‘Ciambra’ is the name of the estate where Pio, the film’s protagonist, lives. It’s an estate which is rubbish-strewn, which looks more third world than first. Located somewhere South of Naples, it’s where Pio’s gypsy family live, a hive of high density living and buzzing, low-level crime. Pio, the film makes clear, is another in a long line of bicycle thieves.
In this sense A Ciambra functions in a very classical narrative fashion. The film is Pio’s coming-of-age tale, one that will feature loss of innocence and confrontation with moral complexity. All of this is done diligently by the narrative. However, the film’s strength is the way in which it captures Pio’s world. The camerawork is restless, handheld, a feverish reflection of the feverish life lived by the characters it depicts.
Pio Amato, as Pio, an adolescent who wants to be a man, gives a performance of restless verisimilitude, for reasons which later become clear. It’s only when the credits roll that we realise the reason Pio’s family is so utterly convincing is because they are a family, the Amatos. The documentary feel is authentic. These aren’t actors, they’re the real thing.
All of which makes for a film which succeeds in its mission to capture the realities of living on Europe’s front line. One lyrical sequence shows Pio softening, becoming more human, when he has to deliver a TV to a camp, peopled by African immigrants. The director captures this world which is the other side of the European coin (the Euro) with not only vast flair, but also unflinching humanity.
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