Giuseppe Tornatore is the master of his art, and I’m not just talking about film. He’s more than a filmmaker; the man is a surgeon. He is capable of slicing apart every last shred of delicate cardiac tissue before carefully stitching it back together, only he does so leaving enough space for one to fill it back up with more love than it was capable of holding before. This is Tornatore and this is Malèna.
When one watches Malèna unfold for the first time, it looks deceivingly like any other coming-of-age tale about a pre-pubescent boy and the exploration of his own body. In my first viewing of the film, it brought to mind the likes of Summer of ’42 or Y tu Mamá También. I anticipated the forbidden love scene, followed by the gracious, tearful farewell—the kind of struggle usually shown in these kinds of films as necessary to becoming a man. But it never happens.
The year is 1941 and in the town of Castelcuto, the people are at the mercy of Il Duce’s dictatorship. At the center of the story is Renato Amoroso (Giuseppe Sulfaro) a 12 ½ year old with a heavy heart and an active imagination. He knows nothing of what it means to care for a thirty-something woman, though this is precisely his intention when he first sets eyes on Malèna, the demure army wife. Like most voyeuristic endeavors, the viewer becomes caught up in watching Malèna in the unique way in which Renato watches her: as both a sexual being and a compassionate woman. We are privy to the boy’s plentitude of dreams about what he would do if he could be near Malèna; oddly enough almost none of them actually include doing the deed. He wants to kiss her and save her from the pervy men-about-town in the style of his favorite film heroes, a dimension of his character that helps to remind us of his age throughout the film.
In one of the opening scenes we see Renato, the owner of a brand-new, multinational-built bicycle, trying to fit in with the neighborhood gang. It is here that he catches his first glimpse of Malèna (Monica Bellucci) as she strides down the street with such precision and tact. The other boys yell out indecencies—“what a wonderful ass!”—but Renato innocently wonders aloud, “what is her name?”
The mysterious beauty is not only the leading cover story for the teenage boys in this Sicilian village, but also for the babushka-wearing housewives who think that Malèna is nothing more than a conniving hussy out to get their men. As if there is an appealing selection at hand. Malèna’s husband has gone off to war and the only man left in her life is her aging father. As many war movies unfortunately go, word of her husband’s death reaches Malèna and before the reality of her widowhood even sets in, her father is killed in a bombing of the village. Having no where else to turn to, as the women of Castelcuto have made it painfully clear that they will not be aiding her, Malèna acts pragmatically, using her own body as a commodity for survival. Belligerently displeased with the monster that they themselves have created, the townswomen go ballistic and serve Malèna with a public beating in the middle of the piazza. This is classic Tornatore—things have to hit rock bottom before they can get any better. Malèna has turned into the worst version of herself and Renato is witness to it all. He has peered at her through the cracks of her house and followed her up the stairs to her father’s apartment. What he sees is no longer the beautiful butterfly that he had wished to admire and protect, but a broken woman, neglected by the very people that should have been helping her in this trying time.
In a cinematic turn of events, Malèna leaves town right before her amputated husband walks back into the village looking for his wife, finding only gypsies in his home and shock in the faces of all who cross his path. Renato, appearing more mature now than any adult we have seen thus far, writes Nino Scordia (Gaetano Aronica) about where he can find his wife and about how she was the boy’s one true love, although he confesses that it is lucky for both of them that he never had her romantically.
Renato only sees Malèna once more a couple years later at the town’s market in a meeting that has all the feel of a “the one that got away” reunion. He gives her his blessing, “Buona fortuna, Signora Malèna,” and with that she is gone.
Ennio Morricone provides the compelling soundtrack that any fan of Tornatore’s repertoire would be well familiarized with. The high-pitched violins play as if the orchestra is bowing our very own heart strings. The tone is so deep and melancholic at times, and fits superbly with the burning desires of each character—for Malèna it is survival and for Renato it is Malèna. The story of Malèna is one of passion and sensitivity. Renato, like Toto of Cinema Paradiso and Nineteen-Hundred of The Legend of 1900, feels the whole world through his eyes, right down to his heart. He is captivated by the moving pictures and the timeless woman before him. Tornatore recognizes this sensationalism that the art of film offers to the viewer, and he plays on it in the most upfront kind of way, using the cinema itself as the narrative catalyst (as he does in most of his films). He sees that people want to experience something when they watch a movie and that they want to feel this romance in everyday life. In the bonus features of the DVD, one of the actors remarks that Tornatore writes about the desires of people and that his characters “are forced to imagine what isn’t possible in real life…big passion is impossible to express.” Well it may be impossible, but Malèna is evidence that the biggest passion comes in the smallest packages: it is often the innocence of a child that reminds us to never stop dreaming of what could be.
When one watches Malèna unfold for the first time, it looks deceivingly like any other coming-of-age tale about a pre-pubescent boy and the exploration of his own body. In my first viewing of the film, it brought to mind the likes of Summer of ’42 or Y tu Mamá También. I anticipated the forbidden love scene, followed by the gracious, tearful farewell—the kind of struggle usually shown in these kinds of films as necessary to becoming a man. But it never happens.
The year is 1941 and in the town of Castelcuto, the people are at the mercy of Il Duce’s dictatorship. At the center of the story is Renato Amoroso (Giuseppe Sulfaro) a 12 ½ year old with a heavy heart and an active imagination. He knows nothing of what it means to care for a thirty-something woman, though this is precisely his intention when he first sets eyes on Malèna, the demure army wife. Like most voyeuristic endeavors, the viewer becomes caught up in watching Malèna in the unique way in which Renato watches her: as both a sexual being and a compassionate woman. We are privy to the boy’s plentitude of dreams about what he would do if he could be near Malèna; oddly enough almost none of them actually include doing the deed. He wants to kiss her and save her from the pervy men-about-town in the style of his favorite film heroes, a dimension of his character that helps to remind us of his age throughout the film.
In one of the opening scenes we see Renato, the owner of a brand-new, multinational-built bicycle, trying to fit in with the neighborhood gang. It is here that he catches his first glimpse of Malèna (Monica Bellucci) as she strides down the street with such precision and tact. The other boys yell out indecencies—“what a wonderful ass!”—but Renato innocently wonders aloud, “what is her name?”
The mysterious beauty is not only the leading cover story for the teenage boys in this Sicilian village, but also for the babushka-wearing housewives who think that Malèna is nothing more than a conniving hussy out to get their men. As if there is an appealing selection at hand. Malèna’s husband has gone off to war and the only man left in her life is her aging father. As many war movies unfortunately go, word of her husband’s death reaches Malèna and before the reality of her widowhood even sets in, her father is killed in a bombing of the village. Having no where else to turn to, as the women of Castelcuto have made it painfully clear that they will not be aiding her, Malèna acts pragmatically, using her own body as a commodity for survival. Belligerently displeased with the monster that they themselves have created, the townswomen go ballistic and serve Malèna with a public beating in the middle of the piazza. This is classic Tornatore—things have to hit rock bottom before they can get any better. Malèna has turned into the worst version of herself and Renato is witness to it all. He has peered at her through the cracks of her house and followed her up the stairs to her father’s apartment. What he sees is no longer the beautiful butterfly that he had wished to admire and protect, but a broken woman, neglected by the very people that should have been helping her in this trying time.In a cinematic turn of events, Malèna leaves town right before her amputated husband walks back into the village looking for his wife, finding only gypsies in his home and shock in the faces of all who cross his path. Renato, appearing more mature now than any adult we have seen thus far, writes Nino Scordia (Gaetano Aronica) about where he can find his wife and about how she was the boy’s one true love, although he confesses that it is lucky for both of them that he never had her romantically.
Renato only sees Malèna once more a couple years later at the town’s market in a meeting that has all the feel of a “the one that got away” reunion. He gives her his blessing, “Buona fortuna, Signora Malèna,” and with that she is gone.
Ennio Morricone provides the compelling soundtrack that any fan of Tornatore’s repertoire would be well familiarized with. The high-pitched violins play as if the orchestra is bowing our very own heart strings. The tone is so deep and melancholic at times, and fits superbly with the burning desires of each character—for Malèna it is survival and for Renato it is Malèna. The story of Malèna is one of passion and sensitivity. Renato, like Toto of Cinema Paradiso and Nineteen-Hundred of The Legend of 1900, feels the whole world through his eyes, right down to his heart. He is captivated by the moving pictures and the timeless woman before him. Tornatore recognizes this sensationalism that the art of film offers to the viewer, and he plays on it in the most upfront kind of way, using the cinema itself as the narrative catalyst (as he does in most of his films). He sees that people want to experience something when they watch a movie and that they want to feel this romance in everyday life. In the bonus features of the DVD, one of the actors remarks that Tornatore writes about the desires of people and that his characters “are forced to imagine what isn’t possible in real life…big passion is impossible to express.” Well it may be impossible, but Malèna is evidence that the biggest passion comes in the smallest packages: it is often the innocence of a child that reminds us to never stop dreaming of what could be.
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