Welcome back to the deep dive. So our mission
here, as always, is pretty straightforward. You
give us the source material and we give you the
crucial insight. Right. The connections that
you might have missed. Exactly. The things that
make you instantly fluent in a really complex
topic. And today we're peeling back the layers
on a very specific and I have to say, very controversial
artifact from Italian cinematic history. We are.
And we're using it as a kind of. of a key, really,
a Rosetta Stone, if you will, to decode the entire
post -war entertainment landscape in Italy. It's
a truly fascinating stack of sources we have
here. It's all centered around one single film,
a seemingly simple but very intense melodrama
from 1946. But when you start looking at the
cast list, it just, it explodes outward. It reveals
this entire hidden history of mid -century Italian
culture. Yeah, the names attached to this one
project, they read like a... like a directory
of Italian theatrical giants, international stars.
And this is the crucial part. Go on. The unseen
architects, the people who fundamentally shaped
how Italy consumed global cinema. Yeah. It's
fascinating. Yeah, exactly. So our source material
is all centered on the adulteress or la adultera.
It premiered just after the war. 1946. A really
pivotal time. For sure. So our mission for this
deep dive is to use this one highly melodramatic
film as a starting point to unpack the, well,
the incredible range of talents who built mid
-century Italian cinema. And it really is a range.
You've got screen legends defined by scandal.
You've got these hardcore stage veterans, political
exiles. And what I think is the biggest surprise,
the unsung heroes of Italian voice acting. This
film. Coming out almost immediately after the
war ended. It's just a perfect microcosm of a
society grappling with its new identity. You
can see the shift happening in real time. What
kind of shift are we talking about? Well, think
about fascist era filmmaking. It was all about.
grandiose historical epics, spectacles, or these
purely escapist comedies. The white telephone
films, right? The white telephone films, exactly.
But after the war, the sources just show this
sharp pivot. You have directors like Rossellini
and De Sica tackling poverty head -on with pure
neorealism. But that wasn't what everyone was
watching. No, not at all. The popular cinema,
the stuff that audiences were actually flocking
to, was often what critics later, and kind of
dismissively, called appendix neorealism. OK,
that's a term we absolutely need to linger on
because it it really defines the reality of 1946
cinema. It does. It tells you that while, you
know, the elite critics and the famous directors
were documenting social ruin, the average person
in the audience still craved drama. Intensity,
sentimental escapism. The tear jerkers. Yes,
the tear jerkers. But now they were infused with
this. This slightly more contemporary, rough
-around -the -edges emotional reality. And that
is exactly where The Adulteress sits. It's got
the intense structure of classic melodrama, but
it's grounded in a way the pre -war films just
weren't. But beyond the genre, what the sources
really reveal is the deep bench of talent that
made all this possible. And the big surprise,
hiding in our material, is that so many of the
key actors in this one film were just as famous
for other things. Major stage work, screenwriting.
Or having these secondary, almost dynastic careers
as legendary Italian voice dubbers. Yes. And
that specific art of dubbing. It's not just a
translation service in Italy. It's an integrated
artistic performance. And this cast, they were
pioneering its institutionalization. That dual
identity of the Italian performer. The face you
see on screen and the voice that defines global
stars for an entire country. That's really the
engine of this deep dive. So let's unpack this.
What does a heavily censored 1946 film starring
a Nostro Dargento winner tell us about Italian
culture and entertainment right after World War
II? Well, it tells us that contradiction and
controversy were absolutely essential ingredients.
All right, let's start with the artifact itself,
The Adulteress. It premiered May 16th, 1946,
directed by Duilio Colletti, shot at the Scalera
Studios in Rome. And like we said, it falls squarely
into that category of sentimental melodramas.
But we keep coming back to that term appendix
near realism. It's so important to understand
why critics came up with it later on. The sources
show that this film wasn't about the logistics
of surviving poverty, the hunger, the lack of
housing. It wasn't Rome, open city. No. But it
was produced during that critical transition,
and it dealt with raw, often tragic, emotional
crises that felt incredibly consequential in
a post -war world where morality and stability
were everything, but social structures were just
shattered. So it was the emotional intensity,
if not the social setting, that linked it to
that bigger shift toward realism. Precisely.
And the plot is a perfect vehicle for that intensity.
It's just a straight up descent into tragedy,
all driven by moral calculation and fatal passion.
The source material lays out the core conflict,
focusing on the protagonist, Velka, who's played
by the incredible Clara Calamai. A formidable
actress. Totally. And Velka is described as this
ambitious peasant woman who makes a very transactional
and very unfortunate choice. She marries for
security. Exactly. She marries a very rich, crude,
and much older landowner named Dante Viber. played
by Carlo Nici. And in doing that, she abandons
her younger fiance, Tarquinio, played by Roldano
Lupi. And in the world of melodrama, you know
instantly that this first mistake marrying for
money, betraying true love, it's going to lead
to a tragic reckoning. It's inevitable. Tarquinio
disappears. But, you know, the audience knows
he's the narrative time bomb. He's coming back.
And the marriage is predictably just miserable.
The unhappiness hits a crisis point when the
elderly husband, Dante, starts thinking about
his mortality, about succession. And he threatens
her. He threatens Velka with disinheritance if
she doesn't give him a child, an heir. The pressure
is immense. The trap is set. Which, of course,
is the exact moment that Tarquinio, the ex -lover,
returns. Naturally. And the sources use this
great phrase, an incurable passion ignites between
the two. This leads to the affair and fulfilling
the husband's demand, the birth of a son. The
ignorance of the husband is just a core part
of the tragedy. He celebrates the child thinking
his lineage is finally secure. But you can't
build a life on a lie like that, not in this
genre. The lover, Tarquinio, he insists that
Velka and the child run away with him, start
a new life. But she refuses. And maybe it's fear,
maybe it's loyalty to the security she wanted
so badly. But her refusal just triggers the climax.
A wounded and desperate Tarquinio. deliberately
maliciously reveals the truth about the child's
real father to the husband and the result is
described with this chilling clarity in our sources
The husband, Dante, driven mad by the betrayal,
savagely kills the lover in revenge. Devastating.
It's a devastating finale. Velka is left totally
alone, consumed by remorse, and the plot summary
says she ultimately goes crazy. It's an incredible
arc. It is, and that's the deeper cultural significance
here. Why should you, listening today, care about
this 1946 tearjerker plot because of the reaction
it caused. Exactly. The sources are emphatic
that this film was heavily censored. Several
scenes were just drastically cut. And the reason
for the censorship was specifically the central
theme. Right. We have to really pause and think
about Italy in 1946. The country is in this massive
transition from a monarchy and a fascist dictatorship
to a republic. And it's being influenced by democratic
ideals, sure. But it's still deeply, deeply entrenched
in traditional, specifically Catholic, social
doctrine. And adultery, at that time, it wasn't
just a moral failing. Legally and culturally,
it was seen as a crime against the stability
of the family, a crime against public morality.
So who's doing the censoring? This wasn't just
a director making cuts for pacing. The new fragile
government was extremely sensitive to the moral
agenda being pushed by conservative and religious
forces. Who were very keen on restoring order
and traditional values after the chaos of the
war. So a film that centers on a woman who betrays
her husband has an affair. And then this tragedy
unfolds. It had to be framed very carefully.
Or cut entirely. You couldn't look like you were
glorifying the transgression. The official scrutiny
was fierce. It creates this fascinating irony,
doesn't it? The country is trying to move into
this modern democratic age, but its cinema is
still bound by these rigid, almost Victorian
moral codes. But the film's success, maybe because
of the scandal, shows that the audience was ready
to push those boundaries, even if the censors
weren't. And you just couldn't deny the performance
at the center of it all. Despite the cuts, despite
the moral panic, this film was a major launch
pad for its star. Clary Kalamai won the Nostro
Doranto, the silver ribbon for best actress for
her portrayal of Velka in 1946. Which is the
Italian equivalent of a major national Oscar
awarded by film journalists. So to win it for
a role like this, a role defined by such moral
ambiguity. that cemented her status. It was a
huge statement. It basically signaled that while
the censors could cut the sex and violence, the
artistic power and the depth of the tragedy could
not be ignored. Calamai was a performer who seemed
to thrive on roles that put women at the center
of moral and social disruption. Okay, let's turn
our attention to the woman who anchored this
whole complicated film, Clara Calamai. She lived
from 1909 to 1998. And she wasn't just defined
by this one melodrama. Her career is like a history
of 20th century Italian cinema. Absolutely. And
to understand her impact, you have to go back
a few years before The Adulteress to 1942 to
this landmark cinematic moment that always sort
of shadows her dramatic work. You're talking
about her role in Alessandro Blasetti's The Jester's
Supper. I am. Our sources note that she briefly
appeared topless in one scene. And this detail
gets thrown around as a bit of trivia, but it's
loaded with historical meaning. It is. The sources
clarify that while another actress, Vittoria
Carpi, had technically shown a bare breast in
a different film a year earlier, Calamai's appearance
is commonly credited as the first time an actress
appeared fully topless in an Italian sound film.
In the middle of the fascist era. Exactly. This
wasn't just nudity. It was seen as a dramatic,
transgressive act in a cinematic culture that
often relied on hyper -stylized, sanitized imagery.
And the really fascinating part is the insight
our sources give us into the behind -the -scenes
dynamics. It connects directly to the pressures
on female stars. Calamai herself gave an account
of it later. She stated very clearly that the
original script did not require her to reveal
herself that way. She resisted the director's
request at first. So what changed? She said she
only felt compelled to do it after Blizzetti,
who was a major director, promised her the set
would be completely closed. only essential personnel
allowed. That dynamic is so telling. It highlights
a system where a powerful director could exert
immense pressure on an actress for something
deeply uncomfortable. Under the guise of artistic
necessity. Right. And then use the promise of
a closed set as this form of coercive negotiation.
It's a very sharp insight into the vulnerability
of actors in that system. But what makes Calamai's
career so compelling is that she pivots immediately
from that controversial fascist era spectacle
to what is arguably her most remembered role.
A true neorealist milestone. Giovanna in Lucchino
Visconti's 1943 groundbreaking film, Obsession.
Obsession. The psychological whiplash for audiences
must have been incredible. To go from a stylized
epic to the gritty, sensual, on -location drama
of Ascensione, where she plays this desperate,
adulterous wife, a clear precursor to her role
in The Adulteress. While Ascensione is considered
by many historians to be the first true Italian
neorealist film, even before Rome, open city.
For Calamai to be the female face of that seismic
shift, it shows incredible artistic versatility.
She didn't just survive the fall of fascist cinema,
she helped birth its replacement. She could do
the high tragedy, the gritty reality, and the
intense emotionality the new movement demanded.
And her career kept oscillating between these
extremes for decades. We see her playing a prostitute
in another Visconti film, White Nights, in 1957.
But one of her most remarkable turns comes almost
30 years after The Adulteress. Yes, in 1975,
she comes out of retirement to appear in Dario
Argento's famous horror film, Deep Red, Profondo
Rosso. Now... For our listeners who might not
be specialists, we should probably clarify what
a giallo film is. We should. The term giallo
literally means yellow in Italian. It references
the cheap yellow covers of Italian pulp mystery
novels. It's this uniquely Italian subgenre of
stylish psychological thriller or horror. Characterized
by really complex, sometimes totally implausible
plots, extreme violence, and this incredibly
distinctive, colorful aesthetic. Right, and in
this high -concept, stylized horror film, Calamai
played the eccentric matriarch, Marta. And this
was her final major film role. I mean, think
about that trajectory for a moment. To span the
political spectacle of the 40s, the raw birth
of neorealism, and then anchor a key role in
the psychedelic, violent giallo movement of the
70s. It's a testament to her sheer adaptability,
her willingness to take on cutting edge, sometimes
shocking roles her entire life. It really speaks
to the chaotic, exciting nature of Italian film.
It wasn't about sticking to one persona. It was
about being a working actor who could move between.
high art and genre thrills. And maintain this
powerful, recognizable presence through it all.
And just to tie off the personal threads from
our sources, she married an explorer, Count Leonardo
Bonzi, in 1945, right before this film was released.
But that marriage was annulled in 1959. She later
retired to Rimini. And there's this small but
telling detail that in 2022, a stele was dedicated
to her in the cemetery there, placed right near
Federico Fellini's funerary monument. Which is
a monumental tribute. places her legacy right
alongside one of the true titans. Calamai might
have been controversial, but she was cinema royalty.
Okay, now we pivot to another actor from the
same 1946 cast list who provides one of the biggest
aha moments for anyone trying to understand Italian
film culture, Carlo Romano. Yes. He lived from
1908 to 1975, and he played a smaller role in
the adulteress Il Fatore the Factor. And Romano's
contribution to Italian cinema goes so far beyond
his own acting work, which was prolific enough.
I mean, he was in 94 films. He was a screenwriter
for 14. But his true legacy, the one that shaped
how generations of Italians saw global cinema,
was his voice. He was one of the foundational
figures, one of the progenitors of the centralized
Italian dubbing industry. And you really can't
overstate the power of that role. Unlike countries
where subtitles are the norm. Italy, for all
sorts of historical and political reasons, embraced
dubbing completely. Which meant that the emotional
and comedic identities of massive international
stars were entirely rebuilt by Italian voice
actors. And Carlo Romano was the star builder.
It's fascinating. The sources list him as the
official Italian voice for some of the biggest
global comedy stars of the 20th century. We're
talking Jerry Lewis, Bob Hope, and Lou Costello.
Wait, all three of them? All three. Think about
what that implies for the viewer. If you grew
up in Italy watching Hollywood comedies, the
central personalities, the rhythm of their humor,
the panic, the emotion, it was all sonically
defined by the same man. So the voice that Italian
audiences associated with American slapstick
comedy was Carlo Romano's voice. It was. And
that profound universality of his voice wasn't
just limited to Hollywood. It extended into one
of the most beloved European film franchises
ever. Don Camillo. He was the voice of Don Camillo,
the feisty village priest played by the French
actor Fernandel. Across all five films. Every
single one. From Little World of Don Camillo
in 1952 all the way through Don Camillo in Moscow
in 1965. That's nearly 15 years of this iconic
sonic identity. So for an Italian viewer, Fernandel's
physical performance, his expressions, his mannerisms
became inextricably linked to Romano's voice.
He wasn't just dubbing. He was. He was translating
the cultural weight of that character. He became
the sonic essence of Don Camillo. And if you
look at the sheer range of other actors he dubbed,
it's just mind -boggling. The sources list him
handling French comic legends like Louis de Funes,
American song and dance men like Fred Astaire,
and intense dramatic actors like James Cagney,
Peter Lorre, and Ernest Borgnine. But this is
where the cultural impact of dubbing just hits
home for me. He was the Italian voice of Eli
Wallach's character. Tuco Ramirez. In Sergio
Leone's The Good, The Bad, and The Ugly. Yes,
this is the nexus point we have to explore. We
have the same man voicing Jerry Lewis, the epitome
of high energy, neurotic slapstick. Right. In
Tuco, the explosive, criminal, grubby, and cynical
ugly of the Western genre. So does the source
material give us any clue as to what that one
unifying voice did to the Italian perception
of these genres? It doesn't state it outright,
but the implication is huge. For the Italian
viewer, that common vocal anchor might subconsciously
unify these completely different genres. It's
almost like it provides a subtle familiarity.
Or irony. When the audience heard Tuco's voice,
which was the voice of their childhood comedic
heroes, did it soften his criminality? Did it
make him feel more like a familiar chaotic joker
than a purely foreign menacing figure? It suggests
they were getting a subtly different character
persona than American audiences. He literally
created a shared cultural voice that transcended
genre. And then you connect this to childhood
nostalgia. His Disney legacy is significant and
enduring. He voiced Jiminy Cricket in the 1947
dub of Pinocchio. Creating that authoritative
yet warm moral compass for Italian kids. He was
the Mad Hatter in Alice in Wonderland, capturing
that high -energy madness. And he was the grumpy
but lovable Sheriff of Nottingham in Robin Hood.
Plus Gus the Mouse in Cinderella and Buzzy the
Vulture in The Jungle Book, Carlo Romano defined
the soundscape of generations of entertainment.
It just underscores how the dubbing industry
wasn't a secondary service. It was an integral
part of the Italian cultural machine, and Romano
was the central unifying engine. And that legacy
didn't just end with him. His personal life points
to how this art form became institutionalized.
That's a dynasty. He's the son of an actress,
Dino Romano. But crucially, through his marriage
to Joan Romano, he was the stepfather of actor
Aliardo Ward. And the stepgrandfather of the
now famous contemporary voice actors Luca, Andrea,
and Monica Ward. It's an entire family lineage
dedicated to mastering and passing on this specialized,
crucial art form. The story of Italian cinema
is literally written by the Romano Ward family
dynasty, and it all traces back to the man who
played a small part in a 1946 melodrama. It is
stunning how much history is packed into one
supporting cast list. Okay. Let's look at the
remaining threads from this ensemble. Dino Di
Luca, Roldano Lupi, Carlo Ninci, Voltiro Tumiati,
and Cesare Polacco. Each one represents a different,
crucial component of the industry. Let's start
with Dino Di Luca. He played Egidio Vibruzzi.
He perfectly embodies the international reach
of Italian theatrical talent. He does. He was
active in Italy, of course. But the sources really
highlight his significant work in the United
States from the 30s all the way through the 60s.
And his American acclaim wasn't minor. It was
front and center. The sources say he received
critical praise on Broadway opposite the American
star Shirley Booth in The Time of the Cuckoo.
And that was in 52, 53. To succeed on Broadway
in the 50s, especially opposite a major American
name, that was a monumental task for a European
actor. It required a complete mastery of English,
a stage command that could bridge that cultural
gap. For sure. And not only did he handle high
drama, but he was also in the musical House of
Flowers. based on a book by Truman Capote. Incredible
versatility, from intense drama to a Broadway
musical. And he leveraged that state success
into the new medium of American television. He
was all over the place. Studio One, the Kraft
Television Theater, the United States Steel Hour.
He was a living bridge between the Italian stage
and the American entertainment industry. He's
also credited as a writer for a film back in
1938. Just a multi -talented guy. Now let's look
at The Bedrock. The core actors who kept the
industry running. The dependable, prolific leading
men. We start with Carlo Ninci, who played the
aging, crude husband, Dante Vabruzzi, a man whose
demands drive the whole plot. And Ninci was a
fixture, incredibly prolific, more than 120 films
between 1931 and 1963. That is the career of
a working professional who was just constantly
in demand. His filmography is like a timeline
of what audiences wanted to see. He excelled
in the grand historical roles that the fascist
regime favored. Exactly. He was Lelius in the
massive epic Scipio Africanus, The Defeat of
Hannibal. He was the Lion of Damascus in two
films. The big expensive spectacles. But he transitioned
seamlessly into the melodrama of The Adulteress
and just kept working. Then you have Roldano
Lupi, who played Tarquinio, the vengeful lover.
He was in 60 films, a huge body of work. And
he was in other important post -war films like
The Gates of Heaven. But later he moved into
the genre stuff that became so popular. Right.
The Mongols, Avenger of the Seven Seas. the kind
of escapist spectacle that filled the commercial
gap left by the more austere, neorealist films.
Okay, now we pivot back firmly to the stage with
Bultero Tumiati. He played the old fortune teller
in The Adulteress. And Tumiati's career is just.
It's a study in sheer longevity. He lived to
be 94, active across two centuries. His background
is so fascinating, the epitome of the cultured
Italian artist. He studied acting, but he also
had a law degree. out role was way back in 1910
playing Cyrano de Bergerac. And he wasn't just
a classical performer. He was a visionary. In
1928, he co -founded the Sala Azzurra, the Blue
Room, one of Italy's first dedicated avant -garde
theaters. So in the middle of the fascist period,
which preferred conformity, he was pushing experimental
boundaries. That duality is key. He taught acting
for years, but the sources highlight this profoundly
moving detail about the end of his career. What's
that? He eventually went blind. And yet his final
stage role, fittingly, was playing the blind
prophet Tiresias in Sophocles' Oedipus Rex at
La Scala in 1969. Wow. That is an extraordinary
final curtain call. The actor's personal fate
mirroring the tragic character he was portraying.
It elevates him from just a working actor to
this theatrical patriarch. And even he appear
in genre films, including Little World of Don
Camillo, linking him back to the Carlo Romano
universe. Finally, we come to Cesar Polacco.
He played the old man of the jewels. His story
provides the most critical piece of political
context here. This is a detail we absolutely
cannot overlook. It speaks to the resilience
of the talent pool after the dictatorship collapsed.
Polacco was of Jewish origin. And the sources
confirm he was tragically forced to abandon his
acting career because of the 1938 fascist racial
laws. Those laws purged Jewish citizens from
public life. It meant a complete stop to his
career, exile in his own country, years of silence.
So his presence in the adulterous just one year
after the war's end, resuming his career in 1945.
It's a profound symbol of rebuilding. It is.
A symbol of the desperate attempt to restore
exiled and marginalized talent to the Italian
screen. But his later career brought him this
massive mainstream popularity. He became a household
name as Inspector Rock in a series of shorts
that aired in Carasello. We have to explain Carasello.
It was more than a commercial break. It was mandatory
appointment viewing for Italian families. Right.
Because of strict advertising rules, commercials
were built into these five -minute skits, often
starring well -known actors. So Inspector Rock
became a national icon. He transitioned from
a stage veteran. a survivor of fascist persecution,
into a comedic television star. And like Carlo
Romano, he was also a key voice actor. He dubbed
major Hollywood figures like Ward Bond, Anthony
Quinn, Boris Karloff. And he also contributed
to that early Disney legacy. He was the voice
of Happy and Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs
and one of the Crows and Dumbo, another unseen
craftsman bridging the gap between global fantasy
and Italian culture. So if we connect this whole
mosaic back to the single film that launched
this deep dive. What this material overwhelmingly
shows is that post -war Italian cinema wasn't
just the product of a few visionary directors.
No, it was built on a massive, highly skilled
and deeply resilient bench of veteran talent.
These were actors who were forced to become cultural
chameleons, capable of adapting instantly to
dramatic shifts from fascist epics to near realist
dramas to popular melodramas. And then pioneering
and institutionalizing the specialized art of
dubbing that defined. Italian movie experience
for decades. It was a period where necessity
drove invention. Absolutely. The simultaneous
existence of scandalous cinema with Calamai's
career, international talent like Dino Di Luca
on Broadway, the political resilience of Cesar
Polacco. And the development of this unique,
dynastic voice acting industry with Carlo Romano
all inside one cast list. It just highlights
the intense, adaptive, frenetic energy of Italy's
cultural scene in the 40s and 50s. So what does
this all mean for you, the listener? Well, we
started this deep dive talking about a film that
was heavily censored because its subject matter,
adultery, was considered transgressive. Right.
And this raises an important question. When we
talk about classic international cinema, we almost
always focus on the visual, the physical performance
of the star. Sure. The director's vision, the
script. body language. But when you consider
how central voice actors like Carlo Romano were
in shaping the actual identity of global stars,
giving the voice to Jerry Lewis or the sound
of Don Camillo or the dialogue of Tuco for Italian
audiences, how much of a star's persona is truly
universal? And how much is meticulously crafted
and ultimately owned by the unseen voice artists
who bridge the linguistic gaps? They're effectively
creating a separate, Italianized version of that
star. It's a profound thought. It suggests cinematic
performance is inherently collaborative and culturally
specific. Italian audiences weren't just watching
a translated film. They were consuming an entirely
different cultural creation. It forces you to
question the concept of stardom itself and to
acknowledge these invisible artists who often
carry the entire emotional weight of a character
for a whole nation. So think about the power
of the dubbed voice one last time. If the high
-stakes comedy of Jerry Lewis, the religious
warmth of Don Camillo, and the moral compass
of Jiminy Cricket all sounded like the same person,
Carlo Romano to generations of Italians. How
did that single voice shape the cultural landscape?
Did it create subtle, unconscious connections
between those completely different genres? Did
Romano's unifying voice make global comedy and
animation feel profoundly, comfortably Italian?
It's a question worth exploring the next time
you watch a classic foreign film and recognize
that the sound you hear is its own masterpiece
of cultural transplantation.