“‘I really am looking for absolution for all the things I had to do for money’s sake’, Ulmer told Peter Bogdanovich in 1970. By then, he had long been discovered by the French New Wave cineastes, notably Truffaut (whose Jules and Jim owes much to The Naked Dawn) and Godard (who dedicated his Detective to the author of Detour). The recognition came too late, of course: exiled in Europe, he had become a cult figure, but could no longer find a backer. His new role was to inspire younger generations. They had a lot to learn from the ultimate ‘smuggler’. All independent filmmakers should take a look at The Pirates of Capri, a comedy of masks and mirrors, which provides a delightful metaphor of Ulmer’s personal strategy. The dichotomy is again a given: the hero is a poet and a pirate. As Count Amalfi, he impersonates a cynical fop indulging in the decadent rituals of the nobility. As Captain Scirocco, he leads the resistance of the people against the tyranny of a German baron whose atrocities evoke the Nazis. His secret weapon is the theater, the jesters and acrobats of the commedia del arte. By staging a representation on the enemy’s flagship, he is able to take it over in a dazzling display of Bengal lights. Later, at court, Amalfi presents a subversive pantomime, The Beauty and the Beast, in which he conveniently gives himself the part of the legendary Scirocco. Its cryptic message is addressed to the queen: ‘Show your heart to the people!’ In the end, reality and artifice blend dialectically: the mascarade sparks a benevolent revolution, with Scirocco-Amalfi defeating the villain in a duel which carries them across the palace’s music room and climaxes on the theater stage […].
This baroque gem, mostly shot day for night or at the magic hour, was probably Ulmer’s most euphoric film, the witty celebration of illusion and ingenuity. A clandestine artist who took great risks in pursuing his art, he had to enjoy the triumph of the masked player as liberator. This is how he might be remembered himself – as a film pirate or possibly the patron saint of all film pirates. I have no doubt that when the time came, the gates of heaven swung wide open for him too”. (Michael Henry Wilson, Cinegrafie, n. 12, 1999).