“Ah, Ricardo, mio. This is no game we play.”
Behind the cameras and lights, in the dark recesses of the great room, Monty Lord and Mario Bianchi smiled at one another. In one sentence, with one inflection of that magnificent voice, Adriana Ferrini reminded both men why they had paid a king’s ransom to get her for Rastrellamento. Later, the rushes would give them further proof, if they needed it, of the soundness of their decision.
Adriana Ferrini was a legend in the world of cinema — not just in Italy, but anywhere there was a movie house and people saw film. From her poverty-stricken roots, through her rise to screen goddess, to her present incarnation as model mother, faithful wife, and generous colleague, she had moved into the realm of icon. Good genes, good habits, and great cosmetic surgery had maintained the beauty of her youth into her fifties. To watch an Adriana Ferrini close-up was to see the cliché, “the camera loves her,” become reality.
Gunter Sachs, perspiring in his German com-mandant’s uniform, was only too aware of her charisma. His role was a gift, a chance to portray a character usually shown as a bumblehead or a bully — or worse — as a sensitive, cultivated man caught in a moment of history not of his making. Gilbert Ensor’s creation of Commandant Reinhardt Ritter was one of the most admired and praised elements of the original book, and the integrity of the character had been maintained through the various rewrites of the script. Although the other actors grumbled that this made his task easier, what they overlooked was the effect that the changes in character of those around him had on the delivery of a line.
Take, for instance, the complete turnaround in the character of the housekeeper, who now stood in the shadows beyond the lights, waiting for her scene. Hers was not a big role, but many of his own scenes began with some sort of conversation between the two of them — in a sense, she was the go-between in the love affair of the commandant and the contessa. It made one hell of a difference to even “Good evening, Anna,” when he was greeted by the steely glare of a gaunt, black-clad harpy instead of the conspiratorial giggle of the rosy-cheeked rotund actress with whom he had originally exchanged such pleasantries.
Then there was the priest, with whom he had some major scenes. Overnight, the cadaverous skeleton of an actor who had been the very epitome of a brooding, Macchiavellian hound of God had disappeared to be replaced by a jolly, plump leprechaun of a man who played the role as a kind of cute, comic Friar Tuck.
At least Clifford Wesley’s head hasn’t rolled — yet — he thought, thankful for small mercies. The British actor was a studious, reserved type — what his countrymen called “a decent bloke” — and his acting talents came from some intellectual and intestinal Gordian knot deep inside him. He was the one sympathetic personality in the group, in Gunter Sachs’s opinion; he had even read Goethe, which was more than could be said of most Germans these days. The scenes the commandant had with the British prisoner of war, Tom Byers, were now mostly “in the can,” and they would be spared reshooting them all.
Presumably.
Nothing was for certain in the make-believe world of Rastrellamento, and even the luscious Vittoria Salviati had expressed her insecurities to him that morning, as they waited together for their call. Of course, it now appeared she had been carrying on a clandestine affair with the murdered Toni Albarosa, and was afraid she might be the next target. Gunter Sachs’s own insecurities made him uncharacteristically spiteful.
“Your fears are probably justified. Jealousy is, in my opinion, the most powerful of emotions. A primitive passion.”
He watched her dark eyes grow wider, and chided himself for his cheap victory. However, from her next remark it was clear he had misinterpreted her reaction.
“That’s how I saw it, first of all. But now I wonder, Gunter. The last time I was with Toni — just before he died — he was really upset because of something that happened over a location he suggested.”
“To whom? What location?”
“I don’t know — he wouldn’t say. But it was something to do with the family, that much I know.”
“Have you told the police?”
“No. What is there to tell? I’m scared enough already as it is, without giving anyone another reason to come after me.”
The conversation had stopped at this point, when they were called for their scene together, and the only thought Gunter Sachs gave subsequently to Vittoria Salviati’s dilemma was that fear and loss had greatly improved her acting abilities. Access to the emotions, he thought, as he watched her character, Maddalena, weep at the commandant’s cold anger. That’s what it’s all about. Though in real life, it can play havoc, God knows.
“Cut! Print!”
With relief, Gunter Sachs moved away from the heat of the lights and loosened his collar. The scene with Adriana Ferrini had gone well, and would require no more takes, thank heaven. One of the dressers was waiting for him to take his jacket and to hand him a bottle of mineral water, which he drank thirstily.
“Hot work, sir.”
Gunter Sachs’s eyes adjusted to the light and he saw it was the detective inspector with the good bone structure he had seen the day of Albarosa’s murder. They had not spoken before, because his statement had been taken by one of the other policemen.
“Detective Inspector Moretti, sir. I am in charge of this investigation. Could I have a word? I am told by your director you are not needed for a while.”
“Of course. We can go to my trailer.”
Gunter Sachs’s trailer was a comfortable haven of leather armchairs, thick rugs, a sofa bed, and a heavy teak table piled with books and magazines in German and English.
“A drink, Detective Inspector? No? Then I hope you won’t mind if I have a beer. Please, sit down.”
“You do a lot of reading, I see,” said Moretti, picking up a copy of Rastrellamento from among the books on the table.
“There’s always time to do that on a movie set, no matter how major your role.”
“So I am beginning to realize. You are not staying in the manor, I believe.”
“No. I am at the Héritage. I prefer my independence. I ordered room service late the night of Albarosa’s murder, but I have no real alibi for the time itself, I’m afraid.”
“Like many others. But I actually wanted to ask you about this.” Moretti held up the copy of Rastrellamento. “I see you are familiar with the original work, which is helpful, because I gather there are changes to the role played by Adriana Ferrini. From what I remember of the story, that should affect you — am I right?”
“Yes. Reinhardt Ritter is in charge of the prison camp set up in what was once an orphanage in the town, where the contessa’s family, the Cavallis, have ruled the roost for centuries. He is an educated, sensitive individual, ill-suited to the task expected of him — which is to run the camp after the departure of the Italian troops in 1943, and to recapture the prisoners who escaped at that time. What starts off as hostility between the contessa and the commandant develops into a warm friendship — she calls him ‘Ricardo’ — that could have changed to love. Only Hitler is defeated, and the commandant is arrested by the allies. Strangely enough, the changes to the contessa’s role have made little difference to my own. They have built up Adriana’s role in relation to the other characters — for instance, the housekeeper and the priest. And that’s where the problem lies for me — not in the size of their roles, but in the interpretation.”
“Can you think of any reason why they would have built up her role vis-à-vis rather minor characters?”
“You’d have to ask Mario that question, but I think the quick answer is that it’s Adriana Ferrini.” Gunter Sachs smiled and shrugged his