Molecole (2020) - full transcript

From the dark horizon of my future

a sort of slow, persistent breeze had been
blowing toward me, all my life long,

from the years that were to come.

(Albert Camus, The Stranger)

I've never understood
if I belong to Venice.

It's as if I'd constantly
skimmed it all my life.

In fact,
I've never wanted to understand it,

I've always lost myself in it.

My father grew up in Venice.

His oldest friends are from Cannaregio,

he went to "Marco Polo"
high school with them,



he lived on the Grand Canal,
between the Academy and Rialto,

then he moved to Padua, where I was born.

He was born in February 1946,

just after the war.

His father was Jewish and his mother,
Grandma Anna, wasn't,

but the Shoah
was a terrible nightmare for her,

a constant threat
that followed her all her life.

She was always scared something
could still happen.

When I was a child,
every Sunday we'd go visit Grandma Anna,

who lived in San Tomà,

above the gondola stand,

the one for Venetians, not for tourists.

We'd walk from the station,
but I didn't know if I liked it.

My father was silent,
my grandmother even more.



It was like they were hiding something
from me about that city of theirs

that I couldn't understand.

But frankly, my father
hid quite a few things from me.

We'd also go to Venice for the Historical
Regatta or the Redeemer Festival,

the great ceremonies that,
before becoming tourist attractions,

celebrated the relationship between
the city, the water and its history.

But I couldn't understand those either:

All I remember is a great racket

and the strain of being there
without really knowing why.

Maybe that's another reason why
I've always only skimmed Venice.

I've circled around it or entered it only
for a few brief moments, passing through.

While it was my father 'd filmed Venice.

When he was 16, with a super 8 camera,
together with Giuliano, his older brother.

For fun, but with a taste for shooting
that I never imagined he had:

precise, geometric,
but somehow delicate too, almost painful.

Of course he'd never
talked to me about it,

I only discovered it after his death,
like so many other things.

Like this letter.

I wrote it to him 20 years ago,
when I was 25.

He'd kept it in the drawer in his office.

I wrote:

"You never talk much,
but that's the way you are.

"You've always said very little".

"It's part of being a father, I guess.

"In life it sometimes happens
that you don't feel too well,

"and you can end up thinking
that nobody understands why,

"not even your father or your son.

"Because that's really the way it is,

"sometimes in this life
you really are alone".

"You look around,

"and the only thing
you can do is feel unwell

"and look for a quiet path
to walk along.

"It happens sometimes.
Doesn't it, Dad?"

He never replied.

VENETIAN MOLECULES

I don't have many pictures of me
as a child with my dad,

but this one has always struck me.

You can't see the frame of the mirror,

almost as if it weren't there,

as if someone else
was taking a picture of us.

It looks as if
I was wondering why even then.

Who's watching us, dad?

Are you?

While I don't have any pictures
of me and Dad in Venice.

Only pictures of him in Venice
before I was born,

up to the wedding with mom,
and then that's it.

As if Venice had then disappeared,
submerged by other lives, other worlds.

That disappearance weighed on me.

And after so many years
I decided to try and deal with it,

to enter it and film Venice myself.

I'd decided to start with two of the great
pains and dangers of today's Venice:

tourism and the high tides.

As usual, I'd rationalized and planned,

because that's the way I am.

So, on 22 February 2020 I set off,

but I had no idea
what was about to happen to me.

None of us had any idea
what was about to happen to us.

I was at Sant'Erasmo,
right in front of Maximilian's Tower...

You told me.

Yes, it was February, like now.
It was cold.

I was rowing and heard
that noise offshore boats make.

I had my back to it
and I felt an air shift.

It raced off and did a whole lap.

and I told the guy:
"Perhaps you'll kill yourself!"

And on Sunday...
I think it was a Friday...

On Sunday he killed himself.

This is Vignole
and we're on the 'Bragozzo' boat Eolo,

where Mauro has been living for ten years.

Mauro wanted me to meet Gigi,

a fisherman
and a true connoisseur of the lagoon.

We joked about the fate of the city
and divided ourselves, as a joke,

between apocalyptic and bucolic factions.

Without knowing why.

There are some beautiful moments...

in winter,

when there are no tourists, no people.

Sometimes I still see a pleasant lagoon.

Having people beside me, close by, behind
and in front of me, always annoys me.

It's only fair, isn't it?

You go somewhere
to get away from the mob

only to find another mob.

We both suffer from the same disease.

Yes.

That's why we're in Vignole:
an island within an island.

Boats and fish have always saved my life.

It is an art that never tires you,
because you always learn something new.

Even now I'm 70,
I always learn something new by fishing.

Because times, methods
and techniques are always evolving.

There's always something to add.

It's the microcosm of fishing:

when you leave home

thinking about catching a particular fish
in a specific place and you do catch it.

There, "you guessed right!"

Plus it's healthy,
you breathe clean fresh air.

You're in peace.

What do the Chinese say?
"If you kill your pig you're happy"...

No. "If you get married,
you're happy for a week.

"If you kill your pig,
you're happy for a month".

"If you learn to fish
you'll be happy for a lifetime".

Chinese people!

So I apply myself.

The fish are changing,
the city's for sale,

there is not much room left
to really enjoy the lagoon.

I remember well how torn I was that night
between agreeing with them

and thinking they were too rhetorical.

But it was still too early to understand.

We said goodbye, and me and Gigi promised
each other we'd soon go fishing together.

And I didn't know it was
going to be difficult.

This is Elena Almansi.

Her grandmother
was my grandmother's only Venetian friend.

I obviously didn't know, and nor did she.

I've always wanted to learn to row.

Elena grew up between
the canals of Venice,

daughter of Venetian rowing champions,
she too is a professional rower.

Every year she takes part
in the historical Regatta.

But to make a living
in the Venice of today,

she teaches rowing to tourists,
in English.

On the morning of February 25,
I asked her to simulate a lesson for me.

You have to pull just a little bit,

in order to keep the oar into the forcola,
the rowlock.

So we have the yellow side of the oar,
beside which there's the diamond,

have always to face up
or the back of the boat,

but when you have to compensate,

you over twist the oar
with the yellow facing forward.

And in this way the boat
was been a little bit on the right.

And this is how it works.

I can't just stay far
from a place like this.

I think people who live in Venice
are really lucky because they live here.

But not so many people realize that,

also because is a huge problem
living in Venice for a young person as me,

because it's impossible
to find a an accommodation,

hard to find a job,

hard to live
because everything is really expensive.

So...

In my class room,
in the high school, we were 29.

Right now, only because
some of my friends returned back,

we are kind of five, six...

It's not nice
seeing all your friends going away.

I live alone
since I was 18 years old, so...

which is really hard

because everything is really expensive,

but I love staying here.

Is hard living here, I know
that is hard, but I love living here.

I don't think Dad
really wanted to leave Venice.

He wanted to study Physics
and the faculty was in Padua.

But I don't know, of course.

He was a scientist, a chemical physicist:

he studied the movements of molecules,

small invisible natural elements
that we don't see,

but which determine
the evolution of the world.

In particular, he studied free radicals,

molecules with solitary electrons,

which as such are looking
for other electrons to mate with.

He tried to study
the traces of their movements

and understand why and how molecules meet

and contaminate themselves
with other molecules.

He spent hours in his office
with the door closed.

Every now and then I'd go in

and try to ask him what he was doing,
but it was too difficult.

February 25 was Mardi Gras.

At Mardi Gras Venice
is packed with tourists, as always.

Instead, this year they were leaving.

Only a few were left hanging around,

clasping to the hope
of being able to continue celebrating.

Like solitary electrons
searching for other electrons.

The Carnival had been canceled.

Schools, museums
and even the churches had been closed.

Small invisible molecules
had begun to upset the world,

but a great part of the world still
couldn't and didn't want to understand it.

Including me.

I didn't have the faintest idea
of what was going to happen.

I just decided to keep filming
for my project.

Venice is built on poles
and needs to be protected.

"Punta della Salute"
has the Mareographic Zero,

the benchmark the Tide Monitoring Center
of the Municipality of Venice

uses to measure the high water.

Maurizio Calligaro was the manager
of this Center for years.

He has a beautiful nickname: Caigo,
which in Venetian dialect means "fog".

I wanted to meet him to
better understand what had really happened

with the great high tide
of November 12, 2019,

the one that made the front pages
all around the world.

There was a moment of great dismay.

Because what took place
had never happened before.

1.87 meters, 1.54 meters, 1.50 meters,
1. 44 meters, 1.43...

A startling series of tides and defining
them "exceptional" would now be a paradox,

because we are seeing a phenomenon
that has obviously changed.

There's also a feeling
that it's worth considering alternatives.

Whether it wouldn't be a good idea

to protect what you've invested
everything you had on

by selling it
and going to live somewhere else.

I personally know at least 3 people

who definitely live and work in Venice,

who don't have a merely occasional
relationship with the city,

who are seriously thinking about
going elsewhere.

The Venetians are fleeing to the dry land.

Because the land isn't dry in Venice.

It isn't there.
It's under the water.

And the water often rises.

What does it mean to live
on an ancient palafitte

that is submerged by water
from time to time?

If only my dad had explained it to me.

I wanted to understand it.

Elena had a friend, Giulia,

who lives in the "Castello" neighborhood,
in a small ground floor house.

This is our front door
with the bulkhead installed.

And this is Giulia, who is cheerfully
trying to sweep the water

into the manhole with her broom.

Then the video starts again.

Very cheerfully.

- At one point...
- The rhythm was cheerful.

- You were philosophical about it too.
- The mood was a little less cheerful.

The first night he was training
and I was at home alone.

With the strength of despair
I raised the cover of the pump,

which I'd never be able to lift now.

So, that was
a remarkable effort in itself.

All the squatting down
to throw the water out with a bucket,

well, that was what wore me out.

In fact, the next day I went to ER
because I was feeling very bad.

It was both the cold and the effort,
and especially the nervous breakdown.

I think it was a lethal mix.

Plus it was really cold.
It was really windy too.

We had to keep the door
and the windows open.

With all those splashes of water,
all that water everywhere.

Wearing boots...

but after a while your feet
still get frozen, you're hands are wet...

It was exhausting and quite testing.

My colleagues and everyone
I know texted or called me,

because they know
I live on the ground floor.

I thought: Why did I buy this house?

I could have waited,

or maybe bought a different one
on the first floor, or the second floor.

But, I bought this

so it's not even worth
thinking about it too much.

I'll stay here 'till the day I die.

Yes, absolutely. I mean...

but if it were to happen,
I can imagine... the poverty.

Well, if someone offered me
the "job of a lifetime",

an offer you can't refuse,
then I'd relocate.

Otherwise I wouldn't.
For no other reason.

Just... no.

What if there were tides
of 1.5 meters for 50 days a year?

I'd move to a third floor
or fourth floor, but I'd stay in Venice.

I'd simply move to a higher floor.

Yes.

We both agree on this, so...

Maybe we'd move
to the Sant'Elena neighborhood.

Once you know you're gonna have 50 days
of high tides, you learn to manage.

- Yes, you adapt.
- Yeah.

Slowly.

On 12 November 2019,
the night of the great high tide,

I was in Padua at my mother's.

I suddenly felt the need to go and see

what had really happened in Venice.

As I walked, I took these photos.

Not of the high tide or the damage,

but of disappearances,

of voids, almost of ghosts.

Thinking it over,

looking at these photos again,

even then it was the empty spaces,
the ghosts, that were attracting me.

You can almost "breathe"
a fear of being left alone.

Venice was alone

in that void that had begun to attract me.

Something similar also happened
to Caigo on February 25,

shortly after our interview
in Punta della Salute.

It's like about 40 years ago.

The canal, the basin,
the Giudecca canal without a single wave.

Or a return to the future,
as it should be.

Without waves,
but there are no boats either.

Taxis are practically non-existent.

It means tourism
is practically non-existent too.

Now it's almost rush hour

and you can't see a single boat.

No boats in the basin,
nor in the Giudecca canal.

Yeah, maybe like 50 years ago.

But not really.

In that void,

in front of the large basilica
dedicated to the plague,

which killed 15.000 people
in Venice in 1630,

I remembered that my father's favorite
writer was Albert Camus.

I think he read "The Stranger"
at least a dozen times.

In a letter I found after his death,

he explained to a dear woman friend,
not to me of course,

that what captivated him
about the book

was the inevitable relationship
between man and his fate.

"Destiny - my father wrote -

"is prepared by events beyond our control,

"we are all born with a written part,
we may as well accept it".

Like Camus

my father had an incurable disease,

from birth he had a heart murmur.

When I was a child,
he'd make me listen to it, like in a game.

I didn't know it was a serious issue.

But my grandmother knew it well.

They've always lived in the belief

that something uncontrollable,
stronger than themselves,

ran their existence.

I think my father's research on molecules,

on the invisible composition of matter,

was his way of trying to understand
the functioning of his destiny.

Of trying to find rules in chance.

For him, science
was a tool to talk to the inevitable,

to the absurdity of life,
as Camus called it.

Elena and Giulia wanted to take advantage
of the absurd void

that was growing in Venice

and had decided to train directly
on the Grand Canal.

That void for them was still
only a great opportunity.

Listen! No kidding, it really is empty.

Today there were only Asians around.

Strange!

They've got nothing to lose.
Couldn't get any worse...

They caught the Bangladeshi selling face
masks instead of roses on the bridge.

Now?

Yesterday or two days ago.

Finance police stopped him
with 20 "made in China" face masks.

He was selling them for 10 Euros
each on the Rialto bridge.

Why? Is it okay to sell roses
but not face masks?

Yeah, apparently.

Maybe because they're made in China.
Roses aren't.

I don't know.

The stream is punishing us
right in the middle of the canal,

coming the opposite way.

On the left, also known as
"a premando" (In Venetian).

I know,
but it took me a while to get it.

Left?
Which hand do I write with?

No gondolas either.

Well, with no people around...

My goodness!

Good thing too.

If I could have it my way,
I'd keep it this way all year round.

Marvellous!

That night, in that void,
I saw Venice in its fragility,

in a sort of unstable balance.

That sudden feeling of weakness
was beginning to teach me something.

Who knows how many times
Dad had breathed it too?

I wanted to delve deeper.

The next morning, in addition to the
emptiness and the absence of waves,

there was also a remarkably low tide.

It was an opportunity to enter
the city almost from below.

To do so I needed
some very experienced rowers.

Elena couldn't come,
so I asked her parents.

Even with no water.

You have to know how
to row even with no water.

Further on the right,

there's a much lower ladder

that probably used to emerge
from the water more often.

This was the average height

of the water level at the time,

because the step was
used to climb onto the boat,

so that was obviously
the average level.

But now there's an exceptionally low tide,

so it means
the sea level has risen drastically.

Below us we now have
50 centimeters of water.

So they've added more steps here.

The foundations of the city are sinking
and the water is growing.

Matter is cracking.

Caigo told me
I needed to go to Sant'Erasmo

to fully understand the situation.

The island north of Venice,
in front of the Lido Port,

where the growth of the tides
is making the sandbank disappear,

the spits of land dividing
the waters of the Lagoon.

I didn't have much time left,
moving about was becoming difficult,

but those days of emptiness and low tides
were an opportunity not to be missed.

What are you catching?

- Clams.
- Ah, clams.

There's nothing else.

Are they already on top, or
do you have to go down with your finger?

- With your finger.
- Oh, right.

- Is the tide still going down?
- Oh yes, until half past four.

- It's making a big shoal.
- Big shoal today too, then.

Remember how far the salt
marsh used to go?

- Once upon a time?
- Yes.

- It's withdrawn a lot here.
- Oh yeah, I remember too, but...

It reached the very end. There used to be
a canal with cuttlefish over there.

Sure. There was sand right there,
and here it was all salt marsh.

Look what's left
of the cuttlefish canal...

Nothing's left.

This.

This has a winter color now.

It turns green in the summer,
then it makes a small purple flower

which is a naturalistic charm.

Then it turns red.

During the winter it dries up again

and the vegetation resumes
around late May/early June.

It turns green again.

Venice, the lagoon,

used to be this.

Navigation was difficult precisely because

that there was an excess of sandbanks

and few opportunities to row.

Reason why rivers were diverted.

Now everything is disappearing.
No one needs the salt marshes.

Only the birds.

The lagoon isn't the sea.

It's a great big swimming pool.

If you tip over here,
you fall on your feet.

Even when there's a meter of water,

you're always between the water
and the nearby soil.

So you can go wherever
you want with no fear.

My father was afraid:

of his illness, of death

and perhaps even of many other things.

He would hide away in his study,
or sometimes he would leave.

But I looked for him.

I didn't know how,
but I had to understand something.

"To be honest, the desire of writing
to you emerged the other evening

"after our phone call.

"I like talking with you on the phone.

"I like it because
I feel you'd like to tell me more,

"but have no desire
to do so over the phone.

"I also like it
because you make me understand

"that you'd like to hear
the stories of my adventures,

"and more simply of my life,

"but you know I have no desire
to do so over the phone.

"So we always make an appointment,

"both trying to understand
when we could meet.

"So we say goodbye and hang up,
confiding in the next meeting.

"Needless to say,
the day we manage to meet,

"one of us two has too much in mind
to keep the promises made on the phone.

"So?

"So a smile is enough, if we can do that".

6 March 2020.

Practically only Venetians
were left in the city.

By now the molecules
of the virus were running wild,

in Milan and Bergamo
deaths were soaring by the hundreds.

The curve
of the pandemic seemed unstoppable,

it was getting really scary.

I too began to realize something
incredible was about to happen.

The government was debating

and within a few hours it had to decide
whether to close all activities

and prevent any movement.

I didn't want to leave.

I decided to call Elena again

and ask her to go out
on the boat while we still could.

Gosh, they're wonderful.

Fried sardines,
that's what I want to eat.

The Giudecca Canal hasn't been like this
for thousands of years probably.

Wonderful.

Wonderful.

It might seem trivial...
Look at that.

You usually sink here.
I mean, you really sink.

Maybe the only good thing about there
being no people in Venice

is that the rough waves have disappeared.

They've disappeared.

And you suddenly realize what the heck
is responsible for those waves:

the boats taking tourists around.

It's all about cause and effect.

Unfortunately.

If only there were
more Venetians, bloody hell,

we'd get this magnificent place back.

But...

Instead, we make a living
out of tourism, as is only fair.

Imagine that!

- Today is a good day.
- The clouds are clearing away.

"Venice passenger terminal.

"Attention! Access, landing and approach
prohibited to unauthorized persons".

Okay, let's go anyway.

I did a regatta here once,
father and daughter.

I think that until 25 years ago only
ferries to Greece came here,

the idea of cruise ships
hadn't even been considered.

It's eerie to see it so empty.

Desolate more than empty, it is.

Yes...

I never saw Elena again
after the lockdown isolated all our lives.

I was stuck too, in Giudecca,

in a small house my uncle Giuliano,
my father's elder brother, owns.

Happy birthday dear Dafni

Happy birthday to you

Good girl!

What kind of cake did you bake?

A friend of mine baked it.
It is a chocolate cake.

What are you writing?

What did the letter say?

"You never talk much,
but that's just the way you are.

"You've always said very little.

"It's part of being a father, I guess".

"In life it sometimes happens
that you don't feel too well,

"and you can end up thinking
that nobody understands why,

"not even your father or your son".

"Because that's really the way it is,

"sometimes in this life
you really are alone".

Life.

What did the Chinese say?

"If you get married,
you'll be happy for a week.

"If you kill your pig,
you'll be happy for a month.

"If you learn to fish,
you'll be happy for a lifetime".

Gigi was right.

There's something materially sacred
about being able to fish alone.

You have to rely on
what you can't predict,

and you have to be able
to recognize signs so small

they often disappear
before you even notice them.

It's like not knowing why you know,

having the patience to lose yourself
in order to find something.

Not being sure you understand,

but knowing that you have to be there,

that you have to stay in the heart
of a solitude that can keep you alive.

My father had a beautiful smile.

On the last day we spent together,
I didn't know it would be the last day,

but I remember him smiling
at me as he walked off.

"Andrea, are you busy this morning?"

"I don't feel like going off today."

There's only one question
I'd really like to ask you now, Dad.

The day you decided not to go to work

and spend the whole morning
with me instead,

the day you woke up,
smiled and asked me

if I wanted to stay with you for a while.

That day, dad, did you know
I'd never see you again?

What did you know?

How could you have known?

How can anyone know these things, dad?

I know you'll never answer me,

but the difference is that
now perhaps I even know why.

The last day.

If there were another last day, Dad...

Ulderico.

What remains of life, Ulderico,

when there's nothing
but water and cold steam around you?

Is there anything you can
see in the invisible?

We both know that this fog
is not a supernatural event

but is deeply material.

Yet, isn't this fog
in which we're plunged

surreal, magical, spiritual?

In the midst of this fog, dad,

can you see
what we don't see but we know is there?

Does our silence speak about this?

In this silence,

I think I can clearly feel
what's always tied you to this place.

You know that
in the most ancient heart of Venice,

at the center of St Mark's Basilica,
there's a great big marble slab,

the Venetians call it "the sea",

it's been smoothened by time

and almost rippled
by the instability of the foundations.

The sea defends and threatens,

bestows life and death:

it's ceaseless,

there's no definitive answer.

Strength and weakness
are not opposites for Venice,

which constantly seeks
an almost impossible balance

between water, nature, and fear.

Which is what you had to do, Ulderico,
for your whole lifetime.

Learning to talk to the inevitable.

Instinctively knowing
there's something more powerful

on which your existence depends

and that your strength lies not
in enduring it or denying it,

but in respecting it,

in finding an agreement with it.

You always knew your heart condition
would kill you sooner or later:

and it did.

You studied matter

and were convinced matter
is all we're made of.

And I agree with you.

But our matter is very fragile,

inevitably fragile.

Who's watching us, Ulderico?

You're watching me.

Subtitles : Raggio Verde - Rome