The Italian.

The Italian by Robert Sandy

It was the cover art that drew me in: a young boy, alone, walking on the thin rail of an isolated train track with a golden twilight at his back. The image of the boy recalled for me a Czech film from the mid-nineties called Kolya, which is a film I treasure deeply. I have a fondness for films about children and some of my favorites are those centered around the plights of the very young. When directed well and naturally inclined, child actors have given some of the most emotionally affecting and honest performances the craft has ever known. Recent examples include Jodelle Ferland in Terry Gilliam's Tideland and, of course, Academy Award nominee Abigail Breslin in what was one of last year's best performances in the indie smash Little Miss Sunshine.

When I sat down to watch the film The Italian last week, however, I had few expectations. I had rented it because I vaguely recalled that it had been well-received critically, and that first time Russian director Andrei Kravchuk had been hailed as something of a cinematic visionary, and by the end credits I understood why—on both counts.

Dickensian in tone with stylistic nods to Italian neo-realism and classic Hollywood auteurs such as Frank Capra, The Italian is the story of a young Russian orphan who, to the dismay of almost all around him, struggles against his adoption by a young, seemingly well-meaning Italian couple. Adoptions at the orphanage (adoption being an euphemism for sale in this case) are rare enough to cause a commotion among its population, and with the boy's perspective parents comes a new nickname: Italian. The new moniker is used by many of those around him with a curious mix of awe, envy and affection. There is no one at the orphanage who does not think him lucky; except him.

The boy's apprehension about the adoption process is inspired not by fear, however, but ultimately by hope; hope brought to him by the visit of a young mother seeking to reunite with the child she had once abandoned, only to find that the child was now dead. The returning mother is treated as a villain, greeted with violent disdain and quickly expelled from the overcrowded orphanage, which is held together by a motley assemblage of unreliable adults, older orphans and a harsh code of survival based ethics. The tragic woman receives sympathy from none, particularly the children, whose own parents had once abandoned them. To the children she symbolizes a loss so painful as not to be considered relevant. And when the young adoptee, called Vanya, wonders aloud whether his mother too might some day return he is quickly taken to task. Vanya remains intrigued by the woman, however, and follows her to the bus-stop to talk to her about her son. She quickly reveals herself to be an alcoholic; a guilt-ridden person, whose last hope has been extinguished with the knowledge of her son's death. She thanks the young Vanya, gets on the bus bound for the station and upon arriving throws herself in front of the train.

Thus begins six-year-old Vanya's quest for his mother and his freedom, which forms the heart of this story. No adult lets themselves hope the way a child does, and no adult perseveres as a child does and Vanya's absolute belief in his rightness is at turns, joy making and heartbreaking.

Like its neo-realistic forebears, The Italian attempts to trudge forth free of social commentary, but doe not always succeed. There is something of a fairytale quality to the story, which exempts it from the realm of pure dramatic tragedy. Vanya's frequent escapes from harm are not always entirely likely or believable and the ending, while narrowly avoiding the pitfalls of many American films of the "inspirational" genre, is not wholly satisfying dramatically.

The film's success is ultimately formed around the performance of Vanya by the amazing young actor Kolya Spiridonov, whose ability to capture the hope, loneliness, and isolation of his character is a pleasure to behold.

A bleak picture is painted here of Russia and its miserable adoption practices, which are so often little more than the ultimate example of market forces going terribly awry. It is an often dark tale where the difference between hero and villain is not always clear. It is a relevant story told with passion and, perhaps despite itself, compassion. Obvious plot flaws notwithstanding, The Italian is an amazing film with its fault lines only plainly visible to the most cynical and hardhearted.