Categories
Film theory Politics

Time and terror: what an Italian 70s movie can tell us about radicalisation in the age of late capitalism

Giulia Delprato and Laura Scalabrella Spada explore the farcical and terrifying world of long-forgotten Italian movie …hanno cambiato faccia, where CEOs, board meetings and TV ad breaks are revealed to be the stuff of nightmare.

‘Capital is dead labour,
which, vampire-like,
lives only by sucking living labour,
and lives the more, the more labour it sucks.’
Capital, Karl Marx

Most vampire movies today are based off the same premise: what if vampires were still among us? What if they survived, abandoning the mists of their nebulous Transylvanian past and moving to the more tangible realities of western modernity? What if they managed to blend into society, biding their time, waiting for a moment of weakness to strike?

So far, nothing new, except for the common addition of (frankly toxic) love stories, often predicated upon misogynistic fantasies of power imbalances misconstrued as timeless romance – thanks very much, Bram Stoker.

A 1971 Italian horror film, …hanno cambiato faccia (They’ve Changed Their Faces), however, attempts the impossible: combining the post-draculian vampire with its previous, perhaps even more influential iteration, that of the capitalist.

Boring, mediocre, petit-bourgeois Alberto Valle is an accountant employed by a comically large company.  One day, he is asked to meet the owner Giovanni Nosferatu (a tongue-in-cheek reference to industrialist Giovanni Agnelli, owner of Fiat and Juventus FC, and the vampire protagonist of the 1922 German expressionist film[1]) in his country mansion. The deceiving appearance of Nosferatu’s villa, ancient and in decay outside but full of immaculate modernist furniture inside (with built-in speakers for bespoke advertisement), mimics that of its owner. Valle soon finds out that his host is not only the owner and CEO of a major corporation, but a malicious, eternal being, who capitalises on consumerist lifestyle to dominate people – sucking life out of them, just like his blood-thirsty counterparts.

At a superficial glance, …hanno cambiato faccia seems to borrow random tropes from the Italian giallo tradition,[2] placing mismatched stereotypes here and there: both the helpful and flirtatious assistant and the sexually liberated hitchhiker echo different strands of the 70s obsession with ‘liberated’ sex, more often than not an excuse to objectify women. These characters are reminiscent of allusive, seedy gialli like Sergio Martino’s Tutti i Colori del Buio (1972; the protagonist and Martino’s brother’s wife at the time, Edwige Fenech, is perhaps better-known for her career in Italian soft-porn comedies, popular between the 70s and the 80s), while the isolated village where everything seems shrouded in superstition echoes the sinister atmosphere of one of Fulci’s masterpieces, Non Si Sevizia Un Paperino (1972). It goes without saying, these are all must watches.

Still from …hanno cambiato faccia.

Like many movies of that time, …hanno cambiato faccia combines the experimental ostinati of 1970s rock to eerie scenes of bleak rural landscape. The more Alberto’s tin car cuts through the fog of the Italian countryside, the more our tension increases. With every turn of the road, time seems to become loose. In a Foucauldian manner, we are reminded of its increasing meaninglessness by multiple striking of church bells, suggestive of the institutional rings of school, factory, or even prison cell bells, whose noises become an apparatus of discipline, surveillance and punishment inherent to capitalist ways of marking time. At the same time (excuse the pun), clocks are also winding back to the time of myths and immortal beings from which both iterations of Nosferatu, the company boss and the long-fingered vampire, hail from.

Still from …hanno cambiato faccia.

Cut to inside the house, where the incessant ticking is mirrored by office knick-knacks, covering a whole table in Nosferatu’s sitting room. These embody, perhaps, a symbolic remnant of office work. But why so many?

In this time of isolation, while the idea of a comfortable mansion sitting in the middle of the woods filled with all sorts of commodities sounds sort of reassuring, it stirs up questions about how will isolation change the way we think about desk-work. Ironically, it also highlights the recent discovery made by certain middle class media that vital work is not done at a desk, and the real forces of production do not lie in CEO offices but in the hands of labourers or, as we have learnt to say now, key workers.

The parasitical nature of office work emerges, in this movie, through a pungent if unsophisticated satire of mid-20th century corporate culture. In a key scene, we are shown a long meeting happening in a secret (and yet, for Alberto, surprisingly easy to access) basement room where caricatures of power speak at length of how they dominate the life of everyday people. Sometimes, these sequences transform into grotesque caroselli, a narrative-driven early form of TV advertising quintessential to the upbringing of every Italian child born between the 50s and the end of the 60s. One of these, perverted to the point of hilarity, is a particularly twisted ad for a newly discovered chemical, LSD, which of course Nosferatu plans to send into large distribution soon.

Still from …hanno cambiato faccia.

The meeting seems to be another manifestation of how capitalism’s machinations happen in plain sight, yet we decide to remain oblivious to them: consumerism as a form of control is the mantra snaking its way throughout the movie. In a particularly surreal scene, one of the corporate suits fails to meet his targets and Nosferatu quite literally gets rid of him, by sending him out to be run over by one of his roving white Fiat 500s, which police his estate – a modern update to Dracula’s bats and wolves.

Still from …hanno cambiato faccia.

So, back to the the knick-knacks left behind in Nosferatu’s lobby and their incongruous number: are they perhaps some kind of simulacra or metonymies, indicating the ease with which workers can be substituted in Nosferatu’s (our?) world? After the line manager man dies, Alberto is offered to replace him with a new, high-profile job in Nosferatu’s corporation. Nosferatu doesn’t question so much whether he will accept or not, but rather, when.

The movie is bookended by a spurious quote from Herbert Marcuse’s 1964 subversive study of political regimes One-dimensional Man: ‘Il terrore, oggi, si chiama tecnologia’ (Terror, today, equates technology). And while the original sentence is less punchy, its content is as relevant as ever – technology has been colonised by social forces as a form of discipline and control. We do have furniture with built-in speakers, but rather than spewing advertisement, they listen to our conversations. We did embrace consumption not only as a lifestyle but also, naively, as political statements. The products we buy, supposedly, say things about us – we vote with our wallets, as the libertarian saying goes.

Since the COVID-19/coronavirus crisis started, many self-proclaimed left-wing newspapers have been incessantly publishing articles full of well-intentioned banalities about how we should ‘build a better world’ and ‘reward our hero key workers’. Asking us to forget, perhaps, that the world we live in has been deliberately designed to be a machine oiled by the blood of the vulnerable, hostages to capitalism rather than selfless heroes. And while the lack of critical thinking and class analysis in contemporary liberal discourses is nothing new, we wonder if there is anything we can learn from the crass, grotesque allegories of this strange, almost forgotten movie. Can we choose to see what is in plain sight? Can we internalise the radical message of …hanno cambiato faccia?


[1] Nosferatu: A Symphony of Horror, 1922, dir. Friedrich W. Murnau. …hanno cambiato faccia pays homage to this incredibly influential silent film in a number of scenes, such as those in which Giovanni Nosferatu walks up the stairs of his countryside villa – a reference to the iconic shadow of Count Orlok climbing up a staircase.

[2] The giallo genre is a typical expression of Italian mid-20th century cinema, which combines thriller, horror and mystery tropes.

Further readings:

  • Baschiera, Stefano, and Russ Hunter, eds. Italian Horror Cinema. Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press, 2016.
  • Fisher, Mark, Capitalist Realism: Is There No Alternative? Winchester: O Books, 2009.
  • Marcuse, Herbert. One Dimensional Man: Studies in the Ideology of Advanced Industrial Society. London: Routledge & Kegan Paul, 1964.

Giulia Delprato is a writer and photographer currently working at the Museum of London.

Laura Scalabrella Spada has recently completed her PhD at University College London in the Department of History of Art (see more here).

Categories
Early modern

‘Concertare’: On dating Titian’s Viennese Adulteress through Sixteenth-century Venetian Culture

Barbara Czwik shares an extract of her research on Titian’s and Pordenone’s Adultress in the context of sixteenth-century Venice, offering a new perspective on its agonistic ‘culture of rivalry’.

In contrast to its ambiguous dating, the semi-figured wide format painting depicting Christ and the Adulteress which hangs in Vienna’s Kunsthistorisches Museum, is unequivocally attributed to Titian (c. 1490 Pieve di Cadore – 1576 Venice). This article offers new approaches to help resolve current doubts as to the painting’s date.

Designating a painting’s date, or datation, generally results from a process of comparing how standardised criteria are applied to a historical theme, such as devotional paintings, as well as to technical norms for, in this case, a painting on canvas. These methods, however, raise questions about a historical era’s deeper influence on the production of a work. Furthermore, such attempts risk ranking artistic “merit” simply by a work’s theme while neglecting its structural importance.

The question of dating Titian’s Viennese Adulteress in view of the painter’s cultural-historical environment, however, asks us to concentrate on its structure, and to compare it to other paintings by juxtaposing their common themes.  For example, a lost Adulteress which survived as a copied engraving originally in the Orleans Collection – of great importance in the 18th century[1] – and which was listed as a Pordenone (Albertina Vienna).[2] Comparing the two works shows that Titian produced his Adulteress around 1525. That the “unfinished” work, or a “non finite”, was started earlier remains a possibility.

Giovanni Antonio de’ Sacchis known as Pordenone, Christ and the Adultress, 18th century, engraving.

A comparison between certain patterns in Pordenone’s and Titian’s Adulteress points to the latter’s final version. In both works, Christ is moved from the center while the adulteress stands to the side. This unusual position emphasises her prominence beyond the centered half-figure pictures from the 1510s. On the left side of Pordenone’s painting, a rear figure is turning back and in Titian’s, this rear figure is reversed. Pordenone’s composition is braced midway by an advancing accuser. Opposite the back figure at the edge of the painting, he clings to the larger group surrounding the adulteress. This bracket pattern also appears in Titian’s rendition, but reversed: the bearded man almost has the adulteress on his arm. These resemblances suggest that a dialogue between the two artists resulted in individually composed patterns. For both Titian and Pordenone, this increased sensitivity to ancient patterns of movement was, in all probability, prompted by an exhibit of ancient bronze and marble statues from the collection of Cardinal Domenico Grimani (1461 Venice – 1523 Rome) in the Palazzo Ducale. In 1523 Domenico Grimani bequeathed this collection to Venice.[3]

Art historian Patricia Meilman’s has posited that Titian’s 1525 Petrus Martyr altarpiece may have been commissioned by the Scuola di San Pietro Martire for the Domincan church Santi Giovanni e Paolo, in Venice, in competition with Giovanni Antonio Pordenone.[4] Meilman, however, does not dwell on the competitive nature of the commission. Since this competion was not mentioned until Carlo Ridolfi’s comment in 1648, the chance of finding verifiable references is slim. Instead, Meilman looks at the broader culture of competition specific to early sixteenth-century Italy. If the creation of the Viennese Adulteress is placed within the agonistic “culture of rilvalry” of 1520s Venice, then the “agon” between Titian and Pordenone leads us to date the painting in the same period.

Other cultural trends support this argument. In music, for example, the sixteenth-century term “concertare” means “to compete.” “Concertare” implied competition between vocal soloists and instrumental music, vocal and instrumental methods or even opposing positions of sound groups.[5] The musician and music theorist Vincenzo Galilei (1520 Santa Maria del Monte – 1591 Florence) spoke of “a concert of violas” (un concerto di viole), whereby competing string groups stood in the service of “the voice alone” (a voce sola). The “concertante style” in music develops, when “[q]uasi conversations are conducted between voices, as both concurrent phenomenon and aftereffects of ‘dialoghi’ from similar temporal and stylistic forms.”  

If the cultural style of the 16th century was marked by this “concertare principle,” so too was the rivalry between Titian and Pordenone. The related principle of the “non finite,” which may have influenced how Titian’s “unfinished” work engages the viewer in the process of perception,[6] also suggests a dialogic relationship along the lines of cultural theories.[7] Other sixteenth-century principles of “dialoghi” were inspired by ancient texts like Plato’s Theaitetos, first published in Venice in 1513 by M. Musoros.[8] Just as “astonishment” ignites all cognition and philosophy, and inspires our search for missing knowledge, so the observer of Titian’s Viennese Adulteress does not stand before a finished work, but rather is bound in a process of communication with it – the sense of “non finite.”

The alleged rivalry between Titian and Pordenone may reflect a conversion of ancient dynamics into individual artistic language, arguably comparable to the “miracles” of ancient music associated with Lomazzo’s art of painting, in which the perception of movement kindles specific emotional responses.[9] For his Viennese Adulteress then, Titian seems to have found a “concertare” partner in Pordenone.


[1] Nicholas Penny, The Sixteenth Century Italian Paintings, Vol. 2, Venice 1540 – 1600 (London: National Gallery Company 2008), 462 – 463.

[2] Published in: Clara Garas, ‘Giorgione et Giorgionismes au XVIIe siecle,’ Bulletin du Musée Hongrois des Beaux-Arts 27 (1965): 41.

[3] Patricia Meilman, Titian and the Altarpiece in Renaissance Venice (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2000), 101.

[4] Meilman, Titian and the Altarpiece, 90 – 108.

[5] Guido Adler, Der Stil in der Musik, I. Buch, Prinzipien und Arten des musikalischen Stils (Leipzig: Breitkopf & Härtel, 1911), 262.

[6] Philippe Junod, ‘Vom Componimento inculto Leonardos zum oeil sauvage von André Breton,’ in Die Unvermeidlichkeit der Bilder, ed. Gaerhart von Graevenitz, Stefan Rieger andFelix Thürlemann (Tübingen: G. Narr, 2001), 132 – 138.

[7] Leon Battista Alberti, Das Standbild, Die Malkunst, Grundlagen der Malerei, ed. Oskar Bätschmannund Christoph Schäublin (Darmstadt: Wissenschaftliche Buchgesellschaft, 2000), 143 – 144. Leonardo da Vinci, Tratatto della Pittura (Codex Urbinans Latinus 1270), Parte Seconda, 63.

[8] Platon, Theaitetos, trans. Friedrich Schleiermacher, ed. Karl-Maria Guth (Berlin: De Gruyter, 2017), 2.

[9] Giovanni Paolo Lomazzo, Trattato Dell’Arte De La Pittura, Libro Secondo (Mailand 1584), 105.

Further Readings:

  • Adler, Guido. Der Stil in der Musik, I. Buch, Prinzipien und Arten des musikalischen Stils. Leipzig: Breitkopf & Härtel, 1911.
  • Meilman, Patricia. Titian and the Altarpiece in Renaissance Venice. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2000.

Dr. Barbara Czwik is a free lance art historian based in Vienna.

Categories
Film theory Politics

Fast and Furious Biopolitics

Andreas Petrossiants brings us on a swift ride through the Fast and Furious franchise, reflecting on 21st century developments of western surveillance and policing cultures.

For months, I’ve been trying to write a para-academic essay about Fast and Furious, and its fast allusions to the development of slow, epistemic violence. More appropriately, the process has mostly consisted of riffing on the very premise. The first time I told the idea to my partner, she laughed with me, said I should do it, and mentioned those movies were “my thing”: that one preposterous element of mainstream cinematic culture that many writers carry around, analysing—raw data waiting for a faux-Mark Fisherian analysis couched in a genuine appreciation for the sordid content.

I’ve considered a lot of approaches to it, growing numerous in a series of docs. Here are some of them.

  1. It’s the campiest series of films of this century. Both “deliberately exaggerated and theatrical in style, typically for humorous effect,” (and humorous it is) and “ostentatiously and extravagantly effeminate” (per Google’s definitions). The same crypto-homophobia nested in much use of that word apply to the saga’s politics as well. In the latest spin-off, Fast and Furious Presents: Hobbs & Shaw, co-stars Jason Statham and Dwanye “The Rock” Johnson had stipulations in their contracts that neither of them could lose a fight—this was true of Vin Diesel’s alpha male character in prior movies as well.
  2. It documents how the aura of 90s idealisms—a collection of radically different subjectivities responding to the fragmentation of the internationalist left and globalization, erroneously grouped as one—were mythologized and made commercially viable after 9/11. In the first film, aesthetic choices (from wardrobe to character arcs) are somewhere between Hot Wheels, cyberpunk, skater boy, and Spaghetti Western. The subtextual political fuel goes from libertarian comradery to Patriot Act to Zuckerberg testifying at the Capital in just a few films.
  3. It’s a roadmap to the development of neoliberal forms of surveillance, policing, and supra-statist politics exemplified in new forms and representations of statist violence, occupation, “justice,” and legitimacy. The films document an important shift in political discourse over the last decade: the development of a highly profitable simulacrum of populism premised on heighted surveillance apparatuses, algorithmic policing, and extra-statist violence—Ayn Rand meets Hal 9000. How to sell populism without doing the dirty work of materially propping up some segments of the undercommons? Get Vin Diesel to talk about “familia,” while busting every union you see and individualising the workspace.
  4. It’s a “fat and stupid” description of neoliberal biopower becoming individualized self-policing biopolitics. It’s no accident that every central law enforcement figure in the franchise reappears in the next film as a class collaborator until they’re all rogue cops, nor that every villain, from the sixth movie onwards follows the same trajectory, until the saga uncovers that they were never villains at all, but rather so virtuous that they took the rap for the state’s cavalier militarisms.

Some ruminations on the fourth point. Once, when trying to type out Fast and Furious, my phone autocorrected the title to “Fat and Stupid.” I imagined this misspelling as a riff on a segment by liberal US late-night darling John Oliver titled “dumb Watergate,” in which he compared Trump’s Russian scandals to Nixon’s treason. We’d do best to avoid his logic which venerates fundamentally undemocratic systems that perpetuate systems of power (courts e.g.), not to mention that it plays into a sophisticated fearmongering. Fast and Furious does, however, act out the same “making stupid” of certain politics, without meaning to, to be sure.

Cast from The Fast and the Furious (2001)

In the early films, head “precision driver” and patriarch Dominic Toretto’s crew are a small gang of self-declared thieves. Their motto: “We ride together, we die together,” identities a small and tightly-knit band. It’s campier corollary, a recurring quip that demonstrates Dom is always on the run: “I live my life a quarter-mile at a time.” The next few films serve to build up this criminality, but exit the small Los Angeles backyard barbeque locale. In the ensuing films, they become criminals in the eyes of local police, federal drug enforcement agencies, the CIA, drug cartels, and so on. There was a feeble attempt to paint them as valiant Robin Hoods taking commodity redistribution into their own hands in Los Bandoleros (2009) a short film (with great music) connecting the story arcs of 2 Fast 2 Furious (2003) to Fast and Furious (2009). For this short, Dom and his crew are found in Puerto Rico—avoiding extradition—stealing oil and giving it to poor locals. This attempt was short-lived—it’s harder to sell micro-redistribution than cops who look like crooks who run from the cops and do crimes with the cops’ permission.

By the middle of the fifth film (to Ludacris’ great malaise), they have become complicit with the police, they’re hired guns, and are bringing down the “dirty cops” of Rio. (This, ubiquitous in the action genre in general, does much to enforce the “bad cop” myth, that a cop can be anything but an enforcer of violent, racialised power).[1] By the beginning of the seventh, they’re not just class collaborators or mercenaries of the state, but rather an elite, supra-state paramilitary force, out for hire by intelligence apparatuses so secret, so fat and stupid, that even the US military believes them to be terrorists.

Roman (Tyrese Gibson) pretending to be a cop in Fast Five (2011) to infiltrate a police station. This is the first time any of the crew pretend to be cops, before becoming them in the next film.

A revealing characteristic adage in contemporary neoliberal drama, that this franchise is best poised to identify, then: if you can’t run from the cops, join them, or if you can’t avoid being policed, start to police others. Though reminiscent, in this formulation at least, of how Foucault and later Negri and Hardt conceive of biopolitics, there are moralist caveats (the fat and stupid variants):

  1. Surveillance is omnipresent, sure, but it must be in the “right hands.”
  2. There is always a power struggle playing out, but it isn’t a class struggle. It’s a struggle of “values”—among them integrity, fidelity, and so on.

The shift to heroes becoming rouge agents in the “eyes of the law” is a staple of 2010s action films: Tom Cruise’s mission becomes so impossible that even the government becomes his enemy; he must restore integrity to militarism by weeding out the dirty cops. Bond too. He fights a rouge element of the state that seeks to use surveillance for bad deeds, not for the good stuff. The point is venerating the state’s functionality while lamenting its current leadership. Trump bad, USA good. Surveillance in my back yard? Bad. Surveillance used by ICE? Good.

The crew (now elite agents) are told that they’re all on Interpol’s Top Ten most-wanted list in The Fate of the Furious (2017)

As we prepare for the ninth film in the Fast Saga, the opportunity to see how policing is sold to us by the culture industry remains ever present. As more and more urban centres employ surveillance to aid in the violent policing of precarious groups, perhaps its mainstream caricature can help us organize ourselves and disseminate political education. Maybe, Dom and his crew (among them cops, soldiers, hackers, and espionage bureaucrats) can be once again considered the “criminals” they were at the start, but with the added enlightenment that their crimes are propping up the military and carceral complexes, rather than driving sweet rides a quarter-mile at a time.


[1] Sacking Rome: A Magazine for Vandals no. 1.

Further readings:


Andreas Petrossiants is a writer and editor living in NY. His writing has appeared in ‘The Brooklyn Rail’, ‘Hyperallergic’, ‘View. Theories and Practices of Visual Culture’, ‘nuart journal’, ‘Exhibition Reviews Annual’, and elsewhere. He is the editorial assistant of ‘e-flux journal’. in 2019, he co-curated ‘Inventing Dance: In and Around Judson’, New York, 1959–1970 at MAMAC in Nice, France. 

Categories
Murals

Orozco’s and Portinari’s “American” Murals: Challenging Pan-Americanism

Renata Baltar shares her art historical research on Latin American mural artists and their connection to so-called Pan Americanism. In this article, she challenges the idea of a homogenous culture, and discussess regionalism and mythical references in the works of José Clemente Orozco and Candido Portinari.

When the United States created the Pan American Union (PAU) in 1890, it was an important shift in US foreign policy towards Latin America. Instead of military standoffs, cultural diplomacy started to play a major role. The basis for Pan Americanism was the idea of a shared continental solidarity and of a supposedly existing community of interests between the United States and Latin American countries.[1] Several generations of Latin American administrators and a US state-private network including defended that, “on this hemisphere will be developed a distinct Pan American art.”[2]

Two Latin American artists, the Mexican José Clemente Orozco and the Brazilian Candido Portinari, painted mural works in the United States supposedly about the hemispheric history of America that in fact could not have been more regional. In tackling so-called “American” subjects in these murals, Orozco and Portinari challenge the idea of a homogenised culture articulated within Pan Americanism.  Although these murals were produced during the hey-day of Pan Americanism when there was an attempt to construct a culturally and historically unified America, Orozco and Portinari’s works above all express local, regional, and national influences.

Painted for the Baker Library at Dartmouth College, Orozco’s Epic of American Civilisation (1932-34) tells the story of America from the mythical past of the Americas up to the arrival of Cortés, and then narrates the development of America after the contact between the indigenous peoples and Europeans. Like every epic, his heroes’ battles involve self-sacrifice and regeneration for the sake of the enlightenment and liberation of human kind,[3] but his mythic ‘heroes’ are not heroes belonging to the entire American continent, as the title suggests, but specifically ‘heroes’ associated to Mexican regional stories (the Aztecs, Quetzalcoatl, and Cortez, the Revolutionary rebel).

Fig. 1

Figure 1. Jose Clemente Orozco. Epic of American Civilization, The Coming of Quetzalcoatl. The Pre Columbian-Age, 1932-34. Frescoes. Reserve reading room, Baker Library, Dartmouth College, Hanover, New Hampshire.

Figure 2. Jose Clemente Orozco. Epic of American Civilization, Cortez and the Cross, 1932-34. Fresco. Reserve reading room, Baker Library, Dartmouth College, Hanover, New Hampshire.

As the content and iconography show, his American civilisation corresponds only to Mexico in ancient times and mainly the civilisations of the United States and Mexico in modern times. Orozco made use of the Pan American cooperative mode of continental relations that circulated in the patronage community to paint a mural in the United States that not only challenged the idea of a culturally united America, but also criticised the United States agenda in his America.

Figure 3. Jose Clemente Orozco. Epic of American Civilization, Anglo America, Hispano America, 1932-34. Fresco. Reserve reading room, Baker Library, Dartmouth College, Hanover, New Hampshire.

For his epic, Orozco chose to focus on what made his America culturally and historically distinct from the rest of the Americas and from the United States. Orozco chose to portray Anglo America through a school and town meeting, which look like as a repressive, cold, calm, and standardizing world. Orozco explained that the picture of the town meeting illustrates part of the American political idealism which supposes that talking about public problems will keep order and peace and save the world.4]

In contrast to Anglo America, Hispano America is depicted as a violent and chaotic place, destroyed by imperialistic exploitation. Despite that, there is hope, which he represents in the figure of the Mexican rebel character, “the rebel spirit is what the US needs, the spirit of the Latin American, who will try to preserve his individuality and honour and self – respect at any cost.”[5]

Portinari, on the other hand, for his 1941 mural in the Hispanic Reading Room of the Library of Congress in Washington D.C. painted four historical cycles representing the colonisation period: Discovery of the Land, Entry into the Land, Teaching the Indians, and Discovery of Gold. Portinari’s history of colonial America is very similar to the history of Brazil that was being codified at that time by intellectuals and politicians.

At first glance,one could argue that the panels are in fact related to all the Americas’ colonial history.[6] However, if each of the panels is carefully analysed, it becomes clear that Portinari chose to interpret the colonisation of America through episodes specifically linked to the particular history of Brazil. The four panels are typical historical topics of the Brazilian national repertoire.

One of the main differences between Mexico and Brazil’s histories is that the former recognises and celebrates its ancient civilisation, while Brazil ignores its first natives. Hence, the fact that Orozco’s American epic starts with the Aztecs’ Migration while Portinari depicts the Discovery of the Land by the Europeans is not the result of pure chance.

Figure 4a. Jose Clemente Orozco. Epic of American Civilization, Migration, 1932-34. Frescoes. Reserve reading room, Baker Library, Dartmouth College, Hanover, New Hampshire.
Figure 4b. Candido Portinari. Discovery of the Land, 1941. Dry plaster in tempera. Hispanic Reading Room. Library of Congress. Washington D.C.

These different starting points are consequences of each of the countries’ distinct identity constructions. When Orozco painted, the indigenous past and the Mexican Revolution shaped Mexican visual arts directly, while for Portinari, Brazil’s colonial period imparted a sense of the country’s originality. In the context that followed the Independence of Brazil, historiography about territorial expansion, in many cases, sought to relate the occupation process to the uniqueness of being Brazilian. In this sense, the origins of the nation became the beginning of colonial occupation.[7]

The second panel, Entry into the Forest, clearly refers to the iconography of what in Brazil is known as the bandeirantes breakthrough. The bandeirantes were seventeenth-century Portuguese Brazilian slavers, fortune hunters, and adventurers from the São Paulo region whose expeditions represented the expansion towards the unknown west coast of Brazil. The theme of the bandeiras has a potential connection to North American history. Yet, this connection is not visible in Portinari’s panel, as he has painted a tropical country rather than arid land. Elements of the regional fauna and flora in the painting refute direct comparisons between the cultures.

Figure 5. Candido Portinari. Entry into the Land,
1941. Dry plaster in tempera. Hispanic Reading
Room. Library of Congress. Washington D.C.

In conclusion, Portinari’s and Orozco’s murals in the United States are relevant resources to combat the idea of a culturally and historically analogous Latin America. Above all, the murals’ symbols, imagery, styles, techniques, themes, narratives, regional allegories, objectives, and traditions in which each artist’s country of origin tell their histories challenge the idea of a Pan American art.


[1] Arturo Ardao, Génesis de la idea y el nombre de América Latina, (Caracas: Centro de Estudios Latinoamericanos Romulo Gallegos, 1980),16.

[2] Latin America Exhibition of Fine and Applied Art. Exh. Cat.,(New York: Rivermuseum, 1940).

[3] Jacquelynn Baas, “The Epic of American Civilization: The Mural at Dartmouth College,” in José Clemente Orozco in the United States, 1927-1934, edited by Renato González Mello and Diane Miliotes (New York and London: Hood Museum of Art, Dartmouth College and W.W. Norton & Co., 2002, 152.

[4] Quote in Baas, “The Epic of American Civilization: The Mural at Dartmouth College,” 168.

[5] Quote in Baas, The Epic of American Civilization: The Mural at Dartmouth College,” 168.

[6] Robert Smith writes in the booklet Murals by Cândido Portinari, Library of Congress, Hispanic Foundation (1943) that the director of the Library suggested to Portinari to look for symbols of identity common to both Portuguese and Spanish America.

[7] Raimundo Silvia Lopes, “Bandeirismo e identidade nacional,” Terra Brasilis 6 (2004): 1-18. https://journals.openedition.org/terrabrasilis/375 (accessed July 15, 2018).

Further readings:

  • Williams. Daryle. Culture Wars in Brazil: The First Vargas Regime, 1930-1945. Durham: Duke University Press, 2001.
  • Oles, James. Art and Architecture in Mexico. London: Thames & Hudson, 2013.

Renata Baltar completed in 2019 a master degree in modern and contemporary Art History, specialising in Latin America and United States at the City College of New York. She worked at the Museum of Art of São Paulo (MASP) from 2013 – 2016, and interned at Whitney Museum of American Art and at Metropolitan Museum of Art. She is currently writing a PhD research proposal in order to study how the new relationship with the US opened up unprecedented possibilities to reconfigure Brazil’s culture identity forged during the first half of the 20th century.

Categories
Film theory

‘How can a house have laughing windows?’

Grotesque Hallucinations and the Giallo Genre

Dr Laura Scalabrella Spada delves into a little known Italian thriller and explores themes of inversion, femininity and abjection.

The horror genre and the house always went hand in hand. From Poe’s The Fall of the House of Usher to Parasite, houses are sites of danger, mystery, and death. Houses hide secrets, curses, outsiders; they can be colonised by evil spirits; they can be ransacked by dangerous individuals.

Many feminist scholars have pointed out that the house represents a site of fears and vulnerability for women in particular. Houses can embody physical manifestations of the oppression and violence they underwent.

But sometimes this dynamic is upended. A little know Italian film, La casa dalle finestre che ridono (House of the laughing windows) by Pupi Avati (1976) provides a unique take. This film is associated with the Italian giallo, a cinematic term which combines thriller, horror and mystery genres.

Original poster for La casa dalle finestre che ridono, dir. Pupi Avati, 1976. The poster art copyright is believed to belong to A.M.A. Film.

In the movie (spoilers!), conservator Stefano is hired by the mayor of a lethargic, isolated village near Ferrara to work on a fresco in the local church. The fresco was made by the painter Buono Legnani, who died with his sisters in mysterious circumstances. Rumours about their madness and the strange, perverted rituals they engaged with circulate in the village, spread, among others, by the local priest. Legnani, Stefano learns, used to live in seclusion in a house with disturbing open mouths painted on the windows, in which he killed and then painted his victims. Soon, the situation precipitates: the painter’s killings have resumed, and Stefano must fight for his life. He scrambles to the church in search of safety, but here he finds, in an unprecedented twist, that the friendly priest had always been one of Legnani’s sisters – and she is ready to kill.

La casa dalle finestre che ridono is a movie structured on grotesque inversions and oppositions. The painter Legnani projects his murders onto (frankly ugly) religious artworks, such as the fresco of Saint Sebastian Stefano is hired to restore. Why would the local church commission and subsequently display disturbing paintings by the village madman is unclear. In a different movie, perhaps, these paintings would assume the role of narrative simulacra, and offer a philosophical take on the nature of images as signifiers of death – arresting the possibilities of life, turning motion into stillness. In this movie, however, they are to be taken at face value: Legnani’s Saint Sebastian is a childish mass of flesh and blood. And perhaps precisely because of this almost farcical forwardness, it appears to us as harbinger of a tangible sort of abjection.

The grotesque is, by definition, that which remains at the margins. In pre-modern scholarship, it is associated with the unrestrained, troublesome powers of creativity. The grotesque exemplified, for influential theorists of aesthetics such as Horace, Vitruvius and Vasari the threat posed by the profane, the alien, the feminine and the wild. Today, writers tend to emphasise its lack of definite forms. We call grotesque that which exists in between categories, what remains at the margin of consciousness, simultaneously known and unknown, perceived and unperceived. A sense of grotesque arises even more forcefully with the perception that something might surreptitiously exist within something else.

This idea of illegitimate presence is, in my opinion, the narrative thread that binds the movie together. One of its many sites of such tension is the hostility between Stefano and the village itself, in which inhabitants are custodians of local, dangerous secrets – a well-loved trope in the giallo genre. This theme emerges in other contexts too: why is Legnani’s house painted with smiling mouths? The combination of architectural and organic is a hallucinatory vision that has nothing to do with pareidolic perception. The laughing windows instill an embodied fear, one that even more forcefully presents itself upon the realisation that they offer no ulterior meanings. They laugh, it seems, at the viewer who desperately tries to make sense of them.

The final twist blurs perceived assumptions of gender and societal roles, and produce a defamiliarisation that would have been much more intense in the deeply religious catholic Italy of the 1970s. The ‘female priest’, director Pupi Avati recalls in an interview, was a folklore bogeyman his mother would use to frighten him into good behaviour. The fantasy of a female, murderous priest was unheard of and particularly disturbing, and not simply because religious figures are inherently associated with the divine. Women are excluded from priesthood, out of place in catholic power dynamics.

The clandestine presence of the feminine becomes in this context a slippage in established knowledge: traditional modes of interacting and understanding are destabilised. If the sense of grotesque emerges when things should not be where they are, the disruptive self-insertion of a woman in the hierarchical structures of organised religion produces a kind of undoing that is not simply psychoanalytical or societal. In La casa dalle finestre che ridono, bodily annihilation is very much in the picture.


Further readings:

  • Baschiera, Stefano, and Russ Hunter, eds. Italian Horror Cinema. Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press, 2016.
  • Connelly, Frances. The Grotesque in Western Art and Culture – the Image at Play. New York: Cambridge University Press, 2012.
  • Heller-Nicholas, Alexandra. ‘A Brutal Nobility: Painting Death in The House with Laughing Windows (Pupi Avati, 1976)’. Bright Lights Film Journal, 2014.