Malerba and *La colonna infame*: projects and failures
The body of film projects that have been conceived, developed and never realised is far more extensive than is generally assumed. But the limbo of unrealised works becomes boundless when one considers screenplays or even treatments – embryonic forms of creative expression, structures which, even in their own right, would have aspired to be ‘other structures’. The secret allure of dreams that never came true has always held a captivating power: yesterday’s unfulfilled potential is compensated for by the attention of those who, today, discover unexpressed qualities or untapped opportunities in those plans.
In Italia, research by scholars and enthusiasts has covered every historical period; yet even from ground that has already been ploughed, precious artefacts can still come to light. This recently happened to Fabio Danelon, who, whilst searching through Luigi Malerba’s private archive, came across the typescript *La colonna infame*, a draft (the existence of which was already known) now published under his editorship with a thorough and detailed introduction [Luigi Malerba, *La Colonna Infame*, Introduction and notes to the text by Fabio Danelon, published by Nino Aragno, pp. XLI + 52, €15]. At the time of its writing (presumably in the spring of 1954), the twenty-six-year-old Malerba had already demonstrated, albeit in embryonic form, the literary qualities that would make him one of our most refined writers—wryly ironic, at ease in the realm of subtle parody and unexpected comic effect. Although later, in line with the Gruppo ’63, he was capable of breaking with the conventions of the novel by dismantling plots or employing paradox, he never denied himself the pleasure of storytelling, to which he was naturally inclined. This disposition suited perfectly his long-standing career in cinema as a screenwriter. Malerba had devoted himself to cinema whilst still in Parma, where he had edited the magazine *Sequenze* and run film clubs. In Rome, from 1950 onwards, he gained experience both as a filmmaker and a critic. It is no coincidence that his first (epistolary) novel, *Le lettere di Ottavia*, is set against the backdrop of the entertainment world and was published by the magazine *Cinema Nuovo*. In 1952, Malerba was one of the screenwriters for Lattuada’s *Il Cappotto* and later co-directed *Donne e soldati* with Antonio Marchi; above all, however, he wrote the screenplay for *La spiaggia*. Shortly afterwards, in 1954, he conceived an ambitious project to which he seemed to be so attached that he linked his cinematic aspirations to its realisation. However, the treatment for *La Colonna infame* never developed into a screenplay. The rejection by Goffredo Lombardo and Titanus left an indelible mark: many years would pass before the writer returned to the screen in forms that were, moreover, decidedly more anonymous than those he had previously envisaged.
It may come as a surprise that Malerba, having shared with the Neo-Avant-Garde a barely concealed distaste for Manzoni, should turn his attention to *The History of the Infamous Column*; but it is by no means strange if one merely considers the opportunities for subtly parodic rewriting offered by that text. What interests Malerba in this historical essay is to borrow the backdrop and, from the chapters of *The Betrothed*, the atmosphere. The narrative – as it might be described, despite its preparatory form in relation to the screen – alternates between history and invention in a well-paced combination that keeps the reader’s attention held. Set in the Milanese district of Vedra in the year 1630, when the hedonism of Carnival favours the spread of the plague, Malerba’s story retains the barber Mora, Commissioner Piazza, the plague spreaders sacrificed by the judges (the ‘bureaucrats of evil’, as Sciascia would later call them, though Malerba already offers a modernised portrayal of their injustice), Caterina Rosa and the corrupt innkeeper Baruello. The novelty, however, lies in the young characters: Marta, daughter of Caterina and Sebastiano, Mora’s shop assistant, a young couple in love, the ultimate descendants of Renzo and Lucia, destined both to escape the misdeeds of Padilla – transformed into a squire more steeped in sadism than in desire – and to survive the plague’s ravages. This is a truly irreverent twist (the two will consummate their marriage well before the wedding) through which Malerba reinterprets the original text and overturns Manzoni’s Counter-Reformation values. Through small, well-placed deviations, the adaptation on the one hand confirms the instructive nature of the historical event (the infamy of the judges) and, on the other, through a sharp reworking of the details, brings the story up to date with contemporary sensibilities. It even goes so far as to ‘falsify’ the fate of the column, the toppling of which, as Danelon rightly points out, certainly did not take place at the dawn of the French Revolution, let alone to the strains of the Marseillaise.
Who knows what weighed more heavily in Titanus’s rejection of the project – whether the overall tone or perhaps certain controversial details, such as Cardinal Borromeo’s cowardly hesitations or the procession of beggars in honour of Satan, certainly not in keeping with the Andreottian climate prevailing in the cinema of the time. Perhaps more precise traces of the conflict with Lombardo are still hidden away in some dusty archive. Certainly, it was not the subject matter itself that caused offence: within a few years of Manzoni’s original, there would be a stage adaptation by Buzzati and a film by Nelo Risi. Today, one cannot help but admire the ease with which a very young Malerba found a personal style, despite the inevitable need to adapt to the cinematic present. The well-paced and at times lively narrative (had he already read Beaumarchais by then?) certainly foreshadows the unique qualities of one of the greatest writers of the second half of the twentieth century. (He was, moreover, destined to return to Manzoni on several occasions in a sarcastic vein). So much so that, with a slight stretch, we might consider *La Colonna Infame* a true literary debut.
