a noir romance soaked in unrelenting technicolor beauty <3 its deep irony (beauty in image, ugliness in action) is so well assured and spectacular. love so much about this pretty little thing
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Rome 11:00 1952
even the eerily pertinent taps of a typewriter in the concluding credits re-establish the notion of capitalist labor being confined to an inevitable cataclysm with a haunting unease of which de santis is so attuned to. a revolutionary working class cry from start to the final second. essential in so many ways.
