500 Movies – #459: Accattone

1961
Directed by Pier Paolo Pasolini

Along with Fellini’s earliest films, Pier Paolo Pasolini’s feature debut marks a shift away from the neorealism that had defined the past decade or so of Italian film. Shot on location with non-professional actors as many Italian features were at the time, Pasolini’s film nonetheless manages to tap into a sense of poesy, metaphor, and abstract self-reflection that feels far more modern and enduring than many of its peers.

The story concerns the titular character (a nickname that roughly translates as “scoundrel”) a pimp, liar and cheat played by Franco Citti. Caring essentially only for himself, he talks big and shows that he will do anything to get his way. His treatment of the prostitute Maddalena (Silvana Corsini) is abhorrent, as is his tendency to steal from his own infant son, but gradually through his budding affection for the naïve Stella (Franca Pasut) it is revealed that there may be tenderness beneath his rough exterior. Ultimately, though, Accattone demonstrates the unbreakable nature of the cycle of poverty and crime.

In other neorealist pictures, a prime example being the low fantasy of Miracle in Milan, honest working class people are kept down by forces much bigger than them. Many years of struggle followed the end of World War II, and films from around the time were portraits of resilience, resourcefulness and love. Pasolini though, focuses on characters who are being held back (and held down) by their own vices. Virtue exists in these characters, but it is covert and muffled beneath layers calcified by misfortune. A dark dream sequence late in the film unravels this aspect of the protagonist.

Watching Accattone is actually very reminiscent of cinematic realism that would follow decades later. The groundbreaking Rosetta or 2017’s The Florida Project come to mind. There is roughness and desperation to the events of the film, but it is tempered by a keen-eyed examination of humanity. Accattone is filled with moments of striking poignance and irony, such as the choral music by J.S. Bach that swells on the soundtrack as the protagonist gets into another scuffle, or a moment of deference to God that is followed by a pan up to a blank brick wall that surveys the scene.

Pasolini’s pessimism, firmly established here, followed him right through to the end of his career, cut short when he was murdered. He would go on to make more subversive films (like the downright shocking Salò, or the 120 Days of Sodom), but in the context of when it was made, Accattone is a brilliant opening shot, not just narratively, but in the way it looks, flows, and sounds. This film signposted where cinema would go for decades.