Giuseppe Pedersoli: “My father, Bud Spencer, was a master of joy”

He passed away ten years ago, and Saturday 31 October would have been his birthday. Celebrating his last birthday, he said: “When the Almighty calls me, I want to go and see what the hell’s going on, because if nothing’s happening, I’ll get proper angry: ‘Did you make me live to be eighty-six, eighty-seven just for this?’ But I’m sure something will happen…”. That almost childlike faith in life – which made his life extraordinary – extended even to death for Carlo Pedersoli, alias Bud Spencer: a life story the polar opposite of that recounted in Balzac’s La peau de chagrin. It wasn’t any unbridled ambition that made him the first Italian to swim the 100-metre freestyle in under a minute; he won a gold medal at the Mediterranean Games and took part in two Olympic Games; he unwittingly became a cinema legend loved all over the world; he worked as a chemist (without actually being one) in South America; he wrote songs for Nico Fidenco and Ornella Vanoni. He was a ship’s captain and a pilot purely for the pleasure of it. A statue has been erected in his honour in Budapest.

Giuseppe, the eldest son, associates his memories with more joy than melancholy after presenting the second series of the TV series “Piedone – Uno sbirro a Napoli”, for which he is executive producer, at Lucca Comics.

In fact, it is. A birthday present for Bud Spencer.

He had no ambitions to become an actor, even though his father-in-law was the producer Peppino Amato. I was told that his grandfather used to complain: “Carlo Ponti has Loren, Dino De Laurentiis has Mangano, only I don’t have a star in the family”. Had he lived three more years, his wish would have been granted. It was Giuseppe Colizzi who asked my father, because of his physique, to act in a western. It was 1967: "Dio perdona… io no!" starring Mario Girotti, alias Terence Hill, who at the last minute replaced the actor originally cast in that role, who had broken his foot before filming began. That is how their legend was born.

He played himself. Whilst Girotti was very meticulous, he relied on spontaneity, which is quite different from superficiality. The third time he repeated a scene, he would say ‘that’s enough’ because he knew he couldn’t do it any better.

Simple films and the power of a beaming smile. That big, burly man who used to dish out a good thrashing would immediately strike up an extraordinary rapport even with children. He created an instant connection.

He was more of a rascal than we were. With Mum, I’d reason things through; with him, it was an emotional bond. He didn’t force his views on us, but led by example.

Never. When I was six or seven, he took me for a trial with Novella Calligaris. She said I had potential, but that I’d have to go to the swimming pool in the mornings before school and again in the afternoons. Dad replied: “Are we mad?”

He cared more about sporting records because he said that success in cinema depends on the audience and many other factors, whereas winning a race or breaking a record is the result of challenging oneself. He was not afraid of failure because sport had also taught him how to lose with dignity: he attached great importance to that word.

I initially took issue with it, but then I realised he was right. When faced with serious problems and great suffering, one cannot become upset if someone cuts them off at a junction or over some everyday annoyance.

Music and hearty meals. He regretted not being able to play an instrument well; he regarded Lucio Dalla and Pino Daniele as two great poets: ‘Quando’ was perhaps his favourite song. In recent years he had to watch what he ate, but he had a curious relationship with his weight, much like the older generations of Neapolitans.

He did not appear to be overly concerned about carrying a few extra kilos, and even when he reached 165, he remained in good physical condition; yet if he lost two or three, he would express concern: ‘Could it be that I’m unwell?’. As a sportsman, he had consumed large quantities of food and did not cut back when he stopped.

We have even located the songs he dedicated to her when he was young. She had the ability to understand him, and it was not easy. One day, when I was little, two men knocked on the door: ‘Are you Carlo’s wife? He told us to tell you that he’s been shipwrecked but will be back as soon as he sorts things out.’ On another occasion, he simply said, “I won’t be back for lunch,” without mentioning that he was off to fly across the Atlantic.

“A high-calibre amateur”. He never took himself too seriously, but lived life to the full. In Naples during the war, an explosion destroyed the family business, so they emigrated to Brazil for a while. He settled in very well, even when he lived in other South American countries. With an open mind and a sense of curiosity.

A sense of proud belonging. He used to say that a Neapolitan is a happy Brazilian.

The chance to work with Sergio Leone on “Once Upon a Time in America”. I was studying law in Milan, I was 22 and was set to become a lawyer, but my father told me that Leone needed an assistant who spoke several languages. I was swept up in a magical world that I didn’t even realise I was part of. Recounting the experience now moves me more than it did at the time, when I would collect Elizabeth McGovern at half past four in the morning to take her to make-up or assist Leone with editing. It was my first professional experience and remains irrepeatable.