, is in bed with his wife when the bulb in their reading light goes. There are probably new bulbs in the basement, he says. Next morning, he finds time between fillings and bridge work to go down there.
The sight that meets his eyes is so shocking that it is possible — albeit frustrating — to believe that he is incapable of responding in the way any of us imagines we would, that he might even go back upstairs, lock the door and mumble something to his strikingly young wife and teenage daughters about a burst pipe. That there might be a space of traumatized time — a few minutes, say — when he would do nothing.
When Massimo visits his father, there is also a broad hint that madness might have been a familial way of life. His wife doesn’t want him to go. “You’re not well when you’re with him,” she murmurs, milky-mild as always. Meanwhile, the directors soup up the atmosphere with stylishly jittery camerawork and lighting that seems to have a life of its own, switching on a sixpence from day to night or suddenly turning an entire scene red.
But so many ambiguities, so much style put to work for such thin content and — avoiding spoilers — the sheer nastiness of what awaits Massimo below stairs, whether in his extraordinary modernist villa or the bottom story of his mind, prove increasingly frustrating. The D’Innocenzo brothers made many more salient points about masculinity in their burlesque about suburban competition, last year’sThis is their shot at portraying the kind of man who has never quite hit the macho mark.
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