[This is the first of four films that I'll see at the Museum of Modern Art's Straub-Hulliet retrospective in May. Perhaps foolishly, I plan to write a little about each of them]
First and foremost, Jean-Marie Straub and the late Danièle Huillet were interpreters. Every one of the filmmaking duo's works was an adaptation of some sort - of a novel, play, poem, opera or, in the case of 'Fortini/Cani,' personally-charged political essay. Their 1976 cinematic meditation takes as its basis the writings of Franco Fortini, an Italian Jewish intellectual whose 'Dogs of Sinai' is a sweeping assessment of the political landscape following the Six Day War. Fortini points a finger at all culpable parties, condemning the Israelis who vilified and slaughtered Arabs, Italian communists who promoted the conflict and interested foreign powers who secretly provided military support. He equates them to Italians during World War II, namely the anti-Semitic Fascists and those craven enough to pretend the Nazis were entirely to blame once that war had ended. The dogs of Sinai, he metaphorizes, are not dogs but the various men who flock behind strong but ethically corrupt nations, eager for a spot at the foot of the bed.
To adapt these writings would occur to very few filmmakers, as they contain no intrinsic imagery, much less a straightforward story to follow. Fortini blurs the line between personal and political, constructing (or reconstructing) a flat historiographical plane that reconciles wars and upheavals with intimate reminiscences. He dedicates as much time to anecdotes of his youth, his relationship with his father and his internal struggles with his Jewishness as he does to untangling and refuting the fallacies of the New Left. In the hands of Straub-Huillet, this is less a predicament than a plenitude of resources, of memories, events and, most significantly, words to form their own objet d'art.
Those words, read by Fortini in monotone (with the slightest undertone of bile), are paired with long takes of rural Italy. Renato Berta's roaming camera captures the countryside in panoramic pans; windblown trees, empty fields, superficially peaceful landscapes. The viewer is likely unaware that the locale is Marzabotto, the small town where hundreds of citizens were slaughtered by Nazi soldiers in September of 1944 for harboring partisans. Still, in the rift between image and text, the atrocity is suggested, as is their attempted erasure. Fortini appears on screen, stern, eyes downcast as if reading a eulogy. His chilling accounts reveal the invisible history of Marzabotto, of his country.
The narrator recounts his conflicted childhood, specifically his relationship with his father, a Florentine Jew and banker who was ostracized, beat and arrested by the Fascists because of his persuasion. His story is juxtaposed with shots of commercial Florence, business carrying on as usual. When Fortini recalls his misguided conversion to Catholicism as an adolescent, we are shown a solemn service at a Jewish temple from a telling distance, the droning chants at odds with his monologue. The associative choices of scenery, though initially confounding, are far from arbitrary. They illuminate the author's jaundiced views, and combine with them to constitute a new and distinct statement. The 360 degree pans are also meaningful, unifying Fortini's elliptical discourse with the physical spaces they refer to, in a motion as expansive as his poetical prose.
By no means do the notoriously cryptic filmmakers spell anything out for the viewer. Patently against elucidation as a matter of principle, Straub-Huillet employ many of their usual obfuscatory tactics. When I saw this film at the Museum of Modern Art as part of their complete retrospective, significant stretches of speech were not subtitled. This was no oversight, as the duo supervised all of their translations, keeping only the dialogue they thought was absolutely vital. When excerpts of Fortini's incendiary print articles are shown late in the film, the downward pan (and the corresponding subtitles) move a touch too fast to comfortably process. The length and repetitiveness of this scene, along with a few others, will undoubtedly frustrate some, as will the jarring cuts that practically clip off dialogue. Most crucially, little to no background information is given. Without the bare minimum of context, most viewers will find 'Fortini/Cani' a trying experience. Indeed, multiple paying customers walked out during the show at MoMA. Those who stayed were forced to work harder than perhaps they'd ever worked before, not just to understand the film but to endure it. Personally, I was riveted. The experience was not a pleasurable one, but considering the subject matter, should it have been? That this work concerning so many ordeals is an ordeal in itself is a testament to its efficacy.
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