There’s something almost confrontational about the way Lina Wertmüller opens Seven Beauties — a sardonic newsreel montage set to a jaunty tune that more or less dares you to keep up.
Oh yeah.
Giancarlo Giannini is superb as Pasqualino, a vain Neapolitan peacock whose every moral compromise makes him a bit harder to back — until the film drops him into a concentration camp and you catch yourself thinking: surely not even he deserves this. Wertmüller is too smart to answer that for us, and the film is all the better for it.
Oh yeah.
The Naples material is a blast: all swagger, vanity and absurd masculine theatre. Staircases are not simply walked down but performed. “In Napoli we use our imagination” is an all-timer of a line, and Giannini’s face does half the film’s work on its own. He can suggest panic, vanity and calculation in one close-up.
Oh yeah.
It does not all land equally. This strain of Italian comedy still isn't entirely my bag, and at times the film feels like it is daring me to admire it rather than love it. But the cinematography is gorgeous, the final stretch hits hard, and the ending absolutely earns itself. The first film directed by a woman to be nominated for Best Director at the Oscars, and still far too strange and spiky to feel like safe Academy fare. Then again, most great films are.
Oh yeah.