Bicycle Thief, TheIt's a drag to have your bicycle stolen. I know this from repeated experience. It's particularly bad for Antonio Ricci (Lamberto Maggiorani) in Vittorio De Sica’s The Bicycle Thief (a more accurate translation from the original Italian title would be Bicycle Thieves). In post-war Italy, Ricci has been out of work for some time, and he needs that bike in order to perform his new job hanging posters. He's got a family to feed and no sooner has he got his bike out of the pawn shop - he and his wife have to sell their bedsheets - than somebody makes off with it. Probably this fellow needed it just as bad. Ricci and his young son Bruno will take to the streets of Rome in search of the stolen bicycle. The Bicycle Thief is widely regarded as one of the finest films ever made, and as a cornerstone of Italian Neorealism, the movement that flourished between 1945 and 1960 and was marked by location shooting, non-professional actors, a documentary-like visual style and a concern with the struggles of the working poor. Neorealism was attacked by the great Italian fantasist Ricardo Freda as being "perpetually anchored in sordid human misery", and I confess that it’s a school that holds little appeal for me. Indeed, it is the capacity of cinema to communicate dream and fantasy which I adore. The Bicycle Thief, however, is not nearly as documentary-like as some claim. De Sica has stated that although his primary concern was truth, he sought to invest his films with lyricism rather than simply offer the “trite truth” of current events. And if De Sica falls short of, say, Jean Renoir in these aims, he achieves quite a bit through a very high degree of stylization, with much attention given to mise en scène. When Ricci and his wife go to sell their sheets, they are seen only as faces in a small window, whilst the wealthy dealer on the other side enjoys more space. The poor folks are – quite literally – marginalized. In other scenes, Ricci and his son are repeatedly confronted with the mocking spectacle of massed bicycles. It is in these and other moments that the film ascends to poetry. Despite all of this, though, I cannot help but share Freda’s sentiments in the face of this film. As Ricci’s search becomes more hopeless he makes a random accusation and, in the end, turns to crime himself. There is no resolution at the movie’s end, just a despairing comment upon the cyclical nature of wretchedness and the almost total absence of solidarity in this world. The film is singularly ugly and depressing, offering filth and misery without catharsis. Ultimately, The Bicycle Thief is an excellent piece of filmmaking that will probably be easier for most people to admire than to enjoy. Its historical importance is immense, not only for the influence it would have upon future filmmaking but because it points the way to De Sica’s next film, the sublime Miracle in Milan. The Bicycle Thief is available as part of Umbrella Entertainment’s 3 DVD “Vittorio De Sica Collection” set, along with Miracle in Milan and The Roof. The disc includes a very interesting documentary about De Sica and several trailers including ones for films by Fellini and Clouzot.
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