Yesterday, Today, Tomorrow: My Life

by Sophia Loren

  Edoardo’s words portrayed Carlo more sharply than any image or film clip could possibly have done. He recalled our afternoons of love listening to Tchaikovsky, Carlo’s dinners with Fellini, his touching anecdotes, off-color jokes, as well as his pearls of wisdom. He remembered the delicate touch of his father’s large hands that, when Edoardo was a child, made him feel safe. Then he offered us an image of Carlo seen from behind, wearing a bathrobe and slippers, his legs bare, as he would leave the house shrouded in the fog early in the morning to visit his rose garden. That garden was his pride and joy: rows of red, pink, white, and yellow roses. He tended to them with painstaking attention, strong and delicate at the same time.

  “Why do you like roses so much, Papà?”

  “Because roses are like dreams, the larger ones require patience and hard work.”

  Carlo is no longer here, but he still inspires our passions and keeps us united in his memory. The boys and I live far apart, but we love each other, we follow and chase each other around the world, we think about each other, we help each other, and we call each other. And sometimes we give each other wonderful gifts.

  IN SEARCH OF TRUTH

  Today, after many years of work, Edoardo is a sensitive and rigorous film director, who has turned empathy into his strong point. He loves people, he tries to understand them, to interpret their journey. This, the truth of common feelings, is what he’s interested in.

  Sometimes all it takes is a few hours’ conversation to encourage you and show you the road.

  This happened to him when he spoke with Miloš Forman, the great director of Hair and Amadeus, one afternoon a long time ago. “It doesn’t matter whether the drama is dramatic or the comedy is fun,” said the maestro that day, with the simplicity with which only the great are gifted. “What’s important is that it’s all true.”

  Edoardo never forgot those words, and he repeats them each time he says, “Lights! Camera! Action!”

  In 2001 Edoardo had directed me in Between Strangers, his first feature-length movie. The film was shot in Toronto and the cast included Mira Sorvino, Malcolm McDowell, Klaus Maria Brandauer. But above all, there was Gérard Depardieu, one of the greatest actors I have ever met in my entire life. Like Alec Guinness, or Peter O’Toole, Gérard opens his mouth and a whole world comes out, with all its reliefs and all its dark-and-light sides.

  Although he may be restless in daily life, on the set he is a true, courteous, and focused professional. Added to his genius and talent is a craftsman’s precision. Depardieu knows his own face so well that all he has to do is move a small muscle to completely change his expression. Just as my first teacher, Pino Serpe, taught us! And then there’s his rhythm . . . He has such a sense of rhythm that he doesn’t need to rehearse: often the first take he does is as good as it gets.

  Any other time I could have been lost in my thoughts just watching him, admiring him, acting alongside him. But this time I was preoccupied by the fact that there to direct me was my son. This was no small matter.

  It wasn’t at all easy on the set to strike the right balance between being a mother and an actress. Even more than usual, I felt responsible for doing my very best for Edoardo’s debut; he’d devised a complex story, interweaving the lives of three women who meet by chance at the airport. But then, one morning, it became clear exactly what I was supposed to do: and it was easier than I’d thought.

  It might sound funny, but it was all thanks to a dog.

  That morning, we were shooting a scene in which a poodle walks from one side of the street to the other. Seemingly insignificant, it was actually an important detail, one that Edoardo was very fond of. Well, that poodle would have none of it. It would start out correctly, egged on by its trainers, but then, in the middle of the scene, it would stop dead in its tracks. And nothing could be done about it. We tried cookies, dog biscuits, shouting, pulling, a transparent leash, but nothing. That dog just froze, with all of us around it, maybe because it was scared or maybe because that’s just what it felt like doing.

  Its stubbornness forced us to do the scene over again many times, until we just started doing it automatically. And it was the almost mesmerizingly automatic nature of the scene that helped me to shed any worries I might have felt about being both the director’s mother and an actress in his movie. I watched Edoardo patiently start over each time, completely absorbed in his role. For him, mothers, wives, families, none of these things existed. All that existed at that moment was his movie, his actors, his crew.

  In that instant I realized that our relationship was of no importance on the set. Edoardo was the director, I was one of his actors. He directed and I just had to do the acting. All I had to do was listen to him and let myself go. That’s how I divested myself of my maternal identity to focus on the script and my truth as an actress.

  It was an important experience for both of us, and made us richer as professionals. It also strengthened our relationship and prepared us to face together another great cinematic challenge, his gift to me more than a decade later. It was the story of a mature woman who, shut inside a room, during a dramatic phone call of words, hesitation, and silence, loses the last love of her life and feels finished.

  EGGPLANT PARMESAN

  The first time Edoardo mentioned the role to me over the phone, he caught me by surprise.

  “The Human Voice? You mean the one played by Anna Magnani, Ingrid Bergman, Simone Signoret? The one . . .”

  “Mamma, there’s no need for you to give me the whole list of names. Of course that’s the one I’m talking about. La voix humaine, The Human Voice, by Jean Cocteau.

  “How wonderful, I’ve been dreaming about this all my life, ever since I saw Nannarella play the part when I was a young girl!” And that’s when, as usual, a war broke out inside me. Doubt hit me: “But . . . am I up to it?”

  Now, however, knowing myself very well, I ironed out all the creases in this tangled-up situation, and kept only its inner heart, that enthusiasm for something new, that fear “of the first time” that causes me to act in each movie as though I were making my debut. As I worked on myself, Edoardo was thinking about production, the location, the script, the slant he wanted to give it.

  The discussion that began between us is of the kind that develops around the embryo of a project that grows bigger and bigger. A discussion filled with digressions, vital and creative ones, that always accompanies the birth of a movie, and kindles the imagination, feelings.

  Everything inside me had been lit, something that hadn’t happened to me in a long time.

  I was tempted to go and see the way the many actresses who had done the piece had interpreted it, thinking that it might have given me some ideas.

  “No, Mamma, you don’t want to be influenced by anyone,” Edoardo said. “Every actress has her own version of it.”

  I obeyed, trying to say as little as possible, to hear in his voice what he expected of me.

  One day he came right out and said it.

  “What if it were in Neapolitan dialect?”

  I couldn’t believe my ears. It was such a bold idea, so poignant, an idea that was so close to me that it moved me.

  Edoardo, on the other end of the line, understood my silence and said, “Yes, because a woman who is abandoned can only speak in her mother tongue, the language she spoke as a child . . .”

  Erri De Luca translated the pièce by Cocteau. Both Edoardo and I loved him as a writer, and we trusted his limpid, laconic style and deep insights. We sat around a table talking with him about it, and in what seemed like no time at all he’d finished the text.

  “How did you do it, Erri? How did you write it so quickly?” I asked him admiringly.

  “I kept thinking about, hearing, your voice, and your voice dictated the words to me . . .” he answered with his typical straightforwardness.

  Now it was up to me to interpret it the best way I could. This time, however, I realized my instinct wasn’t going to be enough. We rehearsed nonstop for
six weeks, almost as though we were preparing a theater performance. Careful, focused, closed in a hotel room as though it were a dressing room. And then, at last, we were ready—but is one ever really ready?—to begin.

  Yes, because Edoardo had chosen to expand the “room of abandonment” to which Cocteau had deliberately confined his character, to include the city, the sea, to those subtle memories—a fragrance, a view, a touch—that, like arrows, the heart sends you when love is gone. Short flashbacks that appear swiftly and then close again instantly on the telephone cord that twists all around the room and Angela’s pain. At the heart of her memories is her lover, “Signore,” played by Enrico Lo Verso, who, unsurprisingly, is only seen in profile, from the back of his head, and from behind, as he kisses her passionately in times when they were still happy. A man who comes from the north and often can’t even understand what she’s saying in dialect. Another way of saying that he can’t understand her and actually doesn’t deserve her.

  We shot the movie in Rome in the De Paolis studio, the one where we’d done A Special Day, and then later in Ostia, on the same beach as the one in Too Bad She’s Bad, and then, finally, in Naples, between Palazzo Reale, the alleyways of the Pallonetto di Santa Lucia, the historic Sanità neighborhood, the Belvedere Sant’Antonio, in the quarter of Posillipo.We worked hard, overcoming our reluctance to explore certain things and any embarrassment. Alongside us was Carlo who helped us to choose the music, Guendalina as associate producer, Alex who put so much work into the postproduction of the DVD. Every time I turn around to look at all of us together I’m moved to tears. In life you can’t avoid pain, but you can find relief for it. And in time, we became a big, very close family. By that time I’d understood that I was supposed to be an actress and not a mother, but it wasn’t so easy for me to let myself go in a role as explicit as this one in front of Edoardo. When you’re abandoned you feel naked, a nakedness that I had to search for inside and then act out before him, overcoming the reserve that a son usually expects from a mother.

  I’m sure it was hard for him, too. As a director, he sought the truth. And knowing me well he pushed me hard until he found it. That’s why, when we’d come to the end of a particularly difficult scene, I’d continue crying even after his “Cut.” I kept on weeping and weeping, and I wasn’t the only one. As I walked toward him I realized he was crying, too.

  In the movie, unlike the original, there’s another change as well, that doesn’t actually express hope, but, like a typically Neapolitan counterpoint, measures the distance between desperation and the normality that has been lost. While the pain is transformed into mourning, in the other room the governess sets the table for two, and, just like any old Tuesday, she takes her eggplant Parmesan out of the oven. A favorite dish that speaks of love, and of sharing. A dish that represents Angela’s strength, her determination, in spite of her downfall. The dish that has accompanied my life, and that today makes my voice even more human.

  “Signò, it’s eight fifteen. I’m off now . . .”

  ONCE UPON A TIME

  At the end of this long road is the future. Tomorrow is as still filled with dreams as yesterday and today. Going back to Naples, to my beloved city, to my people, who greet me joyfully from the balconies, made me feel like a young girl again, it made me happy. But if I were totally satisfied, then I’d feel burdened by life. Instead, living means setting new goals to strive for each and every day.

  I let my mind wander, I stumble upon a project I’ve been thinking about for some time now. But it’s late now, I need to try to sleep a few hours. Tomorrow is Christmas Eve, my family is waiting for me.

  I’m about to close the lid on my treasure trove of memories when I find myself holding two yellowing sheets of paper that are about me. Perhaps I was the one who wrote them, who knows when, who knows why. I start reading while outside the world falls fast asleep beneath the snow.

  Once upon a time there was a little girl with skinny legs, big eyes, and a worried mouth.

  Once upon a time there was a little girl who loved every blade of grass that ever existed, whether it was ugly or beautiful.

  Once upon a time there was a little girl born inside a tangle of bitter roots in the flower of which she discovered the world—mountains to climb—treets to venture down.

  Once upon a time there was a young woman who loved the whole universe, with all that was to be seen and traveled.

  Once upon a time there was a woman who wanted to overcome all her fears and live in the world with big eyes and a worried mouth.

  Once upon a time there was a woman who became an actress performing for others the thousands of faces she’d dreamed of but perhaps would never experience.

  Once upon a time there was a woman who wanted to be a wife—it was hard and difficult to achieve.

  Once upon a time there was a woman who wanted to be a mother just like every other woman and have children that were all her own.

  Once upon a time there was an actress who acted in many movies—all of them mountains to be scaled. Not all mountains are like the Himalayas, and not all movies are like mountains to be scaled . . . But all of them were worth experiencing.

  Once upon a time there was a bitter and wonderful life that a little girl, who has become a woman and an actress, continues to repeat to herself.

  There will always be a once upon a time for every little girl who looks at the world with big eyes and a lust for life.

  Epilogue

  “Shhh, quiet, can’t you see she’s sleeping?”

  “But it’ll be time to eat soon . . .”

  “Meatballs, meatballs, meatballs!”

  “Nonna, Nonna, Nonna Sophia!”

  Oh my goodness, what time is it? I must have fallen asleep. It’s already morning, the sun’s up, I went to bed late. The sea of memory gently carried me here, at the mercy of its capricious current.

  The whispering of the wild ones, outside the half-open door, grows louder.

  “Come in, piccirilli, my little ones, come in. What time is it?”

  The first one to come forward is Lucia, with a triple series of cartwheels and somersaults. That child doesn’t walk, she flies.

  Nonna, it’s ten o’clock!” she says smiling.

  “Ten o’clock?!”

  I don’t think I’ve ever woken up so late in my whole life.

  Vittorio is right behind her, with an expression so intense that it sometimes causes me pain.

  “Nonna, weren’t we supposed to make meatballs this morning?”

  Following closely behind is Leonardo, who’s holding a fine porcelain dish he stole from the table that he has decided to turn into a flying saucer.

  “Vroom, vroom, out of my way, out of my way, here I come.”

  Beatrice is the last one to arrive, struggling to climb up onto my bed, which is too high for her, whispering my song in my ear: “Zoo-Be-Zoo-Be-Zoo.” This child will be successful, I think to myself.

  “Children, Nonna didn’t get much sleep last night, let me get dressed. You wait for me in the kitchen!”

  When I get there Ninni has cleared the table, set the meat on the wooden board, poured the flour into a large bowl, sliced the day-old bread. And she’s rolled up the sleeves on my four little chefs, who look at me like four ponies at the starting gate.

  “Let’s say I prepare the meat, and you make the meatballs, is that all right?”

  The children shout gleefully, their eyes shining like Christmas stars, and they get right down to work.

  “No two meatballs are the same,” I think to myself with amazement. “How lovely, still so completely free . . .”

  “So, children, what do you want to be when you grow up?”

  Leonardo pipes up with self-assurance: “A Formula Uno driver.”

  His sister, Lucia, sweeter than honey, whispers: “A ballet dancer.”

  Beatrice looks at me inquisitively:

  “Grow up? Me?”

  Vittorio, the most thoughtful of the bunch, comments w
isely:

  “I don’t know, maybe a pianist. But it’s still too early to decide . . .”

  “And what about you, Nonna?” my wild ones shout in unison. “What do you want to be when you grow up?”

  I laugh heartily.

  “Me? I don’t know, I have to think about it.”

  MY TREASURE TROVE OF MEMORIES

  June 4, 1943. My letter to Nonna Sofia, in which I thank her for the check my father had given me on her behalf.

  Mamma Luisa.

  June 3, 1943. The day I received my first Holy Communion and Confirmation, which I wrote about in my letter to Nonna Sofia.

  A picture of me when I was nicknamed Toothpick . . .

  . . . and another taken when I started growing so fast that Mamma Luisa had to add several strips of material to the waist of my dress, made with fabric an aunt sent us from America.

  My class during the last year of school. I’m the first one in the second row on the left.

  My first picture in a bathing suit, when I was fourteen.

  This was when I had a permanent pout on my lips because I thought it was an expression.

  In the late 1940s I was still in Naples, attending Maestro Serpe’s acting school.

  In the early 1950s, after moving to Rome, I lived with Mammina and Maria. I got by entering beauty pageants and doing some advertising . . . some of which were shot on the balcony of our home on Via di Villa Ada.

  Getting ready for a beauty pageant with some of the other contestants.

  1950. In this picture I’m parading down the runway at the Miss Italia beauty pageant, wearing a white gown with fringe, kindly lent to me by a boutique owner who was a friend of Dino Villani, the patron of the event. On that occasion I won the title of Miss Elegance.