Films that are too long – you have to know when to cut: in art as in life

In the end, the 83rd Venice Biennale Film Festival (President Buttafuoco insists the full title be used), an edition preceded and marked by controversy over there being just one woman in the competition, was won by that very same woman. The only country to fare worse than the men was Italy: despite having no fewer than five films in the competition, the nation walked away empty-handed from the main competition. Nanni Moretti is like Rino Gattuso. Now Malagò needs to turn his attention to Italian cinema as well.

What will remain of this Venice Film Festival (apologies, President Buttafuoco), apart from the awards for those who won them? What is the state of cinema, in general? In my view, films are too long: 90 minutes is the right length; 120 minutes is a possible exception to be assessed on a case-by-case basis. From the 121st minute onwards, there’s a problem (with the screenplay, the direction, and certainly the editing), and the film shouldn’t be granted a censorship certificate.

One must know how to cut things short, to be concise: in art as in life. I myself, in my own small way (I am ‘short’ even physically – I am not quite of medium height), cut the pieces I submit to this newspaper down as much as possible: so as not to bore you and because I know you do not have time. It so happened, therefore, that whilst I’ve been here as a ‘special guest’ at the Venice Film Festival, a few Venetian scenes have been left out of my daily reports from the Lido. I’ll leave them here for you, just as they might lie on the floor of an editing room back when film was still being cut on a moviola.

Tickets to attend screenings at the Venice Film Festival are named: you log in to the website using your accreditation and book your place. If, for any reason, you can no longer attend a scheduled screening, you must cancel your booking: if you miss three screenings, you’ll be banned from the site, and if someone from the Biennale bumps into you on the street, they’ll give you a good thrashing. Furthermore, tickets are non-transferable: both I and a girl know this all too well. One evening, I tell her that I won’t be going to the screening I’d booked for the following day because I have to go to a party – as readers of this newspaper know, for me on the Lido, parties are a duty and films a pleasure, and duty comes before pleasure if only because of the bills. The young woman would love to see the very film I will not be attending, but for which she has not managed to secure a seat. We look at each other, and we are both thinking the same thing: it is not right, but let us try. I give her my ticket. I immediately feel guilty toward the Biennale: I spend the night in a restless sleep, dreaming of Barbera crying and Buttafuoco coming to look for me with a pitchfork, along with the entire Russian pavilion. The following day, at the appointed hour (that is, just before the screening), I stare at my phone waiting for news from the girl, who texts me, ‘I’m queuing to get in’; I’ve got cramps from the stress, my nerves give way and I cry out to the heavens, ‘Eloi, Eloi, lama sabachthani?’. Six minutes later, the girl phones me: she has been turned away. The usher who scanned her ticket looked at her and said, ‘You don’t look like Saverio to me.’ Not only is the ticket named, but the ushers are also scrupulous. What a perfectly organised event the Biennale is! Any attempt to circumvent the system is swiftly detected. I immediately cancel my ticket; once I am back on the right side of history, and my heart rate has calmed down, I reflect on the fact that ‘woke’ is well and truly over. Had a steward dared to tell a young woman two years ago that she did not look like a man, the reaction would have been severe: a public scandal, a social-media firestorm, the mass resignation of the entire Biennale, and, from the following year onwards, the Venice Biennale might have been replaced by the Cannes Film Festival. Now, however, it is the end of fluidity and identity politics: a girl is no longer free to feel like Saverio Raimondo; she cannot expect to be called Saverio Raimondo if she is not one; and, above all, neither she nor I have seen this film. I will suggest we go and see it together when it comes out in the cinemas.

Isola Edipo is “a festival that brings together cinema, art and music; a meeting place at the heart of the Venice Film Festival”; but it is also the spot on the Lido where young people, hipsters and creatives gather. There are food trucks, beer and sunsets. It’s the Pigneto of the Venice Film Festival. Here, on one of the first days, the ship of Venezia – the city’s football team, promoted to Serie A this year – docked: a black galleon with the word ‘SERENISSIMA’ on its hull, looking vaguely menacing. Once moored, the footballers disembarked, accompanied by their respective girlfriends—none of them appeared to be single: the men in full kit as if they were about to take to the pitch, the women dressed as if for a beauty contest. Their destination is the red carpet, but first someone has the idea—given that Edipo is such a young, informal venue—to pull out a football. The reaction is Pavlovian, and the eleven players begin dribbling as if they were in the penalty area. One player gets carried away—or rather, his foot gets carried away—and chips the ball toward a still life arrangement of several Spritz Cynars, set up specifically there on a small table for the photos—Cynar is the team’s sponsor. The result: the glasses all fly through the air, and their contents pour down on one of the Miss contestants; who, not content with already being completely soaked and having her make-up ruined, also starts crying. Help arrives promptly, with make-up wipes and a make-up bag. Perhaps the red-carpet appearance will be saved, but the relationship won’t.

The final party of the 83rd Venice Film Festival is for the film “Ride”. Among those attending (both the film and the party) are Margherita Vicario, Ensi, Levante, Dade, Kaze, Kyshan Wilson and Johnny Marsiglia; some of them even take to the stage to sing and play music. The event carries a distinctively Milanese atmosphere, akin to a night at Plastic. At this party, one detail I have also observed at a couple of other events is the VIP area – a cordoned-off section of the venue, an ‘impassable barrier’, housing the celebrities – none of whom, without detracting from the illustrious names mentioned above, are George Clooney or Nicole Kidman. At first, this tacky and daft gimmick makes you – an invited guest but not a VIP – feel like an intruder, even if you haven’t gatecrashed; it’s along the lines of ‘I did you a favour by getting you on the guest list, but actually I don’t want you here and I’m going to make you feel like a loser’. Then, however, you realise that inside the VIP area – which is tiny, by the way – there’s an open bar exactly the same as the one outside; the dance floor is outside; the toilets are outside; life is outside. At a party, it’s the VIP area that’s the loser: they tell you it’s a perk, but it’s a ghetto; they pass it off as a privilege, but it’s apartheid.

These days, at parties, I wander about like Gianni De Michelis in his heyday: I drink, dance and meet people. A young man in a T-shirt, a bit tipsy like everyone else, stops me and says:

“I see you at every party!!!” (Apologies for the multiple exclamation marks, but the music was loud. Editor’s note)

“Yes, I write about this in Il Foglio!!!”

“Il Foglio???” he exclaimed in horror. “Il Foglio is the only newspaper to have given the film about Gaza one star!!!”

“Well, aren’t you pleased? I mean, if they’d spoken well of it, it would have caught you off guard and made you suspicious; you’d have had your doubts about the film; whereas speaking ill of it makes you proud of your convictions; doesn’t it?”

He pauses for a moment, then laughs: “You’re right!” And we embrace.

Approximately fifteen minutes later, he returns to me (indicating that he has not engaged with anyone else, or does not wish me to, or both). He launches into a lengthy diatribe about how the Left should resume armed action. I retort that I do not believe there is any shortage of violence in the world, especially at present. He concedes the point but argues that the Left is not responsible for it. I counter that a bullet, whether it comes from the right or the left, is still a bullet; and generally speaking, I’d be against it. He launches into a defence of 11 September and cites Luigi Magione as a role model; I point out the contradiction of idolising someone who killed with a gun yet then being against rearmament. He then tells me, “I need to go for a wee,” and we embrace once more. Immediately afterward, I depart from the gathering and proceed to report him to the Digos.