I've been ensconced in Italian film lately. Spooky murder junkie that I am, I unfortunately don't mean masterpieces like Bicycle Thieves or La grande bellezza (I’d recommend both anyway). I mean I've been mainlining violent, flashy, off-the-wall gialli.
I love Italian giallo films; I'm a terrible sucker for turning fake violence into striking art. I'll write a little more about what storytelling and character lessons you learn from gialli (I'll be using the technically correct Italian term for the plural of giallo, because I am a shameless pedant) later, but I want to focus on one in particular right now.
I'm almost embarrassed to admit how much I loved What Have You Done to Solange? It’s a graphic, disturbing story that constantly teeters between effective shock and exploitation; so that I don’t diminish any of the film’s impact, I’ll only say that it involves the murder of teenage girls, and that the first scene features our protagonist, a gym teacher at a private girls’ high school, out with one of his very young students, with whom he is having an affair. But that’s almost part of the film’s allure, and it’s a wonderfully effective thriller. Those of you familiar with this genre know that murky, slippery plotting is more or less par for the course (the energy and visual/auditory impact makes up for it), but Solange has a clear, engrossing narrative. The fact that the name is never mentioned until about an hour in— and that every character is reluctant to even admit she exists—heightens the tension.
Even in the seventies, kicking the movie off with a pedophilic, predatory lead seems like a bold move. But nevertheless, I spent the entire movie hoping this fella would clear his name. It’s not giving anything away to say that Enrico Rosseni, our lead, is not responsible for the murders; the film never tries to turn the audience in that direction. It’s driven me back to pondering how you bring an audience to care about a despicable character.
I’ve written a little about this before; a viewer or reader needs to connect with characters in a story, on screen or in writing, to understand them. I don’t know how anyone can enjoy a story if they don’t care what happens to the characters. The only successful attempt at this that I can think of is Gone Girl, where Nick and Amy Dunne compete for the reader’s hatred. Gone Girl was brilliantly written and executed, but I can’t say I enjoyed a single page of listening to those two freaks. I maintain that the end of that novel is beautifully happy; Nick and Amy back together means everyone else in the world is spared their sniveling bullshit.
In any case, I turn back to Giorgio Pellegrini of Massimo Carlotto’s At the End of a Dull Day, who I still think is the worst (as in, terrible person) character I’ve ever encountered in a book. I said previously that Pellegrini remains compelling because above all else, he fears losing control; this is a universal fear. Thinking about Solange, I wonder if the issue of injustice is also involved. For all his dastardly deeds in A Dull Day, despite his contempt for all women that is matched only by his hatred of every other man he meets, Pellegrini suffers an injustice. Mafiosi take over his beloved restaurant purely because they can, and even the reader knows this is unfair. Suffering a miscarriage of justice, I think, is a powerful and visceral fear. For a good chunk of Solange—or long enough—Rosseni is suspected of murdering the girls. The audience knows this isn’t true; Rosseni might be several things, but he isn’t a murderer. I think this very real fear, of the unfairness of being accused of a crime you didn’t commit, is enough to get the viewer to connect.
There are additional reasons for the audience sympathy for Rosseni, I’ll admit. Played by Fabio Testi, he’s poised, cultured, and very good looking (see above). There’s no polite way of saying this, so here it is: despite his affair, he doesn’t come off as a predator. He isn’t manipulative or violent. Unlike Pellegrini, he has a motivation beyond self-preservation. He might have shockingly poor judgment, and almost certainly shouldn’t be teaching teenagers, but he does have a moral center. So just what it is that makes him palatable—and soon enough, likeable—I'm still not certain.
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