A unique film director in Italia’s era of rapid progress

By the time he had already been nominated for an Oscar and the César for *A Special Day* was already serving as a doorstop, Ettore Scola lamented the frivolity of the line, ‘You’re Cheeta, I’m Tarzan, you’re a stunner!’, which he had devised for Prince de Curtis whilst working alongside the team of screenwriters on Totò Tarzan. At a rough guess, he couldn’t have been more than 18 years old, given that he was born in 1931 in Trevico, in the Avellino area, and Mario Mattoli’s comedy was released in 1950. The line, complete with a photo of Totò in a fur coat, takes on a ‘Tarzan-esque’ air on a wall of the exhibition *Ettore Scola. We Never Parted*, running until 13 September at the Museum of Rome to mark the 10th anniversary of the death of the director and screenwriter of *i* *We All Loved Each Other So Much* .

At the time, Scola – then still at secondary school – was already a regular contributor of jokes and cartoons to *Marc’Aurelio*, the cradle of the finest young film talent of the post-war era, from Steno to Maccari, Age and Scarpelli, Marchesi, Metz and Fellini – figures often depicted by Scola in his drawings and to whom he dedicated his final film, *Che strano chiamarsi Federico* (2013). Scola, on the other hand, was immensely proud when, together with the handful of screenwriters from *i* *Totò, Peppino e...* (Mastrocinque, 1956), went to Totò’s home to read the famous ‘Letter’ scene to the ‘prince’, who was by then almost blind. Totò laughed so hard at the grammatical errors and the ‘Latinorum’ that the others revealed to him: ‘The young Scola wrote it!’ and that was his moment of recognition.

At Palazzo Braschi, a life-size photograph of the director takes centre stage: he is wearing a suit and tie and looks far more mature than his sixteen years, standing on the threshold of the satirical newspaper that diverted him from the medical career his father had hoped for him. ‘He was very serious as a young man,’ explains his daughter Silvia, who curated the exhibition alongside Alessandro Nicosia and her nephew Marco Scola Di Mambro, who is in charge of her grandfather’s archive. In one of the first rooms is the Everest typewriter with which Scola began his career as a ‘ghostwriter’ – that is, a screenwriter working behind the scenes who sold dialogue and ideas without appearing in the film credits.

He went on to write a total of 89 screenplays, often in collaboration with Maccari, for directors such as Loy, Risi, Steno, Zampa and Pietrangeli. The first film in which he gained ‘recognition’ was *An American in Rome* (1954) starring Alberto Sordi, for whom he had created the radio characters of Count Claro and Mario Pio. Among the photographs in the exhibition, one shows Sordi acting as a witness at Scola’s wedding to the love of his life, Gigliola Fantoni, whom he had met at secondary school and who was also a director and screenwriter. Alberto and Ettore struggle to stifle their laughter because the officiating priest speaks with a very strong German accent. Then Sordi sings Schubert’s Ave Maria in his deep voice. These details stem from the good fortune of seeing the exhibition with his grandson, Marco, and his daughter, Silvia, who, like her sister Paola, has followed in her father’s footsteps in the world of cinema. Together, the two sisters – one a screenwriter, the other also a director – dedicated the documentary Ridendo e scherzando (2015) and the book Chiamiamo il babbo. Ettore Scola, a family story (Rizzoli, 2019). *La famiglia* (1987) is not only one of Scola’s finest films, but a defining part of his identity, rooted in his large family – comprising his wife, daughters and four grandchildren – to which is added his close bond with a number of actors and directors. Sordi, Gassman, Tognazzi, Manfredi, Mastroianni, Monicelli, Troisi, Vitti and Sandrelli were regulars at his flat in Parioli, amidst laughter and doors always open to children too, in the spirit of understatement, self-deprecating humour, tenderness and melancholy that the characters in his films embody.

But even for visitors who do not have the privilege of such a special guide, the exhibition offers previously unseen material, including photographs, manuscripts, artefacts, original narrative screenplays, personal notes, newspaper and magazine articles, anti-war diatribes (soldiers carrying coffins instead of rucksacks), set sketches and caricatures. He was always drawing: in pen and, above all, with nibs of various sizes. Large posters commemorate unforgettable films for which he wrote the screenplays: *Il sorpasso* (1962), *I mostri* (1963) and Pietrangeli’s *Io la conoscevo bene*, in which he reveals a respect for women that was unusual for the time. This is also the case with Sophia Loren in *i* (*A Special Day*) , where the femme fatale gives way to a woman who is disillusioned and worn out by childbirth.