In the autumn of 1908 film publications announced that important “film d’arte” from France were about to arrive on screens in Italy: as predicted L’Arlésienne, L’Empreinte, L’Assassinat du duc de Guise received the public and critical acclaim they deserved; just a few months later, Italy had its own production company, similar to the S.C.A.G.L. and Film d’Art of France, that intended to make films based on history and literature. Established in Rome in 1909, Film d’Arte Italiana was a kind of subsidiary of Film d’Art and Pathé Frères; it immediately started to produce impressive “artistic films” of adaptations of famous literary works and plays. In its first year of operation F.A.I. screened in Italy Carmen, Otello and La signora delle camelie adapted from the novel written by Alexandre Dumas, fils. The longed for union between cinema and art finally seemed to be a reality; in France famous dramatists like Edmond Rostand handed their works over to filmmakers, and in Italy S.A.F.F.I. – Comerio secured a working relationship with Gabriele D’Annunzio, the undisputed authority of the national cultural scene. Art fever would soon hit the entire Italian filmmaking movement with film adaptations of masterpieces by Schiller (La campana, Cines and L’ostaggio, Ambrosio), Dumas (La signora di Monserau and I tre moschettieri, Cines), Defoe (Il naufrago, Ambrosio), Gautier (Capitan Fracassa, Pasquali & Tempo) and Balzac (Spergiura!, Ambrosio).

Cinematographers fearlessly dealt with the literary heights of every age: Shakespeare’s tragedies quickly became a favorite with Itala producing Giulio Cesare in 1909, Cines Macbeth and F.A.I. Otello; that same year Cines also tackled Alessandro Manzoni (L’Innominato) and S.A.F.F.I. – Comerio courageously took on Dante Alighieri (Saggi dell’Inferno dantesco).

But it was not just literature that sparked the enthusiasm of producers and audiences alike: more than ever films showed their power as a time machine, unearthing historical events and heroic deeds. In a kind of archeological resurrection, ancient Greek myths and Roman plays were brought back to light (of the projectors…); in darkened theaters Renaissance conspiracies, the trials and tribulations of the French Revolution and Napoleon’s epic all came back to life. History projected in the present: this is the miracle of filmmaking, all the more so when the past is recent. Taking a cue from the motto “dilettare ed istruire” (entertain and instruct) touted by the press and state institutions, the filmmaking world turned its lens on the Risorgimento’s heroes; movies like Il piccolo garibaldino and Il conte Confalonieri, martire dell’indipendenza italiana made more than just a small contribution to reinforcing in cinema audiences that sentiment of national identity, which in early 20th century Italy was still fragile and uncertain.

Giovanni Lasi

“Cretinetti, although he is a simple man, finds it impossible to live honestly. He is penniless and sitting on a park bench ask- ing himself what is to be done, when a young man surprises him, pointing a pistol to his head and demanding money. Cretinetti explains the situation and asks the robber to let him join his gang; thus the two go together to the criminals’ hideout, a dive in a poor quarter of the city. The gang decide to put the novice to the test, and he is given a pistol: he at once tries to rob a well-dressed gentleman, who, instead of handing over his money, pulls the gun out of his hands and begans to give him religious advice (…)”.

Anonymous, “The Kinematograph and Lantern Weekly”, Lon­don, 6 May 1909

“An uneven work, but certainly among those most illustrative of Deed’s aim: to make comedy out of objects, as Erik Satie wished to do with music ‘with knives and forks’ from the table; to create comedy from places, transforming the protagonist of the come­dy, the man, into a dynamic element of the landscape, scarcely more in the way than a statuette which has broken at its base (…) Cretinetti King of Thieves combines some of the best inventions of Deed (the splendid, striking scene of the car-driver: Cretinetti wants to rob everybody at whatever cost; at the first attempt he tries to carry off the car in his arms but then satisfies himself in the end with a gigantic wheel), but also several evident signs of anguish. Deed is at first pursued by the police and then by the criminals, who consider him a traitor. At the end, after a series of fortuitous incidents, the latter see him again and carry him off in triumph. But the final image, of emblematic significance, is more menacing than comic (they have placed on his head a bunch of keys which hang over his brows like a crown of steel thorns). (…)”

Paolo Cherchi Usai, Livio Jacob, in Le cinéma italien de la “Prise de Rome” à “Rome ville ouverte”. 1905-1945, edited by Aldo Bernardini and Jean A. Gili, Centre Georges Pompidou, Paris, 1986, p. 84