#neorealism

[valentineua]

Still Life with Peaches (1927) - Luigi Lucioni

[2rid]

Arturo Luz (1926-2021, Philippines), Untitled, 1985 — lithograph [here]

[scholarofgloom]

[manyu-ten]

Neorealist Crime drama mini-series starring Helena Bertinelli, with references and themes to classic Italian neorealism cinema.

Things like Bitter Rice (1949) which examines themes of overt sexualization and critique on capitalism and L'Avventura (1960) which deals with the disappearance of a young woman and has themes surrounding spiritual emptiness, social alienation and character communication.

These are themes that can be translated to comic style fairly well, especially in the scope of neo-noir styles of storytelling and the general aesthetic of Helena Bertinelli as a thematic character.

[titlecards]

Bicycle Thieves [Ladri di biciclette] (1948), dir. Vittorio De Sica

[germanpostwarmodern]

Konrad Klapheck’s (1935-2023) paintings of machines and household appliances are easily remembered icons of German postwar modern art. But what at first sight seems rather straightforward depictions of well-known objects upon closer inspection reveals its actual ambiguity: devoid of their initial function, Klapheck streamlined their appearance and charged them with meaning. They become symbols of a technology-based society, its power structures and cultural roles.

Up until April 26, 2026, the Museum Schloss Cappenberg concludes a year dedicated to the Neue Sachlichkeit with „Konrad Klapheck - Nicht von Menschenhand“ and with it contributes to the renewed discourse surrounding art, technology and its imageries. At the same time it connects Klapheck and Franz Roh’s concept of „Magical Realism“ as represented by e.g. Richard Oelze whose paintings blur the lines of realism and surrealism.

Coinciding with the exhibition Verlag Kettler published the present catalogue that reproduces the paintings and drawings included in the exhibition and contextualizes Klapheck’s art in four worthwhile essays by Arne Reimann, Kay Heymer, Tanja Wessolowski and Sasa Hanten. Reimann, the exhibition’s curator, underscores the intertwining of body and machine in Klapheck’s art, especially in his depictions of water taps and showers that are charged with erotic allusions. At the same time, as Reimann explains, his works evade straightforward legibility and instead embrace ambiguity that also aren’t resolved by their titles as he only assigned these after finishing them.

Klapheck’s artistic development and biographical background are elucidated by Kay Heymer who stresses the artist’s connectedness with the historical and postwar avant-garde. On the other hand he also campaigns for Klapheck’s preliminary drawings: his colleague Gotthard Graubner had pointed out their significance and since 1973 Klapheck presented them as autonomous works. Luckily the exhibition also shows several of them.

With the present catalogue the reader receives a profound and readable supplement to an exhibition that offers a first posthumous overview of Konrad Klapheck’s significant oeuvre. Warmly recommended!

[twittercomfrnklin2001-blog]

The Marrying Kind

George Cukor freely admitted he did his best work when he had the best scripts. By that measure, 1952 was surely one of his golden years, since he got to direct two screenplays by Ruth Gordon and Garson Kanin. Their PAT AND MIKE (1952) is arguably the best of the Spencer Tracy-Katharine Hepburn films, while their THE MARRYING KIND (1952, TCM, Tubi) is a big surprise, a successful melding of Hollywood and neo-realism. It may also be the most Chekhovian movie script before Woody Allen came along.

Shooting largely on real locations, Cukor starts with the divorce trial for unhappy couple Judy Holliday and Aldo Ray (in his first major role). The judge (Madge Kennedy) asks them to stay after hours to explain why they feel they can’t make their marriage work. What follows is a series of flashbacks, with the stars narrating and arguing over what happened as the scenes depicted sometimes diverge from what they’re saying on screen. After an idyllic sequence in which they meet in Central Park, they marry and start experiencing the pressures of raising a family and coping with Ray’s ambitions, which leave him feeling a failure when he can’t land a get-rich-quick scheme.

The location work grounds the film and gives you a look at places like Port Authority and the corner of Broadway and 42nd as they existed in the early 1950s. Nor is there anything glamorous about the interiors. Ray and Holliday’s tiny two-bedroom apartment is so crowded they keep having to dodge the furniture. The characters are carefully drawn so they become their own worst enemies, and though the script gives the couple some comic zingers when they’re fighting, there are also scenes with impressively indirect dialog that captures what’s going on emotionally without having to spell it out. The piece de resistance is a picnic scene that starts with little comments on city folk trying to enjoy a country outing despite ants and dirt getting in their food. When their son runs off to play, Holliday picks up a ukelele and delivers a charmingly amateurish rendition of “Dolores” until the action behind them shifts the scene from gentle comedy to heartbreak.

To get the right realistic feel, Cukor only cast one star, Holliday. Kanin advised her to go for realism in the film, and she does a pretty impressive job of building her comedy on a solid emotional base and finding the resonance behind simple phrases. Cukor pulled Ray out of the ranks of supporting players and helped coach a surprisingly nuanced performance out of him. He also cast unfamiliar New York actors like Sheila Bond and Peggy Cass, along with character players like Kennedy (in her first film since she was a silent star), John Alexander, Phyllis Povah, Mickey Shaughnessy (his speech about how happy he is with his simple job and home life is a gem), Nancy Kulp and Joan Shawlee. There’s even a bit by a young Charles Bronson as one of Ray’s co-workers in which he gets to smile and laugh decades before he became the great stone face of action movies.

[framesofitaly]

Federico Fellini once said: "There are actors who simply act, and then there’s Alberto Sordi".

Born in Rome in 1920, he was Roman to the bone.

Before becoming a star, Sordi dubbed Oliver Hardy in the Italian versions of Laurel & Hardy. That gig taught him rhythm — how to make a pause speak louder than a punchline. After the war, when Italy was rebuilding both its streets and its spirit, he became our reflection: vain, confused, full of hope and contradictions.

His Nando Mericoni in Un americano a Roma (1954) is still one of the great comic creations — a guy desperate to be American, stuffing himself with “maccaroni” while pretending to be from Kansas City. It’s hilarious, but underneath the laughs there’s something tender: a young Italy dreaming of modernity but still tangled in its own past. Then there’s I vitelloni (1953), where Sordi plays the eternal adolescent, and Il vedovo (1959), a dark comedy where he turns selfishness into art. And of course La grande guerra (1959), where humor and tragedy walk hand in hand — proof that Sordi could make us laugh and break our hearts in the same scene.

What made him special wasn’t just his talent for comedy. It was his humanity. Through his characters — the opportunist, the coward, the dreamer — he showed us who we were without judging. He laughed with us, not at us. Even now, decades later, when I rewatch his films, I feel that same mix of affection and embarrassment — like seeing an old photo of yourself doing something foolish but honest.

Sordi didn’t just tell Italian stories; he helped Italy understand itself. And maybe that’s why we still love him — because in his laughter, there’s always a piece of truth.