In his famously bawdy collection of 100 tales, The Decameron, humanist author Giovanni Boccaccio cast a critical
eye on 14th century Italian culture, mocking religious hypocrisy in the wake of
the Black Plague, detailing the differences between newly defined social
classes, and attempting to change the country's Church-stultified attitudes
towards sex by portraying love as complicated and the source of much folly, but
entirely natural—that is, not shameful or sin-ridden.
In
1962, some six-hundred years later, four of Italy's greatest filmmakers -Mario Monicelli, Federico Fellini, Luchino
Visconti, and Vittorio de Sica -
would borrow the frame-story device of The Decameron and take a similarly askew
glance at the pretensions and sexual standards of their own time in Boccaccio '70, a four-part anthology
film that's sexy and strange, elegant and comic, sometimes all at once. Made
after Italy's post-war prosperity began to kick in, but before the cultural
revolution of the mid-to-late 1960s, the film documents a society in
transition, with widening generational / gender gaps and morality - especially
sexual morality - in a state of flux. The film itself seems caught between two
times; neither prudish nor especially explicit, it might best be described as
coy, batting its eyelashes and beckoning to the audience with a come-hither
gaze. It's damn near irresistible. No one did sexy, nonchalant cool like the Italian
directors of the 1960s.
In Act I, Renzo e Luciana, director
Mario Monicelli introduces us to Renzo, an errand boy (Germano Gilioli), and Luciana, a bookkeeper (the gorgeous Marisa Solinas) who are deeply,
secretly in love. Luciana's been feeling nauseated, and suspects she may be
pregnant, so the two get wedded in a makeshift, spur-of-the-moment ceremony
that's met with disapproval by her stern parents. Since they don't make enough
on their meager salaries to buy a place of their own, Renzo and Luciana have to
move into her family's cramped apartment, which leaves them no privacy on their
wedding night - or any other night, for that matter. The sexual tension is
palpable. All they want to do is do it, but the walls are thin, dad is playing
poker in the next room with his buddies, and someone is blaring a boxing match
on television. The mood isn’t exactly right. Making matters worse, they have to
keep their nuptials a secret from their manager, a lecher who enforces the
company policy forbidding female employees from getting married, partially
because there was no maternity leave in those days. At its core, the film is
about pressure - the pressure to have (or not have) premarital sex, the
pressure to get married if you are pregnant, and the financial pressure of
being young and immaturely married - and the sexually stymied couple is
portrayed beautifully by Gilioli and Solinas as sexually frustrated and not in
control of their own lives.
In
Act II, Fellini's Le tentazioni del dottor Antonio (The
temptation of doctor Antonio), the false virtue under fire is prudery - specifically
the fiery, religious brand of indignation towards sex that's typically the
result of repression and guilt. Peppino
de Filippo stars as Antonio Mazzuolo, a self-righteous citizen who takes it
upon himself to crusade for public decency. He's a pious tyrant, basically, the
kind of guy who goes down to Lover's Lane to shine bright lights on the couples
making out in their cars. What really gets his goat, though, is when an
advertising agency erects a billboard in the vacant lot across from his home,
with the image of a sultry, large-chested sex-bomb blond Anita Ekberg, looking like a precursor to Anna-Nicole Smith - reclining
bare-legged on a couch and holding a frosty glass of milk. Antonio calls it an offense to the most sacred aspect of
maternity – breastfeeding - and makes it his mission to get the sign taken
down. His quixotically sanctimonious obsession leads gradually to all-out
insanity, as Antonio imagines the woman coming down out of the billboard and parading
around town, a curvaceous giantess intent on exposing her lewdness to the
innocent and pure of mind. It's Fellini's take on Attack of the 50 Foot Woman, and it's every bit as bizarre as you'd
imagine, with double entendre imagery galore - see the fire hose spraying the
breasts on the billboard - and a great deal of comedy at the intersection of
the supposedly sacred and so-called profane.
Act III, Luchino
Visconti's contribution, Il lavoro (The
Job), is the film's strongest, and at the same time weakest entry. Strongest
because it's a rather serious, dialogue-heavy parlor drama that best stands
alone if viewed separately, and weakest because it doesn't fit as well with the
others, which are essentially sex farces. Like several of Visconti's films, it's
about the unsatisfied lives of the rich and fabulously bored. In this case, it
follows the crumbling relationship of an aristocratic couple who married to
join her father’s money with his title. The husband, Ottavio (Tomas Milian), a count, has just become
embroiled in a Silvio Berlusconi-esque sex scandal - he was caught frolicking
with high-class prostitutes - and he's being lambasted daily in the press. This
has obviously upset his wife Pupe, played by the supremely elegant Romy Schneider, who has retreated to
her bedroom, comforted by a litter of kittens. As the story unfolds, we
discover that Pupe has interviewed the madam and several of the prostitutes
Ottavio is accused of having sex with. We also find out that she is considering
separating from him, and has made a large wager with her father, who is sure
she will not be able to find a job and support herself. She spends much of the story
trying to decide if she will go out or stay in, getting dressed, getting undressed,
taking a bath, asking Ottavio to help her dry off, getting dressed again, in a
series of fancy outfits. On one level her actions reflect her boredom and indecision, but
on another level they are designed to tease her wayward husband. Schneider's
performance aches with sad beauty, and as always, Visconti is a master of
control and perception, finding the cracks in the gilded veneer of a moneyed
life. By the end of the story Pupe has awakened in Ottavio a burning desire to
take her, and what she does with this is the most poignant and strangely
satisfying, moment in the entire film.
Act IV, Vittorio de Sica's sweet and funny La riffa (The Raffle) - is perhaps most faithful to the bawdy tone
of The Decameron. Appropriately, it stars that bombshell embodiment of female
sex, Sophia Loren, who looks
positively fertile here, hips sashaying to a kettledrum beat and breasts
spilling out of her cinched and fitted top. She plays Zoe, the unobtainable
object of desire at a small-town carnival, where she runs a shooting gallery,
scrapping together just enough money each month to get by. When her family gets
slammed with ten year's worth of back taxes they can't afford to pay, they
hatch a sexual scheme, selling raffle tickets for the ultimate prize - one
night alone with Zoe. The various lurkers and male chauvinists who haunt the
carnival are obviously enthused, and have no troubled parting with their money
for a shot at, shall we say, sowing their oats in that fallow field. But of
course, nothing goes according to plan, especially not after Zoe falls for an
itinerant cowboy who saves her from an on-the-loose bull. The wayward bovine is
naturally attracted to her red shirt, which she quickly removes, revealing a
slinky black bustier that can barely contain her, and, FYI, this isn't the last
time she takes off her top. When the film debuted in New York, the always
starchy New York Times critic Bosley Crowther had this to say about La riffa: The display of Miss Loren's figure is excessive to the point of tedium,
and the portrayals of her various grunting suitors are more callow than
comical. In the spirit of Boccaccio
'70, I'll just observe that it seems like old Bosley just needed to get
laid.
