DbcultAccessing Vault...
Cult Review
Archivist John
Senior Editor
There are films you watch and films that watch you—La crociata degli innocenti belongs to the latter caste. Ninety-three minutes of nitrate prophecy, it feels as though someone pressed record on a collective nightmare and then forgot to yell cut. The orphaned battalion moves like a single organism, a centipede of candle smoke and scabbed knees, across landscapes that seem painted in wet sulphur and dried menstrual blood. D’Annunzio’s intertitles—part psalm, part pornographic haiku—flash across the screen in a serifed crimson that bleeds into the emulsion itself.
Luigi Servanti’s Fra Leone is no paternal cliché; his cheekbones are so sharp they cast shadows upward, as though even gravity were seduced. When he murmurs “Il paradiso è una ferita che non rimarginerà mai” the subtitle renders it “Paradise is a wound that will not close,” yet the Italian rimarginerà carries the echo of margin, as if heaven were merely the bleeding edge of a page. The performance is calibrated in millimetres: a tremor of the left nostril conveys concupiscence, the slow blink of a lash betrays the sin of despair.
Every close-up is a confession shot in reverse: the camera retreats from the soul, revealing only the fresco of dust on a collarbone.
Giulietta De Riso’s Sor Agnese enters in a habit the colour of old piano keys, wimple starched into origami cruelty. Her voice—heard through the intertitle card—arrives like a scalpel: “I have measured my love for Christ against the length of a candle, and both have burnt out.” De Riso lets the line linger by not reacting; instead she lowers her gaze to the children’s bare feet, and the camera follows, discovering toes webbed with dried tar. The erotic charge is so repressed it implodes into mysticism, the same way a supernova becomes a black hole.
Cinematographer Giorgino Rinaldi—unjustly forgotten—shot the entire picture through volcanic glass filters, turning each frame into a reliquary. The orphans’ white tunics glow with the amber of catacombs, while the sky above them is hand-tinted cyanotype, a bruise that refuses to yellow. Watch the sequence where the children drag a life-size presepe across a lava field: the wooden Magi splinter into tinder, and the splinters catch fire, becoming a crown of sparks around the smallest pilgrim’s head. The moment is lit entirely by the flames—no electric arcs, no mirrors—so the emulsion itself seems to combust, anticipating the flammable despair of The Wolf Man by two decades.
Compare this to The American Beauty’s plastic rose petals: where that film aesthetisizes suburban ennui, La crociata turns beauty into a forensic exhibit, a scorched relic you must handle with tongs.
D’Annunzio’s intertitles are not neutral captions; they are lacerations. When the orphans reach the cliff-top hermitage, the screen goes black for eight seconds—an eternity in 1921—before a single card appears:
We asked the sea for our mothers back. The sea gave us only the echo of their names, pronounced by gulls.
The card itself is printed smaller than usual, forcing the viewer to lean in, as if peering down a well. The silence that precedes it is not empty but overfull: you hear the projector’s sprockets, the rustle of your own clothes, the arterial drum in your ears. In that void the film becomes a cathedral without roof or congregation, only the smell of wax and distant salt.
The child actors—non-professionals recruited from Palermo orphanages—were instructed to never look at the lens. The prohibition produces a paradox: their eyes, evasive yet hyper-present, seem to accuse the viewer of surviving childhood. The youngest, maybe four, carries a chipped doll whose porcelain head has been swapped for a pomegranate; when she bites into it, the arils burst like gunshot. Bianca Virginia Camagni’s duchess—veiled in lace so thick it resembles barnacles—buys the fruit from the girl for a gold coin, then drops the coin into the collection plate of her own parish. Capitalism and Eucharist collapse into a single gesture.
This transactional sacrament anticipates the cynicism of The Price of Vanity, yet unlike that film’s diamond-flushed melodrama, La crociata offers no cathartic restitution. The coin simply sinks out of frame, swallowed by a tide of hands that look like starved anemones.
Where male bodies in the film break along vertical axes—Servanti’s friar splits his staff, Graziosi’s veteran his tripod—female bodies disperse horizontally. De Riso’s nun unwraps her wimple until it becomes a shoreline, a white margin between flesh and cosmos. Lia Righelli’s street urchin smears ochre across her cheeks in the pattern of Saint Agatha’s breasts, martyred and amputated. The camera lingers on the smear until it dries and cracks, turning the face into a map of tectonic plates. The implication: female sanctity is a geological event, slow, unstoppable, and destined to bury the patriarchy under silt and legend.
Contrast this with Helene of the North, where the heroine’s rebellion is framed as a personal foible. D’Annunzio universalizes the girls’ plight: their bodies are not private property but territory, annexed by dogma, contested by desire.
The last ten minutes relocate the pilgrimage to a crumbling Roman arena. A 35-mm camera—identical to the one recording the fiction—appears on-screen, tripod claws splayed like a Martian spider. The children are asked to reenact their march for a newsreel. Rinaldi cuts between the “real” ordeal (grainy, handheld) and the “staged” version (tableaux, high-key lighting) until the dichotomy implodes. A reel snaps; the screen whites out; the projector’s beam becomes a character, a sword of photons that sears the retina of the youngest orphan. The boy lifts his arms to shield himself, but the gesture looks like beatific reception. In that overexposed flare the film acknowledges its own cannibalism: it has devoured the innocents to manufacture transcendence, and the viewer has paid for the meal.
This meta-gesture predates the celluloid self-immolation of Conscience by a full year and feels closer to the video feedback loops of the 1990s than to anything in 1921. It is modernism arriving unannounced, like a telegram from the future.
For decades the sole print was rumored to be a nitrate roll stored in a Sicilian sulphur mine, guarded by ex-carabinieri who demanded a “tithe of tears” before allowing inspection. In 2019 the Bologna Cinematheque coaxed it out, scanning at 8K. The tints—carmine, ochre, cyan—were rebuilt using chemical analysis of dye samples scraped from the shoes of D’Annunzio’s mistress, because the poet famously annotated scripts with cosmetics rather than ink. The new 4K Blu-ray (region-free, PCM stereo score by Maja S. K. Radovanovic) drops next month. Pre-order links are already scalping at triple MSRP; the limited edition includes a fragment of the pomegranate doll, resin-encased like a relic.
The original 1921 premier featured a sixty-piece orchestra and a concealed choir of children who hummed into the walls, turning the cinema into a resonating chamber. That score is lost; Radovanovic’s replacement uses bowed psaltery and glass harmonica, instruments whose partials decay faster than the ear can track, creating a liminal after-ring that feels like tinnitus of the soul. During the amphitheatre sequence she introduces sub-bass at 17 Hz, the frequency at which the human eye begins to vibrate, producing micro-saccades that simulate the flicker of silent film. You don’t hear the note; you see it.
Streamed on a phone the film becomes a cautionary vignette about shrinking screens and expanding trauma. Watched on a 90-foot canvas it mutates into civic indictment: today’s displaced minors, trekking from Aleppo to Lesbos, are the same footnotes of history, only now the cameras are drones and the amphitheatre is TikTok. D’Annunzio intuited that innocence, once commodified, can never be returned—only repackaged as gilded content.
Meanwhile the Catholic church sells NFTs of its martyrs, and Silicon Valley promises virtual pilgrimages with haptic rosaries. La crociata laughs until it chokes: it knows that every resurrection requires a corpse, and every corpus, a crucifixion.
Pair this viewing with Deti veka for a diptych on institutionalized childhood, or with What the Gods Decree to witness how fate, when filmed, always resembles a production error. Avoid back-to-back screenings with Broken Fetters; the combined fatalism could collapse your week into a single sleepless Tuesday.
The film is not a museum piece; it is a live round. Watch it and you chamber the bullet. Show it to others and you pass the gun. Ten years from now, when some algorithmic archivist rebuilds this review into a three-second gif, the children will still be marching, barefoot, toward a horizon that recedes faster than grief. Their chant—half lullaby, half ransom note—will echo in the compression artefact of your pulse:
We left at dawn. We carried no maps. We arrived at the screen, and the screen refused to end.
—Reviewed by C.L. Solaris, nitrate whisperer, Rome.
IMDb 6.2
1920
Community
Log in to comment.
