Bread and Holly

The only previous film by Franco Brusati that I have seen is Disorder, which, despite some good moments and brilliant editing by Ruggero Mastroianni, left me cold. Since then, Brusati, a successful screenwriter and playwright, has made a couple of films that were not seen here—or at least not by me; Bread and Chocolate, his fifth film, has won scads of prizes all over Europe, and is now here to enliven our cinematically dismal summer. Bread and Chocolate is an interesting film—parts of it have that nice blend of humor and pathos at which the Italians are past masters—but it is not all milk and honey, I’m afraid, or even piss and vinegar.

It starts well enough with an Italian, neither young nor old, in his dark, workingman’s Sunday best suit; heisina park, surrounded by prosperous, mostly white-clad people playing chamber music, promenading, having fun with their children. The Italian, Nino, tries to be friendly, but he does not speak German—for this is Switzerland—and even small children spurn him when he tries to play handball with them. When, smoking under a No Smoking sign, he bites into his bread and chocolate sandwich, that little crunch stops a string quartet in its tracks: reproachfulness is in the air, for this man is a guest worker, one of those hordes of swarthy, dark-haired creatures that invade Switzerland, which feels about them as Byron said he felt about women—unable to live either with or without them.

JS

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John Simon

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The only previous film by Franco Brusati that I have seen is Disorder, which, despite some good moments and brilliant editing by Ruggero Mastroianni, left me cold. Since then, Brusati, a successful screenwriter and playwright, has made a couple of films that were not seen here—or at least not by me; Bread and Chocolate, his fifth film, has won scads of prizes all over Europe, and is now here to enliven our cinematically dismal summer. Bread and Chocolate is an interesting film—parts of it have that nice blend of humor and pathos at which the Italians are past masters—but it is not all milk and honey, I’m afraid, or even piss and vinegar.

It starts well enough with an Italian, neither young nor old, in his dark, workingman’s Sunday best suit; heisina park, surrounded by prosperous, mostly white-clad people playing chamber music, promenading, having fun with their children. The Italian, Nino, tries to be friendly, but he does not speak German—for this is Switzerland—and even small children spurn him when he tries to play handball with them. When, smoking under a No Smoking sign, he bites into his bread and chocolate sandwich, that little crunch stops a string quartet in its tracks: reproachfulness is in the air, for this man is a guest worker, one of those hordes of swarthy, dark-haired creatures that invade Switzerland, which feels about them as Byron said he felt about women—unable to live either with or without them.