I couldn’t understand how to read the time. I had no idea that time could be measured with hands pointing to well-defined numbers on a dial. The morning school routine, afternoon homework and swimming, and dinner time were sufficient. The day I discovered how to read the time, I was at the foot of the hill at Villa Ada, which leads from the lower park to the upper one: …two fifteen… I exclaimed! I had learned to read the time and discovered that time existed in the form of numbers. Many years later, while filming a documentary, I noticed that one of the oldest clocks in the world, built-in 1344 and located in the Clock Tower of Padua, had the minutes coded in blocks of five. From 10:00 you would move to 10:05. At that time, no trains were departing at 10:03.
Many aspects surrounding the profession of cinematographer and craftsmanship, in general, are like that clock for a child. A set of invisible and almost secret languages. Few have any idea of the difficulty involved in hand-making Oxford shoes. We admire and wear them without remotely suspecting the work and skill that lies behind them.
Regarding my discovery of Cinema and the first invisible traces I intercepted, I have two vivid summer memories. Two episodes that struck me profoundly. The day after watching my first 007 film in the cinema, I wanted to return to see what would happen next. I think I was very fond of the Aston Martin and its tricks. I didn’t want to believe that the same story would repeat itself in the cinema the following day. I expected something different, just as one might rightly expect from life… “You saw it yesterday; it’s the same as yesterday…” my mother would say. I didn’t want to believe it: does life repeat itself? So, patiently, my mother took me back to the cinema and asked the ticket seller if she could let me in for a moment. The usher affectionately opened the curtain, and I saw the same image as the day before: a man moving stealthily with a gun. That image is etched in my memory. I remember my surprise mixed with disappointment, but I discovered that they were showing the same performance as the day before. Thus, films were not magically created behind or even inside the screen, almost as if it were a hallucinatory event.
A few years later, in the summer of ’75, in Anzio, Dino Risi was filming Telefoni bianchi on the terrace of Tirrena. Tirrena is the most important establishment on the eastern beach—a pier extending into the sea. I followed all aspects of scene construction, and when Risi looked at the camera, he exclaimed loudly… “How can we shoot with that horrible skyscraper on Nettuno’s coast?! We can’t shoot like this!…” The operator kindly approached him and said… “It’s all right Dino, look…”, he moved closer to a closed umbrella on a concrete base and adjusted it until it perfectly obscured the skyscraper. Beautiful! I understood that making films also involved using “tricks.” I remember staying until evening, right up to the last take.
As spectators, we do not suspect that behind the construction of an image lies an invisible dimension of realisation. As professionals, we should always bear in mind that Cinema is a highly codified job both aesthetically and technically and that seeking originality is an important theme. Being attentive spectators of our craft and its excellence is vital; however, it does not automatically mean that our profession will help us develop personal research or careful study of our work. One can indeed learn to read time without ever considering that time is just another form of coding.
Let us try to transform work time into an experience of research rather than mere aging. Let us pay attention to uncovering hidden language codes within film images. Let us work on the concept of good taste and strive to contain the narcissistic component that invariably accompanies every aspect of Cinema.
From Il rettangolo di gioco, currently being written.
