Life of a Rebel: Porsa Madonna Marco Bellocchio is one of those directors who must carefully study the initial and final shots. If in the preamble he gives the key to understanding the story, then in the notorious open finale he leaves the viewer in deep brooding, much like a psychoanalyst when the session time has expired. Perhaps anticipating the next “meeting on the couch”, Bellocchio remains faithful to the topics chosen more than half a century ago: the mental deviations of the tortured soul (what critics dubbed the sonorous word “delirium”), the role of family relations in the formation of these anomalies (wherewithout Freud), sublimation in art (the Renaissance breath of Italy). A modernist, a student of Visconti and a friend of Pasolini, a master of outrage, an atheist, a socialist - he blew up the radical cinema of the 60s with political pamphlets, and in the late 80s he foamed the champagne of the Cannes festivals with scandalous eroticism in the entourage of the coven of witches. The new century becomes for the maestro a time of summing up, melancholy at times withering, in which, however, no-no-yes and he will show a cunning fig not to anyone - to the Lord God.
When news from the Vatican disrupts the measured life of recognized artist Ernesto, the case for the canonization of his mother is already in full swing. A martyr’s death and a miracle of healing are two trump cards on the hands of the vast Picchafuoco family, but some details need to be settled, or, more simply, invented. The critical gaze of the author, who examines his son’s relationship with his mother post factum, mercilessly opens up the hypocritical lining of Catholic education. Devout Martha raised different children, but for each of them was stupid, misunderstanding, stranger. The sad result: Ernesto became an atheist, Ettore an unprincipled conformist, Egidio a mad mother-murderer, a furious splash of saliva and blasphemy. Perhaps, only in the process of absurd canonization, the main character is able to assess the influence of the mother on his fate, rethink life principles, answer unchildish questions of the inquiring son. The depth of Ernesto’s experiences is hidden in a stingy facial expression and significant views, but the constant curve of a grin becomes a marker of a degenerate family, and then of society as a whole, initiating the underlying question: Am I a mirror?
Awareness of the inertia of one’s life – the flimsy bridge between one’s own stubborn atheism and the compromising morality of others – leads straight to a woman, young and beautiful. An angelic gaze (just like an ex-wife’s) weakens the mind, and so ready to give up without a fight. Freedom from the nausea of existence, the game of immortality - all here, in the young brilliance of the next first love, which does not even hide the treacherous role of Ophelia. The hero throws himself into the pool of passion, as if accepting the challenge of fate, because to burn down is better than to smolder aimlessly. While the beauty quotes in Italian “only this is not enough”, Bellocchio paints the autumn of the male soul, rapidly mixing female figures on the burning palette of Freudian theories: the mother-wife-lover as an eternal hit on the only goal, as the disappearance in the cave of the universal ancestor. Love is hate, life is death, porca is Madonna.
The poem by Arseny Tarkovsky leads into the mirror of cinema. There is nostalgia, Italy through the eyes of an immigrant, and here? In the Vatican, in a minute's proximity to paradise, where the namesakes of Dante's infernal heroes coexist on a patch of world history - lounge and religious chorals, soutans and decolleted dresses, antique busts and crosses, and above them - Mea Culpa pontiff. At high-society receptions on the sidelines, monarchists and clergy conduct political conversations, not much different from each other. An aristocrat with the habits of Nosferatu. A double cardinal with a subtle grin of permissiveness. A thousand and one reasons to believe in God: for insurance, for eternity (this is also a bank investment), for family. The name Picciafuoco needs a paternal figure that gives a sense of self-esteem, prestige, self-identification - a guaranteed catharsis of social life. Fake memory easily dives into the conjuncture of the moment: books of false memoirs are written, a cardboard biopic is removed, a huge, like a billboard, portrait with a gentle smile on his lips is hung... But strangely, here is the holy mother, and where is the father? The negative reception creates a remarkable multilayered story that could bring the plot to the level of tragedy in the spirit of “The Century Has Shattered...” without Ernesto being the same cog in the system. The Church is the overwhelming mother of Italy who drags her castrated sons to the bottom. Attempting to confront it is stunningly simple: accept your weakness. And someone else's.
Once, in the film “The Sentence”, the director deciphered the amazing look of the baby on the arms of Madonna Litt as the look of da Vinci himself – a genius who can no longer be limited by the mother’s breast. Is the artist’s son named Leonardo? The film becomes a very personal statement of the author about maturity and finding true freedom of spirit. The camera nature of the image, the slowdown of filming in moments of intense reflection by Ernesto, sharp déjà vu under the squeal of a broken string emphasize the depth of classical drama. Maximally filling the limited space of the frame, abandoning panoramic views in favor of focused close-ups, Bellocchio thereby cleanses the hero of all platitudes in the same way as he cleanses the sacred figures of his creations. No longer hiding his mocking face under layers of palimpsest, like Giotto-Pasolini, the director overthrows “monuments of ugliness” and asserts his own creed: love, fatherhood, blue flag with golden stars. The Vatican will curse, but it doesn't matter. Let go of the past. Exhale. The session is over.