Tinto Brass was in the world but out of this world. And always in his own way

Tinto Brass was born in Milan, but lived in Venice. What he appreciated about the city was that it remained detached from the rest of the world. At least until it was detached from the rest of the world. When it became a sought-after destination and ‘as chaotic as any other city’, he preferred to move elsewhere, to Isola Farnese, on the outskirts of Rome in the heart of Veio Park. Isola Farnese is a charming spot, close to everything and yet far removed from it all, perfectly suited to those who say, ‘I like being out of the world, because I too am out of the world, at least in my own way,’ as he told this writer some time ago, on a day when he was looking for water to drink after hours of cycling under the summer sun. In that little corner of the world apart from the rest, he passed away on Wednesday 4 November at the age of 93.

And Tinto Brass really was always a world apart, in his own way, even whilst having his feet, hands and body firmly in the world. He had a keen eye and ‘a touch of the voyeur’, as he put it, but without any sleaziness; sincere insofar as a film director can be sincere – that is to say, ‘almost never’.

He had been drawn to Tinto Brass’s films by a sense of affinity and voyeurism. He loved the cinema, but had never really thought of working in it. He was, however, curious to know what went on behind the scenes of films. He went to Paris to learn French, and there he began working as an archivist at Henri Langlois’s Cinémathèque française in exchange for board and lodging – nothing more: “I could afford it; having a father who was a lawyer was a great advantage”. He found a way to learn the craft of film editing and began to dream of making it his profession. Because “the editor is detached from the world; I just have to get inside the director’s head to understand what he wants”. Through his close association with directors and his ability to interpret their thoughts, he was approached by Roberto Rossellini to edit several documentaries in the series L’India vista da Rossellini. The director found him likeable – a bit odd, but likeable. He recommended him to Alberto Cavalcanti, who, instead of letting him do the editing, made him an assistant director. It wasn’t what he wanted, “but it was money. I was meant to be a lawyer and ended up as an editor. Compared to that, being an assistant director was a walk in the park’. It was less of a walk in the park to do what he’d set out to do. It took him time – about ten years of ‘serious’ films. What he wanted to do was challenge the prudes, ‘because there was nothing more irritating in Italy at the time – and not just then – than the prudes’. He made the shift towards eroticism for two reasons: he believed that cinema was joie de vivre and he wanted to finally highlight “what cinema had hidden for far too long: the arse”. Feminists hated him, and yet “I, too, have always had little patience for machismo and exhibitionism fuelled by too much testosterone”.

His eroticism stemmed from his love of art, he said. It was his grandfather’s fault: it was he who renamed him Tinto, in honour of Tintoretto. That name erased his own: only on the register was he Giovanni Brass. His eroticism was a choice of total and radical freedom. A libertarian, but one with good judgement, aware that there is no personal freedom without respect for the freedom of others. And just one commandment: ‘Do not abuse your power!’ For him, eroticism was liberation and freedom. It became his election slogan when he stood as a candidate for the Bonino-Pannella List. Out of this world, in his own way, yet very much part of the world, because wanting freedom ‘means fighting for everyone’s rights’. Tinto Brass was a character in his own right. Out of this world and yet perfectly at home in it. Even in his old age in Isola Farnese, because “if there’s anything truly important, sooner or later it reaches Isola Farnese too. Like hydrogeological instability. It reached Isola Farnese. The ground gave way and Isola Farnese really did become an island. Like Venice, but without the smell of ‘frescino’.”