Vittorio De Sica makes an old man’s struggle to keep his home absorbing and painful. Carlo Battisti’s proud, awkward presence gives Umberto D. its force; the music occasionally asks for feelings the performance has already earned.
Umberto D. is a deeply moving film about an old man who cannot afford to continue living as he has, and we would recommend it to almost anyone. Vittorio De Sica follows a pensioner facing eviction in Rome, keeping close to the ordinary business of getting through a day. At 91 minutes, the film has room for pauses that a more hurried drama would cut. We need that time to understand how much work it takes Umberto to preserve a little self-respect.
Carlo Battisti plays Umberto Domenico Ferrari without the practised invitation to affection that can make an elderly screen character tiresome. His bearing stays formal; his pride does not conveniently soften just because he needs help. We found that effort to remain composed painful to watch, because Carlo Battisti lets us see how much of his strength it consumes. This is a non-professional performance, but its force has little to do with novelty. He leaves us to respond to a man whose dignity can make him difficult to approach.
Maria Pia Casilio, as the maid Maria, is given room to matter beyond what she can do for Umberto. Cesare Zavattini’s screenplay lingers over daily routines and incidental observations, so she has time to become someone with a life beyond his difficulties. Flike, played by Napoleone the Dog, could easily become a convenient means of extracting tears. The affection works because caring for the dog gives Umberto something practical to do, and someone whose needs he can still meet.
G.R. Aldo’s deep-focus cinematography keeps the space around Umberto clear, allowing us to notice how alone he is within it. The Roman streets have beauty without looking as though they have been included to give us a rest from his troubles. Virgilio Marchi’s production design makes the rooms feel confining, using the controlled studio spaces to strengthen that impression. Being able to see these surroundings clearly makes the cramped accommodation harder to ignore.
Eraldo Da Roma’s editing allows small actions to retain their duration, and that patience matters as much as any individual image. The everyday routines feel like time somebody actually has to live through. Alessandro Cicognini’s music is less restrained than the faces, and occasionally presses the sadness harder than we need. With an old man and his dog already before us, the film has ample means of moving an audience. Those musical nudges are our reservation about a film generally so good at letting us look.
Within Italian neorealism, this concentration on uneventful stretches of a day is unusually demanding. There is humour here, though it does not arrive at reliable intervals to make the poverty more comfortable. People, streets and rooms receive the attention another drama might reserve for a confrontation. The ordinary actions hold our interest because the performances have made the difficulties behind them matter, even when the immediate task seems too small to warrant a scene.
The pace may frustrate anyone waiting for a crisis every few minutes. The bleakness can also be hard to sit with, and the dog offers no guarantee of an easy evening. Neither is a reason to avoid a film that makes the threat of losing a room feel as serious as it is to the person living there. Give it an evening when you can let the small things take their time.
