Il Sogno di Campaldino
Illustrated film and theater screenplay
By Giovanni Enrico Arrighini
Associazione Città Infinite - Via delle Conce, 10 - lucca 55100 C.F. / P.IVA 02250360464 - info@ilsognodicampaldino.it
The previous shot is taken from behind a barred window.
On the horizon there are chimneys emitting thick black smoke rising into the sky.
Sitting on an armchair in front of the window is a 60-year-old man dressed in a black suit and white shirt.
Close-up of the man who resembles the character of Eliseo.
The field widens to the whole room, a library room with mezzanines, tables, and chairs.
The warm light of sunset enters through the barred windows.
In the room besides the man sitting in the armchair there is only one other man standing.
The man is wearing a nurse's coat and is standing on the other side near the door.
The frame returns to the seated man looking out, you hear the door open and a voice-over.
DIRECTOR
Leave me alone with the patient.
NURSE
Certainly, Mr. Director.
The Director sits in a chair on the table next to the patient's 11011972 chair.
On the table are several open books, a black man's hat and a not large bag.
DIRECTOR
I've come to say goodbye,
they'll be here soon to pick you up
and you will leave this place forever.
The patient, indifferent to the presence of the director, continues to look out of the window.
I was looking out of the window
those white shadows
moving like automatons on the green grass.
Their eyes,
I cannot see their eyes…
Not because they are far away.
They have no light.
They always do the same things,
the same gestures, the same movements.
I do not hear the words.
They are empty and violent.
They are empty and violent…
but everywhere.
Even out there.
It's a battlefield,
where you get used to the images of death,
to the point of being indifferent.
All humanity is locked in a criminal asylum.
Subjective view of the director looking at the patient who is always turned towards the window with the bars against the light.
DIRECTOR
But you, who introduced me to Dante,
you know very well that there is not
only hell, that man can reach
the salvation of Paradise.
PATIENT
One does not get out of the dark forest,
one can glimpse glimmers of light,
but one always remains in an impenetrable forest,
as cold as death.
We can only dream of Paradise.
The patient turns to the director and smiles.
He stands up with the light of the sunset behind him, coming through the bars of the window.
Are we certain that Dante
hasn't been locked up too?!
Another mental patient,
paranoid with a mania for grandiosity.
They couldn't get it the Florentines,
they would burn him alive.
Accused of bartering, the supreme poet.
And his sons at the stake too!
Poets should never be locked up.
Poets must never get it into their heads
of saving the world.
At the most, they can save another poet.
The Director stands up.
I had a book brought to me of my youthful poems,
there's also the poem that you like so much,
which you already knew before you met me.
The Director takes the book and reads the dedication.
Francesca never existed.
PATIENT
Francesca,
Valentina, or maybe the name
of a handsome guy Alexandrian,
dear to the merchant
of Smyrna or Ser Brunetto.
Francesca…
Like useless heartbeats
the names of lovers vanish,
they deceive us of other occasions.
And so, always to have of another,
one last chance.
Francesca…
You too,
a man of science,
a distinguished academic,
a man of success.
You would be ready to leave everything
to live a passion like that again.
Because if it becomes monotonous,
you see, it's not only our life.
It is above all the waiting
of our only death.
And for me, everything ends now
with no alternative.
And where there is death,
Winfred,
there can be no love.
That's why poets invents their stories
to live and die a thousand times.*
DIRECTOR
There is no Francesca
who comes out of the night with flowers in her hand
and there is not a Francesca
transported by love in the midst of hell.
PATIENT
It's a poet's dream.
DIRECTOR
A poet's dream…
Pause of silence.
Close-up of the Patient.
This afternoon I seem to have dreamt it.
I was leaving the island of San Michele,
the house of the Venetians' dead.
The cypresses greeted me behind the wall.
I was the one who took the gondola over the water of the lagoon.
As once when I was young
I danced again with the long oar.
Against Venice the reddish light of dawn.
The chimneys of Marghera soaring high into the sky.
I saw black columns of smoke rising high
and the Florentine army
ready to do battle on the plain of Campaldino.
'PATIENT: Francesca, Valentina, or the name of a handsome Alexandrian guy, dear to the merchant of Smyrna or to Ser Brunetto. Francesca … The names of the lovers vanish like useless heartbeats. Deluding us that we can still have another chance. Francesca … Furthermore, for you, a man of science, a distinguished academic, a successful man. You would be ready to leave everything to live that possibility again. Because it is not only our life that becomes monotonous, but it is monotonous above all waiting for our only death. Everything ends for me with no chance. And where there is death, Winfred, there is no love. This is why poets invent their stories to live and die a thousand lives '.