There is one thing I did like in this film: the complete freedom it takes with the representation of time. One sequence that starts in the 00s can end in the 70s, or the other way round, or it may span several temporal plans. It deliberately plays with our concept of filmic present time: it's hard to tell what is flashback, what is "now" and what is flash-forward. Given it represents the inner life of a single individual, and his family and friends, it seems a courageous and appropriate stance to take.
But... this is a turgid, empty drama, with a body count that is truly massive for a film that doesn't deal with war or terrorism. It's like a long episode of Eastenders, but in Italy and with a lot of dosh. I know that it is extremely faithful to the original novel; if I didn't know that, I would guess that the author made a film about the life story of a very unlucky rich man, then realised she had made a crushing bore of a film, so instead put all the shots in a randomiser, and gave it a good shake in the hope of coming up with something better. Which it does... somewhat.
In the end, what is left? I would have to gesticulate and hum and moan my disappointment, it's really quite hard to put it into words. Even my beloved Moretti can't salvage his fairly pointless character. Why Italian cinema seems to revel in giving us stories so geared towards triggering random emotions, without even a nod of acknowledgment to the brain of the unfortunate viewer?
But... this is a turgid, empty drama, with a body count that is truly massive for a film that doesn't deal with war or terrorism. It's like a long episode of Eastenders, but in Italy and with a lot of dosh. I know that it is extremely faithful to the original novel; if I didn't know that, I would guess that the author made a film about the life story of a very unlucky rich man, then realised she had made a crushing bore of a film, so instead put all the shots in a randomiser, and gave it a good shake in the hope of coming up with something better. Which it does... somewhat.
In the end, what is left? I would have to gesticulate and hum and moan my disappointment, it's really quite hard to put it into words. Even my beloved Moretti can't salvage his fairly pointless character. Why Italian cinema seems to revel in giving us stories so geared towards triggering random emotions, without even a nod of acknowledgment to the brain of the unfortunate viewer?