Miracle in Milan (1951)

 

Francisco Golisano in Miracle in Milan

This Italian film, directed by Vittorio De Sica, was a real oddity. Toto is an orphan found in a cabbage patch, and raised by a poor woman. Soon he is taken to an orphanage where he is educated and prepared for the world. 

All this is shown in the first five minutes of the film: a wonderful exposition, with almost no words. Then we see young Totò (played by the wonderfully innocent Francesco Golisano), aged perhaps 18, leaving the orphanage for the real world, yet quite unprepared for it, magnificently demonstrated by his greeting strangers with “good day “ as he passes them in the street, and getting a very suspicious and unwelcome response.

Then we move to the narrative proper: Totò lives in a community for the homeless, a shanty town, and becomes a kind of leader to them. His eternal optimism saves many of them from despair, and, in one case, suicide. 

So far we have a plot: the innocent, Christ-like figure, who is determinedly optimistic, so much so that he strikes up a conversation with the man who stole his bag – and ends up giving him the bag he so covets. 

At this point, we see lots of faces of the urban poor, and we feel compassion. This kind of socialist realism is seen also in Brecht and other films of the 30s and 40s, such as My Man Godfrey (1936). But at this point in the film, di Sica inevitably comes up against political reality. The shanty town is on land that is owned by someone, and that someone wants it back. Do the oppressed poor get to keep the land they occupy (which would be utopian)? Or do the landowners succeed in removing the community (which would be realistic)? De Sica opts for a third option, perhaps the easy escape. Toto acquires some magic powers via a dove given to him by his late aunt, and manages to escape on a broomstick, as do many of this associates. There is no justification for this miracle happening apart from it seeming to be a good thing. There is no other solution to the story, as far as we can see. 

Of course, a deus ex machina ending of this kind is profoundly unsettling, and makes us realise (as Douglas Sirk pointed out of plays by Euripides) how contrived and artificial is the ending. Does the ending have to be like that? Is there not a better solution – perhaps a political one? 

But by ending in this way, De Sica can have his cake and eat it. He even keeps the Catholic Church happy, since the landowners are not defeated, and the shanty town inhabitants have recourse to an other-world solution that requires only faith. So the film comes so close to political activism, and then turns away. Just as De Sica appears to have done in his subsequent career, which seems to have moved progressively away from politics and uncomfortable decisions, towards mainstream entertainment such as Matrimonio all’Italiana (1964). Wikipedia states De Sica was both a Roman Catholic and a Communist, and maintained two partners and two families for much of his life. It suggests a lack of decision-making that is apparent in Miracle in Milan. You can create a great situation, with the viewer on the edge of their seat: the honest, disposed poor, or the wealthy caricature landowner? Who is right? But then the film peters out and avoids the question.

Athens: The Benaki Museums

 

Cretan vessel with horsemen, 675-660 BCE

What made the Benaki museums in Athens so special? During our visit, we had time to see two of the Benaki Collections: the Benakis Museum of Greek Culture, which was the first to be opened, and the Benakis Museum of Islamic Art, one of the most recent. There are now ten museums in all, nine of them in Athens, and I don’t suppose many Athenians have seen them all. Both these museums were exceptional. 

Both, perhaps, reflect the personality of Benaki himself, although I haven’t been able to find much out about him. Antonis Benaki (1873-1954) grew up in Alexandria, Egypt, when it must have been of a great cultural melting pot. Others living in Alexandria at the time include C P Cafavy; Eric Hobsbawm was born there. The biographical sources state he moved permanently to Athens in 1926, but do not give any reason. 

However Benakis gained his education, he had a remarkable eye for beautiful objects across religions (he seems to have collected Islamic and Christian art throughout his life) and across many cultures, and seemed to be equally at home in many art forms. Both the Benaki collections we saw included a vast range of what used to be called applied arts: calligraphy, textiles, metalwork, jewellery, miniature painting, to name but a few. The settings for these works was exquisite.

 

The Museum of Greek Culture

Terracotta head, Gandhara, Afghanistan, C2-C4 CE

The original museum (now called “The Benaki Museum of Greek Culture”) still resembles an albeit grand private house, with a series of fairly small rooms. As a result, visitors are encouraged to spend more time looking at individual objects. Different arts are mixed together, and, at least in the Greek Culture museum, many civilizations are mixed. Given that Greece did not exist as an independent country for several hundred years, the interpretation of “Greek” in the Museum of Greek Culture is (perhaps of necessity) a very wide one: this “Greek” museum includes objects from Constantinople, Egypt, and Ankara. The floor dedicated to the newly independent Greek state was unfortunately closed at the time of the visit, but the impression I got was of an impressive international eclecticism. 

Museum of Islamic Art

Interior of the Museum

The feeling of a mixture is very apparent also in the Museum of Islamic Art. The Museum lists some 17 separate dynasties through the historical period covered by the museum, which, since it ranges from the 6th to the 19th centuries, should be confusing, but I found it admirably clear, helped by some very useful maps for each room. The spacious arrangement of each room encourages browsing. 

The Egyptian room, C15-C18

Perhaps the single greatest work owned by the Islamic Museum is not a single work at all, but a reconstruction of a room in Cairo that is a composite of objects from the 15th to the 18th centuries, assembled together in what becomes wonderfully inviting space. I wanted to walk around it, sit on the cushions and entertain my guests, sipping coffee while the fountains played.   

The Islamic Museum was limited to just four rooms, arranged chronologically. Each room was wonderfully spacious, meaning the objects displayed invited full examination. Perhaps in consequence, the four big maps of the Islamic world became very intelligible. I learned more about the history of the Islamic world from this collection than from any other collection of Islamic art (not that there are many to choose from).

Can there be a faith-based museum? I would be very wary of visiting a museum of Christian art, and yet, of course, most Western galleries of art are just that. It’s difficult to think offhand of any picture in the London National Gallery that does not endorse, actively or passively, a Christian ethos. So why does the Islamic Museum work so well.

 

Greek coffee

Of course, I should not forget that both collections have excellent rooftop cafes, from which it is possible to get a relaxed view of the city (and Athens is not a city that invites feelings of relaxation, for the most part). Drinking Greek coffee (something that is not available from Starbucks at Athens Airport, I noticed) while being far enough away from the activity and traffic to enjoy the peace and quiet is highly recommended. The Islamic Collection had some original, tile-inspired wall decorations, that made the space even more inviting.

What kind of collection?

My initial thought was that the Benaki’s success came down to mixing cultures, in a similar way to the Sainsbury Collection in Norwich. But the goal of the two collections is fundamentally different. The Sainsbury Collection invites comparisons across thousands of years and thousands of miles, in a breath-taking and, as far as I know, unique medley of cultures. The Benaki Museums mix (say) miniatures and pottery, but remain within a single time period. Nonetheless, the result is exhilarating because both museums give the impression of a lived existence. From the dioramas, admittedly behind glass cases, at the Greek Museum to the gorgeous room displays at both collections, you feel as though you could step into another world. That effect is utterly different to, say, the Acropolis Museum, or the National Archaeological Museum; it also highly addictive.

I noted that the astonishing range of Benaki materials is even today not all on display. There are Chinese, Korean, and West African artefacts still in store. Perhaps a Sainsbury-style museum could still be a possibility.

Next time I visit Athens, I will certainly head for another couple of Benaki museums. Or perhaps just return to either of these two rooftop cafes, and dream of a cultural medley crossing many modern nation-state boundaries, a collection that celebrates beauty and craftsmanship in a spectacular way.