Although many failed to go beyond the obvious comical veneer presented by the much-loved fictional character of Ugo Fantozzi, Kenneth Charles Curmi prefers to delve beyond the superficial. He writes about the dance between slave and man as he pays tribute to Paolo Villaggio on the actor’s passing.
It hasn’t been 18 days since Fantozzi, of the Ufficio Sinistri, disappeared. And yet, this time around his absence was felt within hours and no amount of sniffing or sniffling will bring him back.
Rolling tongues, whacks on the head, a variety of falls and collisions, as well as frequent mistreatment of sensitive body parts and a number of other antics ensured that many hours of my much younger self were spent laughing uncontrollably. The gestures and mimes of this almost perfectly round, ball-like character only added to the joys of a mind easily tickled.
Back then, the occasional topless scene provided for an awkward, but welcome moment. Awkward especially when, or rather, only when enjoying the benefits of parental guidance. Come to think of it, the expectant anxiety, coupled with the intense desire to feast my eyes on the forbidden, may well have been my first encounter with true paradox, which has now become my constant life companion.
I didn’t think much of it back then. I saw. I laughed. I left. Next day, on the school bus, I might perhaps recall and go through the jokes with my classmates. Protrude that tongue out slightly, rub hands vigorously, utter a few memorable quotes: “Ehi, tu... Caifa!”, “Com’è umano lei”. And, of course, the more vulgar ones which, as children, we could handle and laugh over, but, as an adult writing for a prestigious newspaper, I must censor myself from typing, lest I burden the editor with the embarrassing task of deletion.
It was only years later, after mind-numbingly watching rerun after rerun, year after year, adventure after misadventure of the adorable ragioniere, it was only then, at the age of 20 or thereabouts, during one of my Italian lectures at university, that Professor Brincat, a learned man from whom I learnt greatly, opened my eyes and enlightened us as to the true meaning behind those otherwise silly escapades.
He explained to us how Paolo Villaggio’s character symbolised the common man, how he was a placeholder, if you will, for any average Joe, forever destined to court his Fortuna in vain. Many people don’t realise that the whole Fantozzi saga is deeper than that which meets the eye, he pointed out.
Many people don’t realise that the whole Fantozzi saga is deeper than what meets the eye
Many people still don’t. Bar a few exceptions, the visual elegies found online don’t dare to tread beyond the superficial surface, possibly for the same reasons Fantozzi subtly hinted at, opting instead to laud the character’s undeniable ability to make us laugh at the ‘inevitable’ realities we all face daily.
My professor’s insight proved very useful, and I started to watch the series with renewed interest. I analysed the films, paying attention at each moment and mindful of the details, always looking for more.
I followed the professor’s thread and saw where it ended: I picked up the jagged end and produced my own string ball, tying the ends together. Then I continued on the journey through the labyrinth of metaphor and allegory, carrying the torch of wisdom that the professor, and other professors and learned men, in the flesh and in the book, had handed me.
My eyes were open. I saw new things, I noticed subtle details, I realised certain things that had never troubled my hitherto satiated mind. I noticed how the first two episodes in the series differed considerably from the following; I also noticed how, nowhere during these first two instances does a naked mammary feature. How two or more gradually made their presence, albeit never felt, if I recall correctly, in the later films.
Eventually I learnt that the first two, Fantozzi and Il secondo tragico Fantozzi, were shot only a year apart in the 1970s, and were directed by Luciano Salce. Four years would pass before the third instalment, this time directed by Nero Parenti, who would direct all the rest bar one. Salce would never direct another Fantozzi, though he did direct Professor Kranz tedesco di Germania in 1978, a film in which Villaggio interprets a character he himself had created and who somewhat resembles Fantozzi. I learnt how the 1980s were a period of crisis for Italian cinema: the years characterised by trash TV and, during which, many Fantozzi films were filmed.
I also realised that the exploits of Fantozzi were not merely of the innocent type, and not reducible to a simple, but futile, search for success. There was something far more sinister at play. More sinister because it was not merely about the natural human condition, but it was an imposed human condition: it had a casus, even though we mostly witnessed solely its effects; it was a tragedy caused by humans, in which everyone, oppressors and oppressed, was guilty.
It wasn’t merely an impersonal Fortuna we were dealing with here. Rather, it was a conscious and consistently successful attempt at controlling that Fortuna, directing and redirecting it as the mega powers that be pleased, distributing it in a manner that ensures no distribution. An appropriation of sorts, and an appropriation of sort.
Fantozzi was not only about a man who seeks success and never finds it, but it was, above all, about the men who ensure that success is never found. The men who hide and guard it jealously from others. It was about bureaucracy, hierarchy, servitude and blind, cowardly compliance. It was about the chains that we voluntarily, eagerly and comically put around our free selves; about rare instances of rebellion, and how these are instantly quashed and severely punished by those above, but only thanks to the obedient allegiance and collaboration of those below.
It was a critique of the capitalist system that we have let ourselves become slaves of.
I stopped laughing at the mundane and obvious, and started laughing at the nuanced hints. I laughed heartily, I laughed madly: a furiously maddening introspective laugh at myself and my condition. I looked intently at the comical man as everybody laughed at him, and as I was drowned in the sounds of foolish laughter, more maniacal than my own, I looked into his eyes and asked: what is it that you want to tell us? And drowned in the dismal cries of laughter, I listened.
So, while the main highlights posted online in homage to Villaggio are sketches of great hilarity, they are of relatively inconsequential weight. Such as, for instance, the ill-fated football match between husbands and bachelors; while others remember Fantozzi gulping down a red-hot tomato, I seek to divert attention to other, far more resonant parts.
A critique of the capitalist system that we have let ourselves become slaves of
What of, for instance, the misplaced and presumptuous airs put on by nobodies like Calboni, Fantozzi’s colleague and arch-nemesis? What of the affections of an upper class which doesn’t really care (the response of Contessina Alfonsina Serbelloni Mazzanti Vien dal Mare as she feigns remembrance: “Ah Fantozzi, edizioni Fantozzi!”)? And what of the final scene to the first film, a masterpiece of extreme worth and of such immense genius that I dare say it succeeds in putting the ones responsible for it up there with other geniuses that our world had the pleasure of hosting, and whose name we seem to regard more highly.
The meeting with the Mega Direttore, an abstract entity whom nobody had ever even seen – a prophetic description of today’s corporate world – is a dance between master and slave, whereby the proletariat is coaxed by the sweet words and kind gestures of the religiously pure and righteous rulers in assuming its rightful place in society. There are, of course, differences between the two camps, but these can be resolved through constant civil and democratic dialogue. It may, of course, take thousands of years, but the patient powerful can wait. As long as one does not mention the word ‘communist’.
The genius in the ending is found in the succinct beauty of the summary provided, presenting the human condition in a nutshell, and I wager it is incredibly difficult, if not impossible, to find one so eloquently put; an excellent demonstration of the power that words and images have when, instead of being made to compete, they are administered in equal amounts and made to work together.
My trained eye, through my love of photography and moving pictures, would later help me discover other hidden gems. Only four minutes into the first film we are regaled with a powerful shot of a man descending the stairs, under which our anti-hero has his desk. And, for a moment, the head of the latter is at the feet of the former: a stark reminder that the rigid hierarchy is to be found everywhere, even at its lowest steps.
What to say about the other satirical jabs disguised as farce? The part about hurried life and Fantozzi’s desperate efforts to ensure he punches in on time. The stupidity of it all, the sheer folly worthy only of the most insensible and idiotic of fools, and yet most laughs are misplaced. They are directed at the obvious comical veneer – at the drinking of a 3,000° Fahrenheit coffee, at the kiss to his daughter and the coffee-flavoured menthol toothpaste – but none at the underlying comedy of it all, that we voluntarily and daily agree to a reality we all find utterly ridiculous.
And why? Because we don’t question that reality, fearing that, if we do, we may be disqualified from the Sisyphean event we are forced to compete in. We might as well wear the GIL T-shirt and the green eyeshade courtesy of the municipal casino of Saint Vincent, instead of the tie and shirt.
The reality of excess, exemplified by the Christmas scenes where directors exchange Panettoni d’oro a 24 carati, which we witness daily: even when our would-be superiors are caught gold-handed, all we can utter is “comunque a tutti loro i miei più servili auguri”.
Villaggio, and his quasi alter-ego Ugo Fantozzi, did not merely get lost in the labyrinthine corridors of the Megaditta. The man had seen the light and left Plato’s cave, only to return and reveal our tragedy through comedy.
Now he has escaped the cave for good, though the torch and thread remain.