VOLERE VOLARE (aka TO WANT TO FLY – 1991)

Apart from my deep dislike of Stanley Kubrick’s The Shining, my reputation as a film scholar is more often called into question due to my disdain for Italian cinema. It’s especially difficult to be taken seriously as a zombie enthusiast if you find it impossible to embrace the ouevre of Lucio Fulci, Ruggero Deodato or any of the other alphabet soup masters of flesh-eating mayhem. While I am proud to say that among my favorite films you will find Argento’s Deep Red, Suspiria and Tenebrae, my opinion of the maestro’s later work diminishes. I like the visuals of Mario Bava, but the pacing and stories of his masterpieces I’ve often found to be wanting.

This terminal case of “meh” extends beyond the horror genre as well, for I’m loathe to sit through another Fellini, Antonioni, Bertolucci, or, for the love of god, de Sica. Indeed, upon my third class-required viewing of The Bicycle Thief, I began to sympathise with Mussolini.

And please, don’t even get me started with the likes of Leone, Corbucci or Chef Boy-ar-dee. There aren’t enough hours in the day.

As with any rule, I have an exception, and that exception is Maurizio Nichetti. A one-man embodiment of the three Marx Brothers, Nichetti is an Italian Jacques Tati; a pop-eyed, mustachioed clown whose default expression seems to be innocent bewilderment. Nichetti was put on this Earth as reassurance that Italy has something to offer me in terms of its cinema, and seems to have the same problems with The Bicycle Thief as I do, as evinced in his satirical love-letter to Neo-Realism, the hilarious The Icicle Thief.

Unfortunately, as far as America goes, he’s no Roberto Benigni. I see that as a good thing, since the latter wore out his welcome six seconds into the 1997 Academy Awards ceremony, following America’s identity crisis upon embracing Life is Beautiful (The Day the Clown Cried without the good taste). Nichetti is virtually unknown in the Land of the Free, Home of the Bacon and that, my friends, is a cultural tragedy.

Even hardcore film geeks might have a difficult time identifying Nichetti. If his name rings any bells, it’s due to his “starring” role in the live action sections of animator Bruno Bozzetto’s Fantasia parody, Allegro Non Troppo (1976, which Nichetti cowrote). Famous for its extended sequence celebrating evolution, with life springing from a discarded Coca-Cola bottle set to Ravel’s Bolero, Allegro Non Troppo achieved some minor success in the U.S., but when initially released to Home Video, the film’s live-action sequences were excised, rendering Nichetti anonymous again. The majority of his filmography, including movies he wrote, directed and starred in, have never been released in the United States. While this might be great for us more-with-it-than-thou movie geeks, it’s a bit of a tragedy for the rest of the country’s film-goer-to-ers who’ve thusly been robbed.

Nichetti created his own iconic persona, a goofy, bushy everyman prone to misadventure —evoking, for shorthand sake, Chaplin, Groucho, Keaton and Mr. Bean—for his directorial debut, Ratataplan (1979). Playing variations of this role in a half-dozen other movies, he took the idea of human cartoon to its absurdly literal conclusion in the surprising and playful Volere volare.

Co-directed with animator and past collaborator Guido Manuli, Volere volare begins with Martina (Angela Finocchiaro from My Brother is an Only Child) lamenting to her friend Loredana (Mariella Valentini) that she doesn’t need a man in her life to be happy. Marriage is what’s expected, and she refuses to marry only for money. Which is all well and good for her to say since she’s surrounded by rich men. You see, she sees her career as that of a very specialized “social worker”, her job to understand people with personal eccentricities. For instance, one of her best clients is an elderly man with the (disturbing) voice of a toddler, who she bathes and rocks to sleep after his bottle. Then there are the “Architechts”, espresso-drinking twins who silently hang out at her home to watch her sleep, shower, dress for work and then lock up after she leaves. There’s a chef who likes to turn her naked body into elaborate deserts (“including a vat of melted chocolate; soon she's dressed in her sundae best.” Harrington, Washington Post, 1993), but can settle for casually spilling things on her when time is limited. She gets a workout from a married couple who take turns being dead, requiring her to assist the mourning partner left behind, make sure the body gets to the ambulance, etc. Things get difficult on those nights when the couple can’t decide who survived that night. While she refers to these quirks as “fetishes”, she’s never depicted doing anything sexual with her clients. Even the guy who likes her to sit on his photocopier only enjoys admiring the lacework on her underwear. Sex seems to be the furthest thing from their minds. (Thus, I think it’s inaccurate to echo my fellow critics in describing her as a “prostitute”.)

Nearby, Maurizio owns a film dubbing company with his brother. They split the work evenly: Maurizio provides the sound effects for old cartoons; Patrizio employs a lingerie-clad stable of mono-lingual actresses for the “specialty” audio of “art” movies. Spending his day either recording sound or searching for interesting noisemakers in hardware stores, Maurizio (called “Little Mustache” by his brother—“Ever since he grew one when he was three.”) manages to just miss meeting Martina on a number of occasions. But fortune won’t stay elusive for long.

One night, Maurizio frequently finds himself in the right place. When both of her “Necrophyles” decide to be dead, Martina finds herself needing an extra pair of hands to wrestle the loving bodies onto a parking lot gurney. Later that evening, he stumbles upon her again and accompanies her on another job, this time with a crazed cab driver who gets off on terrorizing her with his auto-acrobatics. Maurizio does panic better than she does. Finding himself stuck at her apartment—“Where do you live?” she asked. “Where you picked me up.”—he is assaulted by another of her clients who is contientious about stalking her and doesn’t like the competition. In a single night, Martina’s job has him strained, terrorized and assaulted. 

Much to her chagrin, she realizes later that her clients enjoyed the extra company. The thrill waning, Maurizio was just the extra shot in the arm their needs needed. Not wanting to risk losing her income, Martina attempts to hunt him down. The only trouble is, because of the multiple bicycle horns he keeps in his pockets in case of dubbing emergency, she only knows Maurizo by the nickname she’s given him: “Trumpetto”.

Meanwhile, Maurizo is experiencing his own job-related phenomenons. Each time he steps in front of his projector, one or more of the animated co-stars find their way into his pocket. At first, it’s just a simple turtle from a Fleischer Brothers cartoon, which manages to knock over stacks of film cans in its escape. Later, a flock of ducks defect from a Popeye short into the real world to cavort in the rain and get squished flat by cars. This condition becomes contagious, as he discovers on his first “date” with Martina at a swanky restaurant. A persistent itch on his hand reveals yellow cartoon gloves growing beneath his skin. Worse: the hands take on a life of their own—“animated” in all senses of the word—and fly off without him! Fortunately for him, Martina is too distracted by her spill-prone chef and his “accidents” that leave her covered with spaghetti.

The rest of the film follows this comedy of surreal errors to its logical absurdist conclusion: Martina finally finds the love of her life, just as he completes his transformation into a living—and very naked—cartoon character. (Which wasn’t that much of a stretch for Nichetti, being 75% cartoon anyway.) 

Gentle and uncomplicated, Volere volare makes no attept to explain Maurizio’s transformation, just as it sees no reason to explain Martina’s growing attraction to the odd little man. Just like love, human-to-cartoon evolution requires no deconstruction. And if you can allow that to satisfy your left-brain’s needs, that’s all that Volere volare asks of you. Without turning this into a discourse on economical-cultural dichotomy of comedy, the movie should seem unique to those raised on American sex comedies. The American-view blend of Night Shift with Who Framed Roger Rabbit? resulted in Ralph Bakshi’s raunchier Cool World, released just a year later. In contrast, once you become comfortable with the “non-exploitative European-style nudity” (to quote Richard Harrington’s Washington Post review), Volere volare is charming and utterly inoffensive. Even Patrizio’s stable of “actresses” and his blue movies are played for laughs, not titilation. Nichetti keeps the film’s heart in the clouds, rather than the gutter and avoids the cheap laugh in favor of the corny one. (Even more surprising considering that one of the film’s producers was Italy’s infamous prime minister, Silvio Berlusconi, whose political career was overshadowed by his notorious “bunga-bunga parties”!)

The usual unfortunate caveat exists here, however. Unlike the better-distributed Allegro Non Troppo, Volere volare is difficult to come by and doesn’t seem to have gotten an international DVD release. The VHS image is dark and grainy, working against the movie’s intrinsic breezy charm. But perhaps, if we all get together and clap our goofy gloved hands together, maybe we can all will a DVD into existence. Or, at least, keep Tinkerbell alive long enough to make us one out of fairy dust. (Sorry, it’s a sexy cartoon fairy tale; I couldn’t resist.)

For added pleasure, please visit Nichetti’s website.

THE EMPEROR’S NEW GROOVE (2000)

Yes, I’m well-aware that it’s uncool to praise Disney in these modern days. You can sing the praises of Pixar until your voice gives out, but give Disney the time of day and the fans start stripping away your cred. Well, my position on the Evil Empire has been clearly stated in the past and I’m forever convinced that in my lifetime I’ll see the field of stars on the American Flag replaced with Mickey ears. That doesn’t take away from the fact that the House of Mouse, despite many, many misfires, is still a reigning champion in the animation business. Disney movies have influenced my and most others’ childhoods for the last fifty years. So, hip or not, there’s a lot to be said for their output.

Deny it as much as you want, just about everybody has a favorite “Disney Classic”. Most of my generation will point to The Little Mermaid, Beauty and the Beast or Aladdin. Those before us might cite the tried-and-true staples like Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs or Sleeping Beauty. The incredibly smug will bring up Song of the South and grin knowingly. But I have a fondness for some of their lesser successes, particularly the old fashioned adventure Atlantis: The Lost Empire and our subject for today: The Emperor’s New Groove, one of the funniest animated movies ever made and, for my money, one of the funniest movies period.

Many, many years ago, in an unnamed jungle empire bearing a striking resemblance to Incan Peru, young Emperor Kuzco is the ruler of the free world. He dances to his own theme music and his every whim is granted. On the eve of his 18^th birthday, he invites the humble peasant, Pacha, to the palace to ask him a single question: where does Pacha’s hilltop village get the most sun. After Pacha replies, Kuzco thanks him and informs him that the village will be destroyed to make way for “Kuzcotopia”. Pacha tries to reason with him, but he’s dealing with a self-centered jerk who had an old man tossed out a window for daring to “throw off his groove”. Meanwhile, Kuzco manages to tick off his sorceress advisor, the ancient Yzma, so she and her thick-but-good-natured assistant Kronk turn Kuzco into a llama. Purely by accident, you understand; they meant to kill him.

A series of misadventures reunites Pacha with the llama-fied Kuzco and the peasant agrees to safely escort the emperor back to the palace, hoping along the way that he can not only change the ruler’s mind about destroying the village but also betting that there might be a kernel of good inside the teenaged twit. The journey itself is treacherous, beset with jaguars and towering cliffs, but they’re also pursued by Yzma and Kronk who hope to finish the job.

On the surface, The Emperor’s New Groove doesn’t sound like much, does it? It could be any made-for-cable or straight-to-DVD cut-rate adventure. In fact, it started life as a straight-forward adventure titled Kingdom in the Sun and it was on its way to being just that ordinary. However, in a series of less-hysterical corporate misadventures, director Mark Dindal, fresh off his stint on the wretched Cats Don’t Dance, was brought in to overhaul the production. Out went the original by-the-numbers take on The Prince and the Pauper, out went an anlready-composed score by award-winning tree-hugger Sting, and in came a plot that fell somewhere in between a Hope and Crosby road movie and a Chuck Jones cartoon. What wound up on the screen was sheer and joyful lunacy.

The clever script by Dindal, Chris Williams, David Reynolds received a perfectly-cast collection of high-profile (at the time) voices including David Spade (Kuzco), the ubiquitous John Goodman (Pacha), the even more ubiquitous Patrick Warburton (Kronk) and the movie’s absolute highlight, Eartha Kitt as Yzma. Then Dindal and company filled the movie to the brim with expertly-timed sight-gags and daffy character-driven comic set-pieces. Rarely pandering (compare to the pop-culture mish-mashed Shrek movies) and dizzyingly paced, The Emperor’s New Groove breezes along from one joke to another, barely giving the viewer time to recover from the previous bit of lunacy.

Yzma and Kronk easily steal the show. A wrinkled hag who is none-the-less fabulous, Yzma is part Wicked Witch and part mad scientist with her secret lab and cabinet filled with vials of animal extract (at one point, her guards are assaulted with all manner of fluids. One is transmogrified into something decidedly non-terrifying: “Um, I’ve been turned into a cow. Can I go home?” To which Yzma replies. “You are excused.” Then orders the rest into battle.) Her secret lab is entered through a trap door fit with two levers. With an order reminiscent of Jack Lemmon in The Great Race, she announcs:

“Pull the lever, Kronk!” Then—“Not that lever!” jus t as she’s dropped an unfathomable distance to a river below. Emerging dripping wet through her entrance door, a crocodile chomping on her foot, Yzma asks, grumpily, “Why do we even have that lever?”

Kronk can talk to squirrels, Kuzco is a terrible llama and Pacha’s children both channel Bugs Bunny on numerous occassions. (What’s even better, the kids are never overused.) Admittedly, you’ll have to overcome your aversion to David Spade very early in the movie, as Kuzco is nothing more than every other character Spade has ever played, but the selfish ruler grows on you quickly. He’s often abused, too, which helps immensely. There are expected in-jokes galore as well, but the best of them are subtle—Kuzco is momentarily transformed into a whale in a visual shot right out of Pinocchio, to name just one example.

What’s remarkable about New Groove is how little Disnification you’re assaulted with. Not only is the entire movie structured like a Warner Brothers short but you never feel like you’re watching a giant shill for toys. Like the best of the Pixar features, New Groove is character-driven, but it isn’t afraid to take liberties with the meta-fiction. (At one point, Yzma and Kronk manage to beat Kuzco back to the palace. And even Kronk agrees that the turn of events was unlikely.) It’s pure silliness with no agenda but to entertain, rather than to sell plush Kuzco llamas at the Disney Stores. If you’re a hard-line anti-Disney-ite, The Emperor’s New Groove might even be the perfect movie for you.

With the mechanations involved in getting this film to theaters—the ground-up retooling, pissing off Sting (he contributes one Oscar-nominated-by-default song to the end credits)—the marketing arm of the Mouse Factory really dropped the ball. Television ads played up the Spade-isms and pop culture references, making it seem like New Groove  was little more than a funny-animal slapstick show aimed at toddlers. While the movie was far from a failure at the box office, it’s rarely mentioned in the same breath as the “classics”. Truth be told, New Groove was as brave an experiment as the equally-wonderful Lilo and Stitch, so it’s a shame so few people have discovered it. It played well enough with kids to spawn a direct sequel called Kronk’s New Groove (completely showcasing Warburton) and a hit-or-miss Disney Channel series called The Emperor’s New School, both lack the lunatic wit of the original.

Naturally, The Emperor’s New Groove is not hard to find. In fact, a terrific 2-disc set was released in 2001, which is still relatively easy to run down on Amazon. However, there exists a still-unreleased New Groove documentary The Sweatbox produced by Mrs. Sting, filmmaker Trudie Styler that follows the trials and travails of the Kingdom in the Sun right up until the point where the former Police man is shown the door. The composer was extremely vocal at the time about his dissatisfaction with his treatment at the hands of the Mouse Factory and The Sweatbox shines a hard light on the almost-doomed project. To be fair, it also shows just how hard everyone in production worked to get the movie back on track, redesigning it into something unique. But because it doesn’t put the company on the pedestal, Disney had the documentary shelved after it’s Sundance premiere in 2002. Deemed so damaging to their reputation, it’s rumored that the company won’t even let it be shown internally without giving the print its own escort.