Bellissima is a film full of powerful poetic and stylistic insights. The creative force of the entire piece is so strong as to overcome the odd forced element I thought I spotted here and there. I am delighted to join all those who are already lavishing heartfelt praise on this, your latest work, which is the equal of those that preceded it. Cesare Zavattini, in Luchino Visconti. Epistolario 1920-1961, edited by Caterina d’Amico de Carvalho and Alessandra Favino, Edizioni Cineteca di Bologna, Bologna 2024 The principle of Bellissima rests on a wager: its starting point is the ugly and grotesque, and its destination is beauty and the sublime. This wager is about style. Visconti’s intention is already clear from the opening theme: we hear a Donizetti tune gloriously sung by a soloist and a choir of women, each uglier than the others. We find that the aesthetic principle is in keeping with the storyline. In the seedy, downmarket environs of Rome, a mother wants her 6-year-old daughter to be the star of a film in preparation. We see a series of sketches, not a million miles from the spirit of the Commedia dell Arte. We are spared none of the efforts and sacrifices of this mother hen, consumed by ambition and love for her child, who finally passes the screen tests. The mother manages to attend the screening, which takes place amid taunts and laughter, so ugly and grotesque do they find the little girl. Deeply affected, the mother rebels, refusing to sign the contract that her daughter finally managed to land. The film consists of a kind of metamorphosis in order to discover beneath the ugliness – and God knows, the characters are patently ridiculous, their actions mean, and the sets flea-ridden – a beauty, which is the very beauty of life and humanity, mark of a sensibility that no amount of degradation would ever be able to stifle. It is a sight to behold how, little by little throughout the entire film, Anna Magnani moves from coarseness to grandeur, and the final tracking shot of the sleeping girl becomes all at once Bellissima, sheer beauty. It would be pointless to try to highlight the many masterpieces, popular tales of a kind that make up all the skits in the film. These are the best ones: the fat lady’s insect bite; the visit by the ageing failed comedian; the dance class; the false love scene at the riverside, etc. It is hugely enjoyable and I believe there is no one to rival Visconti’s success in all these genre scenes, in which we see a triumphant Anna Magnani on tip-top form.

Jean Douchet, “Arts”, n. 818, April 1961, now in L’Art d’aimer, Cahiers du cinéma, Paris 2003