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This is the image recorded on my retina: clumps of men dressed in Renaissance garb, talking eagerly, vehemently even, into tiny telefonini. Oblivious to the world around them – low reddish fascist era buildings, Tudor like scenery – and gaping tourists, they pursue their own dreams, more intent on putting points across via electromagnetic signal than on slipping into the required period mood.
My hands start to itch as my whole mind, my whole body screams “Photo!” but the guide is watching us closely. No pictures allowed, no disturbing actors; this is the strict condition under which we are tolerated here, regardless of how much we’ve paid for the visit.
This is Cinecitta. The dream factory.
Little has changed here since Mussolini has ordered its building, in the then countryside outside Rome, except for the ever growing expansion of the city’s belly, now well overflowing its failing girdle-like Ring. Yet, here, just inside the Grande Raccordo Annulare, a precious amount of territory is preserved, squeezed between constant traffic and a shopping centre.
Inside the walls of Cinecitta a surprising peace reigns, despite the hordes of school children and the handful of tourists that are invading the entrance courtyard, snapping at the Fellinian remains of Venusia – as seen in Fellini’s Casanova – and a few abandoned statues.
Gaggles of school kids dare themselves to touch the stuccoed butts – the picture will look great on a Facebook wall – while waiting for their teachers to herd them through the exhibits.
This part is fair game. Bits of historical sets, props, costumes, explanations on how to build sets, bits and whatnots from famous directors.
The game consists in finding the name of the movie, identifying the actors before reading the tags. Unsung technical heroes are celebrated – even today, the amount of technicians of all sorts at home in Cinecitta vastly overruns that of the actors.
In a new pavilion, we can hear screenwriters, artists, telling us about working here and how better is the Italian chaotic way of working compared to that of the foreigners who have used the facilities from the start, attracted by cheaper manpower. Today, more and more foreign work is lost to Moroccan competition. Yet Cinecitta remains the biggest cinema studio in Europe still. It spews out TV movies and commercials too and that probably keeps it alive.
A monster, it unrolls its story under your feet, a long dizzy carpet of moving pictures.
You are literally walking on history, summoning ghosts.
Dead stars.
Dreams of travel to other dimensions, other times.
But Cinecitta is a dream no one can quite reach, an illusion daily recreating itself. Today you might be able to walk through - or peek at - the set of Rome or that of the Borgias. Tomorrow, something else entirely will happen. Sets will go in flame, revealing flimsy facades and uncertain futures.
No one tour will look the same.
Only the conditions will remain: No pictures allowed, no disturbing of actors. Mind the elephants (sic).
Or else...
You might get fed to the lions
My hands start to itch as my whole mind, my whole body screams “Photo!” but the guide is watching us closely. No pictures allowed, no disturbing actors; this is the strict condition under which we are tolerated here, regardless of how much we’ve paid for the visit.
This is Cinecitta. The dream factory.
Little has changed here since Mussolini has ordered its building, in the then countryside outside Rome, except for the ever growing expansion of the city’s belly, now well overflowing its failing girdle-like Ring. Yet, here, just inside the Grande Raccordo Annulare, a precious amount of territory is preserved, squeezed between constant traffic and a shopping centre.
Inside the walls of Cinecitta a surprising peace reigns, despite the hordes of school children and the handful of tourists that are invading the entrance courtyard, snapping at the Fellinian remains of Venusia – as seen in Fellini’s Casanova – and a few abandoned statues.
Gaggles of school kids dare themselves to touch the stuccoed butts – the picture will look great on a Facebook wall – while waiting for their teachers to herd them through the exhibits.
This part is fair game. Bits of historical sets, props, costumes, explanations on how to build sets, bits and whatnots from famous directors.
The game consists in finding the name of the movie, identifying the actors before reading the tags. Unsung technical heroes are celebrated – even today, the amount of technicians of all sorts at home in Cinecitta vastly overruns that of the actors.
In a new pavilion, we can hear screenwriters, artists, telling us about working here and how better is the Italian chaotic way of working compared to that of the foreigners who have used the facilities from the start, attracted by cheaper manpower. Today, more and more foreign work is lost to Moroccan competition. Yet Cinecitta remains the biggest cinema studio in Europe still. It spews out TV movies and commercials too and that probably keeps it alive.
A monster, it unrolls its story under your feet, a long dizzy carpet of moving pictures.
You are literally walking on history, summoning ghosts.
Dead stars.
Dreams of travel to other dimensions, other times.
But Cinecitta is a dream no one can quite reach, an illusion daily recreating itself. Today you might be able to walk through - or peek at - the set of Rome or that of the Borgias. Tomorrow, something else entirely will happen. Sets will go in flame, revealing flimsy facades and uncertain futures.
No one tour will look the same.
Only the conditions will remain: No pictures allowed, no disturbing of actors. Mind the elephants (sic).
Or else...
You might get fed to the lions
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