Tragedy and Tenderness: The Paradoxes of 'Il Postino' (1994)

“Poetry doesn’t belong to those who write it; it belongs to those who need it”.

Based loosely on Antonio Skármeta's novel Ardiente Paciencia, Il Postino is a deeply touching and grossly underrated film about poetry, self-expression and friendship for hopeless romantics and fans of Giuseppe Tornatore's Cinema Paradiso (1999). It follows Mario Ruoppolo, a young man living on a small island off of Italy around 1950. He is tired of his simple life and mundane job as a fisherman, becoming increasingly envious of friends who have travelled to America. Tempted by new work, he is hired as a temporary postman. His only customer is the famous Chilean poet, Pablo Neruda, who has just been exiled to his tiny island. As the film progresses, the lonely postman becomes infatuated with Neruda's poetry and politics, building an everlasting bond with the writer.

The film's portrayal of male friendship fascinated me. At the start, the two men's striking dissimilarities were the subject of much comedy, illuminating Mario's ignorance and Pablo's wisdom. Mario is so oblivious to the workings of poetry that he naively asks Pablo what a "metaphor" is, beguiled by this new world of beautiful comparisons. After only a few encounters, Mario is enlightened and guilelessly desperate to become a poet himself, worshipping Pablo as though he is a godlike figure. Pablo's power over Mario couldn't be clearer and yet, the respect between the two men is always mutual. Pablo is a teacher, but he is never patronising. Never cruel. He is continually patient, politely answering Mario's questions and praising his poetic suggestions.

In fact, Pablo doesn't only instruct Mario about poetry. He also urgently educates him about love. When Mario meets the enchanting Beatrice Trusso, he is tongue-tied. Struck down by her beauty like an innocent schoolboy, he simply believes that he has no chance of winning over her affections. However, Pablo unveils the seductive, impressive power of the simile and soon Mario is married to the local beauty, honouring Pablo as his delighted best man.

Thanks to Pablo, in every regard, Mario is no longer mute. Influenced by Pablo's politics, he is swiftly described as hot-headed by the locals. Frustrated by false promises and lack of social progress, he demands that Di Cosimo, the politician in office in the area, must treat the workers with more respect, declaring himself a communist. He finds his passion and clings to it desperately, forever praising his beloved Pablo and the poet's radical beliefs. The shy, apprehensive figure at the start of the film is transformed by Pablo into an eager, inquisitive soul. The connection between the men is indescribably bittersweet and indestructible. And yet, ironically and quite remarkably, despite the appearance of such acceptance and understanding between Pablo and Mario in every scene, the actors could not actually understand each other. The French actor Philippe Noiret, playing Pablo Neruda, spoke all his lines in French and the Italian dialogue was dubbed by actor Bruno Alessandro post-production. I was shocked when I discovered this. Watching the film, the viewer cannot help but be overwhelmed by the authenticity of the two men's relationship.

When I did some further research on the film, I discovered that this was not the only unexpected fact about filming. For some context, the movie emotionally culminates with Mario's epiphany that poetry doesn't solely belong to words. He realises that it exists all around him- in the sound of the church bells and the rhythm of the crashing waves. Elevated by mesmerising, idyllic cinematography and a soothing soundtrack that won it an Academy Award, this may be the most peaceful scene in a film that I have ever seen. However, whilst investigating, I soon learned the producers did not have such a peaceful time on set. The writer and star of the film, Massimo Troisi, playing Mario, was a popular Italian filmmaker with a heart condition, meaning that he could only work for an hour each day. He collapsed on the third day on set. Almost all of his scenes had to be taken in one shot and the cycling scenes, portraying Mario struggling up the cliff to deliver Pablo his post, were shot with a stand-in. Tragically, Troisi died twelve hours after the principal shooting had concluded. He was never able to see his film. At his funeral, his film double followed the coffin in homage, leaving the guests believing that they had seen a ghost.

This film is undeniably special. Not only because of the atypical filming circumstances but also because the experience of watching it is like being sleepily comforted by a soft, familiar blanket. No one could have guessed that such a sensitive portrait of life and love had been pulled together in such a painful, traumatising way. It's a miracle that it's a film that feels like home. Delighting in the wonder of words and practically becoming poetry itself, the film ultimately proves the lengths to which filmmakers are willing to go to produce something beautiful and for that reason, I will continue to watch it over and over again.

(Il Postino is included with Amazon Prime)