Pierpaolo Piccioli, the creative director of Valentino, launches himself at the spectators like a star singer who jumps off the stage and is held in the air by dozens of fans. The autograph hunters (sorry, selfies) give themselves to Piccioli, and vice versa, in an extraordinary image rarely or never seen on the red carpet where there is always a safe distance.
But Piccioli is not an actor, and surely the crazed movie-going crowd isn’t quite sure who he is either. But what does it matter, right? The safety distance disappears and the usual established game falters. That game that dictates that photographers shoot bursts of lightning with their telephoto lenses and sing war cries.
Meanwhile, the directors, actors, models, couturiers and tutti quanti accept the rain of lights with a wide smile and sunglasses, the best shield reflecting an interstellar battle of flashes that could be in a very, very distant galaxy or here in this one. luminous and indecipherable that is called Venice. And the 2023 harvest of the great extraterrestrial gods of celluloid has been scarce out of respect for the screenwriters’ strike in Hollywood.
“Sofiaaaa, here, here!” “Jessica, Jessica…” The year or the season does not matter, only the Lido stage is repeated, where the echoes, voices and applause resonate. Years ago (a few, actually) Sofia was Sofia Loren. Now she is Sofia Coppola.
Jessica is Jessica Chastain, dressed in a copper sequin blouse that gives poise and brilliance to a small universe in which a festive atmosphere is mixed, the picaresque of the papparazzi and the exchange of clicks of some and the smiling glances of those photographed . The artists parade, as in the parade before the circus performance. But they will be on the screen and, at the same time, seeing themselves in the seat. Chastain, by the way, does not forget to vindicate the Hollywood strikers.
Inside there is only a spotlight that shows the grande crueltá and the piccola bellezza della vita at 24 frames per second. Inside everything is possible, outside, under the spotlight, sometimes there are also unexpected script changes. Actress and director Maggie Gyllenhaal dazzles on the Lido red carpet a bit by accident.
She is only a companion for her husband, Peter Sarsgard, protagonist of the film Memory, by Michel Franco. She is to the side, in the background or third plane (as discreet as Maggie Gyllenhaal can be), taking photos of her with her cell phone, but the army of cameramen demands her presence.
Ambra Vernuccio, whose work illustrates these pages, photographs it splendidly. He draws her a smile that melts any melancholy and on his cheek dances a small constellation of lights, of little fairies, that illuminate the moment.
The Venice Festival has always been brave and has rewarded the most committed to human rights and bold cinema without neglecting beauty and freedom of expression. There is no better pleasure than reviewing the list of award-winning films, almost all of them current and adored, aging without the need for hyaluronic acid.
This year, in the absence of the great Hollywood cards, there has been room for other stories, such as the redemption of a regular like Woody Allen, in the shooting (the real one, not the photographic one) in recent years. A lucky break. It is also the title of his latest film.
In the absence of Hollywood bread, homemade cakes are good, especially for those who like Mediterranean essences. Look, there goes Pierfrancesco Favino, the great reference of Italian cinema (with permission from Toni Servillo) who has melted audiences in films like Rush or more recently The Traitor, by Marco Bellocchio: “Io non sono uno infamous,” he says the protagonist, mafia all’antica. Favino is arm in arm with his wife, actress Anna Ferzetti.
In Venice, the best actresses have always had their own prize, but in the entire history of the festival there have only been seven women who have won the Golden Lion for best film. The first Margarethe von Trotta in 1981 with The German Sisters. The second Agnès Varda with the very powerful Without Roof or Law.
The latest are Sofia Coppola for Somewhere (2010) and three years in a row Chloe Zhao for Nomadland (2020), Audrey Diwan for The Happening (2021), and the creepy All The Beauty and the Bloodshed (2022) by Laure Poitras. The Greek Yorgos Lantimos took this year’s award with a film under the Irish flag and where Emma Stone is a Frankenstein 3.0 who stands out, in every sense, also because of her sexual voracity.
If the spectators-readers (bar ace) of this article allow it, a close anecdote with the film by Audrey Diwan, based on L’Événement, the autobiographical book by the Nobel Prize winner in Literature Annie Ernaux, which explains her misadventures in having an abortion in France where it was not legally possible.
One afternoon, at Ernaux’s house, in La Favola, Magazine enjoyed an exclusive interview and an exquisite date with the great writer who spoke of dreams, of feelings, of defeats and victories, of her passion for the Italian poet Cesare Pavese. Suddenly, at coffee time, a phone rang. Please take it!
On the other side of the device was Audrey Diwan, the director. She had bad news, the Cannes festival committee had not accepted the film for official competition. His subsequent victory in Venice turned momentary disappointment into absolute triumph.
Between the long red carpet and the big white screen there is a moment of relaxation. An intermission. In which there are no shots or only a few. Actress Valentina Bellè, protagonist of Love in Her Place, talks with part of the children’s cast of Lubo, the film in which she co-stars at the festival. She speaks to the children not as a mother or an aunt, but as a colleague. The scene is beautiful.
Out on the catwalk, the sparkling glamor and the everlasting smile have left their halo. Inside, in the projection room, there is bravery, courage and life, which is hard, which often ends with broken wings.
In memory, and to close this written short film where the shots have been the protagonists, an example of a film. Elegance and violence at the top. In 1980, the jury awarded the Golden Lion to John Cassavetes for Gloria, a feature film in saturated colors starring his muse and companion Gena Rowlands (93 years old and counting).
In the film, Gloria Swenson, a tribute to Swanson from Twilight of the Gods, spends her time making that sad and dark face, like a drunk, killing gangsters, but perfectly made up and with unrepeatable class. The memory of her is indelible: with one hand she holds the gun (her shots almost ricochet into the audience) killing gangsters without stopping and in the other, almost without flinching, she carries a good bag. Not forgetting the coat, the expensive ones.
Rowlands even kills the prompter and achieves his freedom and that of the child he drags almost from the opening scene. On the catwalk she waved with the air of Lauren Bacall while on the screen she opened wide. In and out. Smile and laughter. “In my mind – Cassavetes once said – I only have one idea, it is the only thing that interests me, love and the lack of love. When it’s over…”
