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The Revolutions of 1848 as slapstick revue, full of Ambrose Bierce's "rulers, mostly knaves, and soldiers, mostly fools." Out of the dungeon and into the flow of history courtesy of a stray cannonball, the Milanese thief (Adriano Celentano) bumps into caricature after caricature in a slurry of flags and anthems. "The city is teetering on the verge of anarchy!" The boneheaded baker (Enzo Cerusico) is a dogged sidekick, the patriotic hero (Glauco Onorato) secretly oversees Austrian fusillades, the vehement baron (Sergio Graziani) blurs the line between nationalistic firebrand and deranged rapist. In the heat of regime change, the Felliniesque lardass in the pillaged palace pours ice water on the enthusiasm of the poor: "Don't you understand that the nobles consider you their only true enemy?" Dario Argento's farcical barricades, a political commedia dell'arte curdled with bile and blood, not so far in the end from Bertolucci's Novecento. (Like Losey's Modesty Blaise or Bergman's All These Women, it's a supposedly lighthearted departure that accentuates the bitterness of the artist's outlook.) A crown on red velvet stands for Turin while a paper dove swathed in gold embodies Rome, the king lies out of sight yet within earshot of a hearty "va a fare in culo!" A dubious feminine schism is observed along the way, one on side the expectant mother (Luisa De Santis) screaming for help in an abandoned building and on the other the wanton noblewoman (Marilù Tolo) treating insurrectionists to a post-battle gangbang. From the bottom of shoes to the tip of top hats, the haughty aristocracy remains a constant in the picaresque chaos, the plebeian cry of disillusionment rings across a Tricolore screen. "Viva gli eroi della nostra storia!" Polanski in Pirates takes up the mix of the opulent and the lowbrow. With Carla Tatò, Tom Felleghy, Ivana Monti, and Salvatore Baccaro.
--- Fernando F. Croce |