The Salt of Life, written, directed and starring Gianni Di Gregorio, is a kind of anti-vanity project, an elegiac tale of old age that’s neither depressing or overly sentimental. It’s a thoroughly non-offensive movie, which isn’t meant as a slight — Gregorio largely succeeds in avoiding “grumpy old men” stereotypes to create something honest, slightly goofy and occasionally dull.
The film’s plot, what little there is of it, follows Giovanni (Gregorio), a 60-year-old retiree living out his last years in the suburbs of Rome, Italy. He spends his days puttering around, keeping up his roles as husband, father, son and neighbour. His back bothers him, he has bags under his eyes, and he can’t help but feel sadness at the presence of his small, saggy man tits. He’s happy, and his life as a neutered male house cat provides him with more than enough small pleasures to keep him satisfied.
Much of his energy is spent placating his neurotic, possessive elderly mother. He plays servant to her every whim, hoping to get his hands on her vast family fortune a little early. He really doesn’t have long to wait; actress Valeria De Franciscis looks like a garishly dressed, 200-year-old slice of beef jerky. (Weirdly, all of the old women dress like ancient mandarins, while the men wear classy suits.)
The plethora of hot Italian women in his life provides him with cheap thrills, though he knows he’s all but invisible to them. This is a movie, however, and after his best friend plies him with some contraband Viagra, his dusty, long-dormant libido rises from the grave. Faster than you can say “holy cannoli,” he finds a renewed lust for life. (The soft focus used throughout the flick makes it look like a foreign commercial for the magical wonders of boner pills.)
The film then takes on a much more whimsical tone, to its benefit — everywhere Giovanni looks, there’s a tight ass or huge pair of boobs, making him nearly comatose with lust. (Bosoms, bosoms everywhere.) Even creepy, androgynous nuns give him a flutter in the shorts. Gregorio trots out a parade of gorgeous women for him and his elderly pals to share a glass of wine and a plate of spaghetti with, and much of the film is made of these lazy interludes. Clearly, old Italian dudes have it made.
The film doesn’t have much of a discernible style, and the themes and images it shares with other Italian classics (Amarcord, Divorce Italian Style) are by default (i.e., the fascination with enormous breasts). Gregorio has enough sense to let his cast and the city of Rome do all of the heavy lifting, which feels appropriate, giving the film a more lived-in, unassuming tone. The cast is uniformly great. The only time Gregorio breaks free from his flat, television-style approach is for a very strange, soft-core musical interlude set to The Pixies’ “Here Comes Your Man.”
At its best, The Salt of Life serves as a gentle critique on the generation gap, looking honestly at the hopes and fears of encroaching old age, while castigating young whippersnappers for ignoring their elders. It’s one of those pastoral family dramas (complete with plucky violin and accordion music) that enjoys lounging around, letting the audience pretend to be a gang of amateur psychiatrists. If you like that kind of thing, Salt is a sweet, gentle nana hug for the heart.
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