Pasolini

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1

Are these actors masochist?

If I chose them, they are.

Is sex about politics?

There's nothing that isn't politics.

When your last film, Sal, will be released,

will you scandalize again?

I think to scandalize is a right,

to be scandalized is a pleasure,

and those who refuse to be scandalized are moralists.

the so called moralists.

Why aren't you a militant anymore?

What do you mean?

You are not a political militant anymore.

I am more than ever.

Are you nostalgic of the period in which people insulted you in the streets?

They're still insulting me.

Does it provokes you a certain pleasure?

I don't deny it

since I'm not a moralist.

What is the profession you prefer?

Poet? Writer? Scenarist? Actor? Critic? Director?

In my passport, I simply report: "writer".

Dear Alberto

I send you this

so that you can give me advice.

It's a novel

but it's not written like

true novels are:

its terminology is

the one used in essays,

in some newspaper articles,

in reviews,

in private letters

or even in poetry.

This is the advice I ask from you:

is what I've written enough,

in order to decently and

poetically say what I wanted to say?

I'd like you to consider,

before advicing me

that the protagonist

of this novel is whoever he is

and, analogies between his

story and mine aside,

he disgusts me.

This novel is of no use

to my life anymore..

It is not a proclamation.

It is the preamble to a testament

the testimony of that little of

knowledge that a man has gathered,

a totally different knowledge

from what he had expected it to be.

or wondered.

Love.

Go.

Good.

Good. Come on..

Yes...

Ninni.. Pieruti

Mom.

You're back...

We've been so far away one from another.

I'm getting up, mom.

Hi Pieruti.

Hi Graziella.

How did the trip go?

It went well, thanks.

Listen Graziella...

you have to read Sciascia's last novel,

you can take it from my desk

it's a really important book.

Thank you, I'll read it.

Carlo Levi called to say hi.

Yes.

La Stampa's editor

would like you to call him back.

Ok.

Ah,

I've copied your speech for the radicals'

meeting and I've put it

on your desk.

That's good, thanks.

Carlo was not the only powerful individual

to adapt to such an official feast

destination for opportunists

for snobs

for background actors,

for officials and bureaucrats with ladies.

And he wasn't the only one

who had to make the best of a bad situation.

At the center, unmoved mover,

was the Head of State..

Even during the democracy process

the holy game of kings kept being played,

and the ritualistic life

of royalty is still well spread

among the bourgeoisie...

Meanwhile all around Carlo,

who just entered, there was pure chaos.

I've been attacked by

certain journalists lately,

journalists related to ENI

So many disappointments.

That's why I had to do it my way.

I tell you, tell the Americans

that the government has no intention

whatsoever of taxating oil.

Sure, sure, sure.

Vincenzo Cazzaniga is highly esteemed

in the very Vatican Bank.

The Agnellis get their money back

through the Vatican Bank.

Sure.

To us Andreotti and

honesty are the same thing.

Because if he says that those bombs in

Milan are not our problem,

it means that they're not.

Well then, we adapt

we adapt to all this.

OK, that's right.

Narrative,

as you well know, is dead.

We're mourning it.

Mine is not a tale, but a metaphor.

The meaning of this metaphor

is the relationship between

an artist and what he creates and shapes.

Narrative,

as you well know, is dead.

We're mourning it.

Mine is not a tale, but a metaphor.

The meaning of this metaphor

is the relationship between

an artist and what he creates and shapes.

Andrea Fago, or the "eating man",

took as usually the Alitalia DC9 flight,

on a calm spring afternoon,

a flight ought to land on Cape Town.

- There you go.

- Thanks..

What's your name, miss?

Caterina.

Caterina.

At what time we're done, Caterina?

We land at 12.

And are you going to have lunch with someone?

No.

May I invite you?

Why not?

Those would be some hours of quite

and beautiful travel.

First of all Egypt,

and its Nile,

and its green trees,

and its palms and

the cornfields, and the dark ocra villages.

After that Sudan,

and its neverending

southern desert,

so wonderfully pink.

I would like to insist that

this desert's pink is

really something:

but it's even more impressive

its vastness.

It never ends and never changes,

from Kartoum to

Rudolph Lake.

what gives a feeling of terror to this desert

though is the fact that

it is not a desert,

but a huge hollow country,

forgotten by both God and man.

Well, this was the desert

in which the Alitalia DC9 crashed.

All that I'm going to tell you

was not displayed

in this world's theatre but

in my head's.

It took not place in the space of reality,

but in the one of my imagination.

And eventually, it played out not according

to the contradictory rules

of the game of the existence,

but it did according to the

contradictory rules of the game of my reason.

Andrea Fago wathed those men

who where coming towards him.

Those ancient men

he knew so well.

He contemplated them, no, he recognised them

silent.

Then a smile,

an amazing smile stretched his lips

and enlightened his eyes.

That smile was enigmatic because

it was so human,

that it came from the mind.

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