Giuseppe Tornatore’s village drama is funny, tender and sometimes too sweet. Salvatore Cascio and Philippe Noiret make its central friendship persuasive enough to withstand the film’s determination that we leave in tears.
Giuseppe Tornatore’s Cinema Paradiso is a funny, moving account of a boy’s attachment to a village cinema and its projectionist. We recommend it warmly, with a caution about the music. Tornatore, who also writes the screenplay, makes the cinema central to the community, so we understand its hold on a child before the film starts asking us to miss it. The childhood friendship gives that nostalgia a reason to matter.
Salvatore Cascio plays the young Totò with an eagerness that makes his fascination with films feel immediate and absorbing. Philippe Noiret’s quieter Alfredo gives that excitement room, and their exchanges never seem arranged simply to make the child endearing. We were moved by the way Cascio’s delighted attention draws out Noiret’s patience. Their affection develops through those responses to one another, and the scenes are funny enough to keep it from becoming solemn.
The censoring of kisses is a small, effective joke about the gap between what people want to watch and what they are allowed to see. It also makes the village cinema feel like a place where people disagree over what should be shown. Andrea Crisanti’s production design serves that communal feeling, giving Totò and Alfredo a gathering place that matters to other people too. Blasco Giurato’s cinematography makes the Sicilian village inviting and picturesque. The prettiness suits a story told through recollection, though it can make the past look more comfortable than the performances suggest.
Marco Leonardi and Jacques Perrin take over as the teenage and adult Totò, and Mario Morra’s editing makes those changes easy to follow. The pace becomes more deliberate as the film moves away from childhood, which is reasonable but not always rewarding. Leonardi and Perrin fit the reflective mood, although we miss the unruly pleasure of Cascio’s presence. The romantic passages are touching enough without being as distinctive as the exchanges with Alfredo. At 124 minutes, the film gives those recollections plenty of time, occasionally a little more than they need.
Ennio Morricone’s romantic score is a considerable pleasure, and its open feeling belongs in a film this affectionate. The trouble comes when it keeps insisting after the actors have already persuaded us. We occasionally wanted the music to leave a scene alone, particularly when the central relationship was supplying all the feeling required. That is the risk in this kind of coming-of-age drama: childhood, romance and a remembered home already offer plenty of encouragement to tears. Tornatore could trust those things a little more.
Watch it with someone who remembers a place they were once certain they would never leave. There is no requirement that the place should have been a cinema. If you object to music that openly encourages tears, however, take that objection seriously before pressing play.
