I was there. “Esterno notte” on Moro makes a caricature of the film

Bellocchio’s mini-series is a historical fake, which distorts the truth and continues to smear the memory of those who shouldn’t be ashamed of their own history as a whole

Some time ago, in this newspaper, I wrote about Aurelio Grimaldi’s film “Il delitto Mattarella”, a work that reproposed all the clichés of a leftist subculture. The Christian Democrat leaders who played a role at the time of that tragic event were portrayed as colluding with the mafia or, at best, opponents of Mattarella and his project to renew Sicilian public life.

They looked like real speckscaricatured figures who wore the typical dark or pinstriped suit of the “arrinisciuti” petty bourgeois of the 1950s and spoke in a vulgar, heavy dialect, the Italian spoken only by Mattarella.

Monday, on the first channel of Rai, I saw the first episode of Marco Bellocchio’s miniseries “Esterno notte”, on the kidnapping and murder of Aldo Moro.

The stature of the director is different and of the actors, consequently the final product is improved, identical, embarrassing conformity for a false operation on the historical level.

The two directors have achieved two products inspired by that approach buried many years ago by history and which nevertheless continues to be revived, distorting the truth and continuing to sully the memory of those who shouldn’t be ashamed of their history as a whole.

The story unfolds in its entirety inside the halls of power, where the protagonists of that time, all Christian Democrats, move like soulless automatons, thus reducing that terrible event to an episode within the majority party.

There is no reference in the film to the anguish that the whole country experienced in the fifty-five days of Moro’s captivity.

The camera comes out of the ministerial “caves”. and from the gloomy headquarters of the party only to absentmindedly frame the escape of some children from a school and to portray, this time lingering there for a long time, almost with evident satisfaction, the uncontainable enthusiasm, the festive jubilation of many university students who manifested their solidarity with the Red Brigades.

Which, however, remain in the background, portrayed almost with a delicate touch, never highlighting their gloomy, tragic will to die.

Beyond Moro, moreover excellently interpreted, all the other characters are fearful men of power, dummies, lunatics unable to grasp and live the drama that invested them.

The role of the Communists the most intransigent defenders of the line of “firmness”, of the unavailability of any attempt to deal with the Red Brigades to save Moro’s life, and to prevent any link from emerging between the terrorists and the party – Rossana’s family album Rossanda – is remembered with just a fleeting nod. And yet, through Ugo Pecchioli they agreed with Francesco Cossiga, Minister of the Interior, on all the initiatives to be put in place to find Moro and established the position to take with regard to his letters, which appeared to be a sign of human frailty, the result of a forced dictation, while they contained political indications and method to resolve the dramatic situation.

For the Communists, who never appear in the film, a few off-screen words. And there is no mention of Sandro Pertini, Ugo La Malfa, Giorgio Almirante, Alessandro Natta and Enrico Berlinguer, who, with the exception of Bettino Craxi, shared the line of firmness.

Naturally there is Andreotti, a lifeless Meccan, also deprived of the usual Luciferian splendor with which he is portrayed, a little man stuffed into a faded little suit who expresses his feelings, the few that remain, by vomiting on himself.

There is Cossiga, a vain, misunderstanding, incapable and psychopathic, who mixes the drama of the moment with his difficult family life, faced instead with extreme dignity, never mentioning it to anyone.

There are Christian Democrat MPspuppets all built on the same mold: at least sixty years old, pot-bellied, with a moustache, bald or with white hair, all avid for power, without an idea, incapable of a movement of the soul, devoid of emotion and even more of intelligence .

There is the scene, arbitrarily reconstructedof the assembly of parliamentarians gathered in February 1978 to listen to Moro who proposed an agreement with the communists to give birth to the government of national solidarity.

I was there too, but I was not filmed.

I was just over forty, I was neither fat nor bald and there were many others even younger than me. None of us could have made an extra in the film, not fitting the stereotype.

I was there too, Vice President of the deputies, and I wrote, presenting it to my colleagues who approved it almost unanimously, the document accepting Moro’s proposal.

I was there in the days of the rapture, when the total unpreparedness of the state was compounded by errors and evaluations which did not allow, if it were possible, to save Moro. And there were also those who had no desire to achieve that result.

I lived, also seeing her in almost all the others, the anguish, amazement, frustration, the sense of helplessness that paralyzed us. We waited for a signal that didn’t arrive, which we hoped would arrive during the nocturnal garrisons in Piazza del Gesù, the headquarters of the Christian Democrats.

I saw the drama of the best Benigno Zaccagnini and many others not stung by the tarantula of cynicism, if anything deviated by the widespread, common conviction of having to privilege the defense and maintenance of institutions over Moro’s life.

I was there and was involved in a story tragic, faced and managed with many errors by real men and women, not by inanimate specks, which serve those who have had to acknowledge that their ideas have long since been clamorously denied by history and, no longer being able to imagine building on them whatever project, continue to keep them warm and use them to tarnish that of their ancient adversaries.

It stayed in my memory the vision of a Pope at the end of his life, also humanly marked by that tragic event and who to all of us, believers or not, gathered in San Giovanni, appeared as an anchor of hope, even when, or especially when, almost angry , he contested the Lord for not having accepted his prayer.

Maria Fida Moro these days accused the director of not having respected historical truth, repeating a phrase of his father: “we are different, we want to be different from the tired supporters of a world that has by now passed”.

For some successful loserslike the director of this film, the truth is that and only that which confirms and artificially keeps alive their youthful illusions, from which, despite repeated denials, they have never managed to distance themselves.

I was there. “Esterno notte” on Moro makes a caricature of the film – Buttanissima Sicilia