousmane Sembene, André Bazin and cinema verité, neorealism was understood as a double renaissanceboth the medium's post-World War II rebirth and a means for representing human experience outside the conventions of the Hollywood entertainment film.
Roberto Rossellini's Open City came first. This dramatization of Italian partisans was planned under Nazi occupation and went into production only weeks after Rome's liberation in May 1944. Rossellini shot mainly on the street, using whatever 35mm short-ends he could scrounge. Such pragmatism matched the film's urgent qualitymany early viewers thought they were watching a newsreel. After an American GI purchased the rights for $13,000, Open City opened in February 1946 in New York and ran for two years; its reception at the first Cannes Film Festival, in May 1946, was scarcely less enthusiastic.
Open City created the neorealist paradigmlocation shoots using available light, long takes, and few close-ups; postsynchronized vernacular dialogue; working-class protagonists played by nonactors (especially children); and open-ended narratives. But it was The Bicycle Thief (1948), directed by the Fascist-era matinee idol Vittorio De Sica from a script by veteran screenwriter Cesare Zavattini, that parlayed that paradigm into what was surely the most universally praised movie produced anywhere on planet earth during the first decade after World War II.
At the Museum of Modern Art
The Bicycle Thief, which opens Friday at Film Forum in a rich, if somewhat dark, new 35mm print, was the latest manifestation of a recurring impulsethe desire to wrest a narrative movie from the flux of daily life. Zavattini had expressed the desire to make a film that would do no more than follow a man through the city for 90 minutes, and, in some ways, The Bicycle Thief is that film. Bazin, who would be neorealism's key celebrant, praised The Bicycle Thief's premise as "truly insignificant... A workman spends a whole day looking in vain in the streets of Rome for the bicycle someone has stolen from him."
If The Bicycle Thief understood neorealism as a style, Bazin appreciated it as "pure cinema No more actors, no more story, no more sets the perfect aesthetic illusion of reality." In fact, De Sica created a neorealist superspectacle. Six writers worked on the script; at one point, the project was even pitched to Hollywood producer David O. Selznick, who proposed Cary Grant to play Ricci, the unemployed protagonist given a job putting up posters. De Sica countered by requesting Henry Fonda, a star with a marked resemblance to the eventual lead, steelworker Lamberto Maggiorani.
Although the three leads were all nonactors, The Bicycle Thief's modest $133,000 budget was far larger than those of previous neorealist films, including De Sica's own Shoeshine. De Sica used many more locations and extras40 market vendors hired for a single sceneand even effects (fire hoses employed to simulate rain-soaked streets). The production was deliberate. The crowds were rehearsed and the camera moves choreographed. Editing took two months.
Scarcely a story found in the street, The Bicycle Thief is an allegory at once timeless and topical. (Among other things, it reflects the battle for the lucrative Italian movie market. The first poster the luckless Ricci puts up is for the Rita Hayworth vehicle Gilda. There were 54 movies made in Italy in 1948 and 10 times as many imported from the U.S.) Italian unemployment was at 22 percent, but Ricci, who has not worked in two years, is also a version of the urban everyman. As a type, he had inhabited the movies since the dawn of the 20th century.
Ricci is a member of the crowd, a walker in the city. He's one step up the social ladder from Chaplin's Little Tramp in that he has a wife and a child. Throughout, De Sica's mise-en-scène emphasizes the urban mass (waiting for jobs and streetcars) and its mass-produced objectsthe piles of pawned linens, the rows of bicycles. Translated correctly from the Italian, the title should really be the more provocatively totalizing Bicycle Thieves. The city is alternately empty and teeming. Although shot in an authentic environment, The Bicycle Thief is no less stylized in its way than the other European masterpiece of 1948, Jean Cocteau's Orpheus. There are few establishing shots. Unlike Rossellini's, De Sica's Rome is a baffling, decentered labyrinth. The stolen bicycle is swallowed up by the city itself. People disappear to reappear within the urban flux.
Where the optimistic Open City celebrated a potential alliance between Communists and Catholics, The Bicycle Thief parodies both party and church as unable to help the humiliated Ricci. Indeed, the hero's experience of these institutions, as well as the police, borders on the Kafkaesque. There is no justice. Ricci's life is ruled by a catch-22: he needs a bicycle to get the job that will enable him to buy a bicycle. Not for nothing is the bicycle brand-named Fides ("Faith") or the innocent vision of Ricci's seven-year-old son Bruno (one of the greatest kids in the history of cinema) increasingly privileged.
Although not a comedy, The Bicycle Thief was inevitably compared to Chaplin in its content, its structure, its pathos, and its universality. (The mournful music and circular narrative predict the postneorealist mannerism of Federico Fellini.) The Bicycle Thief looks back at the nickelodeon and forward to the European art film. De Sica's masterpiece was not so much part of a new wave as the crest of an old onethe epitome of movies as a popular modernism.
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