All language subtitles for Divorce Italian Style English

DIVORCE ITALIAN STYLE

Directed by

- Roast beef, sir?
- Yes.

- Potatoes?
- Two.

That's enough.

The serenades of the south.

The sweet, warm,
exhausting Sicilian nights.

The whole time I'd been away,

the memory of those nights -
or rather, of one particular night -

had filled my days
with longing and nostalgia.

Agramonte: 18,000 souls,

4,300 of them illiterate.

1,700 either partially
or fully unemployed.

Twenty-four churches,
if I'm not mistaken,

including a few distinguished
Baroque specimens of the late 1600s.

This is the Cefalù palace,

and this is my ancestors'
coat of arms.

Practically the only thing
my father had not yet sold.

Papa's dissolute ways,

whose nature I won't disclose
out of respect for Mama,

had reduced us to living
in a single wing of the palace,

while the other wing was occupied
by my Uncle Calogero and his family.

But of this fateful cohabitation and
its consequences, I'll speak more later.

Here's my father,
Baron Don Gaetano Cefalù.

And these are his friends
from the social club.

- You're looking well, Baron.
- My respects, Don Gaetano.

For five seconds
he was the object of their gossip.

But here they are, once again engrossed
in their favorite topic: Women.

An inexhaustible subject.

In the vivid imagination
of my townsmen,

women took on mythical status.

The marvelous,
invisible women of Agramonte,

who hid their beauty and ardor
behind the grating -

pardon me -
behind the slats of bashful shutters.

Meanwhile, Agramonte's working class

marched inexorably on
toward progress.

This progress may have been
a tad slow... indeed.

But the audacious trumpets
of the working class

were answered by
the equally loud bells of San Filmino.

Therefore, my faithful
and beloved fellow citizens,

I exhort you to vote
for a party that is of the people

and therefore democratic,

and therefore
respectful of our Christian faith.

A party, in a word,

both democratic and Christian.

My wife, Rosalia.

Twelve years of marriage.

Donna Matilde, my mother.

My sister Agnese,
unmarried and still dependent,

officially compromised -
i.e., engaged - to Rosario Mulè,

of the respected firm Mulè and Sons,

a funeral parlor.

And this is Don Calogero,

intruder in the Cefalù Palace,

husband of Aunt Fifidda,
my father's sister.

In a mere 15 years, this former farmer

had paid off a number
of my father's rash gambling debts,

enabling him to snatch up
our best plots of land.

And finally we come to Angela,

daughter of Calogero and Fifidda
and thus my first cousin.

Angela attended high -

Attended a high school
run by nuns in Catania.

She spent her summer vacations
at home.

I loved Angela.

- Good night, Don Ferdinando.
- Regards to Donna Rosalia.

- Good night.
- Rest well.

Good night.

Fefè.

You feeling all right?
- I'm fine. Good night.

Fefè.

Yes?

- What is it? Aren't you well?
- I'm fine.

What is it?

Do you need anything?
Some warm chamomile?

I don't want anything.
Go to bed.

Go to bed.

- Who's in there?
- It's me, Papa.

Hurry up, please.

All right.

Gaetano, do you need me?

No, go to bed.

Get out of here!

Sorry.

I knew the garlic in the peppers
wouldn't agree with you.

I told your mother so.

She says you can't cook peppers
without garlic.

It's true that they're not
as good without garlic.

But she should understand

there are some things a wife understands
better than a mother.

It's a matter of -

I don't know.

It's nothing I can spell out.

Don't you agree, Fefè?

I'm a little chilly.
It's so cold tonight.

Rosalia, are you sick or something?

The thermometer
at the club read 90º today.

Fefè, do you really love me?

Of course I do.

How much, Fefè, how much?

Your feet are so nice and cool.

And yet...
she had looked in my direction.

You know what I was thinking?

I was wondering,
why is it we're alive?

Have you ever wondered
what the purpose of our lives is?

- No. What is it?
- To love.

To love. We live to love.

If we wasn't to love -
- "Weren't." If we weren't to love.

Yes, we would wilter,
like so many wiltered flowers.

I mean, wilt - that's the word.

This abysmal heat!

Do you need anything?

No. Go to sleep.

Baroness, tell him to keep
his hands to himself!

You watch out,
or I'll tell your father.

You know how he is.

- What can I do?
- Be quiet! You're a tease.

Last night I pushed
my dresser up against the door,

but the minute I turned my back -

Don Fefè, you tell him.
- So don't turn your back.

Oh, my God, someone's coming!

Don Ferdinando!

Agnese, please.

Don Ferdinando,
Agnese and I must get married.

Soon. Before Christmas.

Yes, we'll discuss it,
but there's still plenty of time.

But first I have to finish
mourning my poor grandfather.

Don't get any ideas.
Rosario has always respected me.

I swear!

Well, I'll be going.

Excuse me.

Well, I guess I am
a rather interesting man -

refined, intelligent.

But that stomach!

I'll have to cut out
fats, sugars and starches.

I'll have to cut out everything!

I brought you your coffee,
freshly brewed.

- Were you resting?
- Yes.

Not so much. Just a bit.

What do you mean?
You like it sweet.

Not anymore.

Fefè, can I have a sip?
Just a tiny sip.

- There's a potful right there.
- No, from your cup.

- Are you crazy?
- A gray hair.

Now that I've pulled one out,
seven more will grow in.

Gray temples are so distinguished.
Did you know that?

Sisina, watch the wind!

The house is filling with smoke!

How many times
must I tell you, idiot!

I can't help that.

You have to talk to your mother,
for crying out loud!

We made soap on the 18th of last month,
and it's only the 11th!

Do you know what we spend
in a month just on soap?

Please, don't start this again.

What?

Can't you buy
ready-made soap at the store?

If we used our heads more,
we could save some real money.

Believe me, your mother's
going to hear about this!

Couldn't you find
some other time to make soap?

- We have to make it.
- The house is filling with smoke!

We're suffocating!

Good girl, Sisina.

Sometimes we'd go
to the beach in the summer.

Rosalia would bury herself
in the sand for her arthritis.

Would you move my umbrella?

Oh, my God, someone's coming!

- Warm day.
- Yes, quite.

We weren't doing
anything wrong, I swear.

I know.

Baron, we never had that talk.
I'm ready when you are.

- Christmas is still a ways off.
- Right, well -

Excuse us.

Angela!

Angela, what are you doing?

Picking flowers in honor
of the Immaculate Conception.

I felt like picking flowers too.

I just wouldn't know
who to give them to.

You know what I mean, don't you?

Yes.

They smell so nice!

The other day
as you were leaving church,

you looked at me.

Why did you look at me that way?

So you've thought about it, eh?

- Wait.
- Here.

There he is. My beloved son
was off picking flowers.

Got some real flowers too
while he was at it.

Papa, you know how
to ruin a poetic moment.

Rosalia is right.

Fefè, what lovely flowers.

Thank you, my son.

- How nice. Where'd you find them?
- Over there.

Bring them closer so I can smell them.

So pretty.

MAN ORBITS EARTH

Fefè, I feel a strange dissatisfaction
deep inside.

For instance, you know
how much I like grapes.

Well, I like grapes most
when we have none.

When we have grapes,
I feel like eating pears.

Last year in Agramonte, the homicide
rate was 2.1%. That's something.

At your service, Baron. Baroness.

- Anyway, where was I?
- You look like a princess!

Don Ciccio Matara,
Natalino Urso's henchman,

the man who torched
the Mazzalorso family's land.

Horrible things were said
about Don Ciccio.

Two years ago
they killed that woman Cesira,

right here on her way to church.

And no one saw a thing.

But to be beholden forever
to Don Ciccio Matara -

no, no, no.

See you tonight, then.

- Where was I, Fefè?
- Pears.

Right. For me it's not
the grapes in themselves,

as much as my desire for them.

Like that poem I like so much

that says Saturdays
are so much better than Sundays.

Hello again.

I'll kill her!

- Gaetano!
- Shut up!

I don't deserve this!

I didn't know it yet,

but that night would mark
a turning point in my life.

I'll kick him out of this house!

Stop your father!

Papa, what is it?

He had the nerve to wave
two 25,000-lire notes in my face!

Aunt Fifidda was calling for help.
What do notes have to do with it?

I don't know. I think
he's beating his daughter.

Come here, you hussy!

Fifidda, open up! It's me!

What's the scoundrel's name?

- He'll kill the poor child!
- Let me in!

His name!

I'll never tell you!

Tell me the name of that scoundrel!

Stop it! Calm down!

Cover yourself up, you hussy!

Come on, let's go.

The hussy!

Excuse me.

No, not her!

What's the midwife doing here?

- I want to know her condition.
- Why?

She has a lover.

Yes. Her diary's right here.

Read for yourself.

I'll kill her with my own hands!

Today it finally happened.
Surrounded by all those flowers -

- Fefè, what happened?
- Nothing. They're all in the next room.

I'll go take a look.

Today it finally happened.
Surrounded by all those flowers...

we met, and...

But it's too marvelous for words.

Now I'm his forever!

My sweet love...

beaten, humiliated, examined.

The smile on that witch's face
when she said to your father,

"Undefiled."

Undefiled.

My poor Angela.

You're a flower,

a delicate lily.

Why are you crying?

Why?

Aren't you cold?

Look what he did to me.

But I didn't say a word about us.

My love.

I'm leaving. I'm going away.

They're sending me back to school.

No, we mustn't.

Angela, you're mine!

She left the next day
on the 10:20 bus,

accompanied by two nuns
from the Convent of the Seven Sorrows.

Good-bye, my love.

That same week, in Catania,

the trial of Mariannina Terranova
was starting,

who had committed a crime of passion.

I'm sure you remember
the hullabaloo in the press.

The two-timing victim,
Vito Cafiero, a 24-year-old student.

The pathetic figure of the killer,
Mariannina Terranova,

his 26-year-old common-law wife.

Mariannina had taken a train

and gone to empty her gun
into the body of her beloved

as he left a movie theater
in Catania.

The collective honor of the south
had found its heroine.

Mariannina Terranova,
where did you get the murder weapon?

- He gave it to me.
- Who's "he"?

Him. He said, "If I ever cheat on you,
kill me with this."

And then?

And then?

And then... he destroyed my honor.

Good for you, Mariannina!

Remove that woman!

Gentlemen of the jury.

"Lips once kissed long for more."

But I say, paraphrasing
a much more lofty and sacred text,

"He who looks at a woman with desire

has already sinned in his heart."

So while the train carried Mariannina
Terranova to her fateful destination,

unstoppable as the destiny
that drove her on,

this poor, diminutive
creature of the south,

wrapped in the age-old dark shawl,

symbol of our women's modesty,

wringing her hands in her lap,

her womb condemned by God

to suffer the divine pangs
of motherhood,

while the train raced on
as in an inescapable nightmare,

the rhythmic thrust
of the pistons pounding

in the delirious ears
of poor, ruined Mariannina -

"Dishonored, dishonored, dishonored."

Honor, my friends.
What is honor?

Shall we accept the definition
given by the venerable Tomaseo

in his monumental dictionary
of the Italian language:

"The moral and civic attributes
that render a man respectable

and respected in the society
in which he lives"?

Or shall we throw that out
like some worn-out, useless thing?

Letters! Letters written by anonymous
but symbolic hands.

Illegible letters that would offend
the dignity of this courtroom.

Blunt and concise, like this one,

which in one word
renders poor Mariannina's fate:

"Cuckoldess"!

Or this one, which uses a crude image
to express the nefarious thought.

Cuckold! Dishonored!

The Cefalù family name,
my lineage, sullied by a tramp!

Tramp.

Let's take a look.

Here we are.

Article 587 of the Penal Code:

"He who causes the death
of spouse, daughter or sister

upon discovering her
in illegitimate carnal relations

and in the heat of passion
caused by the offense to his honor

or that of his family will be sentenced
to three to seven years. "

Three to seven years.
Let's see.

I'm 37 years old.
Seven more makes 44.

Angela is 16, plus seven -

Wait a minute.

Seven years is the maximum.

Terranova - No, her crime
can't be considered the same.

The law is clear. It considers
the jealousy of the woman,

but it doesn't protect her honor.

EIGHT YEARS FOR MARIANNINA
MORAL INSULT MITIGATES SENTENCE

FOR NATIVE OF AGRAMONTE
WHO WAS SEDUCED AND ABANDONED

Eight years.

That's certainly
quite a stretch of time,

but she's a bricklayer's daughter.

She's vulgar, ignorant, ugly.
A common-law wife!

Whereas I'm a gentleman,
with a college degree,

an exemplary husband
of almost 15 years.

An aristocrat!

Yes, gentlemen of the jury,
an aristocrat.

These are dark times, full of greed
and cynical scientific materialism.

But aristocrats are not
aristocrats for nothing. No, sir!

But I'm certainly not going
to hark back to the Crusades.

No, let's stick to the facts.

Gentlemen of the jury,

is there anything
in the letter of the law

that does not perfectly fit
this man's tragic situation?

Was there not the heat of passion?
Was his honor not offended

the instant he discovered
his beloved spouse

swooning in her lover's arms?

A lover for Rosalia - who could it be?

He'd have to be hand-picked,

someone I could bring
into the house, into her bed.

But who could it be?

I bought her that dress in Catania

and took her for a stroll
for a specific reason.

- Baroness.
- Professor.

- My respects.
- No, the professor won't work.

- Fefè, everyone's looking at me.
- No, they're not.

I wanted to see
if those well-rounded hips

that had clinched
my proposal of marriage -

I was young
and inexperienced then.

Anyway, I wanted to see if Rosalia's hips
still attracted men's attention,

and in effect,
it seemed they did indeed.

You must be warm.

No, not the marshal.
Certainly no one related to the law.

Absolutely not Don Ciccio Matara.

I can feel a draft.

Perhaps an artistic type,

a soul mate.

I wonder if Tonino Gambacurta
would be suitable.

What a lovely voice Tonino has.

What?

Poor boy.

Why "poor boy"?

Don't you know?

Definitely not Tonino.

Good night.

If you don't say it,
I can't go to sleep.

Yes, I love you. Good night.

How much, Fefè?

Why?

Enough!

Ferdinando.

Mama's brought you some breakfast.

- Do it for me.
- Go away!

- Be patient.
- I always have to suffer.

One day he's all sugar and honey,
and then all of a sudden -

Rosalia, keep one thing in mind:
He loves you.

That much is certain.

What are you yelling about?
Go away!

Animal.

What are you looking at?
I'm talking to you.

Idiot!

Carmelino.

I saw you yesterday, Rosalia,
during the procession.

You were as beautiful
and pure as the Virgin Mary.

I wanted to die on the spot.

To die with that image
of you in my soul,

with this immense desire
to know you were mine,

which life will never grant me.

Believe me, Rosalia,
I'm afraid I'll lose my faith.

No, I'm not blaspheming,

but yesterday, when I saw you,
so beautiful and bold,

like a young pagan goddess -

Desert of El Alamein,
Saturday, May 29, 1942,

20th year of the fascist era.

Rosalia, I swear
if I make it out of this hell alive,

if this rotten war spares me
and I make it back,

you'll be mine forever.

Carmelo Patanè. Of course!
Declared missing in Africa.

He was even listed on the monument
to the fallen in the piazza,

but his name was later removed.

Carmelo Patanè,
godson of the old priest.

Tramp!

Good morning.

- The service is over.
- But I just saw someone go in.

A painter restoring some works of art.
But if it's urgent, I suppose -

Just a few minutes.
A quick visit.

Go ahead.

That section was completely ruined.

Look, Don Ferdinando.
That rosette merits restoring.

And look over there.

- He's quite good.
- Yes, he's very good.

By flattering Patanè's silly vanity,

it was easy to lure him to my house

on the pretext of requesting
his expert advice

on some crusty old frescoes
on the living room ceiling.

Just as I suspected.

Some ignorant 19th-century iconoclast,
with a view to -

how can I say -
improving his abode,

had someone paint over
the original 17th-century decorations

with these - if you'll forgive me -

these absurd and quite revolting
scenes of hunting and feasting.

Yes, that makes sense.

They say the Cefalùs were
avid hunters, avid eaters,

and avid... well, just avid.

With all due respect, Baron, it was
sacrilegious on your ancestors' part.

- I hope it can be fixed.
- Perhaps.

You've gone mad, Fefè. It's all junk!

No. Actually, I had in mind -

I mean, if he thinks it's worth it.
- Well, it's a matter of -

Pardon me.

As I was saying,
they would be of great value,

if properly restored.

Idiot!

But they had pretended
not to know each other.

Perhaps the time had come
for me to make up with Rosalia.

Come in.

Rosalia, it's me. I'm sorry.

Forgive me.
Be patient with me.

You really must excuse me.
I have a terrible headache.

Oh, I'm sorry.
Just a kiss, then.

Good night.

Carmelo is fine.

Perfect.

The next day, on the pretext
of taking care of some old taxes,

I went to Catania.

I was dying to see Angela.

I also had to make
a very important purchase.

Let's try recording something.

Say something.
- I don't know what to say.

The first thing that comes to mind.

Go ahead!

- Your Honor, gentlemen of the jury.
- You're not a lawyer, are you?

Now listen to this gem.
It's perfect.

Just listen.

Perfect, isn't it?

Waiter.

Take a nice bottle of wine
to the attorney.

Fate seemed to lay one favorable sign
after another at my feet.

"Your Honor, gentlemen of the jury."

Thank you, my friend!

What a nice man.

What a great face.

So handsome.

Good day, my dear friend!

Sister.

Angela, what an unexpected pleasure.

How are you? You've grown.

A terrible thing has happened.

Papa was here yesterday.
I wrote you a letter.

Good morning, Sister.

- Mother, this is my uncle.
- I'm her mother's brother. May I -

I'm sorry, but not in public.

Come to the institute
Sundays or Thursdays.

Let's go.

In line, girls. Move!

Is she studying hard?

Sisina? Is there any mail?

Mama! Rosalia!

Where is everybody?

Oh, my God!

Don Ferdinando, despite how it looks -

- Is nobody home today?
- They're all at Aunt Fifidda's.

They've been fighting all day.
- Why?

She's my sister, you understand?
Keep your hands off her!

She's my wife too,
and she's killing me!

I'll do as I please in my house.

It'll be yours when you pay for it.
Scoundrel!

As long as I'm here it's mine,
and I'll do as I like.

I'll take care of my own affairs.

I decide about my daughter's life!

You're a greedy scoundrel!
You want to marry her off for money!

His own daughter! Disgusting!

- Coward!
- Money grabber!

You're just a coward!

But I'll be yours or no one's.

Ferdinando, my beloved.

If our love cannot be,
no other will ever take its place.

In my heart I'll always be yours.

I'll pray for you as long as I live.

Who, gentlemen of the jury,

in this rapid summary of the facts,

could even vaguely imagine
the horror caused

by the spectacle
of the two lovers lying there,

disgustingly entwined
in the vile enactment of their sin.

There, on the couch,
in his very own house!

He was shocked.
He searched for an explanation.

Perhaps he hoped for a miracle
to erase the sight from his eyes!

Or perhaps he searched for words -

words that could express his pain.

Instead, he found a weapon.

An old pistol, forgotten for who knows
how long in some side table -

Instead, he found a weapon.

An old pistol,
forgotten for who knows how long

in an old rococo credenza

of 18th-century Neapolitan design,
perhaps rebuilt in the 19th.

Carmelo Patanè began work
at 10:00 a.m. On July 12.

It felt almost like a solemn ceremony,

with her, him and me,

all of us very excited but restrained.

And Sisina was there, too.

Well, I guess I'll put on my smock.

Will you excuse me?

Yes, but first drink your coffee.
Please sit down.

Thank you. With pleasure.

- Sugar?
- Thank you.

- One or two?
- Two.

- Would you like a pastry?
- No, thank you.

They're homemade. Very special.
My wife made them.

In that case, I'd love one.

Sisina, go on.

Get going.

Well, I'll excuse myself.

Please finish your coffee.

Besides, you haven't had your pastry.
Excuse me.

You're looking well, Rosalia.

So are you, Carmelo.

It's been so long.

Yes, it has.

BARON CEFALÙ, OPEN YOUR EYES!

YOUR WIFE IS CHEATING ON YOU
UNDER YOUR VERY OWN ROOF!

A FRIEND.

Premature, I know,
but I was hoping for the best.

Patanè was a very shy man,

and Rosalia was disgustingly faithful.

In three meetings,
nothing at all had happened.

Or practically nothing.

You know, I'd like to -
Perhaps I'm being foolish.

Perhaps I could - I don't know-
help you a little.

You could help me a lot, Rosalia.

But please understand:

Just as friends.

I'd like to sit here and watch
while you work.

Why that sad look now?

It's nothing.

Yes, Rosalia.

The tempera mixture
with the water color and the oil-

Why are you laughing?

Please, don't laugh.
You're driving me mad.

I'm sorry.

Won't you forgive me?

I'd better not come here anymore.

Believe me, it's better.

Sisina, take this plate away.

Nothing concrete happened
that day either.

But Rosalia had changed.

She was especially kind to me,

almost as if already asking

forgiveness for something.

Rosalia, the head.

No, thank you.
I don't feel like it.

Too bad. You like it so much.

Aren't you feeling well?

Rosalia saying no to a fish head?

A sign of definite progress!

Does your head still hurt?

The doctor says this migraine
could become chronic.

Too bad. Good night.

This is good, very good.
But be careful.

Mustn't appear too resigned.
I'll let out a sigh.

- I'm sorry, Fefè.
- It's all right. Sleep.

It's so hot today,

but it's nice and cool in here.

Why do you look at me like that?

I'd like to paint
your portrait one day.

Paint you as a madonna.

Or a harem girl.

Have you never painted me
from memory?

Yes, a thousand times.
Everywhere I go.

During these long years,
no matter where I was.

I even made a quick sketch of you
at Eptismania,

on a Corinthian capitol, I remember.

All over the place, really:

On marble tabletops,
in coffee shops and bars.

I did one in Panarea,
where I get away now and then.

It's still there,
in an old fisherman's hut.

Do you know Panarea?

No. Is it pretty?

Sea, rocks. Nature.

I'd love to see those portraits.

A journey back in time.

In search of lost dreams.

I beg of you, Carmelo.

Who is it?

I've brought you some lemonade.

Good.

That idiot's always in the way!

Warm, isn't it?

I imagine everyone's asleep.

The baron and baroness
are sleeping, aren't they?

At this hour everyone's asleep.

- Good.
- Except me.

- Don't you ever nap after lunch?
- Never.

I used to, once in a while,

after straightening up the kitchen.

But now -

Now?

I can't sleep anymore...

even at night.

Let me look at you.

Antonello da Messina.

Those adolescent martyrs
typical of Antonello.

Come on. Hold still.

Is that scoundrel trying
to corrupt my servant?

I'd like to paint
your portrait someday.

Sisina, go to the drugstore
and get me some aspirin.

How's the work going, Professor?

It's going well. Not bad.

Good. Keep it up.

Thank you, Baron. Thank you.

- In the name of the Father -
- Father, I've committed a grave sin.

And the Holy Ghost.

Now, who is he?

Father, do you know Antonello?

Antonello who?

No, must not be from this parish.

No, Father. He's from Messina.

You had to go all that way
to get into trouble?

- No, Father, I don't know him.
- So who is this Antonio?

Antonello.

No, the professor mentioned him to me.

What professor?

Don Carmelino, your godson.

Let me see if I understand.
"He" is Carmelino?

Yes, Father.

You wretched girl!
He's married, with three kids!

Why weren't you wearing a ring?

Impostor!

Calm down, Sisina.
Stop shouting.

I don't wear a ring
because it's unfashionable in the city.

If you're married you should wear a ring.
How's a girl to know?

Calm down.

Don't yell, Sisina.

Calm down, please.

Married with three children.
Keep calm.

Let's consider things
in light of these new developments.

He knows that the servant knows,
therefore he's nervous.

Let's see.

Let me put myself
in his shoes for a moment.

Just for a moment.

I have to tell you something right now.

I've hesitated to tell you,
but it's very important.

What is it? Are you ill?

Come, lie down on the couch.

Rosalia, I'm unworthy of your love.
I've lied to you.

I let you think I was a free man.

I'm not single, Rosalia.

I'm married just like you.

I've betrayed the solemn oath
I took 12 years ago.

Forgive me.

But the man you see before you
is still the Ioneliest man alive.

I swear it!

My poor Carmelino.

My love!

Yes, Papa.

Is someone in there with you?

No. Why would anyone
be in here with me?

I thought I heard -

Go to bed, Papa. Sleep well.

Damn it.

Matilde. Donna Rosalia.
Baron.

Good-bye once again.

My love!

No, don't go! Come here.

I love you!

You're mine.

Nothing in this world
can stop our love.

You and I are alone. Alone!

We've waited 12 years
for this moment without knowing it.

Admit it.
- Yes!

Well, then? My life!

Not like this. Tomorrow.

Tomorrow.
But first promise me something.

Anything at all.
But why tomorrow?

Tomorrow is Thursday, isn't it?

I was thinking that tomorrow -

Tomorrow... a promise.

What promise?
And why tomorrow?

TOMORROW

TODAY

Preceded by scandal, controversy,
protest, critical outcry and hosannas,

a sensational film had opened in town.

The priest of San Filmino
railed against it,

warning his flock to boycott it,

but to little effect.

Orgies worthy of Tiberius!

Wife-swapping! Striptease!
Let's go, guys!

We'd never seen anything like it.

Not even all the chairs from the bar
piled into the theater

could hold the huge audience
that assembled.

They even came from the countryside,

riding for miles on horseback,

making the gentlemen of Agramonte
anxious for their wives' virtue.

Finally, Don Ciccio Matara took over
organization of the event,

and with great efficiency,
I might add.

Papa, three hours locked up
with all those people?

I just couldn't bear it.

Have you really got another headache?

Then I'll stay home too.
- No, there's no need.

I'll just take an aspirin
and go to bed.

You go ahead.

Oh, what a headache.

- Pickles get you too excited.
- And you should know.

The older you get,
the dirtier your mind gets!

Sisina, take these away.

Leave your door open tonight
and I'll tell you all about the movie.

Let's go, Gaetano.

Good-bye, Rosalia.

Good evening, Baroness.

Did you ask Sisina to stay home
and keep you company?

No, I'd rather she didn't.

But the idiot says
she's made some kind of vow.

- Minors under 16 can't get in anyway.
- That's right.

- Take care of yourself, okay?
- Yes, dear.

Good night.

And have a good time.

I'm coming.

Let's go, Fefè!

My cigarettes.

It has to happen here.
Not in our room.

She wouldn't be capable of that.

A great-Iooking specimen,

but I can tell she has no soul.

The odious images conjured up
by that anonymous letter tormented him.

With great reluctance,
he gave in to the impulse

to run home and see for himself.

Though he felt it too insulting
to his beloved life companion,

a gnawing suspicion
had taken hold of his tortured mind.

His hesitant and uncertain steps led him
along the fateful path to his home,

where all seemed normal,
tranquil and peaceful.

What if he's already inside?
Those snakes!

Good heavens!
Where's she going?

And why does she have a suitcase?

The 9:43 train!

The gun!

Curse them!

To the station!

I could catch them
with suitcases at the station.

That could count
as catching them in the act.

It has to count. It has to!

He'd found the house empty,
the nest deserted.

Overtaken by a natural impulse
for revenge, he ran like a madman

toward the station,
faster and faster, on and on!

To kill... perhaps.

But perhaps also in desperate hope
of catching his unfaithful spouse

and stopping her from leaving.
Who knows?

But when he saw them there together,

her and her lover...

The 9:43 train.
Right on time.

Curse them!

The next day, a sleepy calm
reigned in Agramonte,

as if nothing had happened.

The adulterers' elopement
had unhinged part of my plan.

"He who causes the death
of spouse, daughter or sister,

upon discovering her
in illegitimate carnal relations,

and in the heat of passion caused
by the offense to his honor, etc. "

The law was exceptionally clear
on this matter.

"Heat of passion"equals "catching them
in the act"plus "offended honor. "

Therefore, having failed
to catch them in the act,

I'd have to lay it on thick
with the offended honor,

so the heat of passion could reach
the intensity required by the law.

I then remembered a few tricks
I'd learned in the military.

104.

Why?

Why did you abandon me?

Dr. Talamone was
the biggest gossip in town.

Public opinion held my stock
in a definite decline.

In fact, it took a nosedive.

My friends from the social club

at first adopted an attitude
of pained and vivid compassion.

But only at first.

He's locked himself in there
since that tragic day.

He won't see anyone or eat anything.
My poor son.

If this man had discovered his wife
in flagrant adultery,

then yes, gentlemen of the jury,
he might have killed.

But not after the fact.
Not in cold blood.

He couldn't give chase
to the adulterers

inflamed with hatred.

No, gentlemen of the court.

He lay there

in a state of dumb despondency
that numbed his senses.

Fefè, eat something for your mama.

No, go away.

Leave me alone.

Meanwhile, rumors spread
through town like an oil spill.

All sorts of things were said,

the substance of which
could be summed up a single word:

Cuckold.

Now we see the results
of such shameless pictures,

unworthy mystifications of art

that flaunt and exalt sin,
debauchery and immorality.

It's a point of fact that historically,
even here in the south,

which I'm pleased
to visit for the first time,

the moment's come to face the age-old
problem of women's emancipation

as it's been confronted
and solved, for example,

by our Chinese brothers.

Therefore, I invite you to express
your democratic opinion on these facts.

In other words,

what is the calm, objective
judgment that Mrs. Cefalù deserves?

Whore!

Finally, the anonymous letters began.

In Agramonte the anonymous letter
is a prized handicraft.

We start practicing as children
on sheets torn from notebooks,

graduating to polished specimens
forged by expert adult hands.

In this orgy of accusation,
mockery and defamation,

we'd all been lumped together.

Not only had I been dishonored,
but the entire Cefalù household:

Living members, future descendants,
and anyone associated with us.

Even future generations
in any way related to the Cefalù name

saw their very existence threatened.

In short, everyone was brought into it,
without exception,

including the servants.

But for me, those letters
were worth their weight in gold.

I cataloged them
in the most meticulous fashion.

"Cuckold."

"Cuckold". Good.

"We stand behind you."

"Mulè and Sons regrets..."

I'll let him know he's a coward!

Coward!
- Calm down.

Forget that gravedigger!

No one will want his sister now!

He's dishonored us all!

Coward!

My son!

- Rosario left you.
- Yes, he left me.

Did he tell you in person?

No, he sent this letter.
Read it.

I'm sorry, Agnesina.
I'm really sorry.

You're a cuckold, and proud of it!

Lower, ever lower.

Let's sink into the mud
up to our necks.

Everyone shunned him openly

because he'd been branded
by the most vile disgrace possible.

I was a leper. I might as well
have had the plague,

like a character
from a novel by Manzoni.

Hear the latest news
on the cuckold front!

My respects, Don Ferdinando.

Interesting.

Up until then, no one
had bothered telling me

where the hell
the two runaways had holed up.

And this was rather annoying,
because I, the wounded party,

couldn't go about
openly gathering information.

I was supposed to just suddenly
up and disappear.

Don Ciccio Matara,
with his circle of mysterious friends,

might be able to help me,

but the initiative clearly
had to come from him.

To be honest, that day I got the feeling
he might be leaning in that direction.

Dear Papa and Mama,

today I took my Latin exam,
and it went quite well.

"Dear Papa and Mama."

That means -

Help!

Matilde, help!

Calogero!

Help!

Carmela!

It's Calogero!

Gaetano! Matilde!

Call the doctor, quick!

You slug!

Me?

Why?

Holy Mother of God!

Quick, a glass of water!

- What is it?
- Something terrible's happened.

Ferdinando, my love,

a friend told me
what happened to you.

My love, I wish I were there
to share your every pain,

but it can't be.

Perhaps we're being punished
for our sin.

Perhaps this is a sign
our love will never be blessed.

Forever yours
no matter what happens... Angela.

What a tragedy.

Poor guy's heart just gave out.

But you mustn't take it too hard.

We all knew
Don Calogero had a heart condition.

Now it's time for you
to make a move, Don Fefè.

Your family was well respected.
The entire town is waiting.

Couldn't you -
Do I make myself clear?

We've called
certain friends into action.

Give me 24 hours.

We'll find out where they are.

Have courage.

Are you Baron Don Ferdinando Cefalù?

My name is Immacolata Patanè.

I'm his wife.

I came all the way from Catania
to find out what you intend to do.

I really don't -

Yes, now I'd been provoked.

Gravely provoked, I might add.

Don Ciccio Matara
had kept his promise.

Immacolata!

- What have you done?
- Nothing.

I avenged my honor.

But...

what about mine?

BARON CEFALÙ KILLS WIFE
CAUGHT HIDING OUT WITH LOVER

In this picturesque corner of Sicily,
many have died in the name of honor.

Poor Rosalia, you didn't deserve it.

But I know you rest in peace,
with your naïve little dreams.

I really did love you in my own way.

But you were too much.

You would ask,
"How much do you love me?"

You were hungry for love,
my poor Rosalia.

Too hungry.

ONE LAW FOR ALL

There's not much to say about the trial.
It went much as I expected.

Gentlemen of the jury -

The attorney, De Marzi, was brilliant,
impassioned and sarcastic.

Moving and moved.

He played the entire scale of emotions
with confident precision.

He didn't go so far
as to mention the Crusades,

but he did cite Othello
and our countryman Turiddu.

Mama was there.

Crying, the poor soul.

Yes, even I was close to tears.

Then he brought my father into it:

A debauched corrupter of innocents,

undoubtedly infected
with some unmentionable disease,

producer of debts
and bastards galore.

Clearly, grave hereditary dysfunction

could be added to my wounded honor.

Finally, he produced
the widow Patanè.

He couldn't produce her children,
as they were still very young,

and the penal code forbade it,

but he showed us their pictures.

The image of those poor orphans
helped my case to no end.

I don't really know why.

Perhaps because in Italy, children -

Well, children
will always be children.

Silence!
His Honor is entering the courtroom.

In the name of the Italian people...

Three years. The minimum.

Actually, a little less than the minimum.
I received a small pardon.

I won't say I'd predicted it,
but I was sort of counting on it.

On average there's a pardon
every three years, so it was my due.

I can't say it was a pleasant three years,
but it's behind me now.

I was suddenly seized
by a strange fear.

- Waiter, take care of the bill.
- Thank you, sir.

During those months
I'd received letters from Angela,

but only a few,
and they were rather vague.

She always said she prayed for me
and made constant vows.

Perhaps it was the natural shyness
of our southern women.

Or perhaps -

No, it couldn't be.
That would be too unfair.

He's here!

He's here!

My beloved son!

A FEW MONTHS LATER

Yes, life begins at 40.

It really is true.