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Toni Servillo stands out as Berlusconi in Sorrentino's scattergun satire |
Director: Paolo Sorrentino
Cast: Toni Servillo (Silvio Berlusconi/Ennio Doris), Elena
Sofia Ricci (Veronica Laria), Riccardo Scamarcio (Sergio Morra), Kasia Smutniak
(Kira), Euridice Axen (Tamara), Fabrizio Bentivoglio (Santino Recchia), Roberto
De Francesco (Fabrizio Sala), Dario Cantarelli (Paolo Spagnolo)
No one films decadence like Paolo Sorrentino. Many of his
films have gone overboard to demonstrate Italy’s shallowness, corruption and
greed. Loro feels like the subject he
has been building towards his entire career: the heart of the whirlwind
himself, Silvio Berlusconi. Sorrentino’s film is about Berlusconi, but it’s as
much about the Italy he has created and the impact on Italians themselves. Its
title translates as “Them” – and the film juggles with the idea of which “them”
it’s referring too.
The film follows the career of Berlusconi from 2006 to 2009,
as a he deals with the aftermath of losing power and the boredom of having very
little to do in his palatial mansion. All around him – like flies around honey
– the newly rich try everything to gain Berlusconi’s attention, throwing lavish
prostitute-and-drugs parties. But what does Berlusconi want? Is it more of the
same, is it a return to power, is it a chance to do good, is it a chance to
make amends, is it a return to the spotlight? Who is Berlusconi?
Sorrentino’s film follows his usual style, and makes full
use of his dynamic and electric directorial style. Boy this guy loves to keep
the camera on the move, and he combines it with some snappily filmic editing
that creates a series of scenes that fit sharply together. Sorrentino really
can cut the hell out of a picture, and his style lends itself perfectly to
depicting the extreme hedonism at the centre of the lives of many people whom
he makes films about. His fast cut editing style, dynamic camerawork and use of
modern music stringing it all together make for a perfect visual language for the
shallowness he sees in large parts of modern Italy. But this approach doesn’t
always engage the viewer, leaving them watching the technique instead – and that’s
arguably what happens here.
A large chunk of the first half of the film centres around
Riccardo Scamarcio’s Sergio Morra, a fictional “businessman” from Southern
Italy who uses attractive women and drugs to land lucrative government
contracts from ageing officials. Just in case we are in any doubt, it’s made
clear very quickly that Morra is unbelievably shallow, venal, corrupt and
interested only on what he can take from his country. His life is one of unalloyed
selfishness, centred around drug-fuelled orgies (filmed very well by Sorrentino
of course!). Morra builds a partnership with Berlusconi’s fading mistress
(extremely well played with more than a hint of tragedy by Kasia Smutniak)
focused solely on getting as close as possible to power. Almost all of the
first 45 minutes (and yes that is too long!) is centred around establishing
Morra’s vileness and his empty world. It’s as clear a portrait of modern Italy
captured in one man as you can wish for, but its constant unpleasantness and
prolonged sex and drugs with little plot gets more than a little wearying after
a while. We get it Paolo!
But Sorrentino wants to make a clear point here:
Berlusconi’s Italy has given rise to people like this, people who have an
interest only in what they can take from the country, people who think being
able to throw the most lavish party, having the most money, making the loudest
noise makes them “better” than regular people. It’s these people interpreting the
image of Berlusconi as giving them a green light for greed. When we promote
puffed up egotists and fun-lovers as our leaders, then grasping venal imbeciles
like Morra with no sense of morality or decency see that as an invitation to
join them at the top table.
After this introduction to Morra, when we finally meet
Berlusconi himself it’s surprising how different he seems. Yes he’s a casual,
shallow, rather grandiose figure – but in the hands of Toni Servillo,
Sorrentino’s regular collaborator, he’s a more complex person than you might
expect. Bored and a little depressed at home, Berlusconi also sees himself as
far more than just a party animal turned politician. He’s a man, for all his
shallowness and greed, who needs to believe that he is there for the good of
the people. But what the film doesn’t quite do is “nail” him – perhaps because
he is unnailable – but the film doesn’t feel like it lands a true blow. Or even
makes a really clear point about the presidency of this man. Sorrentino’s anger
is in every frame, but I’m not sure he really puts together a convincing – or
completely engaging – argument about this.
Servillo’s performance as Berlusconi is the true highlight
of the film, a complex mystery of a man who wants to be decent, but not enough
to change or to actually carry out selfless acts. Sorrentino sees him as a
salesman at heart – the salesman who sold himself as the corrupted answer to all
Italy’s problems – and the film’s highlight is probably a sequence when
Berlusconi girds his tired salesman’s loins to cold-call a random ageing woman,
plucked from the phone book, to flog her a flat in an apartment block he hasn’t
even started to build yet. It’s a neat capturing of what energises this man
behind the fixed smile – and a sign as well of how little reality matters to
this peddler of dreams. You can see why business partner Ennio Doris (played
also by Servillo, making Doris a neat facet of Berlusconi’s own personality)
pushes him to get back to selling and blagging to rebuild his confidence.
Sorrentino grounds most of the film in the growing
disillusionment of Berlusconi’s wife Veronica, expertly played by Elena Sofia
Ricci. Smart, quick-witted but too ready for too long to sacrifice her
principles for the comfort of marriage to the loaded Silvio, Veronica becomes,
if not exactly a conscience, at the very least a voice for sanity in
Berlusconi’s world. In a film where the majority of the characters are gilded
fronts like Berlusconi or soulless obscenities like Morra, she is the closest
thing we have to a decent person.
Veronica’s growing sense of discomfort at the “me-first”,
power and money above everything world that Berlusconi has created draws the
viewer’s attention to the other “them” the film deals with. Yes, we have the
party-loving elite here, but the other them are the people we hardly see – the
regular Italians, the ordinary citizens. These intrude rarely into the film,
but tellingly they dominate the final sequences of the film which deal with the
aftermath of the L’Aquila earthquake. As firefighters rest from their labours
in the ruined city – including saving a statue of Jesus Christ from a ruined
church – the camera pans across their exhausted, sweaty faces staring wearily,
while the word “Loro” remains on screen.
It’s in that final shot that Sorrentino’s film really seems
to land. Because amongst all this partying and greed which has dominated – and
often exhausted the viewer – we are finally reminded that the people really
paying the price are the regular people, whose needs are not monitored, who are
readily and easily forgotten. Sorrentino’s film may drift too often in really
making a point or feeling like it nails Berlusconi. But when it makes points
like this it really works.
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