Â‚Queer Italian Migrationsâ•Ž: Tonino De Bernardiâ•Žs Rosatigre (Tiger

JICMS 6 (1) pp. 15–32 Intellect Limited 2018

Oliver Brett University of Leicester

‘Queer Italian migrations’: Tonino De Bernardi’s Rosatigre (Tiger Rose) (2000) and the reconfiguring of Roberto Rossellini’s Stromboli, terra di Dio (Stromboli, Land of God) (1950)

Abstract Keywords The documentary film focusing on queer identities in post-Millennial Italy reveals queer interesting key features, including the often intense collaboration of filmmakers and migration their subjects, the hybridity of genre and interrogation of those representations and documentary identities being explored, and the increased agency and performance of participants. gender While, respectively, requiring further research, these features reflect what appears sexuality to be a propensity towards the ‘intertextual’. I approach this aspect here through intertextuality Tonino De Bernardi’s sensory challenging ‘docu-fiction’ film Rosatigre (Tiger Rose) Roberto Rossellini in 2000, which exploits, alongside the more general conventions of cinema, Roberto Tonino De Bernardi Rossellini’s Stromboli, terra di Dio (Stromboli, Land of God) in 1950. Positioned

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1. For further details see: in relation to a corpus of other texts, I consider how these two films explore the issue http://www.cinemagay. it/index.asp. Accessed of ‘migration’ beyond fixed categories. In talking of queers who migrate but also of 27 March 2016. queering migration, an interconnection of various narratives can be seen to broaden our understanding of the migrant figure in the Italian context.

Introduction ‘Internal migration’ associated with the ‘economic miracle’ of 1950s’ and 1960s’ Italy remains an important feature of the country’s history. As people largely from the south moved to cities in the north due to industrial and urban expansion, there was a shift in the everyday from a traditional agricultural and religious focus to one of consumerism (Duggan 2007: 557). The period has been scrutinized through film, examples of which can be seen in commedia all’italiana (comedy Italian style) and Luchino Visconti’s Rocco e i suoi fratelli (Rocco and His Brothers) ([1960] 2008). Restivo’s work on the ‘bandit film’ is particularly insightful in that it draws attention to the role of filmmakers in responding to the major socio-historical changes of the period and to the influence of globalizing forces on their construction of the bandit figure. Despite attempts by these filmmakers to re-awaken this character as the ‘nostalgic ideal’, as a representation of pure individual self-fulfilment, they inadvertently sided with ‘progress’ by ultimately shaping the bandit’s demise (Restivo 1995: 30–31, 39–40). In constructing their representations in this way, filmmakers were forced to confront their role within the strategy of re-organization of a rapidly evolving society (Restivo 1995), the notion of ‘strategy’ here pointing out the subterfuge of hegemonic discourse in moulding individuals and pockets of resistance into an assimilated centre. Discourse on ‘migration’ in Italy, whether referring to internal and/or external movement, has continued to be shaped in universal terms – the general assumption being that as long as migrants are undifferentiated (‘invisible’), social cohesion appears to remain intact (Ambrosini 2013: 175). The issue of ‘queer migration’, which speaks of queering migration and not just of queers who migrate, seeks to challenge this discourse and is taken up here within the context of documentary cinematic representations. Since the turn of the new millennium, the concept of the ‘universal’ in Italy – underpinned by ideals concerning the ‘family’ and nation, for example – has been progressively questioned through queer documentary film. This reflects a shift from the ‘abstract’ to the ‘particular’ in representing queer identities and the increased agency afforded by media in its various formats (Manalansan IV 2006: 229). As Angelone and Clò highlight, less concern for an ‘objective’ stance proposing an untainted ‘reality’ has led to ‘new and unprecedented “visions” of both Italy and Italians, often extend- ing beyond geographic borders’ (2011: 84). Testimony to this scrutiny and diversity is the cinemagay.it website, a resource that, among other activities, lists Italian and foreign queer films according to various categories and sub- categories.1 A review of the ‘documentary’ section alone indicates that ‘queer migration’ forms a significant part of the stories represented. ‘Documentary’ is described as ‘[exhibiting] permeable borders and a chameleon-like appear- ance’ (Nichols 2010: 33), which points to its ability to criss-cross filmic cate- gorizations such that more hybrid forms of representation are produced. The indefiniteness and heterogeneity that may come out of a deployment of ‘documentary’, particularly when filtered through a queer optic, suggests a

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strategy of dis-organization rather than re-organization. Here, I would like to 2. Synopsis of Rossellini’s Stromboli, terra di open up discussions on how ‘queer migration’ is represented in contemporary Dio (Stromboli, Land Italian documentary cinema and how this influences our understanding of of God) (1950): Denied migration in broader terms. a visa to Argentina, Lithuanian refugee The main focus of this article is Tonino De Bernardi’s docu-fiction film Karin (Ingrid Bergman), Rosatigre (2000), the story of ‘transvestite’ prostitute, Antonello (played by the who has been held in now well-known Filippo Timi), who is divided between life in the north and a displaced persons camp in Italy at the the south of Italy, essentially between an adopted Turin and his hometown end of the Second of Naples. The film strongly references Roberto Rossellini’s Stromboli ([1950] World War, goes for the second best option 2015), drawing parallels with the themes of inclusion and exclusion, emplace- of marrying Antonio ment and displacement, and real and fictional worlds.2 De Bernardi acknowl- (Mario Vitale), who edges the key influence of Rossellini’s work for him (personal communication), offers a life full of ‘promise’ on the island which calls for a closer consideration of how this may shape ‘queer migration’ of Stromboli. Upon in Rosatigre. arrival there, Karin’s Rosatigre can be positioned within a broader body of work dealing with ‘otherness’ makes her incompatible ‘queer migration’ and the ‘intertextual’. Consider, for example, Gustav Hofer with the well-settled and Luca Ragazzi’s road trip film Italy: Love it or leave it (2011), Pietro Marcello’s islanders who force her to consider ways interlinking films Il passaggio della linea (Crossing the Line) (2007) and La bocca of leaving what is, for del lupo (The Wolf’s Mouth) (2009) and Alberto Vendemmiati’s transgender film her, imprisonment and La persona De Leo N. (The Person De Leo N.) (2005). These films have been absolute desolation. The iconic, much responsive to a range of migratory issues such as the exodus of disillusioned debated, final scene urban queer Italians to Berlin, the social malaise of large metropolitan areas sees the pregnant to which many migrants are drawn, the in/visibility of those migrating from Karin’s failed attempt to traverse the volcano the south to the north (or from what can be perceived as the periphery to in desperation to reach the centre) and the complexities associated with transgender articulations of the port that will allow her to leave the island ‘place’ (Di Feliciantonio and Gadelha 2016; Ambrosini 2013; Brown 2001: 196). (Aprà 2003: 8–12). They have also tapped into a range of filmic, literary and theatrical references, such as the social enquiry of Pasolini’s Comizi d’amore (Love Meetings) ([1964] 2007), the verismo of Zena Remigio’s La bocca del lupo ([1892] 1980), the comedy, music and ballet of Molière’s Monsieur de Pourceaugnac (described by Livingston as ‘therapeutic’ [1979: 677]) and the gender fluidity of iconic figures such as Marlene Dietrich. These queer texts offer an invaluable critique of the socio-political landscape of Italian culture and society, and articulate alternative migratory stories driven by issues of gender, sex and sexuality and not solely by economic or historical–structural approaches. They also run counter to Barattoni’s pessi- mism of, first, the quality of contemporary Italian cinema, which, he argues, does not generally have the ability to ‘take a hard look at Italy’ or to engage a distracted audience, and, second, the political apathy of a disengaged Italian population complicit in maintaining corporate competitiveness and dominance (2014: 238–46). With this in mind, it is worth reflecting upon calls by O’Leary and O’Rawe for the ‘exclusive canonical club’ of Italian cinema studies to be challenged in its privileging of neorealism and in its contempt for genre forms and those audiences who enjoy a more popular cinema (2011: 117). They propose instead a ‘[disestablished]’ and more ‘unitary’ and non-hierarchi- cal approach to the study of Italian film (2011). I would argue that the queer texts to which I refer interrogate the ‘canon’ not only by challenging notions of value as associated with truth, reality and aesthetics but also, borrowing from Browne and her work on queer geographies, by problematizing the ‘very idea (and ideal) of inclusion itself’ (2006: 888). Moreover, this ‘inclusion’ should not simply be assumed as the accommodation of difference in universal terms (which comprises hetero-normativity and homo-normativity) (2006).

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‘Queer migration’ and documentary cinema The ‘push and pull’ of ‘queer migration’ is primarily the result of queer identity and not economic or historical–structural influences. The use here of the term ‘queer’ recognizes the tension between an Anglo-American defined notion of identity politics and a more fluid, de-constructed postmodern position. In broadening perceptions of ‘migration’, I adopt a queer intersectional position as it not only fits with the ‘intertextual’ but also acknowledges the political connections of different people and the arrogance of normative processes. As Knopp explains:

[a] queer perspective, informed by embodied and lived queer experiences can […] help us to rethink some additional spatial ontologies, including place, placelessness and movement. Many queers’ lived experiences, for example, entail a radically different relationship to these notions than that of more sedentary non-queers. (2007: 23)

Scholarship on ‘migration’ has, however, tended to shape the migrant subject as male and heterosexual, and gender concordant (Chávez 2013: 10). Even ‘queer migration’ has been framed within a set of assumptions – this time centring largely on the respective binary phenomenon of the rural/urban and closet/coming out narrative (Gorman-Murray 2009: 46). In the Italian context, these assumptions have recently been examined by Di Feliciantonio and Gadelha, who argue that ‘material conditions’ (namely class and welfare support) and associated issues such as ‘gender, age, race, disabilities, social and cultural capital’ articulate the process of ‘queer migration’ as far more complex (2016: 8). The difficulties associated with approaching ‘queer migration’ relate to the tension identified between the ‘ethnic model of lesbian and gay identity’ and the uncertainty surrounding postmodern identities (the latter of which is described as ‘anti-diasporic’ in that it does not point to a shared cultural herit- age) (Binnie 2004: 81–82). The ethnic model is seen to treat queer mobilities in locational terms, whether referring to a region or a city or something smaller like a gay bar or a community group. This focus has the potential to universal- ize, which, according to Connolly, is problematized by the mutable notion of ‘place’ (2009: 11). In articulating the complex and manifold nature of ‘queer migration’ within the context of the ‘documentary encounter’ (wherein the documentarist, documentary participant and spectator are all implicated), the work of both de Certeau and Kristeva offers a framework allowing us to consider how the ‘universal’ may be challenged through the ‘particular’. For de Certeau, while ‘location’ equals ‘place’ as the distribution of coexisting ‘things’ often occupying positions of power, movement and action within space can be approached as a ‘practiced place’ where the performative and the enunciative have the ability to transform it (1984: 117). Also invaluable are Kristeva’s ‘horizontal’ and ‘vertical’ dimensions of the text, the former diachronically linking the text to the spectator and the latter synchronically linking a series of texts over time (1980: 66). Through these processes, the notion of ‘place’ does not go unquestioned and is considered instead as somewhere that is ‘conjured up, experienced, and […] produced’ (Berry et al. 2010: vii). With this in mind, a text’s hybridity, heterogeneity and relationship with reality and dominant hegemonies can be

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analysed. This does not, however, seek to undermine the importance of also 3. I refer to Antonello as ‘Rosa’ when he is being emplaced in, and at the same time, tied to the ‘local’ – influences that transvestite in order to are often forgotten about in transnational approaches emphasizing more fluid distinguish him from concepts of migration (Ricatti 2014: 178). the film’s title. I will also use the masculine form, although Rosatigre, ‘queering geography’ acknowledge that he wishes not to be The threads of De Bernardi’s cinematic oeuvre are important in approach- assigned to one gender ing Rosatigre and its representation of ‘queer migration’. With both subtle and in particular. obvious references to Stromboli, De Bernardi re-appropriates the politics of 4. Aside from subtitled references from Rossellini into his text. Working against predictable interpretations in cine- the film, please matic and socio-political terms, this can most obviously be seen in terms of note that, unless his independence from the unity of a national discourse and the use of a ‘non- otherwise indicated, all translations from conventional realism’ (Nowell-Smith 2000: 9–11). As such, there is a perfor- the original Italian are mance at the macro level of the text that undoes the definitiveness of borders mine. and fixed notions of ‘place’ in locational terms. Forced back to his hometown Naples from Turin, where he has been working the streets as the eponymous ‘Rosatigre’, Antonello attempts to continue living out his trans-identity. He shares this experience intimately not only with his lover Sasà, who searches him out early in the film in order to take him back to the south, but also with a number of other close friends, including Wanda, who comes to represent his female alter ego.3 It is an unsettling yet cathartic return and at the end of the film the spectator is led to believe that Antonello will go back to Turin (where his story continues in De Bernardi’s sequel, Fare la vita [Working the Streets] [2001]). Rosatigre can also be considered a precursor to a later film – Jour et nuit, delle donne et degli uomini perduti (Day and Night, Lost Women and Men) (2014a) – in which De Bernardi further explores the issues of prostitution, drug abuse, social exclusion, and gender and sexuality, in relation to, and between, Italy, France and Brazil (2014b). This points to what has been described as a ‘cyclical narration’ in his work (Anon. n.d.).4 While De Bernardi himself is from Chivasso, near Turin, his immediately previous film, Appassionate (Passionate Women) (1999), like Rosatigre, takes place in Naples, which positions his work within what Marlow-Mann articu- lates as ‘New Neapolitan Cinema’ (2011: 145). Demonstrated by an increase in the number of films based in and around Naples from the late 1990s onwards due to film commissioning initiatives and cheaper modes of production, ‘New Neapolitan Cinema’ is said to challenge the traditional ‘Neapolitan Formula’ of stereotypical images of the south. This is achieved by a new type of ‘napole- tanità’ that speaks of a gloomier, more real and alienated south of a politically stilted country unable to accommodate either the needs of the north or the south (2011: 2, 8). Debate generated by this category, which reflects a tense interrelationship of strong regional identities and wider national and international influences, draws attention to the locality and mobility of De Bernardi’s work and the voice that it lends to minority and counter-hegemonic positions. Also key to Marlow-Mann’s definition, in relation to a consideration of De Bernardi’s oeuvre, is the critical engagement of cinema with the very mode of representation itself (2011: 194, 197). De Bernardi has considered his own work as ‘counter-culture underground’ and ‘pure cinema’, while others have described it as ‘self-reflexive’, ‘revisionist’ and ‘postmodern’ (De Bernardi 2015; Marlow-Mann 2011: 145–47). De Bernardi explains that his work, which he describes as ‘my totality’, goes beyond what he can ever express in his

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everyday life (2014c). This ‘totality’, squared with his postmodern position when considered as a ‘collapsed, compressed space’ (Barattoni 2014: 204), emphasizes not only the immersion of De Bernardi into his work but also its collaborative and reflective nature. De Bernardi (2012) also describes cinema as his eye to the world: ‘I go in the direction in which an actor takes me […] I aim to identify myself with this person’. The camera’s movement in Rosatigre is frequently dictated by Antonello’s mobility within the frame, many of the scenes having been improvised. The result of this is a palpable embodiment of cinematic space, incorporating both documentary and fictional techniques. De Bernardi’s counter and postmodern positions implicate the spectator in the process of representing ‘queer migration’ and then challenging expectations and offering an alternative political aesthetic that works through an intimate connectivity rather than an observed distance. In dealing with queer geographies, Halberstam argues that the side-lining of sexuality as part of a concerted political effort in Marxist terms can be questioned through a focus on ‘queer time’ and ‘queer space’ – the former seen to undo conventional reproductive notions of the ‘family’ through alternative temporalities and the latter seen to focus on those queer activities and constructions of space that function as countercultures to normative frame- works of reference (2005: 5–6). She includes sex workers in this as they may occupy different spatial and temporal contexts to most others (2005: 10). These dynamics feature throughout Rosatigre and are introduced at the beginning by way of the title and intertitle, which, forming one whole sentence if visual- ized sequentially, appear as follows: ‘To live life’; ‘Conjugating verb, mood and tense’; ‘and geographic difference’; ‘[…] perhaps’. A subsequent intertitle – ‘Turin. Present perfect. Indicative’ – further unsettles the continuity of events as we see them unfolding in front of us by using a verb tense that refers to the past but that has an ongoing influence (Rosa is seen running down a city street while working as a prostitute). Rather than anteriorly locating the action firmly in the past, the editing process is under scrutiny and draws attention to what Gaudreault and Barnard describe as the ‘concatenation’ of two images – the ‘bridge’ between ‘what came before (which it completes) and what comes after (which it announces)’ (2013: 90). This challenges syntagmatic structuring and the reliance placed on realities as circumscribed through the medium of film, a point that is emphasized by the continued doubt resulting from the intertitle ‘perhaps’. Moreover, the accent that is placed on construction and different periods of time adds a specific tension to Antonello’s performances. Antonello is represented in between his current and previous locations, which is underscored by extradiegetic Neapolitan music intermittently punc- turing the opening Turin scenes. This is suggestive of the ‘acousmêtre’ and an off-screen space sensually positioning Antonello back in Naples (Chion 1999: 17–18). Even his seemingly more definitive shift in location, as identified by intertitles from ‘in the north yesterday’ to ‘in the south today’, is problematized by shades of red on the respective backgrounds: the colour pink of the former pointing to his identity as Rosa, the red of the latter evoking Naples and its regional flag. Antonello’s sense of ‘place’ is more complex than just physical location. The film’s reflexivity is fundamental to its representation of queer geography and migration. Intertextual reference, exaggeration of theatrical performance, use of documentary effect and Antonello’s frequent direct address to the camera add to this process. At one point he announces to a Neapolitan local that a film, called Rosatigre, is being made. These features

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draw attention to the fragility of the representation and construction of cinematic space, and undermine what it means to talk of human geography and migration in definitive ways. Reflecting on Conley’s Cartographic Cinema, this contributes towards the construction of a map for the spectator – albeit an ‘implicit’ one in the case of Rosatigre – which shows up ‘the illusion that consciousness is in accord with where it is felt in respect at once to itself and its milieus’ (2007: 1, 3).

Queer intertextualities, pluralizing space In the reflexive and alternating sequences of the opening section of Rosatigre, key themes from Stromboli are introduced – a reference point to which Antonello and Wanda allude throughout the rest of the film. In my analysis, I acknowledge Karin as a controversial figure, given her displacement and divergence from the landscape and the people of Stromboli due to issues of class and modernity, for example. However, I also accept Brunette’s assertion that Rossellini’s ‘distance’ from his characters stimulates a range of emotive audience responses that do not result in the taking of sides with either Karin or Antonio (1996: 117). I want to start my exploration of this intertextuality by focusing on three key introductory scenes that establish further references later in the film and that, linking refugee Karin to Antonello/Rosa, illuminate the issues of migrant punishment, resentment and control. In the opening scene, Antonello is seen in a brightly lit, low-end shop in a night-time urban setting trying on stilettoed shoes and flirting openly with the male shop assistant in the hope of getting a discount on the more beauti- ful yet least practical pair (Figure 1). Filippo Timi confidently blends genders in this scene, his masculine legs and highly stylized feminine walk foregrounding the ‘masquerade’. With the masculine as the default setting, there is an unsettling ‘womanliness’ in his strutting that, taking into account Doane’s work on female spectatorship, unsettles patriarchal domination by ‘disarticu- lating male systems of viewing’ ([1982] 1997: 184–86). It is also something for which Antonello will be frequently punished later by his partner, Sasà. This de-construction of identity, in its artificiality, is political (Butler 2006: 203), and outlines Rosa’s transiency as a geographically displaced individual. In a subsequent scene, Rosa makes a phone call from a public phone box during which he attempts to speak urgently with a certain Antonio by way of his mother who, apparently, explains that he is sleeping and has work in the morning. Frustrated, Rosa concludes the conversation by explaining that she really ought to buy her daughter a mobile phone (at which point he laughs and apologizes, presumably for his indiscretion in mixing up Antonio’s sex or by compelling modernity in a place where tradition dominates). Reflecting momentarily on Saussurre’s work on language – which provides a framework in which we can ‘[shape] what constitutes for us the reality of the material world’ (Storey 2006: 88) – Rosa unsettles the link between sign and referent by altering Antonio’s sex from the male to the female. At the same time, he infantilizes him and places him under the control of his mother, who becomes his intermediary. In the third scene, Rosa is seen writhing on his bed deliriously imitat- ing what appears to be childbirth, an intense separation from somebody or something, and his own death – all of which turn out only to be the effects of a fever. Clearly acting in this scene, Rosa draws on his own reper- toire of signs, which, returning to Saussure, allows for an exploration of the

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Figure 1: Antonello trying on stiletto shoes, from Rosatigre © Tonino De Bernardi.

difference between them such that ‘they are understood not only as non- referential in nature but also as shadowed by a vast number of possible relations’ (Allen 2000: 11). The melodramatic and highly performed nature of these three sequences can be seen as, respectively, appropriating and queering the following aspects of Rossellini’s film: Karin’s punishment for resorting to the potentiality of her sexual appeal in the hope of escaping the hostile island and her immodesty in the way she keeps her house, which is deemed unacceptable by the local women (thereby a threat to heteronormativity); the imagined separation that Karin has from her husband, Antonio, and what he represents as signified through the island; and the desperation of a pregnant Karin visualizing her departure from Stromboli, which forms the iconic final scene when she traverses the volcano (her destiny indeterminate at that point). The foregrounding of difference, isolation, survival and uncertainty in these scenes is seen to frame and, at the same time, to unsettle how the ‘other’ is treated, defined and represented. Reference to Stromboli becomes stronger in the longer Naples section of the film, starting with a particularly interesting scene at the end of the introductory section that sees Antonello in profile as he walks along while peering through a wire grille fence (Figure 2). Dressed now in traditional male clothes, which include a jacket, jumper and a shirt that is buttoned right to the top, he replicates the position occupied by Karin as a camp refugee prior to her move to Stromboli. This is the point at which she is still awaiting the outcome of her visa application to Argentina, her second best option being Antonio and his homeland. Reflecting on Gelley’s description of Karin in Rossellini’s scene, the restrictiveness of Antonello’s clothes and the vertical lines of the ‘prison bars’ are seen to position him at a ‘site of pain, suffering, and anger’ (2008: 37). Antonello is at an intersection with his native Naples, an oppres- sive but also potentially liberating space, given the contradictions that it now

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Figure 2: Antonello peering through grille fence in Naples, from Rosatigre © Tonino De Bernardi.

presents him. This scene takes on greater significance if key features of the previous day’s events in Turin are also considered. Unable to love him as a ‘whore’, Sasà strips Rosa of the excesses of femininity (his ‘skin’) as symbol- ized through the scarf, fur coat and wig that he wears when working. Rosa then demands to be taken to Stromboli if Sasà does indeed love him, as he claims during the scene. Rosatigre is often described as a series of contrasts, and it is easy to see why this is the case: ‘North–South, masculine–feminine, “Rosatigre”: dichot- omy is the basis of Tonino De Bernardi’s new film, presented at Nuovi Territori’ (Levantesi 2000: 23). The reviewer continues, though, to highlight that: ‘After the interlude “Passionate Women” […] the cineaste from Chivasso returns to his experimental/pared back beginnings’ (Levantesi 2000). It is the distinc- tion between the two parts of this review that proves interesting, the latter part articulating a greater complexity to the film. Antonello is also described as a ‘transvestite’, a term that some feminist and queer theorists would argue reinforces a dichotomous rather than a pluralized notion of gender; however, Allen’s exploration of male-to-female transvestism highlights that the term’s complex and contradictory nature can indeed be liberating (2014: 67). These points are important to our understanding of ‘queer migration’ and how it might be articulated and/or represented. In her article, ‘Home and away. Narratives of migration and estrangement’, Ahmed argues that in considering the home and identity as ‘fetish’ isolates them from the ‘here’ such that the emphasis is placed on destination and an ‘identity [as] predicated upon movement’ (1999: 331–32, 338). She believes that this only reinforces the generalized and celebratory metaphorical equation of migration with ‘disloca- tion, and the crossing of borders and boundaries’ and not with more personal and individual experiences (1999: 331). Ahmed asserts instead that migration involves the interrogation of identity and that ‘home’ should be considered like ‘skin’, a porous space between self and home, there and here: ‘What migration narratives involve, then, is a spatial reconfiguration of an embodied self: a transformation in the very skin through which the body is embodied’ (1999: 342).

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Antonello’s migratory narrative is one that plays with rather than reinforces fixed binaries, unsettling what it means to refer to being ‘home’ and ‘away’. Although it may be interpreted that the term ‘Rosatigre’ splits north and south, Turin and Naples, the feminine and the masculine, the gentle and the powerful, it is actually more suggestive of shade. It does not point defini- tively to a ‘tiger rose’ (although this flower does exist) or a ‘pink tiger’ (as this would be better expressed as ‘tigre rosa’), and there are many more symbolic associations that can be made with the colour pink, the rose flower and the tiger. As such, in considering Rosatigre – both film and character – as shade, opacity, we need to move from the dichotomous to the permeable in approaching Antonello’s ‘queer migration’. When back in Naples Antonello attempts to be more open about his gender identity, having until then fetishized and clearly demarcated it from an open space through his work as a prostitute. This second point is typified in the following description: ‘Rosatigre, the hitherto champion of bizarre elegance: red spangled made-up lips, orange boa, lamé pants/miniskirt, vertiginous silver high heels’ (Anon. 2000). While Rosa may represent the north and Sasà the south, corresponding to dichotomous contrasts between leading characters in Stromboli, Antonello’s ‘queer migration’ seeks to undo this division somehow. In attempting to resolve the conflict associated with a return ‘home’, Antonello and Wanda go to the transient space of the shopping centre in search of a replacement for the domineering Sasà. There, they target Cesare the Spaniard and the American who they invite to what turns out to be a gender- bending party (they are given an unlit sparkler as their formal invitation). This transiency extends to the markets, train and bus stations through which various migratory groups are seen to pass, and to the apartment in which the party and morning after gathering take place. At a more personal level, this is seen in a mirroring between Antonello and Wanda, where each one circles in and between the other’s narratives – strongly supporting the idea that Wanda is indeed his alter ego. There is a subtle but alternating exchange of coloured clothing between the two in Naples – red, blue and black – and a repeated sequence of each one pretending to work the streets, in turn directly address- ing the camera. As they become closer, Antonello’s confidence in being open about his gender grows too. This is up to the point where Wanda declares that they are to have a baby together and that this baby is to be named Ingrid, whether it is a boy or a girl. The progenitor/progenitrix mixing of Antonello and his alter ego – through an imagined, unisex baby, whose naming brings to mind Bergman in Stromboli – interrogates the link between identity, embodiment and movement within filmic and non-filmic spaces. In this section of the film, attempts by Antonello to exert his difference are accompanied by contrasts between dark and light, night and day, and the private and the public. The film is also very much a ‘passion’, a contrast of extreme oppositions, as has been said of the work of Rossellini (Gallagher 1998: 334). Moreover, this position allows us to see that ‘our ability to determine ourselves depends on areas that we cannot ourselves determine’ (Gallagher 1998). The extremes of emotion that come through as a result of these oppositions can also be linked to the visibility and invisibility of the migrant figure more generally. While Turin is represented as dark and spatially restricted, it offers Antonello an autonomous space in which he can be Rosa. Although Naples is seen as more visually open, reflected in an increased number of day time scenes and the inter-connection of one character and space to another through Neapolitan music (see Figure 3 for

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one example), it is also seen as a place in which difference is restricted. This contrast is enhanced through flash-backs from Turin of a dramatically spot- lit Antonello dancing confidently and erotically alone in his room. It is also in this small space that he appears to perform (as Rosa) Karin’s desperation at being physically confined, demanding God’s salvation to help this ‘poor woman, poor saint, poor mother’. These interwoven, discontinuous, scenes are positioned just prior to Antonello’s confrontation with Sasà, when he pleads with him not to leave – the suggestion being made that the fall- out that we witness relates to his intimacy with another man (Figure 3). Antonello also exclaims that he has sacrificed a lot by returning to Naples and that he will conform by being a ‘real man’. These performances find echoes at certain points in Stromboli; in Karin’s attempts to make the most of her situation on the island and in drawing attention to the threat she poses to Antonio, masculinity and traditional gender roles by the insinuation of infidelity brought about by her flirting with the lighthouse guard (Brunette 1996: 119). The restricted space of Naples is epitomized through Sasà, who, as Antonello states, comes to represent the city itself. Although Sasà loves Antonello’s gender bending, he becomes increasingly intolerant of his public and exaggerated displays of difference, goading him at one point by saying: ‘Turin is really the city for you’. The return to Naples is stripped of any nostalgic associations with ‘home’, the euphoria of the artificially constructed space of the apartment only proving to be temporary. Rosa confronts Sasà in their final argument: ‘we’re always in other people’s houses’. Wanda also states at this point: ‘I’m tired, I really want to have my own home […] mine, mine’. Similar to Karin, Antonello (Rosa) is himself trapped. This reflects the precariousness of many who migrate in search of new spaces and lives, particularly if fleeing illegally. The process of migration, as experienced by Antonello, appears as an embodied experience reflecting what Halberstam describes – in critiquing Jay Prosser’s position on transsexualism – not as a ‘borderland’ across which successful transition occurs but rather as a place where ‘[s]ome bodies are never at home […] [recogniz- ing] and [living] with the inherent instability of identity’ (1998: 164).

Figure 3: Male friend sings intimately to Antonello, through clear glass, from Rosatigre © Tonino De Bernardi.

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In the final gathering, when the group’s transient members are seen having a meal together in a very formal manner, order is restored out of the disorder represented by their recourse to ‘queer time’ and ‘queer space’. There is a particularly important aspect to the mise-en-scène, though, which is the film poster of François Truffaut’s Jules et Jim (Jules and Jim) ([1962] n.d.) on the wall behind them as they sit quietly. Echoing Rosa’s exaggeration of ‘womanliness’ in Rosatigre, Catherine’s ‘androgynous’ and insubordinate nature in Jules and Jim is seen to counter masculinity and male dominance (Gillain 2013: 87–88). Heathcote, in his comparative analysis of Truffaut’s text and Balzac’s Les Marana (The Maranas), highlights how the hybridity of ‘re-gendering’ can cause male violence at a personal and also at a wider socio-political level (2002: 332–33, 338). He adds that violence by women proves to be more ambiguous than for men, for whom: ‘[…] any form of hybridization through cross-gendering or racial mixing seems to add to, rather than detract from, that exploitative, predatory character [of masculinity]’ (2002: 343). In attempting to open up the space in which a transgender identity can be represented, Rosa is seen to expose the ordered system from which he is excluded. He also unsettles the various other discourses within which the migrant figure is shaped, whether queer or not. This can be extended to filmmaking processes and their underpinning philosophies, Rosatigre seen through this scene to play around with a connection between neorealism and the French New Wave (accepting the Rossellini link too) and associated debates surrounding documentary and fiction, reality and realism, the radical and conventional, the heterogeneous and homogenous.

Reconfiguring Stromboli De Bernardi reconfigures Rossellini’s Stromboli not simply by appropriating key aspects of the film but instead by re-working them into a queer migratory narrative that draws attention to those processes of normalization from which the ‘other’ as a mobile agent is excluded. In the concluding section of the film, Rosa is seen climbing a large hill with other New Year’s Eve revellers. Wearing his usual stilettoes, a tutu and a red leather jacket, the lit sparkler that he carries in his hand adds to the structure of the scene as symbolic of the volcano. The chemical reactions of the fireworks create a melange of green, white and red hues evocative of the Italian tricolour, the fragile mix of which points to his temporary inclusion at the level of the national. While it has been assumed that Karin’s final confrontation with the volcano is one of resigna- tion, and that what she intends on eventually doing is unclear, it is interesting how, over the years, it has become less convincing to consider the end scene as one of defeat for her (Gallagher 1998: 330–31). However the end is interpreted, what is clear from De Bernardi’s text is that in, and after, traversing the symbolic volcano, Rosa confronts the injustices that he has experienced in his position as the ‘other’. He returns to the apartment where the New Year’s party is taking place and performs what Sasà later describes as a melodramatic refusal to take off his pink rose print sweater despite the threat of death. In challenging the contradictory and intolerant Sasà, Rosa also refuses his ultimatum of a clear commitment to either a male or a female identity and ejects him from the temporary ‘queer space’ of the apartment. The tension of these final scenes is enhanced by the manipulation of time, a ‘queer time’ evidenced through mismatched editing between the party scene and an exter- nally shot sequence where Rosa wanders the streets in search of shelter. His

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Figure 4: Sasà in Turin to take Antonello back to Naples, from Rosatigre © Tonino De Bernardi.

temporary living quarters turn out to be a Philips cardboard box, as fixed a sense of home as he will ever have, given the sense of intrusiveness that he feels in occupying what others perceive as their space. The pursuing Sasà is now dressed as a rabbit (presumably it is his New Year’s fancy dress outfit), connoting a degree of remorse and humility on his part. Through this, there is a reversal of his initial arrival in Turin to bring Rosa back ‘home’ to Naples, which sees the pair, respectively, set up in a dominant–passive, parent–child position (Figure 4). Sasà appears, in his scene, to be acknowledging his role and performance within what can be perceived as an alienating social structure for some. It also appears as a manipulation of the scene in Stromboli where Karin is frightened by the rabbit being chased by the ferret, which echoes not only her isolation on the island but also her contrasting openness to Antonio’s insular- ity. Antonello has no difficulty taking to the stinky rabbit handed to him by one of the locals in an earlier street scene in Naples and remains indifferent to the one represented in human form (whose adoption of this apparently ‘savage’ skin is a pitiful gesture). Antonello’s migratory experience allows him, and us, to consider identity as a construction that survives only if it remains ‘invisible’ and ‘inconspicuous’. The confusion of these final scenes is, however, liberating in its de-construction. The following morning, Rosa walks freely with Wanda amongst the New Year’s Day breakfasters and strollers, and, when asked by a passing woman, ‘are you doing a scene?’, responds confidently with, ‘no […] we’re on the game’. At this point in the film, Antonello asserts a sense of ‘responsibility’ with respect to his ‘invisibility’. Choosing also not to be taken to the island of Stromboli by the man offering boat tours, he and Wanda imagine instead a triumphant return to Turin (‘Wanda and Rosatigre, we’re back!’, declares Antonello). Drawing on Gallagher’s work on Rossellini’s film, it seems that Antonello is able now to separate himself from the ‘opportunism’ associated with the potentiality of a trip to Stromboli at the beginning of the film (similar to Karin) (1998: 329). There is also significance in his bidding of a solitary farewell to the sea towards the end of the film when he says: ‘goodbye mother, I’m just going outside for a moment’. This appears to be a second

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reference to Truffaut in the film, recalling the final scene of Les 400 Coups (The 400 Blows) ([1959] 2006) at the iconic moment when Antoine Doinel is seen freeze-framed and face-on to the camera with the sea and horizon behind him. It has been argued that the homophone ‘mer’ [sea] and ‘mère’ [mother] point to Antoine’s desire for unity with the maternal figure; however, his long- ing is not specifically associated with his mother, Mme. Doinel, but rather with an ‘obsessive nostalgia’ for the city of Paris (Gillain 2013: 29–30). For Antonello (Rosa), there is a far more affirmative declaration in his departure from the pull that is Naples. In saying goodbye in this way, he illuminates the instability of the exclusively defining features of identity and de-constructs fixed notions of place – exemplified in the very last shot of the film, where he is seen stand- ing in the middle of the road, in broad daylight, awaiting his next lift to wher- ever that might be (presumably Turin) (Figure 5).

Conclusion In her work on migration, Ahmed suggests that ‘spaces are not exterior to bodies; instead, spaces are like a second skin that unfolds in the folds of the body’ (2006: 9). She expands on this by explaining that skin and space leave their ‘impressions’ on each other, implicating the individual and the social in a reciprocal process of influence as one inhabits the other’s skin (2006: 9). The relationship between spectator and text is potentially similar to this, taking into account Conley’s notion of ‘bilocation’ where the map created within (and through) film results in a sense of association and/or dissocia- tion with the represented ‘place’ on-screen (2007: 3). Within a consideration of ‘queer migration’, these two points appear to epitomize Rosatigre in terms of its hybridity of form, pluralization of space and diachronic and synchronic working. In its postmodern de-construction of time and space, Rosatigre challenges the definitiveness of local, regional and national identities, and performs what is one of many possible experiences of migration. In focusing on ‘queer migration’, I have been able to claim an intersectionality of the migrant narrative in challenging hegemonies of representation, gender and sexuality, and nation- ality. I have also been able to draw attention to the potentiality of queering

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‘migration’ beyond an assumed heteronormativity and to the possibility of a ‘multiplicity of queer diasporas’ (Binnie 2004: 84). Rather than thinking of the migrant in binary terms of either ‘in’ or ‘out’, ‘home’ or ‘away’, ‘here’ or ‘there’, I have shown how an analysis focusing on the intertextual can offer a much more nuanced sense of ‘place’ with respect to the migratory experience. In its representation of ‘queer migration’, the film proposes a less dichotomous narrative of geographical movement. It also draws attention to the effect of pluralized spaces and identities upon both the transient and the emplaced, between those who struggle with articulating a sense of ‘home’ and ‘belong- ing’, and those who resist increasing diversity. In reconfiguring the tensions of Stromboli within a queer migratory narrative, De Bernardi problematizes notions of ‘reality’ by way of improvisation, disu- nity, independence, the non-conventional and the mixing of genres – similar to the politics of Rossellini (Nowell-Smith 2000: 9–12; Ben-Ghiat 2000: 22). The representation of ‘queer migration’ in Rosatigre points not to an order restored out of disorder – namely as a strategy of re-organization, recalling the work of Restivo (1995: 39–40) – but rather to a strategy, or a tactic, of dis-organization in which we are all implicated ethically, politically and socially. In essence, we are all forced to see differently. On a final point, I firmly believe that more work needs to be done on less well-known directors in Italy, such as De Bernardi, whose approach, in challenging the very notion of ‘inclusion’ itself, and driven neither by commercial success nor wider acceptance into a canon of Italian cinema, unsettles what is deemed ‘inclusive’ in cinematic and social terms, and how we interrogate and apply that in a much wider sense.

References Ahmed, Sara (1999), ‘Home and away: Narratives of migration and estrangement’, International Journal of Cultural Studies, 2:3, pp. 329–47. —— (2006), Queer Phenomenology: Orientations, Objects, Others, Durham, NC and London: Duke University Press. Allen, Graham (2000), Intertextuality, Oxon: Routledge. Allen, Samantha (2014), ‘Whither the transvestite? Theorising male-to-female transvestism in feminist and queer theory’, Feminist Theory, 15:1, pp. 51–72. Ambrosini, Maurizio (2013), ‘Immigration in Italy: Between economic acceptance and political rejection’, Journal of International Migration and Integration, 14:1, pp. 175–94. Angelone, Anita and Clò, Clarissa (2011), ‘Other visions: Contemporary Italian documentary cinema as counter discourse’, Studies in Documentary Film, 5:2&3, pp. 83–89. Anon. (n.d.), ‘Fare la vita’ (‘Working the streets’), http://www.filmitalia.org/ p.aspx?t=film&l=it&did=27451. Accessed 27 March 2016. —— (2000), ‘Vero & Falso Fuga di star alla cena-disastro’ (‘True and false. Stars flee dinner disaster’), La Stampa, 1 September, p. 25. Aprà, Adriano (2003), ‘Stromboli, Land of God’, in Roberto Rossellini (ed.), Stromboli, Land of God, DVD Film Booklet, London: BFI, pp. 8–12. Barattoni, Luca (2014), Italian Post-Neorealist Cinema, Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press. Ben-Ghiat, Ruth (2000), ‘The Fascist war trilogy’, in D. Forgacs, S. Lutton and G. Nowell-Smith (eds), Roberto Rossellini, Magician of the Real, London: BFI, pp. 20–35.

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Berry, Chris, Kim, Soyoung and Spigel, Lynn (eds) (2010), Electronic Elsewheres: Media, Technology, and the Experience of Social Space, Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press. Binnie, Jon (2004), Globalization of Sexuality, Sage: London. Brown, Chris (2001), Understanding International Relations, Gordonsville, VA: Palgrave Macmillan. Browne, Kath (2006), ‘Challenging queer geographies’, Antipode, 38:5, pp. 885–93. Brunette, Peter (1996), Roberto Rossellini, Berkley and Los Angeles, CA: University of California Press. Butler, Judith (2006), Gender Trouble, Oxon: Routledge. de Certeau, Michel (1984), The Practice of Everyday Life (trans. Steven Rendall), Berkeley: University of California Press. Chávez, Karma R. (2013), Feminist Media Studies: Queer Migration Politics: Activist Rhetoric and Coalitional Possibilities, Urbana, Chicago and Springfield: University of Illinois Press. Chion, Michel (1999), The Voice in Cinema, New York: Columbia University Press. Conley, Tom (2007), Cartographic Cinema, Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press. Connolly, Maeve (2009), Place of Artists’ Cinema: Space, Site, and Screen, Bristol: Intellect. De Bernardi, Tonino (1999), Appassionate (Passionate Women), Italy: Universal Pictures. —— (2000), Rosatigre (Tiger Rose), Italy: Millenium Storm. —— (2001), Fare la vita (Working the Streets), Italy: Lontane Province Film and Rai 3. —— (2012), ‘Tonino De Bernardi. 660secondi. Il Cinema Indipendente’ (‘Tonino De Bernardi. 660seconds. Independent Cinema), 26 October, https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0hDXB7zBTto. Accessed 27 March 2016. —— (2014a), Jour et nuit, delle donne e degli uomini perduti (Day and Night, Lost Women and Men), Italy: Lontane Province Film. —— (2014b), ‘Jour et nuit, delle donne e degli uomini perduti’ (‘Day and night, lost women and men’), http://www.torinofilmfest.org/film/19511/jour-et- nuit-delle-donne-e-degli-uomini-perduti.html. Accessed 10 April 2016. —— (2014c), ‘Intervista a Tonino De Bernardi’ (‘Interview with Tonino De Bernardi’), 26 November, http://www.rai.tv/dl/RaiTV/programmi/media/ ContentItem-6804ca56-e02b-4c32-b564-9f862969c259.html. Accessed 27 March 2016. —— (2015), ‘Cinema a vita: informazioni personali’ (‘Cinema for life: personal information’), www.toninodebernardi.blogspot.co.uk. Accessed 27 March 2016. Di Feliciantonio, Cesare and Gadelha, Kaciano B. (2016), ‘Situating queer migration within (national) welfare regimes’, Geoforum, 68, pp. 1–9. Doane, Mary Ann ([1982] 1997), ‘Film and the Masquerade, theorizing the female spectator’, in K. Conboy, N. Medina and S. Stanbury (eds), Writing on the Body, New York: Columbia University Press, pp. 176–94. Duggan, Christopher (2007), The Force of Destiny: A History of Italy since 1796, Penguin: London. Gallagher, Tag (1998), The Adventures of Roberto Rossellini: His Life and Films, New York: Da Capo Press.

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Gaudreault, André and Barnard, Timothy (2013), ‘Titles, subtitles, and intertitles: Factors of autonomy, factors of concatenation’, Film History: An International Journal, 25:1/2, pp. 81–94. Gelley, Ora (2008), ‘Ingrid Bergman’s star persona and the alien space of “Stromboli”’, Cinema Journal, 47:2, pp. 26–51. Gillain, Anne (2013), François Truffaut: The Lost Secret (trans. Alistair Fox), Bloomington, IN: Indiana University Press. Gorman-Murray, Andrew (2009), ‘Intimate mobilities: Emotional embodiment and queer migration’, Social and Cultural Geography, 10:4, pp. 441–60. Halberstam, Judith (1998) Female Masculinity, Durham and London: Duke University Press. —— (2005), In a Queer Time and Place – Transgender Bodies, Subcultural Lives, New York: New York University Press. Heathcote, Owen (2002), ‘Women mediating violence in Balzac’s Les Marana and Truffaut’s Jules et Jim’ (‘Women mediating violence in Balzac’s The Maranas and Truffaut’s Jules and Jim’), French Studies, LVI:3, pp. 329–44. Hofer, Gustav and Ragazzi, Luca (2011), Italy: Love It or Leave It?, Italy: HIQ Productions. Knopp, Larry (2007), ‘From lesbian and gay to queer geographies: Past, prospects and possibilities’, in K. Browne, J. Lim and G. Brown (eds), Geographies of Sexualities: Theory, Practices and Politics, Hampshire: Ashgate, pp. 21–28. Kristeva, Julia (1980), Desire in Language: A Semiotic Approach in Literature and Art (trans. Thomas Gora, Alice Jardine, and Leon S. Roudiez), Oxford: Blackwell. Levantesi, Alessandra (2000), ‘Odissea nei sentimenti. Viaggio tra Napoli e Torino e passeggiate estive a Roma’ (‘Thoughts of the Odyssey. Travels between Naples and Turin and summer walks in Rome’), La Stampa, 2 September, p. 23. Livingston, Paisley N. (1979), ‘Comic treatment: Molière and the farce of medi- cine’, MLN, French Issue: Perspectives in Mimesis, 94:4 May, pp. 676–87. Manalansan IV, Martin F. (2006), ‘Queer intersections: Sexuality and gender in migration studies’, The International Migration Review, 40:1, pp. 224–29. Marcello, Pietro (2007), ‘Il passaggio della linea’ (‘Crossing the line’), https:// www.youtube.com/watch?v=RLNjCAMu9rE. Accessed 10 April 2016. —— (2009), La bocca del lupo (The Wolf’s Mouth), Italy: L’Avventurosa film. Marlow-Mann, Alex (2011), New Neapolitan Cinema, Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press. Nichols, Bill (2010), Introduction to Documentary, Bloomington and Indianapolis: Indiana University Press. Nowell-Smith, Geoffrey (2000), ‘North and south, east and west: Rossellini and politics’, in D. Forgacs, S. Lutton and G. Nowell-Smith (eds), Roberto Rossellini, Magician of the Real, London: BFI, pp. 7–19. O’Leary, Alan and O’Rawe, Catherine (2011), ‘Against realism: on a “certain tendency” in Italian film criticism’, Journal of Modern Italian Studies, 16:1, pp. 107–28. Pasolini, Pier Paolo ([1964] 2007), Comizi d’amore (Love Meetings), UK/USA: Tartan Video. Remigio, Zena ([1892] 1980), La bocca del lupo, Milano: Arnoldo Mondadori. Restivo, Angelo (1995), ‘The economic miracle and its discontents: Bandit films in Spain and Italy’, Film Quarterly, 49:2, pp. 30–40.

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Ricatti, Francesco (2014), ‘Migration and place: Italian memories of north Queensland’, Queensland Review, 21:2, pp. 170–90. Rossellini, Roberto ([1950] 2015), Stromboli, terra di Dio (Stromboli, Land of God), London: BFI. Storey, John (2006), Cultural Theory and Popular Culture, Harlow: Pearson. Truffaut, François ([1959] 2006), Les 400 Coups (The 400 Blows), London: 2 entertain. —— ([1962] n.d.), Jules et Jim (Jules and Jim), UK: Tartan DVD. Vendemmiati, Alberto (2005), La persona De Leo N. (The Person De Leo N.), Italy: Millennium Storm. Visconti, Luchino ([1960] 2008), Rocco e i suoi fratelli (Rocco and His Brothers), London, Eureka.

Suggested citation Brett, O. (2018), ‘“Queer Italian migrations”: Tonino De Bernardi’s Rosatigre (Tiger Rose) (2000) and the reconfiguring of Roberto Rossellini’s Stromboli, terra di Dio (Stromboli, Land of God) (1950)’, Journal of Italian Cinema & Media Studies, 6:1, pp. 15–32, doi: 10.1386/jicms.6.1.15_1

Contributor details Oliver Brett is a university tutor at the University of Leicester. His main research interests centre on French and Italian cinema, particularly documentary cinema and the representation of gender, sexuality and queer identities. His ongoing research and publications have focused on the phenomenology and social, political and cultural influence of the documentary format. In 2015, he published an article in the online journal gender/sexuality/italy on the performance of (dis)orientation in Pietro Marcello’s docu-fiction film La bocca del lupo (The Wolf’s Mouth) (2009). He has a forthcoming chapter on the ‘urban microcosm’ during the Belle Époque period, which he explores through Marcel Proust’s À la recherche du temps perdu (In Search of Lost Time) (1913). Since 2013, he has also been involved in projects on Italian photographer, Luigi Ghirri, and the representation of sex work in European Cinema. Contact: School of Arts, University of Leicester, Attenborough Tower 1514, University Road, Leicester, LE1 7RH, UK. E-mail: [email protected]

Oliver Brett has asserted his right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as the author of this work in the format that was submitted to Intellect Ltd.

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