DbcultAccessing Vault...
Cult Review
Senior Film Conservator
The first time the serenade slithers through the loudspeaker it arrives as a tinny gramophone ghost, warped by salt and time. By the third iteration it has metastasized into orchestral hysteria: strings sawing against harps like scalpels on cartilage, a lone soprano ululating the name “Lo-li-ta” until the syllables detach, float, and burst like jellyfish against the projector bulb. Director Giovanni Pastrone’s camera—here credited to the pseudonymous “G. Trento” because the actual DP was reportedly committed mid-shoot—does not merely record this mutation; it performs it. The aperture dilates until the screen’s corners bruise violet, then contracts to a pinprick, forcing the viewer to gasp for visual oxygen. In that suffocation lies the film’s manifesto: love as a sustained blackout, art as arrhythmia.
Every staircase in the maestro’s palazzo spirals counterclockwise, an architectural impediment to ascent. Marble treads are polished by centuries of servant knees so that footing glides involuntarily backward—two steps gained, one slid in retreat. Zampieri, face like a cracked Noh mask, navigates this helix repeatedly, clutching a candelabra whose tapers burn at uneven rates, dripping crimson wax like coagulating blood. The camera tracks him from above, the staircase’s iron balustrade forming a zoetrope; each spindle becomes a jail-bar that momentarily incarcerates his silhouette. The effect is M.C. Escher by way of Poe: a musical score that can only be performed by falling.
Against this vertigo, Campioni’s Lolita arrives barefoot, soles inked with tar from the docks. Her first close-up is a staccato shock: the lens racks focus from her cracked heel to her iris, a hazel nebula flecked with gold. The iris consumes half the frame; the other half is reflection—the maestro’s window, upside-down. In that split-second the power dynamic is inverted: she is the beholder, he the exhibit. The film will spend its remaining runtime circling this optical coup, trying and failing to restore ocular patriarchy.
Buzzi-Peccia’s original salon piece is a coy waltz in A-major; the film subjects it to a series of viral mutations. First comes the andante mutilato: tempo halved, harmonies skewed by tritones, the melody played only on the left hand of the piano—an amputee’s ghost dance. Then the largo venenoso, orchestrated for glass harmonica, contrabassoon, and dental drill, accompanies the Countess’s nocturnal prowl as she snips the heads off white roses, each snip synced to an off-beat. Finally the presto necrotico erupts during Carnival: a brass band on a barge pounds the theme in 7/8 while fireworks spell “Lolita” across the sky in phosphorous green; the crowd sings lyrics never penned—obscene, devotional, incantatory. By the time the end credits roll, the viewer has metabolized the tune into bloodstream; I caught myself humming it in the lobby, horrified to discover my pulse had synchronized to its 3-bar phrasing.
Production designer Umberto Gorelli scavenged actual war rubble—Allied bombings had pulverized the Arsenale—transporting bricks still smelling of cordite to Cinecittà soundstages. Plaster was mixed with powdered lapis to achieve that cadaverous azure; when touched it leaves a pallid dust on fingertips, as though the city itself were applying maquillage post-mortem. Note the scene where Lolita skims a stone across a flooded piazza: each skip lifts a film of mica, revealing submerged mosaics of sea nymphs whose eyes have been chiseled away. The stone finally sinks beside a barnacled lion statue; the camera lingers on the eroded muzzle, tongue long gone. Venice, like the lovers, survives by forgetting its own myths.
Compare this to the decadent interiors in The Faded Flower where rot is merely decorative, or the expressionist alleys of Little Sunset whose shadows obey Germanic angles. Here decay is not backdrop but pimp: it brokers the tryst, supplies the aphrodisiac whiff of mortar dust, provides the crumbling bed upon which the maestro lays Lolita, their bodies powdered white like sugar-dusted pastries.
Enrico Roma’s naval lieutenant is armed with a Pathé 28mm—its crank protrudes like a metallic erection. He films the clandestine lessons through a cracked door, the aperture half-blocked by a lace doily, so the image acquires a filigree veil. The footage within the film is spliced back into the narrative as flickering inserts—sixteen frames of Lolita’s parted lips, eight of the maestro’s trembling wrist—creating a Möbius strip of voyeurism: we watch him watch them, aware that our own spectatorship is the tertiary violation. During the premiere’s climax, the lieutenant projects his clandestine reels onto a makeshift sailcloth screen; the candle behind it ignites, the image literally consumed by flame. Cinema devours its own offspring, a cannibalistic metaphor as bracing as anything in The Monster and the Girl.
The optical track is scarred with deliberate dropouts—microscopic bald spots where the emulsion refuses sound. In these lacunae we hear the projector’s mechanical breath, a death-rattle that anticipates the maestro’s own. Listen closely during the duet rehearsal: beneath the piano’s treble, a faint Morse code tapped on a heating pipe spells “LEAVE.” Whether it’s a warning from a displaced gondolier or the building itself grows ambiguous; the film cultivates that ambiguity like a hothouse orchid. Contemporary viewers reportedly fainted during a 1947 Naples screening, convinced the silences were caused by Allied saboteurs; riots erupted, the projector hurled into the harbor. The surviving print, now restored by Cineteca di Bologna, retains those elisions as reverent wounds.
Zampieri, a veteran of silent opera films, modulates between bombast and catatonia; watch how his left eyebrow remains elevated during the entire second act, a semaphore of perpetual surprise. In the penultimate scene he conducts an imaginary orchestra—baton a shard of windowpane—until blood darkens his cuff. The gesture is both ludicrous and hieratic, evoking the mortifying self-consciousness of Samson yet achieving the tragic gravitas of Ghosts.
Campioni, only seventeen during production, performs innocence like a seasoned grifter. Her laughter is always half-a-beat delayed, as though awaiting permission; when she finally sings the serenade herself, she drops the final note a quarter-tone, turning declaration into interrogation. The effect is so unnerving that the on-screen audience freezes mid-applause, hands suspended like moths in amber.
Though shot on monochrome stock, the film obsessive can detect chromatic ghosts. Costume designer Gisella Malatesta dyed Lolita’s petticoat with turmeric water; under nitrate’s chemical reaction the fabric photographs a bruised amber. Projectionists swore that during reel four a greenish halo—seafoam, almost turquoise—clung to the maestro’s cuff. Contemporary restorations confirm the phenomenon: silver halide oxidizes into a patina that reads as aquamarine. Thus the movie secretes color the way a tryst conceals perfume—visible only to the hypersensitive.
For decades Lolita existed solely as whispers among cine-clubs. A 1967 Turin retrospective paired it with The Question; attendees claimed the double bill caused spontaneous nosebleeds. When the film finally surfaced on illicit VHS in 1992, the tape’s oxide was so degraded that the serenade resembled underwater sonar, a gurgle that soundtracked many a dorm-room seduction. Today, streaming on the boutique platform ObsessiveFlix, it’s been hashtagged as “#VenetianSadcore,” sampled by lo-fi producers who loop the largo venenoso beneath trap beats. The maestro’s spiral staircase has become a TikTok challenge: users attempt to descend backward while the waltz plays at 33⅓ RPM; several have fractured ankles. The film, once nearly lost, now proliferates as meme, as ringtone, as perfume ad—its forbidden DNA replicating in every corner of the culture it once scandalized.
To watch Lolita in 4K is to witness decay digitized into crystalline permanence, a paradox the maestro—who believed music evaporates—would have savored. The restoration sharpens every speck of nitrate, every flicker of Campioni’s iris, yet cannot resurrect the cigarette smoke that once curled through the projector beam, the communal gasp when the chandelier implodes. Perhaps that is the final, cruelest irony: the film about impermanence has become an immortal file, a ghost trapped in glass. Play it loud enough and you might still hear the gondoliers’ off-key refrain bleeding through the walls, reminding you that Venice, like desire, subsists on echoes—and that every echo, sooner or later, learns to sing its own name.
IMDb 2.7
1919
Community
Log in to comment.
