A [favourite] movie kiss for National Kissing Day (USA*), not to be confused with International Kissing Day aka World Kiss Day which falls on July 6.

“I don’t have the inhibitions that a practicing Catholic would in that I’m not paralysed by the sacredness of the text, nor do I have the inhibitions of a lapsed Catholic who would view approaching the story of Jesus as compromising his Marxist beliefs, of sinking back into conformity.”

– PPP, via

An neorealist, straightforward adaptation of the Gospel of Matthew, populated by non-actors (“Jesus” is a 19-year Catalan trade unionist picked for his resemblance to El Greco's Christ), intellectuals, and anachronistic characters based on biblical art through the ages.

 

According to said Gospel, apostle Judas kissed prophet Jesus to signal to the police who of the 13 men present was the one to arrest.

 

Interestingly, the word Matthew chose to describe the kiss is καταφιλέω, the same word used by philosopher Plutarch to describe the kiss between Alexander the Great and his eunuch Bagoas

 

* no one wants to kiss you anymore, America

May 8 is both director Rossellini and Bergman's character Karen's #birthday.

“What mystery, what beauty.”

– Karen

“The madwoman has received your grace.”

– Nannina

A car crash on National Insurance Awareness Day (USA)

 

A couple rushing home at night hit a cyclist. Despite knowing that the man's still alive, they opt to leave the site of the #crash and never mention it again. News reports about the death of the cyclist cause a rupture; because of the couple's #class differences – she a wealthy socialite, he a former falange soldier turned university professor – because they're lovers, and because no one can know about their whereabouts on the night of the accident.

“He's still alive.”

Striking about Bardem's Muerte de un ciclista is its outsiderness in the Spanish film landscape. By adopting the visual language of both Italian #Neorealismo and Hollywood #melodrama, Bardem elegantly circumvents #Franco​ist censorship.

Posted while deciding on my film dinner. Eventually I went with Tourneur's La Main du Diable (1943).

“I don't care about your barley. Or, your vines! Or, your new terra!”

– Karen

Karen – “Karin” in the opening credits – is a displaced Lithuanian woman in an Italy-based refugee camp. She meets an Italian military man bivouacking on the other side of the barbed wire and decides to say yes when he proposes. When the newly-weds leave for home, she finds to her dismay that he's a poor Sicilian fisherman from #Stromboli; a magnificent active volcanic island home to a small Catholic parish. Again displaced, Karen is confronted with herself more than with the others that share her faith.

“Here we are, poor wretches, in this hell, Condemned to tyranny.”

– Antonio

Roberto #Rossellini's Stromboli (Terra di Dio) is a peculiar melodramatic Italian/American hybrid that seems to strongly dismiss the Italian aspect. The significance of Struògnuli – the Sicilian name for the volcano – and the people's faith connected to the volatile mountain and the surrounding sea is presented as primitive superstition. That the Sicilian dialogue – song, prayer, life – remains untranslated and the locals' broken English is used as comic relief adds insult to injury.

 

Otello Martelli's photography excels when he manages to tear himself away from Bergman's face. Only when we're confronted with the magnificence of Struògnuli, the gifts from the ocean, and the greatness of nature we'll be able to understand why the island is man's home.

To support his family, small-town boy Domenico moves to Milan in the hope to find a job. Eventually he's employed, as a clerk in a drab office replacing a senior worker who died. While the days drag on, only interrupted by coffee shop small talk with fellow teenager Antonietta, the Christmas office #party draws nearer.

“My wife gave me a big kiss this morning. I only get kisses once a month, on payday.”

– Sartori

With the dark absurdity of coming out of fascism and having to run a real-world country with a naive ineptitude – represented by the too-large-borrowed-from-father-suits – and pretence childlike bureaucratic procedures, Olmi's Il posto is a wonderfully sharp observation of postwar Italy.

Twelve-year-old Edmund – the oldest kid to survive – works to support his whole family including his sick bedridden father while the remains of what was a thousand-year empire lies in rubbles around them.

– I don't go to school anymore.

– Why not? You don't like the new teachers?

– I have to work now.

Following Roma città aperta (1945) and Paisà (1946) of #Rossellini's unofficial war trilogy.