In Settebellezzei, Giancarlo Giannini is overdrawn, overdone, sexually ambiguous giovane d'onore. Rather buffone, rather deficente, rather the darling of all slit-bearing walkers in his native slum. He has a dozen sisters, they're all fat and ugly, he has a a grosse girlfriends e fidanzate, they're all fat and ugly. He worships his mother (who's stupid) and transferred his father (who's absent) upon some random older guy. He's worthless in a confrontation, gets knocked out cold on the first blow, sneaks in and accidentally fires his pistol while trembling, deserts his army and generally speaking represents in all things the pantsuit man. Follow Lina Wertmuller's nonsenseii, end up like Pasquale. What more can you ask of life ?
Sessomattoiii is a succession of vignettes, pure and simple commedia all'italiana. Made for TV bits of nonsense, ten to fifteen minutes each and predictably entertaining between predictable titshots.
In both of these, and in everything else, Giancarlo Giannini is very much a spiritual predecessor of the Dalmatine comedy. Dom za vesanje (1988), Underground (1995) or Crna macka, beli macor (1998) are all strictly speaking Giancarlo Giannini recompiled, with the millitant idiocy (ie, "feminism") tuned down and a lot of Terry Gilliam-esque imaginarium and super-magical-realism baked in and liberaly sprinkled about.
The fact that you can attain fame and build a career out of rescuing the occasional kernel of sense accidentally lost among the "millitant" leftist vomit should be very instructive. Go ye, and like Kusturica wash out the crap out of your culture. Stand up the actual valuable parts -- which very pointedly exclude socialists, feminists, and however else the idiots call themselves. Let the ancient statues shine once more in their marble glory, liberated from the moss, the lichen, the muck and misery of dubious origin improperly attached.
Wash them now, before the lowest form of life succeeds in completely cracking everything into unrecognizable pebbles. And take better care of them in the future -- those ancient statues are your only possible identity.———
- 1975, by Lina Wertmuller, with Giancarlo Giannini and a truly porcine Shirley Stoler. [↩]
- The film is a transparent attempt by a "feminist" which is to say imbecile to "poison the well" so to speak.
The idea of these retards is that if they get an (unauthorised) copy of a Mussolini speech and splatter (their own genuine) period blood all over it we'll give a shit.
Give a shit, you understand, not merely in the sense of bothering to take some kind of notice of their nonsense ; but actually in the incomprehensibly far flung sense of no longer reading Mussolini because we once saw a printed version of something he allegedly once said said splattered in cuntblood.
This is the "thought process" if it can be called such of these "revolutionary" retards, from Rosa Luxemburg to Michael Moore, that they can effectually burn shit in effigy. This works, supposedly. They really act as if they expected it worked. I guess the Cunt Mother In The Sky blessed them with both abilities, to steal by reference, and to kill in surogate, or something.
It's exactly an attempt to live by witchcraft in a postindustrial world, and their squeals of amazement when the "surefire" fails to take seem to lend credence to the theory that yes, they're actually this retarded. As Irigaray once said, "Physics priviledges effectual activity to the detriment of meaningless nonsense that's much more important to us".
Anyway, so the idea is that fascism is bad mkay and that the mafia is bad mkay because some chick once got a boyfriend to pick his nose. Problem ? [↩]
- 1973, by Dino Risi, with Giancarlo Gianinni and the perenially topless Laura Antonelli. [↩]