by Walter Veltroni
The Rai journalist, life and illness: “I have memorized the colors and the streets. Camilleri told me: I'm like you, our dreams will look like movies. Merini dictated poems to me over the phone.
Vincenzo Mollica, what were you like as a child?
“I was born near Modena and then immediately traveled to Canada, where my emigrating parents joined theirs. I went to first grade there. I had a bike that I rode around Toronto. An immigrant from Trieste taught me how to bounce flat stones off the surface of Ontario. My grandmother was a cook at my school. I remember we rode the bus together and I proudly sat next to the driver. My parents separated. I met my father for the first time when I was seven years old.
Have you watched TV in Canada?
“It was a paradise, they broadcast 24 hours a day and on twenty channels. I saw Popeye and Superman. I remember the theme song where Superman ran and managed to catch a freshly fired bullet with his hand. They showed Disney cartoons and I realized that there was little difference between these animated drawings and reality. I left the house and everything was magical, the snow-covered streets, the squirrels…”
After first grade you returned to Italy…
“In Calabria, in Motticella, near Brancaleone, where I did my studies. As a boy, I had a room there that had a small Geloso recorder, lots of records, poems and theater books by Einaudi. I devoured Eduardo and Brecht. Maigret's crime stories fascinated me. Television began in the afternoon with children's television. Rin Tin Tin, Ivanhoe, Zorro, The Forts of Strong Courage, Bonanza. As a child, my life began to be nourished by stories, characters and fantasies. I saw Snow White, which made a big impression on me, and the films of Don Camillo and Peppone. And then I lost myself in the cantatas of Even and Odd Days by Eduardo De Filippo and especially in The Brothers Karamazov, a novel in which you can find answers to every question in life.
Can you tell me when you met your father?
“We arrived in Naples on a ship with my mother and I. Dad wasn't talked about much in the family. When I saw him, I politely shook his hand. He hugged me and from that moment he became my father. He understood that my passion was comics. And then he took me to Bovalino, where there was a newsstand and I filled my hands with Popeye, Cucciolo e Beppe, Tiramolla, Topolino, l'Intrepido, Il Monello and Il Corriere dei Piccoli. Thanks to him, years later, I even became a Mickey Mouse character, Vincenzo Paperica.
How did you become interested in journalism?
“I had seen a number of American films about the world of newspapers. There was Clark Gable, Humphrey Bogart… It all seemed wonderful to me. Fellini told me the same thing happened to him. This work, this passion that brought him to Marc'Aurelio was born in him when he saw a scene from “Ten in Love” in which Clark Gable enters the editorial office and throws his hat on the coat rack and hits it perfectly. I'm actually a great listener of stories, I wouldn't do anything else in life. I look for them, I look for them like a speleologist and I fix them on paper, if my eyes allowed me, now in my head. I like the core of the story, but also the way it is told. No two stories in the world are ever the same. For me, true journalism can be summed up in three words: curiosity, commitment, passion.”
Her other love and discipline of expression is drawing. How was it born?
“While I was in my little room with Geloso recording the songs from “Disco per l'estate” that were broadcast on the radio, I filled sheet after sheet of watercolors. I wanted to reproduce reality or my image of reality. I was looking for the right red to match the fall maple leaves and preferred Indian Yellow, which can be found in everything I designed. It was the predominant color of my choice. For Tamara De Limpicka it was white, for Caravaggio it was black. For Vincenzo Mollica, as a child and adult, it was this yellow that reminded me of the light of Canada. But my never-ending dream has always been to fill the world with colors. You brought me joy. They bring me joy. Even now, when I only have them in my memory.
Were you good at school?
In my town, in Calabria, there was only one classroom in which all primary school classes were taught together. In fourth grade, the teacher corrected an essay for me. I had, not coincidentally, written the words “la radio” and he had corrected it to “l'aradio” and then he had put a red mark next to the word “duomo” and corrected it to “duomo”. At that point my father withdrew me and I ended up with the Salesians. Then the classics in Locri and the university at the Cattolica of Milan.”
What did you study?
“There were no journalism faculties back then. They said it made sense to study law. I did it. It was a time of great vitality, it was years like that. Gianfranco Bettetini organized a film club where I saw the films of American protest and the solo exhibitions of Fellini and Visconti. To make a few bucks, I appeared on Rai shows and said I had become a “mercenary of applause.” But that's where I met my wife Rosemarie. It was February 14, 1973 and we were at a Giorgio Gaber concert. We rode around on an orange scooter and used the applause money to buy juicy sausage rolls and puddings at a dairy on Via Dante. I was a security guard for Dario Fo at the Palazzina Liberty and with Rosemarie we listened to Enzo Jannacci in the clubs and never missed a screening of a film club that made arthouse films.”
You really tell yourself. The Karamazovs and Tiramollas, Brecht and Jannacci. You’ve always been “pop.” But perhaps your generation was trained in the reproducibility of art.
“I always thought Dostoyevsky looked great next to a Fabrizio De André album. And this art was made for people, not for the artists themselves. I adore our language, I have a word cult. Today we often write according to an automatism, the result of speed, which makes everything smooth and flat. The choice of words, which to use and which to discard, is fundamental. And now that my eyes can't see, the words seem even more important.
When did you realize you were going to lose your eyesight?
«I discovered it when I was seven. My parents had taken me to visit a town called Ardore. They had noticed something was wrong, I couldn't see anything with my left eye. They stayed in the doctor's office, I stayed in the waiting room and listened. I clearly heard, “I have to tell you that your son is going blind.” They were shocked and didn't tell me anything. I went home and looked up the word in the dictionary. But that wasn't necessary, I just had to close my right eye and fall into the darkness.
How did you cope with the course of the illness?
“Since then I have adopted a technique. I memorized all the streets, all the rooms, all the trees. I know her because I've seen her. To check, I closed my right eye and checked to see if my memory had saved everything. In Sanremo or Venice, I only needed one look to get an overview of the places and people. I always wrote everything by hand, but in the last few years I haven't been able to do that anymore. Now I write the articles in my head as if it were a blank piece of paper. I want to feel, somehow see, the letters coming together: the strict shape of the B, the jaunty character of the T. All my life I've always walked around with a notepad in my pocket. In fact, Alda Merini would call me every now and then to dictate one of her poems to me. And I had to be willing to write it down.
Vincenzo, you are one of the few people that everyone loves, without distinction.
“You say? I can't explain it. I hadn't felt as much affection as before since my retirement. All I can tell you is that I always tried to behave well and never withheld a smile from anyone , which always and still today was an expression of my view of life. I actually didn't speak badly about the films or records that I didn't like. If I could, I didn't talk about them, or I used the weapon of irony. I know how much effort goes into creating an intellectual work and it seems right to me to always respect this work. I learned from Emilio Rossi and Nuccio Fava at Tg1 and from Enzo Biagi at Linea Diretta what public service means. It means really to put myself at the service of the public and I thought it was always my duty to propose something that I liked and that moved me.”
What was your impact on the news?
“When I arrived, there was no habit of talking about cinema or comics in the news, except for deaths and festivals, which always ended with sports. For me, arriving at TG1 was like landing in Disneyland. Lello Bersani was fundamental. I bombarded him with questions about the world of cinema. He once said to me: “I want to make you understand what cinema means to me.” We were in his office, it was slow motion. He opened a drawer and pulled out a red velvet album. It was one of the set photos from “The Leopard,” a gift from the production to the journalists who followed the filming. Cinema doesn't just consist of films. It's a big world and what's left of a film, a scene, an encounter in you counts. In 1981, Lello took me aside and said, “I count for nothing… but I want you to take my place.” In the meantime, I will ask you to act as my deputy from now on. Then he took out his phone book and just said: “Copy.” All the numbers were there: Rossellini, De Sica, Visconti… A gold mine. And I copied the numbers of the living and the dead just in case. In fact, I once had to talk to Anna Magnani's son and didn't know how to find him. I called Lello's address book and he answered me.
Let's talk about your friend Federico Fellini. He loved you back.
I would like to give you a familiar memory. As we went to lunch with the families, Federico was fascinated by one of our rituals, the result of a family lexicon that included my daughter Caterina only eating when Rosemarie told her a story, or rather a fairy tale. Federico lost himself in this scene and began to draw the characters from my wife's story on paper napkins. And so Caterina lived in a cartoon that was created immediately with her mother's voice and Federico Fellini's drawings. He loved Caterina and always kept up to date with what she was doing. He was very curious about children, perhaps not having children was the big gap in his life. In fact, Federichino died when he was eleven days old. And he, who never ceased to be a child, looked for himself in those he considered his equal.”
How many drawings did he give you?
When we worked together, he would take notes, often in the form of drawings, and throw them in the trash can. I took them back and put them in a folder. He once came here, to my study, which is full of wonderful books that I wanted to read after I retired. Now I dream about them at night. I plucked up the courage and asked him if he would sign it for me. “How many?” he asked me. “More than a hundred,” I ventured. “Give me a pencil”… The film of his that I liked the most is “The Road”. Along with Modern Times, it taught me that life can always be something different. Chaplin once said that he saw “Charlot in a Skirt” in Julia in this film.
Tell me a film you would take with you to a desert island.
“Who framed Roger Rabbit? It's all in there. Much more than meets the eye at first glance. As is often the case with cartoons. Snow White, for example. Eisenstein said it was “A drop of pure water falling into hell,” and Federico loved the Gothic part of it, with the transformation of the trees and everything else.”
It's a book?
“A short novel by a mutual friend of ours who is no longer with us, Daniele del Giudice. It's called “In the Museum of Reims”. It is the story of a man, a former naval officer, who loses his eyesight and looks at David's portrait of the murdered Marat for the last time. There he meets a woman, Anne, who wants to tell him about the painting. It's just a few basic pages.
What music would you like to hear on this island?
“That of a poet and musician, Paolo Conte. His album Un gelato al limon, which includes Bartali and Sudamerica, is a testament to his majesty. Azzurro, written by him, is a masterpiece and Celentano's unparalleled interpretation does it justice. But there is one song that is particularly close to my heart. It's St. Lucia by Francesco De Gregori.
I too have always thought that it was the most beautiful of all miracles.
“Do you remember those two sentences? “St. Lucia, for everyone who has eyes and a heart that is not enough for eyes.” And then finally: “Make even the rain on his shoes, even the loneliness, sweet.” This song has given me great and important comfort in my given life.
What do you miss most now that you no longer have the opportunity to see the things of the world?
“The way I accept what's happening to me, I would say I'm not missing anything.” I've been used to it since I was a child. I have always seen and not seen. With my eyes I was mono, not stereo. Now they are broken. I miss my wife's faces, her blue eyes and her smile, I miss Caterina's face and her light. Camilleri, who had the same problem as me, glaucoma, like Totò, once said to me: “Always remember not to lose your color memory.” You will see, your dreams will be clear and vivid, as if they were three-dimensional, Your imagination will be powerful, your memory will show you everything as if it were projected on a big screen, with a clarity you have never known. I discovered that not seeing is also an art. It drives you to seek another art, that of making a living. Knowing how to accept everything that life offers you with simplicity, perhaps always keeping a reserved smile in your pocket and trying to enjoy what life gives you: listening to beautiful music, smelling the scent of flowers, eating enjoy, feel the shape of things through your hands, even the crashing. Thank God I have enriched the memory of the things I loved. In my darkness I watch films again, listen to the radio and pay more attention to encounters with people. I am more curious, more attentive. I have never stopped doing things since I lost my sight.
Is there an image from a movie that you can see more clearly now?
“The final scene of Modern Times, the most beautiful film in the history of cinema, the most beautiful picture ever conceived.” As Charlot tells the desperate brat to smile. He does it with a gesture, just a wave of his hand.
In this moment, only in this moment, Vincenzo Mollica is moved when he talks about a film, an image, this gesture, this smile as medicine for pain.
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December 9, 2023 (modified December 9, 2023 | 07:39)
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