Italy

Eat Pray Love

admin — Fri, 13 Aug 2010 12:39:00 +0000

Pretty Woman meets Ugly American in Eat Pray Love, a gender reversal romp in which the woman, for a change, instead of the womanizing man, gets to be the one with commitment issues. And while this female free spirit fling junkie cruise around the planet for high carb self-fulfillment is clearly likewise cruising in search of the chick flick demographic, the misguided message seems to be that hedonism is the new feminism.

Julia Roberts is Liz Gilbert, a professional writer and depressed spouse who splits from her marriage on an impulse one day, leaving her husband (Billy Crudup) in a state of shock, because she's revolted by his desire to be a dad. Liz's aversion to dirty diapers, when observed at the home of her publisher, a brand new mom (Viola Davis), sends the faithless female into the arms of a younger guy stage actor (James Franco).

But following this second anxiety attack in the love department having to do with the way said boy toy neatly folds her clean undies in the laundromat, Liz is outta there too, and off on a one-year flight from reality to wherever, as long as it's exotic and boasting assorted metaphorical pleasure palaces. Though how she manages to finance the hefty price tag on such getaways these days remains a mystery, back in the real world the Elizabeth Gilbert bestseller on which this whimsical outing is based, was actually more on the premeditated side, funded by a generous advance received to write the memoir.

Eat Pray Love, with its pampered princess on constant display, is so utterly self-indulgent and in extreme disconnect with its surroundings that the movie ends up much less about exploring new worlds than getting stuck in the protagonist's old petulant, overblown ego. As this modern day Goldilocks samples, and finds lacking, assorted tempting hunks for no discernible reason at all, that Liz eventually settles on a Brazilian Australian in Bali over the alternatives back home because there's presumably more in common, makes no sense at all. Especially because the only bond the lovebirds seem to share in contrast to the other potential mates is sex, sex, sex.

The scenery is fine to look at, but seeing Julia Roberts thoughtlessly rummaging through the male population is another matter. Liz does learn a few things along the way about leading the liberated life, including mastering the art of guilt-free eating and embracing your inner fatty—not exactly a small feat in that sexist fashion police culture back home—while being defiantly anti-motherhood and proud.

But the tendency of Nip/Tuck director Ryan Murphy to depict the locals of color in foreign lands as caricatured buffoonish backdrop while invisibilizing the impoverished millions of India so they don't rain on Liz's parade, neutralizes any high-minded notions on the narrative menu—in addition to her bragging rights around landing reasonable hotel rates because of terrorism in the vicinity. Not to mention the self-centered, shallow screenplay of Jennifer Salt, a disappointing followup to dad Waldo Salt's idealism and persecution as a blacklisted writer during the McCarthy period.

Eat Pray Love: Me, Myself, and I, and a side order of serious jet lag.

Cross-posted at News Blaze

Written by: Prairie Miller, August 13th 2010

Lost Girls: Sex and Death in Renaissance Florence

admin — Thu, 29 Jul 2010 08:00:00 +0000

By Nicholas Terpstra

Johns Hopkins University Press

Founded in 1554 by a group of charitable women who called themselves the Compagnia della Pietà, the Casa della Pietà, or Compassion House, was built in Florentine to shelter girls who had been orphaned or abandoned by their parents. The goal of the home was to keep children and adolescent girls from turning to (or being forced into) prostitution in the absence of familial support, and to provide them with the possibility of a dowry and marriage. Despite these good intentions, only 202 of the 526 girls and women who resided in the home survived their stay. As Nicholas Terpstra repeatedly asks in Lost Girls: Sex and Death in Renaissance Florence, “What was killing the girls of the Casa della Pietà?”

Terpstra sets out to solve this 456-year-old mystery using the limited documentation still available about the home, as well as other documents that discuss contemporaneous Florence. Throughout the text, Terpstra explores and elaborates upon various theories about what was killing the residents of Casa della Pietà, weaving these theories within the story of the home and the conditions of Florence of the era. In telling this story, Terpstra touches on topics such as the work available for adolescent girls, birth control and abortifacients (and the abortion debate), prostitution, and religious fundamentalism. Although the book is structured as somewhat of a mystery, Terpstra’s question about the fate of the residents is only one part of what is ultimately a social history of the Casa della Pietà and Renaissance Florence.

In terms of women’s history, the book is interesting in two ways. First, it discusses the challenges and options an orphaned or abandoned girl could anticipate facing at the time, even when external support was provided. Second, as was previously mentioned, a group of women established the Casa della Pietà. This was not the norm at the time. Although Terpstra warns against overly romanticizing these women, it is somewhat difficult not to, particularly when the author outlines the differences between the way the Casa della Pietà admitted girls and the way that contemporaneous shelters did, and when he compares Casa della Pietà under the guidance of Compagnia della Pietà to the way it operated once the founding members ceased their involved. As Terpstra notes, “these women challenged more than just the sexual politics of Renaissance Florence—they challenged its political and ecclesiastical establishment.”

The book contains fascinating, and sometimes shocking, information about Terpstra’s topic. I appreciated that Terpstra does not exclusively limit himself to the subject of Casa della Pietà, but uses the mystery of what happened to the home’s residents as a way to examine related issues. Admittedly, some of these discussions were less interesting to me than others. For example, although the section that discusses the textile work done by the home’s residents and the wool and silk industry in general is necessary to have as complete an understanding of the home as possible, I did find it difficult to get through because it is a topic in which I have little interest. This is my bias, however, and I appreciated the level of detail Terpstra demonstrated in this section when he turned this focus to topics that were more in line with my interests.

Overall, despite containing a few sections that were less interesting to me, the text puts forth considerable fascinating information. Perhaps most importantly, the text both taught me about a shelter I had never before heard of, and made me want to learn more about the topic and the social climate of Renaissance Florence and its impact on women and girls.

Written by: Erin Schowalter, July 29th 2010

Sacred Hearts

admin — Fri, 23 Jul 2010 16:01:00 +0000

By Sarah Dunant

Random House

Sarah Dunant's first historical novel, The Birth of Venus, captured my attention right away with one of the best openings I've ever read. I picked up Sacred Hearts hoping for something equally brilliant. While I enjoyed the book, it is not one that will make your heart race; instead, you should immerse yourself in it, let it surround you so you are living with the nuns, at their pace. Enjoy the opportunity to sink into another life and time.

Set in Florence in 1570, Sacred Hearts takes place within the walls of a convent. Young Serafina has been banished there by her family, to keep her from the man she loves. She is furious, and determined to escape.

Suora (Sister) Zuana is the convent's dispensary mistress, their only healer. She sees in Serafina more than just an unwilling novice. Though she carries out her duties (novices who wail through the night are sedated), Zuana's own troubling thoughts are rekindled. An educated woman with no dowry, she had no choice but to enter the convent. Her active mind clashes with the philosophy of convent life, and so she has had to dampen many of her more critical instincts.

Serafina arrives at a time when change is rocking the convent, the city, and the continent. There are many calling for stricter rules in these houses built for women and maintained by them. Abbess Madonna Chiara, Zuana's old friend, walks a fine line between hobbling her flock and appeasing the more radical members like Suora Umiliana, who believes they have a saint living among them.

All this excitement is tempered by the sedate atmosphere of convent life. Dunant has done an excellent job of crafting their world apart from the world. The convent is an insular place, where peace is maintained through quiet and routine. The disorder Serafina brings sends ripples through the convent, creating opportunities for some, and trapping others. The historical context of Florence in the early 1570s plays a large role in how the convent will, ultimately, change.

As for Serafina, her focus is solely on the man she loves. Her feverish desire turns to despair when their plans fall through, and the fever begins to consume her. Umiliana urges her on—deprivation will bring her closer to God, she insists, against Zuana's medical opinion.

The novel is a tapestry depicting the fight for balance and supremacy, woven with the threads of God, science, authority, family, love, and community.

Sacred Hearts makes it possible to both love and hate the convent system. Women enter for many reasons—poverty, tradition, disfigurement or disability, lack of a husband, to escape a bad husband, or even the opportunity for a different kind of freedom. Had Zuana married, she would be a wife and mother with no time to pursue her studies. Madonna Chiara has become a successful leader and politician, dealing with Church officials and the wealthy and powerful families of the nuns. The convent frees them of society's usual demands, creating a space for them to grow in other ways.

At the same time, there is much to rail against. Many of these women have been victims of society. Many, like Serafina, are not given a choice about entering the convent. Many fear the boredom—what is there to do for the rest of your life, trapped behind the walls? Add the usual feminist complains about religion (Chaiara is Abbess, but only a male priest can conduct services and give them the Eucharist.) and it sounds unbearable.

Dunant addresses this complaints in subtle ways, adhering more closely to the matters that concerned the women of the time. My fellow atheists may always be uncomfortable with topics like these, but Sacred Hearts affords us all a rare glimpse into the circumstances of these women.

Written by: Richenda Gould, July 23rd 2010

The Demons of Aquilonia

admin — Thu, 27 May 2010 16:01:00 +0000

By Lina Medaglia

Inanna Publications

The Demons of Aquilonia is a journey through a verdant panorama of beauty and a rich tapestry of the generations of families that comprise a small mountain village in the Italian region of Calabria. Lina Medaglia does a great job describing the push and pull forces that drive domestic and international migration. The beauty of the land is juxtaposed with the regional accent of Calabria, the ancient indebtedness that is the result of efforts to gain valuable, arable land and the general lack of opportunity that causes an all-too familiar “brain drain” toward urban areas and abroad. Such struggles of the countryside could be understood and found to be relatable to any person hailing from the rural side of the growing urban-rural divide.

The story presented in The Demons of Aquilonia does not flow in a linear fashion, and this communicates well the point that the central character, Licia, is in simultaneous dialogue with her those that share her current life after immigrating to Canada and family and friends from her her childhood spent in Calabria. For example, within two or three chapters you may travel with Licia between 1962 and 2006 discussing along the way Licia’s accent and her perseverance in Canadian schools and the revelations of her mother’s belief in the ‘Giganteschi curse’.

Medaglia’s portrait of her time in Calabria makes you wish that you were George Clooney with a sun-drenched villa on the precarious cliffs of the Amalfi coast. Alas, the closest that I have come so far is the imported Blood Orange Soda I recently picked up from Target. But Medaglia’s portrayal of the fractious dialogue between the past and present via the stories of older relatives provokes one to pursue one’s own odyssey through a genealogical tapestry. The Demons of Aquilonia is an appeal to understand the richness and complexity of one’s own past as this may gift us with a more holistic understanding of our personal identity. Understanding personal, familial history is a key to a deeper self-understanding and thereby a more firm ground on which to build an identity that is inclusive of the memories of those that came before us.

Written by: Brandon Copeland, May 27th 2010

Italian Anarchism, 1864-1892

admin — Mon, 19 Apr 2010 16:01:00 +0000

By Nunzio Pernicone

AK Press

Armed with footnotes and provisioned with a healthy bibliography, Italian Anarchism, 1864-1892 is not an easy read for the casual reader, or even the casual “antiauthorian leftist.” Isn’t that the euphemism for anarchist these days? Still, I don’t regret the time I spent reading—insurrection after insurrection, congress upon congress—the nearly 300 pages of text in Nunzio Pernicone’s history of these three decades. He writes not just about heroes like Errico Malatesta, but introduces the reader to supporting characters as well.

As an Italian-American who doesn’t even know her father’s real last name, I’ll admit I checked the index first, for Rossi, Russo, Rosso, anything that might have been shortened to our “boat name,” Ross. During these years my Italian grandfather (or was it his father?) immigrated to the United States, for lots of good reasons, as cataloged by Pernicone: the brutal introduction of capitalist farming methods, famine, and a cholera epidemic. I met Giovanni Russo, region of origin unspecified, who immigrated to Brazil and started an anarchist colony. Alas, I learned also that the Calabria, where my dad’s folks originated, was generally not in the vanguard during these turbulent times in Italy. I fear my ancestors really were the backward peasants the anarchists tried to energize.

But let’s move from mere genealogy to history. Not just women’s history has been “stolen from us,” and I am very grateful to AK Press for publishing this and other works of anarchist history and philosophy. It was almost as true in my young adulthood as it was for the “anarchist prince” Peter Kropotkin that one had to read about anarchism piecemeal in pamphlets. And of course, the reports of police agents are often the only written documents for historical research, as a glance at the footnotes and bibliography in the book reveals.

If we are patient readers, Pernicone’s friendly but balanced, serious, well-documented history fills a need for those of us on the left who are not “anarchist studies” specialists. It occasionally strikes a light, even humorous and lovingly critical, tone. The story about the overweight Michel Bakunin, Russian but the father of Italian anarchism, and his extrication from a carriage on an escape from Italy made me laugh out loud.

Without getting into the learning-from-and-repeating history discussion, the gifts of this book are numerous: the reader can actually feel the pressure militants exerted on themselves and their recruits to stage insurrection after insurrection even in the face of serious repression, understand the betrayal comrades felt when Andrea Costa “sold out” to become a politician, and appreciate the contingencies of history (i.e., how things might have gone another way). After all, anarchism was once a popular movement not just in Italy, and helped set the agenda for socialist activism, but like all movements it was composed of human beings with flaws as well as strengths.

How was this powerful international movement pushed to the fringe and then outside the boundary of political discourse, trivialized as a frivolous critique of organization, or slandered as the equivalent of terrorism in contemporary metropolitan dailies? Sometimes it is easier for feminists and participants in other contemporary movements to open our minds about own activism and the way forward by reading and thinking about a history a bit more distant and “other” than the anti-globalization actions in Seattle in 2000. Pernicone provides us with a history and leaves drawing parallels with contemporary times to the reader.

Do the multiplicity of newspapers started by Italian anarchists suggest a similarity to our current reliance on the Internet? Are activists today missing the boat as anarchists of this period did with early labor organizing? Read and learn.

Written by: Frances Chapman, April 19th 2010

Moonlit Necklace & Flying Home Ring

admin — Mon, 30 Nov 2009 09:07:00 +0000

By Bohème Jewelry

Having made its premiere in the northern Italian city of Turin in 1896, La bohème is now the second most frequently performed opera in the United States—so says Wikipedia. Ordinarily, the near-winner might be a little miffed at the first place slot being granted to another, but Tuscan composer Giacomo Puccini loses to no one other than himself. The foremost operatic popularity goes to another of Puccini's masterworks: Madame Butterfly.

Using a visually aesthetic motif similar to that of the aural designs of Puccini, Bohème Jewelry crafts unique pieces that are at once forward-thinking and vintage. Sheryl Pang's handcrafted designs are thoughtful and complex, yet not overly so as to render them inaccessible to the average wearer. They have an air of nineteenth century Parisian cosmopolitanism with a smidgen of Gothic art.

Imagine yourself as a ragtag artist in the French capital under Russian occupation and during the period of Restoration. Your city is on the cusp of a wave of industrialization that will lead to a great number of transformations. With technology, trade, and tourism at your doorstep, the opera houses become a refuge for creativity.

The Moonlit Necklace and Flying Home Ring are anachronistic pieces of jewelry that hearken to the tragically romantic allure to which Puccini's compositions have given voice. Nestled in the center of an oxidized brass fern is a Swarovski crystal the color of sky. The pendant hangs from a sixteen-inch chain that matches the brass of the flora. Painted with a verdigris patina, the brass ring is twisted into a delicate pattern that features a swallow holding two pink-toned Swarovski pearls and a baby blue Czech glass bead in its beak. Both pieces have a feminine sensibility that is delightfully contrasted with the sturdiness of the design.

A chain smoker of both cigarettes and cigars (a staple of the European artistic elite), Giacomo Puccini died of throat cancer just a month prior to his sixty-sixth birthday. As the story goes, a New York orchestra played Chopin's Funeral March the moment news of Puccini's death reached the city, which was, ironically, in the midst of a performance of La bohème.

Written by: Mandy Van Deven, November 30th 2009

Magical Things: Spring 2008 at the American Academy in Rome

admin — Sun, 22 Nov 2009 00:58:00 +0000

By Meridith McNeal

Brooklyn, New York artist Meridith McNeal continually wandered the streets of Rome during her Spring 2008 residency as a Visiting Artist at the American Academy. As she ambled into every nook and cranny of the city, from winding alleys to bustling streets, she took dozens of spectacular photos—of buildings and people, as well as of flowers, trees, plants, statues, monuments, chandeliers, light fixtures, and scrumptious looking food. Magical Things captures these images and presents them alongside McNeal’s own exquisitely-rendered drawings of everyday objects—her slippers, her computer cable, her coffee pot, among them. Coupled with brief notations—culled from e-mails written to her friends and family detailing her observations and feelings—the book will inspire profound wanderlust in even the most committed couch-sitter.

During “Culture Week,” for example, McNeal visited Galleria Corsini, where she saw “over-the-top dramatic scenes and madonnas and strange bambini all framed in gilt.” From there, she crossed a small foot bridge to the Palazza Farnese before heading to galleries housing paintings by Artemisia Gentileschi and Pieter Bruegel. The day sounds close to perfect and readers can easily understand how McNeal’s reaction mirrored that of Mary Wollstonecraft Shelley more than a century earlier: “At every moment the senses, lapped in delight, whisper—this is Paradise.”

While it’s easy to take McNeal at her word, she doesn’t want readers to do so. Indeed, she peppers her account with quotes from people who, like her and Shelley, have been charmed by the country’s natural and human-crafted beauty. Observations from writers including Susan Cahill, Erica Jong, Bharati Mukkerjee, and reporters from the Time Out Guide to Rome add to the delightful mix and give McNeal’s musings a timeless quality.

Magical Things is visually stunning, and while the sixty-four-page text could easily have been more comprehensive, the focus on Rome’s magnificent beauty entices the reader into wanting to throw caution to the winds and book a flight. Indeed, there’s magic here as McNeal inspires adventures both real and imagined.

Written by: Eleanor J. Bader, November 21st 2009

Been Here a Thousand Years

admin — Wed, 29 Jul 2009 16:46:00 +0000

By Mariolina Venezia

Farrar, Straus and Giroux

Been Here a Thousand Years, Mariolina Venezia’s novel that sweeps across Italy’s history from 1861 to 1989, with certain ideas and images already floating in the periphery: Berlusconi’s wife explaining the reasons for their divorce, my own memories of whistles and blatant gazes from men during a visit to Florence, high fashion seemingly making women into glorified clothes hangers. To tell the tale of a family of women over a historical timeline from Italy’s unification through fascism seemed a daunting and exhausting task. Venezia tells a multifarious story that, for the most part, glides above what could otherwise be a tiresome history lesson, burdened with sexism.

I have always enjoyed historical fiction. The combination of a creative story set against a factual backdrop intrigues and excites me. Venezia does an amazing job of writing an almost magical story of five generations of women in the Falcone family with the very real story of Italy’s past. Themes of womanly and motherly love that border on mythical contrast with the destruction of World War I and II. National power struggles, dictatorships, and monarchies parallel sisters’ rivalries, marriage proposals, births, and the lifelong search for fulfillment. Venezia does not attempt to justify or condemn the lives the women choose or are forced into. Instead, she creates a beautiful and expansive story in which sexism is simply a given, a historical fact.

At times, it feels like the author is taking on too much. The reader is forced to keep tabs on an endless cast of characters who, although each is well-crafted and interesting, pop in and out of the novel with such frequency that references to the family tree on the third page are more necessary than I would like. Venezia is creative with her use of narration and her manipulation of time and dialogue, but in the muddle of too many voices, it doesn’t feel as if she truly hits her stride until the last fifty pages. Gioia, the last of the Falcone women to take the helm of their history, is by far the most interesting and multifaceted. To some extent, it seems as if each character before her was a writing exercise the author used to develop her final masterpiece.

Writing this review is not easy, and I feel as if I need to write a thirty page essay on this novel to truly find my conclusions about it. I am reminded of Gabriel Garcia Marquez’s One Hundred Years of Solitude—a multitude of characters, a rich history, poetic language (translator Marina Harss does a stunning job), complex motifs, and countless interacting story lines that each can be dissected, analyzed, and most importantly, enjoyed. This book is best for readers who can commit to more than light fiction, and best if one can block out preconceived ideas and images of Italy—something I could not do. Mariolina Venezia’s work is rich enough on its own.

Written by: Melissa Ablett, July 29th 2009

Music for Landing Planes By

admin — Sun, 15 Jul 2007 13:39:00 +0000

By Éireann Lorsung

Milkweed Editions

Music for Landing Planes By is an intriguing collection of poetry by Éireann Lorsung. Lorsung draws from her experiences studying print making and drawing in Italy and teaching high school in rural France. Her collection of poems is woven together through her thoughtfully crafted verse and repetition of words. Lorsung skillfully comments on broader social issues through her reflections on daily activities.

The collection begins with the poem "Being," which sets the tone and style for the compilation as well as acquaints the reader with Lorsung's view of her life as inspiration for her writing: "every place I've been is on fire with words." And, what a remarkable life she has led. With the maturity and depth of her writing, the reader would not guess that this is Lorsung's debut collection of poetry.

Her craft is at its best in her poems "And Will Be," "Forgetting in Multiple" and "Printmaking." Lorsung's use of enjambment encourages the reader to look at the verse in its entirety and then reflect on the multiple meanings each line offers. Her poems find inspiration in nature and speak of blooming flowers and waiting out the winter thaw like "birds in the thatch." The beauty of Lorsung’s poetry is that you can read her poems over and over and discover something new each time.

Written by: Breanne Reindl, July 15th 2007