In praise of the Sicilian detective
Mr T has been a fan of foreign detectives since the first arrival on our small screens of Swedish Noir in the form of Wallander. I have followed the fortunes of his various incarnations with less dedication, dipping in and out, but subsequently became hooked alongside my husband on the subtitled Danish imports that have appeared in Wallander’s wake, such as both series of The Killing and the political series, Borgen.
There was also the French series Spiral, which set a new challenge. For the first time it was actually possible to understand some of the dialogue without total reliance on subtitles. School French kicked in, and I realised that if only we Brits were subjected more frequently to quality drama from non-English sources, how much better we would be at other languages ourselves. One cannot help but pick up some phrases as the words wash over one’s consciousness. Even if it is only the natural sound and rhythm of native speakers whilst one tries to keep up with the translation, a certain tuning of the ears takes place. The whole viewing experience is slightly more effort to start with, but it soon becomes second nature. We need more of this, and please never let the imports be dubbed.
Wonderful though they are, these programmes have all been of the same deadly serious dramatic style; dark, gritty realism set in washout scenery, with flawed characters struggling to do their jobs and find an impossibly elusive work/life balance. Mr T may be Italian, but in his heart he is a Norseman who prefers cold climes and depressive detectives.
By comparison to all this black stuff there is Inspector Montalbano. Salvo Montalbano looks tough. He is tough - he has to deal with the Mafia for goodness sake! He is also a maverick with some extremely dodgy contacts, but possessed of a tender heart to go with his sense of justice. His love life is certainly several degrees less than perfect, as he prefers, despite the best efforts of a good but geographically distant woman, to resist all moves towards matrimony. The cases he tackles are shorter and less convoluted than the above, the series by RAI being more episodic than the others I have mentioned, but they are no less unpleasant in specifics. Yet this Italian television programme is almost a comedy show in comparison to the equivalent genre output by the ‘grim north’.
I love Inspector Montalbano for this irrepressible ‘gioia di vivere’, for the fast-talking, gesticulatory style and the sheer musicality of the language. They may call it Italian Noir, but all I can say is that black does not seem to denote the same colour, or absence of colour, in the Mediterranean regions. How can one not smile at a policeman with a male colleague called Mimi? And the clownish front desk constable-equivalent, Caterella, is pure comic relief. Salvo himself has a keen sense of humour and self-irony. He shouts down his detractors in histrionic fashion, frequently slams the door physically and metaphorically on his friends. Yet with the words ‘Montalbano sono!’ one feels in safe hands. This inspector loves life far too much to fall prey to dangerous solitary introspection Swedish style, or to burn his romantic bridges entirely due to work obsession like the sweater-wearing Dane. He does not use his semi-solitary status to engage in, often inappropriate, encounters, as do his French counterparts in Spiral. No, Salvo is a good Italian boy of whom his mama may be proud. And he always makes sure that he eats properly, even when dining alone.
On a day with weather more reminiscent of Scandinavia than sunny Sicily - it’s been bucketing down sleet all afternoon - I feel even more drawn to the sunny south. Va bene. Molto grazie per Il Commissario Montalbano. È il mio favorito. See, I may even learn to speak my husband's first language after all this time. :-)
Luca Zingaretti, Il Commissario Montalbano, RAI.
There was also the French series Spiral, which set a new challenge. For the first time it was actually possible to understand some of the dialogue without total reliance on subtitles. School French kicked in, and I realised that if only we Brits were subjected more frequently to quality drama from non-English sources, how much better we would be at other languages ourselves. One cannot help but pick up some phrases as the words wash over one’s consciousness. Even if it is only the natural sound and rhythm of native speakers whilst one tries to keep up with the translation, a certain tuning of the ears takes place. The whole viewing experience is slightly more effort to start with, but it soon becomes second nature. We need more of this, and please never let the imports be dubbed.
Wonderful though they are, these programmes have all been of the same deadly serious dramatic style; dark, gritty realism set in washout scenery, with flawed characters struggling to do their jobs and find an impossibly elusive work/life balance. Mr T may be Italian, but in his heart he is a Norseman who prefers cold climes and depressive detectives.
By comparison to all this black stuff there is Inspector Montalbano. Salvo Montalbano looks tough. He is tough - he has to deal with the Mafia for goodness sake! He is also a maverick with some extremely dodgy contacts, but possessed of a tender heart to go with his sense of justice. His love life is certainly several degrees less than perfect, as he prefers, despite the best efforts of a good but geographically distant woman, to resist all moves towards matrimony. The cases he tackles are shorter and less convoluted than the above, the series by RAI being more episodic than the others I have mentioned, but they are no less unpleasant in specifics. Yet this Italian television programme is almost a comedy show in comparison to the equivalent genre output by the ‘grim north’.
I love Inspector Montalbano for this irrepressible ‘gioia di vivere’, for the fast-talking, gesticulatory style and the sheer musicality of the language. They may call it Italian Noir, but all I can say is that black does not seem to denote the same colour, or absence of colour, in the Mediterranean regions. How can one not smile at a policeman with a male colleague called Mimi? And the clownish front desk constable-equivalent, Caterella, is pure comic relief. Salvo himself has a keen sense of humour and self-irony. He shouts down his detractors in histrionic fashion, frequently slams the door physically and metaphorically on his friends. Yet with the words ‘Montalbano sono!’ one feels in safe hands. This inspector loves life far too much to fall prey to dangerous solitary introspection Swedish style, or to burn his romantic bridges entirely due to work obsession like the sweater-wearing Dane. He does not use his semi-solitary status to engage in, often inappropriate, encounters, as do his French counterparts in Spiral. No, Salvo is a good Italian boy of whom his mama may be proud. And he always makes sure that he eats properly, even when dining alone.
On a day with weather more reminiscent of Scandinavia than sunny Sicily - it’s been bucketing down sleet all afternoon - I feel even more drawn to the sunny south. Va bene. Molto grazie per Il Commissario Montalbano. È il mio favorito. See, I may even learn to speak my husband's first language after all this time. :-)
Luca Zingaretti, Il Commissario Montalbano, RAI.