Voila! Finally, the Il Postino
script is here for all you quotes spouting fans of the Michael Radford
movie (The Postman in the USA). This script is a transcript that was painstakingly
transcribed using the screenplay and/or viewings of Il Postino. I know, I know, I still need to get the cast names in there and I'll be eternally
tweaking it, so if you have any corrections, feel free to
drop me a line. You won't
hurt my feelings. Honest.
No, there's no water, Dad.
It's all gone,
since this morning.
I wanted to rinse
my hands, too.
All gone.
Is it stllI warm?
I've got the sniffIes
this morning!
It must have been the dampness
on the boat.
I onIy have to set foot
on that boat--
Perhaps I'm allergic.
Even if the boat's not moving,
the dampness gets to me.
I don't know how you can
stay on it all night...
and not catch a thing.
The minute I get on--
I've received a postcard
from America, Dad...
from Gaetano and AIfredo.
This is America
around the outside...
and this is an American car.
They say they're
going to buy one, too.
It's written here:
''We're buying one.''
But I think they're joking...
because they cost
a Ioad of money.
But they say
it's a rich country...
where there's work, a country--
And we're stllI here...
without water...
whlle they're--
Forget it, never mind.
Listen, Mario,
you've never llke fishing.
I've caught a chllI.
Go to America or Japan
if you want to...
but get yourseIf a job.
You're not a kid anymore.
''The poet, PabIo Neruda, in Rome.''
CentraI Station.
A group of rowdy peopIe
has inconvenienced the travellers...
who crowd the station pIatforms
every day.
These protesters...
are not drunkards...
nor the usuaI hotheads
who protest just for the fun of it.
They are a group of intellectuaIs,
writers and journallsts.
Why have they joined
together, shouting...
disturbing the pollce
and Carabinieri?
The mystery is reveaIed
when the train arrives.
PabIo Neruda gets out
at Rome station...
the Chllean poet known throughout
the worId for his poetry...
and his communist ideas which
have often got him into troubIe...
and for which
he has now been exlled.
The poet appears to be
well-Ioved in ItaIy...
and, judging by the enthusiastic
embrace of this woman...
not onIy for his moraI gifts.
Women go crazy for his poetry...
maybe because Neruda
writes Iove poems...
a topic which appeaIs
to the femaIe sensibllity.
But Iet's go back
to our noisy crowd.
The Home Office
has accepted their protest...
by suspending the measures
against Neruda...
requested by
the Chllean government.
The poet wllI remain
in ItaIy...
on a wonderfuI isIand.
He wllI not be abIe to Ieave
without pollce authority...
but the isIand's beauty
wllI make exlle easier.
That's me!
The poet wllI have happy memories
of ItaIy and her government...
which is hosting him in a pIace
which wllI remind him of home.
This cozy house
surrounded by nature...
wllI certainIy make him
feeI at home.
''Wanted: Temporary Postman
with BicycIe''
You, Anita Scotto,
are the sender.
This is your son's name, right?
I've come about the job.
Right, wait.
And this is the city.
Are you sending him capers?
He'll be pIeased.
Are you llllterate?
No, I can read and write.
Not very fast, but--
Sit down.
I need someone to dellver mall
to CaIa di Sotto.
That's great.
I llve there.
There's onIy one addressee.
OnIy one?
Everyone eIse there is llllterate.
I'm not llllterate, but stllI--
Well, then.
It's all mall
for signor PabIo Neruda.
The poet Ioved by women?
The poet Ioved by the peopIe!
By the peopIe, but aIso by women.
I heard it on the newsreeI.
All right, but most of all
by the peopIe. He's a communist.
Right?
The poet has received a mountain
of mall these Iast two days.
Pedalling with the bag is llke
carrying an eIephant on your back.
I'll wait here.
I'll be right with you.
The wage is a pittance, you know.
Postmen make do with their tips.
But with onIy one house...
at most it'll pay for
your cinema once a week.
- That's fine.
- It suits you anyway.
My name's Giorgio.
I'm your superior,
and you shouId call me sir.
But I won't hoId you to it,
because I'm a communist, too.
And remember...
the poet...
is a great and kind person.
He deserves respect.
You say hello, you thank him.
If he tips you,
you thank him again.
- Right?
- Yes, right.
This is your hat.
This is your bag.
Today's the th.
Your first payday's the th.
When do you start?
Monday morning.
: I open the shutters.
Then the publlc comes Iater.
Are you in uniform aIready?
No, I'm just wearing the hat.
That way it'll
take its shape better...
or I'll get a headache
wearing it all day.
The boss toId me
it's a postman's trick.
A llttIe trick of ours.
Good morning.
Your mall.
Thank you.
Another one from a femaIe.
FemaIe.
Maria Conchita, femaIe.
AngeIa, femaIe.
Jean Marie, is that
maIe or femaIe?
- FemaIe!
- I knew it!
This one, too.
Even the women are interested
in polltics in Chlle!
I know, but all femaIes--
How come?
Listen...
but what's Don PabIo...
llke?
- Is he normaI?
- As a person, as--
NormaI. Of course,
he taIks differentIy.
You can tell immediateIy from--
Know what he calls his wife?
''Amor''!
Even if he's standing far away...
they call each other ''amor.''
- Really?
- He's a poet.
That's how you can tell.
FemaIe.
Excuse me...
if you happen to need anything...
mllk, bread, I can--
No, thank you.
Matllde goes shopping every day.
If ever she doesn't want to go out,
you can ask me. I come and go.
We don't need anything.
Thanks anyway.
I mean, if by any chance--
And remember, Mario...
you mustn't bother him
with a Iot of questions.
It's forbidden to annoy customers
with strange requests.
I know, I won't annoy him.
I'll onIy ask him
to sign this book, that's all.
So when I get paid,
I'll go to NapIes...
and show all the girIs...
that I'm a friend of Neruda,
the poet of Iove!
The poet of the peopIe!
Excuse me, couId you sign it?
PIease, couId you sign it?
WouId you make
it unique, maestro?
WouId you make
it unique, maestro?
My name's Mario Ruoppolo.
- And my mall?
- There isn't any.
Come on, Mario, you shouId be happy.
Happy?
I toId him quite cIearIy,
Mario RuoppoIo.
''Regards, PabIo Neruda.''
It means nothing.
You don't think he can cross
it out and write it better...
so you can see it's for me,
that we're friends?
Do you think he'd cross it out
because you don't llke it...
and write you another?
Perhaps he did it on purpose
because you bothered him.
No, I asked him.
He was staring at the mountain.
- ExactIy, you see?
- No, I know the mountain...
but he was hoIding an onion.
So you think a poet can't think
when he's hoIding an onion, eh?
When am I supposed
to ask him then...
if I can't ask him
when he's peellng an onion?
He's a busy man.
He can't be running after peopIe
to make them happy.
Yes, but he's a communist.
So what?
Didn't you say that
communists Iove the peopIe?
Mario, don't make me annoyed!
I bought a copy of the book.
When you have the chance...
with extreme tact...
ask him if he wouId sign it for me.
Sign it?
Take this one then.
''Regards, PabIo Neruda.''
No, this is yours.
He signed it for you.
- I'm happy to Iet you have it.
- No!
Mr. Di Cosimo, shall
I empty all the water?
All of it, all of it.
'Morning.
Mr. Di Cosimo...
what can I do to thank you?
Your wreath was the nicest.
Nothing, Donna Rosa.
Just vote and get others to vote.
Remember to use
that llttIe pencll of yours.
And hopefully some
of your customers wllI, too.
''...happens that I go into the
tallors' shops and the movies...
all shriveIed up...
impenetrabIe, llke a feIt swan...
navigating on a water
of origin and ash.
The smell of barber shops
makes me sob out Ioud...
I am tired of being a man...''
Mall.
What's the matter?
Don PabIo?
You're standing
as stiff as a post!
Nalled llke a spear?
No, immoblle llke the castIe
on a chess board.
StllIer than a porceIain cat.
EIementary Odes isn't
the onIy book I've written.
I've written much better.
It's unfair of you to shower me
with simlles and metaphors.
Don PabIo?
Metaphors.
What are those?
Metaphors?
Metaphors are--
How can I expIain?
When you taIk of something,
comparing it to another.
Is it something...
you use in poetry?
Yes, that too.
For exampIe?
For exampIe...
when you say, ''the sky weeps,''
what do you mean?
That it's raining.
Yes, very good.
- That's a metaphor.
- It's easy then!
Why has it got such
a compllcated name?
Man has no business with...
the simpllcity
or compIexity of things.
Excuse me, Don PabIo,
then I'll go.
I was reading something
yesterday:
''The smell of barber shops
makes me sob out Ioud.''
Is that a metaphor, too?
No...
not exactIy.
I llked it, too, when...
when you wrote:
''I am tired of being a man.''
That's happened to me, too...
but I never knew how to say it.
I really llked it when I read it.
Why ''the smell of
barber shops makes me sob''?
You see, Mario...
I can't tell you...
in words different
from those I've used.
When you expIain it,
poetry becomes banaI.
Better than any expIanation...
is the experience of feellngs
that poetry can reveaI...
to a nature open enough
to understand it.
WllI you open this, pIease?
- Who, me?
- Yes.
- Shall I open it?
- Yes!
My hands are dirty.
It's written in--
It's foreign.
Is it more important
than the others?
Yes, it's from Sweden.
What's so speciaI about Sweden?
The NobeI Prize for Literature.
A prize then?
If they give it to me,
I won't refuse.
Why?
How much money is it?
Swedish krona.
I've no idea, is that a Iot?
Lots and Iots!
Then you'll get it.
There are candidates with
a better chance than me this year.
Why?
Because they've
written important works.
No...
you'll get it, I'm sure.
Thank you.
Shall I open the other Ietters?
No, I'll read them Iater.
Are they Iove Ietters?
What a question!
Don't Iet Matllde hear you.
I'm sorry, Don PabIo.
I onIy meant--
I'd llke to be a poet, too.
No, it's more originaI
being a postman.
You get to waIk a Iot
and don't get fat.
We poets are all fat.
Yes, but...
with poetry...
I couId make women fall for me.
How--
How do you become a poet?
Try and waIk sIowIy aIong
the shore as far as the bay...
and Iook around you.
And wllI they come to me,
these metaphors?
CertainIy.
Mario, can you send someone to see
about this probIem of water?
Have you got water?
No, that's exactIy the probIem.
That's no probIem at all!
Why? Is it normaI?
It's normaI.
You've run out of water...
up at the cistern.
Do you use a Iot of water?
No, just what I need.
Then that's too much.
Because...
it runs out all of a sudden
because the water-suppIy ship...
comes onIy once a month,
so the water gets used up.
We've got-- They've been saying
we'll get running water...
for ages.
''You'll have running water.'' But--
And you don't protest?
What do we say?
My father swears every so often...
but... onIy to himseIf.
There are peopIe who, with a strong
wllI, manage to change things.
It's a pity.
This pIace is so beautifuI!
Think so?
Yes. Sit down.
Here on the isIand, the sea...
so much sea.
It spllIs over from time to time.
It says yes, then no...
then no.
In bIue, in foam, in a gallop...
it says no, then no.
It cannot be stllI.
My name is sea, it repeats...
striking a stone
but not convincing it.
Then with the seven green tongues
of seven green tigers...
of seven green seas...
it caresses it, kisses it, wets it...
and pounds on its chest,
repeating its own name.
Well?
What do you think?
It's weird.
What do you mean, weird?
- You're a severe critic.
- No, not your poem.
Weird...
Weird...
how I feIt whlle
you were saying it.
How was that?
I don't know.
The words went back and forth.
- Like the sea then?
- ExactIy.
- Like the sea.
- There, that's the rhythm.
I feIt seasick, in fact.
Because...
I can't expIain it. I feIt llke...
llke a boat tossing
around on those words.
Like a boat tossing
around on my words?
Do you know what you've done, Mario?
- No, what?
- You've invented a metaphor.
- Yes, you have!
- Really?
But it doesn't count
because I didn't mean to.
Meaning to is not important.
Images arise spontaneousIy.
You mean then that...
for exampIe,
I don't know if you follow me...
that the whoIe worId...
the whoIe worId,
with the sea, the sky...
with the rain, the cIouds--
Now you can say etc., etc.
Etc., etc.
The whoIe worId is
the metaphor for something eIse?
- I'm taIking crap.
- No, not at all.
Not at all.
You pulled a strange face.
Mario, Iet's make a pact.
I'll have a nice swim...
and ponder your question.
Then I'll give you
an answer tomorrow.
- Really?
- Yes, really.
Don PabIo, good morning.
I've got to taIk to you.
It must be very important.
You're snorting llke a horse.
It's very important.
- I've fallen in Iove.
- Nothing serious. There's a remedy.
No, no remedy!
I don't want a remedy.
I want to stay sick.
I'm in Iove,
really, really in Iove.
Who are you in Iove with?
Her name's Beatrice.
Dante.
Dante Allghieri.
He fell for a certain Beatrice.
Beatrices have
inspired boundIess Iove.
What are you doing?
Writing down the name Dante.
Dante I know, but Allghieri--
- Has it got an ''h'' in it?
- Wait, I'll write it for you.
Thank you.
I'm madIy in Iove.
You've aIready toId me that,
but what can I do about it?
I don't know, if you can heIp--
But I'm an oId man.
I don't know, because...
I suddenIy saw her in front of me.
I stared at her,
but I couIdn't utter a word.
What, you didn't
say anything to her?
Not much.
- I watched her and fell in Iove.
- Just llke that? In a fIash?
No, I stared at her
for ten minutes first.
And she?
And she said...
What's up,
never seen a woman before?
What's your name?
Beatrice Russo.
And you?
I couIdn't think of anything to say.
Nothing at all?
- You didn't say a word?
- Not exactIy nothing.
I said five words to her.
Which were?
I said, ''What's your name?''
- And she?
- And she: ''Beatrice Russo.''
''What's your name?'' are three words.
And the other two?
Then I repeated Beatrice Russo.
Don PabIo, if--
I don't want to bother you, but...
can you write me
a poem for Beatrice?
I don't even know her!
A poet needs to know
the object of his inspiration!
I can't invent something
out of nothing.
I've got this llttIe ball...
which Beatrice put in her mouth.
She's touched it.
So what?
It might heIp you.
Look, Poet...
if you make all this fuss
over one poem...
you're never going
to win that NobeI Prize!
Mario, pinch me and wake me
from this nightmare!
What am I supposed to do?
No one eIse can heIp me.
They're all fishermen here!
What am I supposed to do?
Fishermen fall in Iove, too!
They are abIe to taIk
to the girIs they Iove...
to make them fall in Iove, too,
and marry them.
- What does your father do?
- He's a fisherman.
Naturally!
He must have spoken to your mother
to get her to marry him.
I don't think so.
He doesn't taIk much.
Come on, give me my mall.
Thank you, but I don't want it.
- Do you want something eIse?
- No, thanks.
Beatrice, your smlle
spreads llke a butterfIy.
Fallen out of bed this morning?
I came earller because...
I saw this.
It Iooks important.
You're right, it is important.
And then...
there's something eIse...
I've been meaning to give you
but kept forgetting.
- I'll put it here. Good-bye.
- Wait a minute.
I've got something for you, too.
Here.
It might be usefuI
for your metaphors.
Is it a radio?
No, but it's a kind of radio.
You speak into here...
and this repeats what you say.
You speak into it
and it repeats what you say?
Yes.
- How many times?
- As many times as you want.
But you mustn't exaggerate.
Even the most subllme idea
seems foollsh if heard too often.
Listen.
Good news?
When I was Senator
of the Republlc...
I went to visit Pampa...
a region where it onIy rains
once every years...
where llfe
is unimaginabIy hard.
I wanted to meet the peopIe
who had voted for me.
One day...
at Lota, there was a man
who had come up from a coaI mine.
He was a mask
of coaI dust and sweat...
his face...
contorted by terribIe hardship...
his eyes red from the dust.
He stretched out
his calloused hand and said:
''Wherever you go...
speak of this torment.
Speak of your brother
who llves underground...
in hell.''
I feIt I had to write something
to heIp man in his struggIe...
to write the poetry
of the mistreated.
That's how ''Canto GeneraI''
came about.
Now my comrades...
tell me they have managed to
get it publlshed secretIy in Chlle...
and it's selling llke hot cakes.
That makes me very happy.
My dear comrades...
...I have recently listened to your recording
and it has made very happy.
I was very pleased to have a book published in Chile.
Now I want you to listen
to a man who has become...
...my dearest friend here - Mario Ruoppolo.
I told them I'm here with
a friend who wishes to say hello.
And tell them something nice
about this beautifuI country.
Yes.
- Good morning.
- No, in there.
Something nice about the isIand?
Yes, one of the wonders
of your isIand.
Now Iet's go to the inn...
and meet this famous
Beatrice Russo.
Are you joking?
No, I'm serious.
Let's have a Iook at this girIfriend.
Mamma mia!
PabIo Neruda and Mario RuoppoIo
at the inn.
She'll faint!
Well? What is it now?
Don PabIo, when I get married
to Beatrice Russo...
wllI you be my best man?
Listen...
first Iet's have a drink,
then we'll decide.
Gennarino, wait! I'm coming, too!
Domenico, come here
or I'll thrash you!
Look who's here. Neruda!
Good morning.
What wllI it be?
A gIass of red wine, pIease.
And the pinball king?
- Do you want red wine, too?
- Red wine, yes.
Two gIasses of red wine
and a pen to write with.
He's here for your niece.
Give me the notebook.
Notebook? Why?
Just a moment.
''To Mario, my intimate friend
and comrade - PabIo Neruda''
There you are.
You aIready have your poetry.
If you want to write it down,
here's your notebook.
Thank you.
What is it?
Go home. It's cIosing time!
I won't make you pay for the bottIe,
but go home. We're cIosing.
- What are you doing?
- I'm thinking.
With the window open?
Yes, with the window open.
Be honest with me.
What did he tell you?
Metaphors.
Metaphors?
Never heard such big words
from you before.
What metaphors did he do to you?
Did? He said them!
He said my smlle spreads
across my face llke a butterfIy.
- And then?
- I Iaughed when he said that.
Your Iaugh is a rose...
a spear unearthed, crashing water.
Your Iaugh is
a sudden sllvery wave.
Then what did you do?
I kept quiet.
And he?
- What eIse did he say?
- No, what did he do?
Your postman, as well as a mouth,
has two hands!
He never touched me.
He said he was happy
to be next to a pure young woman.
Like being on the shores
of the white ocean.
I llke it--
I llke it when you're sllent...
because it's as though
you're absent.
And you?
And he?
He Iooked at me, too,
then he stopped Iooking at my eyes...
and began to Iook at my hair...
without a word,
as though he were thinking.
Enough, my chlld!
When a man starts
to touch you with words...
he's not far off with his hands.
There's nothing wrong with words.
Words are the worst things ever.
I'd prefer a drunkard
at the bar touching your bum...
to someone who says,
''Your smlle flles llke a butterfIy''!
It ''spreads'' llke a butterfIy!
Flles, spreads,
it's the same thing!
Just Iook at you!
One stroke of his finger,
and you're on your back.
You're wrong.
He's a decent person.
When it comes to bed,
there's no difference...
between a poet, a priest
or even a communist!
''Naked...
you are as simpIe
as one of your hands...
smooth, terrestriaI, tiny...
round, transparent.
You have moon-llnes, appIe paths.
Naked, you are as thin
as bare wheat.
Naked, you are bIue
llke a Cuban night.
There are vines and stars
in your hair.
Naked, you are enormous
and yellow...
llke summer in a gllded church.''
Good morning, Father.
I found this in her brassiere.
I want you to read it to me.
I'm not Ietting her
out of the house for now.
Well?
It's a poem.
Read it to me!
''Naked...
Madonna!
What are the nets llke?
Mario, I need an adjective.
Nets-- Which nets?
Fishing nets?
Yes.
Sad.
Sad.
All right?
Good morning, signora.
- WouId you llke--
- Yes.
PIease, sit down.
No. What I want to say is
too serious to say sitting down.
What is it about?
For over a month...
Mario RuoppoIo has been
hanging around my inn...
and he has seduced my niece.
- What did he say?
- Metaphors.
Well?
He's heated her up
llke an oven with his metaphors.
A man whose onIy capitaI
is the fungus between his toes!
And if his feet are full of germs,
his mouth is full of spells.
It started off innocentIy enough:
''Her smlle was llke a butterfIy.''
But now he's saying her breast
is llke a fire with two fIames.
But do you think...
that these images are onIy
his imagination or that--
Yes, I think he's had
his hands on her.
Read this.
It was in her brassiere.
''Naked--
As beautifuI as--
Naked, you're as dellcate
as nights on an isIand...
and stars in your hair--''
It's beautifuI!
So he's seen my niece naked!
No, signora Rosa!
Nothing in this poem
Ieads us to think that.
The poem's telling the truth.
My niece naked is just
as the poem describes her.
So do me a favor
and tell Mario RuoppoIo...
who's Iearnt a Iot from you...
that he must never see my niece
again for the rest of his llfe.
And tell him that if he does,
I'll shoot him.
- Is that cIear?
- Yes.
Good day.
You're as white as a sack of fIour.
I might be white outside,
but inside I'm red.
You won't save yourseIf
from the widow's fury with adjectives.
If she harms me, she'll go to jall.
She'll be out in a coupIe of hours.
She'll say she acted
out of seIf-defense.
She'll say you threatened
the virginity of her damseI:
with a metaphor
hissing llke a dagger...
as sharp as a canine,
as Iacerating as a hymen.
The poetry wllI have Ieft
the mark of its seditious sallva...
on the virgin's nippIes.
The poet Francois VllIon
was hung from a tree for much Iess...
and his bIood gushed
from his neck llke roses.
I don't care. She can do
what she wants. I'm ready.
Good Iad! It's a reaI shame
we haven't got...
a trio of guitarists to go...
My dear poet and comrade...
you got me into this mess,
you've got to get me out of it.
You gave me books to read...
you taught me to use my tongue
for more than llcking stamps.
It's your fauIt if I'm in Iove.
No, this has nothing to do with me.
I gave you my books...
but I didn't authorize you
to steaI my poems.
If you think you gave Beatrice
the poem I wrote for Matllde--
Poetry doesn't beIong to those
who write it, but those who need it.
I appreciate that highIy
democratic sentiment.
Now go home and get some sIeep.
You've bags under your eyes
as Iarge and deep as soup bowIs.
This is for you.
Vote for Di Cosimo.
They promised us running water...
on the isIand two years ago, too.
Two years ago, it wasn't
Di Cosimo who promised you.
What's written on that paper
is a pIedge, not a promise.
An oath, and God is my witness.
Hey, Mario!
Aren't you interested
in what I'm saying?
I'm voting communist.
What?
I'm voting communist.
I hear you've
gone crazy about poetry.
I hear you're competing
with PabIo Neruda.
But remember, poets can do
a Iot of damage to peopIe.
- How much do these cIams cost?
- llre to you.
For that price you'll have to
guarantee me a pearI in each one.
- Give me a good price.
- I'll give you a discount, all right?
Fishermen are expIoited
enough as it is.
He said llre.
Why shouId he give you a discount?
I don't mean to expIoit anyone.
Good-bye.
Why don't you mind
your own business?
I was trying to heIp.
Mario...
as your superior I must order you
to dellver the undellvered mall.
Yes, yes, yes.
But you're stllI
moping after that girI.
Beatrice is pretty now...
but in years
she'll be as ugIy as the rest.
Beatrice wllI never be ugIy.
I heId the spIendor of your eyes...
secretIy within me,
bllssfuI Beatrice.
What's Beatrice got to do with it?
It's a poem.
Dante Allghieri--
No, GabrieIe D'Annunzio, my poet.
Your poet wrote something
for Beatrice?
I don't llke it.
Strange, I thought you'd
appreciate a hymn to Beatrice.
Thank you. Good-bye.
- SIeeping Beauty...
- Good evening.
Good evening. Give the MarshaI
his usuaI, and pour one for me, too.
Thank you.
Your niece gets
more and more beautifuI.
If you onIy knew how difficuIt
it is to keep a hoId on her.
Young peopIe today
aren't what they used to be.
They have everything
and want the moon.
I remember my poor departed mother.
I'd trembIe whenever she spoke.
Good night, Aunt.
Good night, MarshaI.
Good night, MarshaI.
Find yourseIves a decent person
who isn't a communist.
If Neruda doesn't belleve in God,
why shouId God belleve in Neruda?
What sort of witness wouId he be?
God never said a communist
can't be a witness at a wedding.
I'm not getting married then.
You're more interested in Neruda
as a witness than me as your wife.
My darllng...
Neruda's a Cathollc.
I know he's a Cathollc.
In Russia, communists eat babies.
How can he be Cathollc?
He doesn't Iook the type.
Neruda has a pretty wife.
He's getting on
and he has no chlldren.
How do you expIain that?
So according to you,
Don PabIo ate his kids?
Who knows?
Anyway, my answer's no,
for your sake, too.
He inspired your bridegroom
to write that fllthy naked stuff.
That was onIy a poem.
Not to mention the rest.
He's not worthy of being witness
to your happiness.
She'd say:
''I ask Jesus to Iet me llve
to see my son with a job...
a wife and chlldren in his arms.''
UnfortunateIy, she didn't make it...
because when the Lord
called her to Him...
he didn't even have a job.
Today, from heaven my poor wife
wllI see that he's made her happy...
because at Ieast he's got
a wife and a llttIe job.
Even if it's not the job
she'd have wanted for him--
All the best!
Well done, Dad!
What are you doing, drinking wine?
I'm sorry, Comrade, I forgot.
This came for you.
Thank you.
- Good news?
- To the newIyweds!
With a chaste heart...
with pure eyes...
I ceIebrate your beauty...
hoIding the Ieash of bIood
so that it might Ieap out...
and trace your outllne...
where you lle down in my ode
as in a Iand of forests, or in a surf:
in aromatic Ioam or in sea music.
Now...
I'd llke to toast my friend...
Mario...
and say what a pIeasure it was for me
to participate, in a small way...
to his happiness.
And IastIy, I'd llke to say
that on this very speciaI day...
I have received
some wonderfuI news.
The warrant for our arrest...
has been revoked...
and therefore
Matllde and I can now...
return to the country
we Iove so much:
Chlle.
No, Don PabIo.
But you'll be unempIoyed tomorrow.
No, I don't want anything.
I'll miss you.
I'll miss you.
But you wllI write to me?
Of course.
Things change
all the time in my country.
Today they'll Iet me go back.
Tomorrow something eIse wllI happen
and I'll have to fIee again.
I'll Ieave some things
here anyway...
if you couId keep
an eye on it for me.
I'll Iet you know where to send them.
Perhaps I'll bring them
to Chlle myseIf.
That'd be wonderfuI.
Do you need this?
Yes.
Thank you.
I've discovered another poet
who wrote about Beatrice...
called D'Annunzio.
I know.
So you couId have written one, too.
Good-bye.
- What is it?
- Look at this.
He's in Russia, giving an award.
In Russia? If he's over here,
he might pay a visit.
He's a very busy man, Mario!
He must meet the peopIe
he didn't see when he was in exlle.
And he's aIso well-Ioved in Chlle.
He won't have time to come here.
It's a good picture.
- The young poet, Mllovan--
- Perkovic.
Awarded a poetry prize
by the maestro.
- Can I keep it?
- No, you can't.
I'll put it in here
with all the rest.
You can Iook at it
whenever you llke.
Vote for Di Cosimo.
The candidate promises
to Iead us on a new path!
Vote for Di Cosimo!
For a new way of llfe!
For the sake of our isIand!
Did that fellow come here?
- Who?
- Di Cosimo.
Yes.
Why are you smlling?
Di Cosimo has served us
a fortune on a sllver pIatter.
Really?
famllies wllI be coming here
to work on the new water mains.
Di Cosimo asked us if we can
provide them with two meaIs a day.
And we can't.
We toId them we couId.
They'll be here for two years.
- Without asking me?
- Just add it all up.
Money.
All you can think about is money.
Where wllI we put famllies?
We'll do two or three servings
if necessary!
PIease yourseIves.
No, we'll do as we pIease.
WouId you be prepared to work
in the kitchen, ''signor'' husband?
In the kitchen?
Yes.
A toast to Beatrice,
the prettiest girI in town!
Look!
- What does it say?
- He's in Paris.
''Whereas I really Ioved ItaIy...
where I Ied a happy llfe
in compIete solltude...
and among the most simpIe
peopIe in the worId.''
''What things are you
most nostaIgic about?''
''NostaIgia is an emotion I can feeI
onIy for my own country...
but I wllI never forget...
my strolls aIong the beach
and among the rocks...
where tiny pIants and fIowers grow...
exactIy the same way
as in a Iarge garden composition.''
Go on.
That's it.
He doesn't mention us.
Why shouId he mention us
in an interview?
He's a poet.
Poets taIk about nature...
not about the peopIe they meet.
The bird that has eaten flles away!
I bet he doesn't even remember
what we Iook llke.
The Christian Democrats have been
victorious in every region.
The party chairman
has expressed his satisfaction.
Satisfaction!
They haven't managed it.
What? They've taken
every region in ItaIy.
They can't do anything
with a handfuI of votes!
They've won a battIe,
but not the war.
So we'll win the war?
Who eIse?
But we have to fight,
and we wllI fight!
It's the onIy way to break
our chains and set ourseIves free!
Yes, but here...
when we've broken our chains...
what do we do then?
If Don PabIo couId hear you,
he wouIdn't approve.
Don PabIo.
Don PabIo can't hear me.
Who knows where he is,
what he's doing?
What's with these Iong faces?
Mr. Di Cosimo,
this is a tragedy for us.
We were counting on
those two years of work.
We'd made pIans,
run up debts even.
I know, it's a shame to Ieave
the work haIf-compIeted...
but we hope to start again soon.
Soon? When?
I don't know.
It depends.
But I assure you it won't be Iong.
Anyway, I can't wait
to try out your cooking.
What does it depend on?
Company probIems
are very compllcated.
I don't know much
about company probIems...
but I'm not daft.
We all knew that
as soon as you got eIected...
the work wouId come to a haIt.
That's true.
The husband's hot-bIooded.
If Don PabIo had been here...
maybe the eIections
wouId have gone better.
Mario, I have something
to tell you.
I'm pregnant.
- Really?
- Yes.
- You're really pregnant?
- Yes.
We have to Ieave here.
No one understands us here.
They're all too ignorant.
We'll go to Chlle, so Pabllto
wllI grow up there, breathe poetry.
Pabllto?
Don't you llke it?
After Neruda. It'll be
a good omen for our son.
- Mario?
- No. He's in front.
Mario, is that you?
There's a Ietter from Chlle.
Put it in my pocket, pIease.
- Open it!
- Wait.
Mario RuoppoIo. It's the first
Ietter I've ever received.
''Santiago, th October, .
Dear Sir...
I ask you to send me...
some objects beIonging to...
signor PabIo Neruda...
which are to be found
in the house where he llved...
during his...
stay in ItaIy.
Address encIosed...
and a llst of...
the above-mentioned objects.
The secretary... the secretary...
of PabIo Neruda.''
And for you?
Not a word, not a greeting,
and he Ieft over a year ago.
I toId you, the bird
that has eaten flles away!
PeopIe are kind onIy
when you're usefuI to them.
Not again with that
''bird that has eaten.''
And usefuI for what?
What did I do for this person?
In fact, it was aIways me...
who wouId ask, ''Don PabIo,
wllI you check this metaphor?''
''Don PabIo,
wllI you read me a poem?''
I'm the one who bothered him.
And you say I was usefuI.
What did I do?
And yet he knew
I was no good as a poet.
He knew, you know?
But instead he treated me
llke a friend.
Like a brother.
It's not true that you're no good.
And I'm not calling him Pabllto.
What has the baby
got to do with it?
Why, do you think I'm a poet?
Am I a poet? Have I ever
written anything, any poems?
No, Mario, but--
Then ''No, Mario'' nothing.
Admit it.
Why shouId he remember me?
As a poet, I'm not much good.
As a postman--
He wouId hardIy remember...
a postman who took him
his mall when he llved in ItaIy.
As a communist?
Not even that. I wasn't very--
I think it's...
quite normaI that he--
All right.
Tomorrow, we'll go there
and send his things off.
I toId them I'm here with
a friend who wishes to say hello...
and tell them something nice
about this beautifuI country.
- No.
- Yes.
Good morning.
No, there.
Good morning.
Something nice about the isIand?
Yes, one of the wonders
of your isIand.
Are you sure
it works outdoors, too?
If it works inside,
it'll work outside.
It works here.
One, two, three.
Is the red llght on?
Yes, it's llt.
One.
Number one.
Waves at the CaIa di Sotto.
Small ones.
Go on!
Number two.
Waves. Big ones.
Go on!
Number three.
Wind on the cllffs.
Number four.
Wind through the bushes.
Number five.
Sad nets beIonging to my father.
Number six.
Church bell...
of Our Lady of Sorrows...
with priest.
It's beautifuI.
I never reallzed
it was so beautifuI.
Number seven.
Starry sky over the isIand.
Number eight.
Pabllto's heartbeat.
You can hear everything!
Really?
You can hear it!
You can hear Pabllto's heart!
I'm not calling him Pabllto.
Come here, Pabllto!
There was
a communist demonstration.
Pabllto never saw him.
He was born
a few days after Mario died.
I didn't want him to go,
but he wouIdn't llsten.
''Don PabIo wouId be proud,''
he'd say.
A riot began, and the pollce
moved in on the crowd.
He was trapped.
This is something
Mario made for you.
I shouId have sent it to you,
but I kept it instead.
Dearest Don PabIo...
this is Mario.
I hope you haven't forgotten me.
Anyway...
do you remember that
you once asked me...
to say something nice
about my isIand...
and I couIdn't think of anything?
Now...
I know.
So I want to send you this tape...
which, if you want to,
you can pIay to your friends.
If not, you can llsten to it.
Then you'll remember me...
and ItaIy.
When you Ieft here...
I thought you'd taken all
the beautifuI things away with you.
But now...
now I reallze...
that you Ieft something
behind for me.
I aIso want to tell you
that I've written a poem...
but you can't hear it
because I'm embarrassed.
It's called
''Song for PabIo Neruda.''
Even if it's about the sea...
it's dedicated to you.
If you hadn't come into my llfe...
I never wouId have written it.
I've been invited
to read it in publlc.
And even though I know my voice
wllI shake, I'll be happy.
And you wllI hear the peopIe
appIaud when they hear your name.
Comrades!
Comrades!
We now invite onto the pIatform
three working men:
Luigi Tronco, Mario RuoppoIo
and Antonio De Marco.
They are here not to speak,
but to recite their poetry.
We invite Mario RuoppoIo
onto the pIatform...
who has dedicated this poem...
to the great poet
who is known to us all...
PabIo Neruda.
PIease cIear a path
for Mario RuoppoIo!
Hear that?
Hurrah!
He's Mario RuoppoIo.
Let him through.
Excuse me!
We have to reach the pIatform.
Comrades!
Mario, where are you?
Mario RuoppoIo!
Comrades, keep caIm!
Keep back!
Comrades!
The End