The portraits of women in Italian neorealist films, as early
as 1943, were notably secondary and inferior to that of the male role in these
films. Often times, the central point-of-view of the child tended to be the
focus, as their naïveté and ingénue took center stage in films, such as in the
“Naples” episode of Roberto Rossellini’s Paisa(1946) and even in Ermanni Olmi’s
Il Posto (1961), a film that arguably bridged the gap between neorealism and
modernism. On a larger scale, films in Italian cinema innately possessed a
patriarchal structure, centering on the emotions and needs of the male
protagonist. Women were severely underrepresented, or used to solely highlight
an aspect of the male protagonist’s character. As modernist films started to
transition into the spotlight of the Italian cinematic world, directors began
to further develop the role of the woman. When Federico Fellini’s La Dolce Vita
emerged in 1960, it was cause for much controversy and critique, on the terms
of regressing moralist and religious values, and more specifically, the
explicit sexuality that the film offers. La Dolce Vita was revolutionary for
its time, because it placed the female figure in the center of the spectator’s
and the male protagonist’s focus. This film was representative of the modernist
films that would follow it, for it created a sexualized context for women to be
perceived in as important figures in film. It portrayed the importance of women
through the centralization of love affairs, relationships, and the illustration
of the female body as an erotic image. This film is quite telling of the
characterization women would continue to have in future modernist films, and
the importance of creating a sexual context for women to be seen in. Films that
followedLa Dolce Vita, such as L’Avventura and Matrimonio all’Italiana would
also take women into a very fetishized scope. And it is through this context
that the role of women began to expand over time.
There are many theories about the representation of women in
these modernist films. In Laura Mulvey’s essay, “Visual Pleasure and Narrative
Cinema”, she discusses the juxtaposition of the male protagonist and the female
object of his affection, within the framework of a modernist narrative film.
“The determining male gaze projects its phantasy on to the female form which is
styled accordingly. In their traditional exhibitionist role women are
simultaneously looked at and displayed, with their appearance coded for strong
visual and erotic impact so that they can be said to connote to-be-looked-at-ness.
Woman displayed as sexual object is the leit-motif of erotic spectacle”(Mulvey,
11). The projection of the male’s fantasy and erotic inner-thoughts are placed
upon the woman in an effort to be materialized, and rationalized with throughout
the film. She represents the culmination of his fantasies; his voyeuristic
desires to look at her and watch her become seen as the physical representation
of her figure. “Going far beyond highlighting a woman’s to-be-looked-at-ness,
cinema builds the way she is to be looked at into the spectacle itself. Playing
on the tension between film as controlling the dimension of time (editing,
narrative) and film as controlling the dimension of space (changes in distance,
editing), cinematic codes create a gaze, a world, and an object, thereby
producing an illusion cut to the measure of desire”(Mulvey, 17). The
fetishization of the female figure is a practice seen quite explicitly in La
Dolce Vita and inL’Avventura, yet is depicted in very different cinematic ways.
La Dolce Vita chronicles the events of a journalist named
Marcello, who gets swept up in the spectacular atmosphere and nightlife that
Rome has to offer. While trying to keep an objective viewpoint as he records
the life and events of celebrities, he is unable to do so, and gets taken with
the luxurious quality of the nightlife in Rome. He acts on this by having
multiple affairs and pseudo-affairs with beautiful women, including Maddalena,
Sylvia, and his fiancée, Emma.
One of the most pivotal points of the film is when Marcello
encounters the beautiful and captivating Swedish actress, Sylvia, at the
Ciampino airport, while on assignment to report on her. The two spend the night
together in one of the most erotically charged sequences of the entire film.
Well-endowed, and curvaceously desirable, Sylvia saunters into the renowned
Trevi fountain, and starts to “bathe” in its water. Dressed in a revealing,
tight-fitted black dress, the camera focuses intently on her as she closes her
eyes, lifts her chin to the sky, and is taken with the environment around her.
This image is explicitly sexual for many reasons. The image of Sylvia’s long,
flowing hair, cascading down the nape of her neck onto her back; the fact that
she is being saturated by the water in this fountain, and her body being
exposed in very little clothing is all very appealing, not only to Marcello,
but to the spectator of this film, as well. It is a very obvious portrayal of a
bold archetype of sexuality. What makes this sequence a bit more cinematically
stunning is Fellini’s use of the gaze. The camera pans from the image of Sylvia
in the Trevi fountain, to Marcello sitting from afar, watching her, and it
alternates between these two filmic shots. The effect this gives is one that
Laura Mulvey discusses at great length, called scopophilia. It is the pleasure
that the protagonist, and as an extrapolation, the spectator gets from looking
and viewing. The camera shows Marcello looking at Sylvia as an object of his
desire; the spectator is able to sense his craving for her, as we watch him,
watching her.
What makes this sequence unique, and not a typical
scopophilia-scene is the shift of gender power.
Typically when referencing scopophilia, the man is at the forefront,
looking at the female of his affection, and objectifying her. He relays all of
his erotic and innate desires onto her, and he is in control of the scene; she
is no more than the materialization of his passion. Yet in this sequence, it is
Sylvia who is in control, even if only subtlety. Marcello is in awe of her
presence, and she is the one to call him over, and order him to come join her
in the fountain. Fellini does something quite revolutionary here, though
understated to the untrained eye. By giving Sylvia a voice, Fellini gives her more
purpose than just being an object to Marcello. She is certainly a sexual image,
symbolizing the “castration threat”, as Mulvey puts it, but she is also much
more than that. Sylvia functions to surprise Marcello. At this instant, the
role of the woman in this film, and for future modernist films is significantly
altered, for it gives women a quiet power, a voice amidst the strong men. All
of the sexual desires he has for her are cut short when the fountains are
switched off, and the climax of this scene is stopped at its prime moment of
excitement. The two are forced to sheepishly remove themselves from the
fountain, and this is a moment of clarity that hits Marcello strongly. He is brought back to reality in an instant,
with a tension so palpable and so real.
To clarify in Fellini’s own words, “More exactly La Dolce Vita is the
private and confidential confessions of a man who speaks of himself and his
aberration. It is as if a friend were
telling to other friends his confusion, his contradictions, and his deceptions,
trying to clarify for himself his own sentimental aridity” (Enzo, Federico
Fellini). This internal sense of intimacy between Marcello and Sylvia, and the
confusion that Marcello struggles with in this sequence is the vital epicenter
of this scene.
A distinctly different film than La Dolce Vita, L’Avventura
is still a story about finding pleasure, and chronicles the search for
self-satisfaction. However, the characters in Michelangelo Antonioni’s film are
filled with ennui, and are much more cloaked in despair than the livelier,
over-the-top characters in Fellini’s film. This sense of melancholy wasn’t
unusual, however, for early modernist films, but rather, a commonality. “The
overwhelming majority of these films’ stories were built up around some kind of
search…Either the character’s moving around seemed self-contained and aimless,
or it seemed motivated by a life situation in which the character has a
definable or indefinable feeling of discomfort or lack…”(Kovacs, 295). This
film is the perfect example of this aimless search Kovacs discusses. L’Avventura depicts the journey of three
friends, Claudia, Sandro and Anna, as they go sailing to explore a deserted
volcanic island in the Mediterranean. Anna goes missing just as the friends are
about to leave the island. Sandro (Anna’s boyfriend) and Claudia (Anna’s best
friend) go on a search for her, and along the way, get involved in a
complicated love affair with each other. Claudia is torn throughout the
entirety of the film, between her love for Sandro, and her loyalty to Anna.
This tension serves to remain active in the film, and characterizes Claudia’s
behavior. She acts over-emotional at times, and her mood is ever changing
between extreme poles of emotion. The
way Antonioni films her is truly reflective of her persona. On the exterior,
she is a very beautiful, very fashionable woman. Always clothed in chic, modern
dresses for this time; she is certainly a figure of beauty and sexual appeal.
Instead of emphasizing this eroticism however, Antonioni makes it uncomfortable
and uneasy. He chooses to film many innately seductive sequences using strange
camera angles and filming sequences with unusual filmic framing that
de-sexualize Claudia, and her tryst with Sandro. What would seem to be erotic is
transformed into discomfort.
One particular sequence that depicts this discomfort
strongly is when Claudia and Sandro are kissing in a rural, open field. Claudia is lying on the grass, and Sandro is
on top of her, as they kiss one another passionately. The way Antonioni films
this sequence creates an incredibly unusual image, one devoid of any true
eroticism. All that the spectator is able to see is the back of Sandro’s head,
moving back and forth to kiss the woman beneath him. Claudia’s figure is completely covered by
Sandro’s body, and only occasionally does the spectator see her face move back
and forth, to try and keep connected to him.
The sequence is one long shot, which emphasizes the length and longevity
of this particular scene, making it seem quite stagnant and monotonous, without
the presence of any filmic editing. The
sequence is also completely silent; the spectator isn’t privy to receive any
sound effects, or any other cinematic effects to enrich this scene, aside from
seeing this long shot of these two bodies kissing. And for most of the
sequence, only their backs and the backs of their heads are clearly shown, so
not many actual kisses are filmed and shown clearly to the spectator. Any eroticism that could be felt is not at
all captured in this sequence.
A second scene that creates great filmic tension is when
Claudia is waiting for Sandro, outside of his building. This sequence becomes
quite disturbing, and watching it is very uncomfortable. She is dressed in a
fitted polka-dot dress with a pearl necklace; she is dressed to look beautiful
and desirable. However, in the beginning
of the shot, Antonioni films her from behind, as she waits for Sandro, and
watches the building he is in. Antonioni
builds suspense here, and puts up a metaphorical wall between the action
happening and the spectator; there’s not a complete grasp of what is occurring
because we aren’t privy to her facial expressions. All that the spectator can
initially see her is body language as her back is being filmed. When she turns
to face camera, the effect is that the spectator is re-seeing Claudia; seeing
her anew, in a new environment. As the spectator re-sees her, she then
witnesses all of the men in the square, leering and staring at her. It makes the spectator feel as if they are in
Claudia’s position, and the uncomfortable tension arises yet again.
The way that Antonioni films Claudia, both alone and with
Sandro, says a great deal about his view of women, and more generally, shows an
archetype of the depiction of women in these types of melodramatic modernist
films. This film was released a year
after La Dolce Vita, and has similar themes as a whole to that film. However, the way that woman are perceived and
are represented are far different. Antonioni plays with the uncomfortable
intimacy of women, and their relations, instead of emphasizing the natural
eroticism that women possess. Claudia,
being the prominent representation of this type of woman is always shot from
either very unflattering, or very awkward camera angles. There’s a great sense throughout the film
that Claudia is filled with ennui; she is constantly in conflict with herself
over her love for Sandro, and her devotion to her missing friend. Because of
this, she remains a very mysterious character, and Antonioni keeps this
mystique alive by his filmic choices. Highlighting the backside of her figure,
using long shots to build suspense, and keeping her face often hidden while in
a passionate embrace with Sandro, makes her a very passive character. She is
the essence of an uneasy, enigmatic woman, and though she could be perceived as
sexual, Antonioni doesn’t allow the spectator to view her in this way, for she
is too emotionally unstable and submissive. Unlike Fellini, Antonioni
characterizes the role of the woman as an untouchable, almost unreadable human
being, brought out only by the role of the male protagonist. When discussing
this film, Antonioni stated, “The tragedy in L’Avventura stems directly from an
erotic impulse of this type – unhappy, miserable, futile. To be critically
aware of the vulgarity and the futility of such an overwhelming erotic impulse,
as is the case with the protagonist in L’Avventura, is not enough or serves no
purpose. And here we witness the crumbling of a myth, which proclaims it is
enough for us to know, to be critically conscious of ourselves, to analyze
ourselves in all our complexities and in every facet of our
personality”(Antonioni, Cannes Statement).
The depiction of Claudia, in reference to Sandro, is precisely this futile,
untouchable reflexive tragedy that Sandro suffers, and that Claudia
illustrates.
It is important to reference different genres of modernist
films, so that the portrayal of women can be analyzed from many different
perspectives. However, keeping within a certain historical period of time is
just as essential. The analysis of women in films that were made during a five
-year period allows for a closer, more accurate hypothesis of certain
filmmakers, and how they chose to represent women in their films. Taking a look
at an entirely different film than the spectacle that is La Dolce Vita, and the
melodrama that is L’Avventura, Matrimonio all’Italiana by Vittorio De Sica is a
comedic interpretation of the trials and tribulations of a relationship, between
a successful businessman, Domenico, and his mistress, Filumena. (Played by
Marcello Mastroianni and Sophia Loren, respectively).
Being a man of great power and esteem, Domenico is depicted
as a ladies man. Charming and handsome,
he certainly finds great success in this department, especially with a young
Filumena. Through the course of the film, she begins to prostitute herself,
while simultaneously keeping a relationship with Domenico. Over time, Filumena
secretly bears three children, as she witnesses Domenico plan to marry a young
employee. To stop this marriage from happening, Filumena tricks Domenico into
marrying her by feigning death. When he annuls the marriage, she then tempts
him with knowledge of her three children, yet doesn’t tell him which are his.
Confused and under the belief that they are all his, Domenico marries Filumena
again, this time, willingly.
This film is incredibly complex, not only in its plot, but
through its use of exaggeration and comedy. Being a comedic film, Matrimonio
all’Italiana allows for a greater use of unrestrained passion and agency for
the characters to explore. What is
really wonderful and unique about this film, especially for its time, is the
vitality and strength displayed by Loren’s character, Filumena. This film was made in 1964, only three years
after L’Avventura, but the portrayal of the woman is completely different.
Filumena is a prostitute, a profession that is inherently controversial. Since this film was made after the Merlin Law
was passed, De Sica takes an even greater risk here by making her a
prostitute. The Merlin Law outlawed the
practice of state-controlled prostitution in Italy; up until this time,
prostitution was legal. This cinematic decision by De Sica shows a sense of
defiance to societal norms and regulations, and illustrates the courage that
Filumena instinctually has a character, and more importantly, as a woman. De Sica chose to highlight the figure and
role of the woman as being strong and defiant, and full of vitality.
The scene that truly illustrates this feminine agency and
defiance is the sequence between Domenico and Filumena, discussing the
paternity of her three children. Domenico gets increasingly more and more
frustrated with Filumena as she withholds information that would allow him to
know which children are biologically his.
What’s very distinctive about this scene is how equally enraged Filumena
gets. The spectator sees her yell passionately at Domenico, and as he walks
away, the camera follows her, as she chases after him. In a very physical
confrontation, the two struggle a bit, and he shoves her down to the ground.
She falls with great dramatic effect, as the camera cuts quickly to her
falling. Yet, she doesn’t succumb to his
“masculinity”. She continues to fight
with him, even causing him a deep gash on the side of his face. The aspect of this scene that is essential to
take note of is the physicality that Filumena illustrates. She is in no way taking a passive approach,
and respecting “ladylike” manners, but rather, fights with a physicality and
vocalization that is on par with Domenico.
This was a revolutionary choice for DeSica to make, because he gives
Filumena a sense of urgency and an aggression that was mostly unheard of for
women to portray during this time. Though she is a very beautiful and desirable
woman on the exterior, she also represents strength and passion; De Sica
breathed life into this female character. About creating his films, and his
creation process, De Sica stated, “ My films are the faithful transcription in
pictures of a life, usually a simple one, of an atmosphere, and of characters
whom I can feel growing and unfolding within me, in whom I believe
instinctively from the very first moment and in whose date I bear a
part”(Cardullo, 167). This quote is a great representation of the authenticity
that is depicted in Matrimonio all’Italiana.
Analyzing the role of women in Italian modernist films is
important, because it gives a clear image of how the woman was perceived during
this time in society, as well. There was always a need for a sexual context in
which the woman could be placed into, and from there, individual directors
could explore their own interpretations of what the woman should
illustrate. Women had the task to not
only depict sexuality and desire for the male protagonist, but over time, they
also portrayed power, passion and agency, and their roles in film truly evolved
in a most spectacular way.
Sources
Mulvey, Laura. “Visual Pleasure and Narrative Cinema.”
Screen. (1975): Print.
Peri, Enzo. “Federico Fellini: An Interview.” Film
Quarterly. 1961: Print.
Kovacs, Andras. Screening Modernism: European Art Cinema,
1950-1980. Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2007. Print.
Antonioni, Michelangelo. “L’Avventura Statement at Cannes.”
(1960): Print.
Cardullo, Bert. Vittorio De Sica: Director, Actor,
Screenwrite
Source: collegefilmandmediastudies.com
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