This appears to have been mysteriously lost when the history of cinema was being written. It is a hard film to place anyway. Rossellini had hit his stride and was on his way out of the public mind, it's far from the neorealism he became famous for, it's not lurid enough to pass as noir. Antonioni had not yet arrived at Cannes to reinvent the vision present here inside a modernist framework. All this is made worse by the meddling of Italian distributors, anxious for ticket sales. Subsequent generation of film-watchers would have stumbled (if at all) upon something too small, an unfulfilling, incomplete affair.
But like so many of these flawed pieces, it is endlessly fascinating. Rossellini was blessed with a gift; his work is not the result of a fiery intuition bursting forth, but of a studied, assured awareness. Grasping and what is grasped become one in his films. It's hard to conceive the great Antonioni, who was so inspired by him and who really opened up what Rossellini contained within a religious language, without a film like this or Stromboli.
From a distance, it's simple enough: a story of marital infidelity (which, like Stromboli, inadvertently resonates out of the film and into the illicit love Bergman and Rossellini shared), about a woman's descend into paranoid fear and delusion. An image of the fractured self, painfully learning the lesson that makes whole. Between grief and nothing, as Faulkner would have it.
But such richness of appearances. How inner disturbance seeps outside; in the piano concert scene, notice how the music swells from placid to nerve-wracking crescendo. Notice the downpour that accompanies the razorblade-edge crisis of conscience. When the noose begins to be pulled tight around her neck as the husband inquires about a missing ring, faces are drowned in a sludge of shadow like out of Weimar noir.
Further inside; the threatening image of the ogre-father to be appeased, with the daughter and wife one before his gaze. He holds the keys to both punishment and forgiveness. The suffering and humiliation born from delusion and desire, and how they trap the soul in chimeras.
The other thing I want to stand on is what was originally intended of the compromised vision we have available. Rossellini's daughter is reportedly working to restore the original, a time-consuming affair in most cases, but until then this is all we have.
A fishing scene is missing and tiresomely expositional monologue is added in two scenes; from what I could gleam, the opening and finale. Both marvelous renditions of wanderings through night streets, itself an aesthetic ahead of the times. And then the most important thing of all, that pushes the film into cinematic apotheosis. The finale, which the distributors meddled to turn into a cloying sentimentality that ensures closure and balance.
Rossellini intended the film to end with a suicide attempt (we see the prelude, with Irene writing her suicide note), but then she thinks of her children and returns home. Rossellini shot footage of this. The footage comprises two shots; one is the shot filmed from inside a car crossing idyllic countryside to reach the remote cottage house, the other is Irene in her favorite armchair as her childhood nanny soothes her.
Both these shots were repeated earlier in the film, when Irene and her husband first get to the cottage. To the place where Irene grew up, where her children are now. Childhood comfort is possible there, as refuge from the punishing dead-ends of adult life. We see her, as again in the finale, reclining on her armchair with her nanny by her side.
So we have in th end Irene anguishing over her suicide note on her desk; then her regressive trip back into the place of comfort. Whatever end we get in the coming restoration, this is one of the most potent finales in pre-60's cinema, the suicide all there disguised as the journey back.
But like so many of these flawed pieces, it is endlessly fascinating. Rossellini was blessed with a gift; his work is not the result of a fiery intuition bursting forth, but of a studied, assured awareness. Grasping and what is grasped become one in his films. It's hard to conceive the great Antonioni, who was so inspired by him and who really opened up what Rossellini contained within a religious language, without a film like this or Stromboli.
From a distance, it's simple enough: a story of marital infidelity (which, like Stromboli, inadvertently resonates out of the film and into the illicit love Bergman and Rossellini shared), about a woman's descend into paranoid fear and delusion. An image of the fractured self, painfully learning the lesson that makes whole. Between grief and nothing, as Faulkner would have it.
But such richness of appearances. How inner disturbance seeps outside; in the piano concert scene, notice how the music swells from placid to nerve-wracking crescendo. Notice the downpour that accompanies the razorblade-edge crisis of conscience. When the noose begins to be pulled tight around her neck as the husband inquires about a missing ring, faces are drowned in a sludge of shadow like out of Weimar noir.
Further inside; the threatening image of the ogre-father to be appeased, with the daughter and wife one before his gaze. He holds the keys to both punishment and forgiveness. The suffering and humiliation born from delusion and desire, and how they trap the soul in chimeras.
The other thing I want to stand on is what was originally intended of the compromised vision we have available. Rossellini's daughter is reportedly working to restore the original, a time-consuming affair in most cases, but until then this is all we have.
A fishing scene is missing and tiresomely expositional monologue is added in two scenes; from what I could gleam, the opening and finale. Both marvelous renditions of wanderings through night streets, itself an aesthetic ahead of the times. And then the most important thing of all, that pushes the film into cinematic apotheosis. The finale, which the distributors meddled to turn into a cloying sentimentality that ensures closure and balance.
Rossellini intended the film to end with a suicide attempt (we see the prelude, with Irene writing her suicide note), but then she thinks of her children and returns home. Rossellini shot footage of this. The footage comprises two shots; one is the shot filmed from inside a car crossing idyllic countryside to reach the remote cottage house, the other is Irene in her favorite armchair as her childhood nanny soothes her.
Both these shots were repeated earlier in the film, when Irene and her husband first get to the cottage. To the place where Irene grew up, where her children are now. Childhood comfort is possible there, as refuge from the punishing dead-ends of adult life. We see her, as again in the finale, reclining on her armchair with her nanny by her side.
So we have in th end Irene anguishing over her suicide note on her desk; then her regressive trip back into the place of comfort. Whatever end we get in the coming restoration, this is one of the most potent finales in pre-60's cinema, the suicide all there disguised as the journey back.