Catharsis reviewed

There are films that one should never see twice.

I just saw – against my better judgment – Umberto D.
for the second time in my life.

I shouldn't have done it. And I knew it.

But – ah! – so irresistible was the temptation to touch, if only from afar, from another lifetime, the warm glow of that Sunday afternoon, on a November day almost fifteen years ago, when I first experienced Umberto D., one of Vittorio De Sica's masterpieces, a key work of Italian neorealism.

On that afternoon, I cried so much that my nose and my entire face swelled... but there was such sweet delight in the utter heartbreak.
Do you know the feeling?

My father had just come to my home to resolve what seemed to me – a PC rookie in those days – a major catastrophe. When he left, with a smile on his face (he was happy that I would be able to continue my work – and that HE had been useful), I was just sitting down on the couch, to see Umberto D, the film that was playing on TV that November afternoon which I could see and feel bathed in a soft, amber light.

I was happy and relieved that my PC was alright – after the nerve-wrecking overnight battle with it. And somewhere, in that die-hard nook of my heart, I was also happy to have a daddy who loves me and comes to my rescue when I need him, and will now be returning home, to my lovely mum... and all that on November 1st, when so many others reminisce about happiness (or miseries) past.

As my father left, I plunged into Umberto's Rome, and I cried my eyes out. I think I even missed the final part because my eyes were too swollen to see. And – oh, how I enjoyed it! How bitter-sweet that feeling was!

That was my memory of Umberto D. That is why it held such a special place in my heart. Because of that Sunday afternoon, of amber glow, a November long ago.

I knew I shouldn't have seen it again.
But I just couldn't resist it. I am too weak to resist the call of melancholy and happiness long since vanished.

I saw the film tonight. Reluctantly – but I did see it.
I even enjoyed some of the parts. For the most part, I was appalled at my own faulty memory: there were many, many scenes and characters I didn't remember at all (like the little pregnant servant girl!).

But it was the end – once again – that broke my heart.
Only, this time it wasn't because of Umberto's and the dog's fate.

I was crying for the girl that was able to weep with such utter abandon, with such an open heart, while drawing her bitter-sweet feeling from the comforting shadows of those around me, all those who loved me. Then I wept because I could afford it; because I could indulge in it. Because I was so blessed.

Tonight's tears – very few and easily contained – came out of regret: dry, well-worn regret that I've learned to bear as a second skin, in the past ten years or so.

I knew I wasn't that girl; I knew my life wasn't like it was on that November day.
Why did I watch it?

A single memory – even if distorted (most memories are) – is worth a thousand viewings of the best films. Umberto D - the virgin viewing - had been an untouchable moment in my life.
Why did I need to re-touch it?

To prove to myself that somewhere, in that mysterious realm between everyday life and our nightly fantasies, there still persists a flicker of the Life as it once was?

I will try to erase the second viewing from my memory.
I know I can do it.
Such things come to me quite easily, these days.




Originally published here.
Reproduced by permission.