The Historical Reconstruction in My Brilliant Friend
The national and international success of the TV series My Brilliant Friend has been remarkable. Initially, I thought it was just one of those typical serials that have dominated the scene for the past 50 years. However, driven by curiosity, I started watching a few episodes in replay a few years ago, albeit reluctantly. What immediately struck me, though, was the meticulous historical reconstruction of over 50 years of life, from the immediate post-war period to the dawn of the new millennium.
The neighborhood is portrayed as vibrant and full of markets,
whereas today it appears entirely different—more like one of the many dormitory
suburbs surrounding large cities, quite unlike the lively alleys of the old
city.
I was reminded of when people smoked incessantly, lighting one cigarette from
the dying embers of the previous one.
In elementary school, children wore black smocks, and they used dip pens with
nibs that were dipped into inkwells.
Then, we see high school boys in jackets and ties, and girls in
black smocks without heels, with teachers addressing students formally with
"lei." It’s hard to imagine today’s high school students behaving in such a way!
The series also depicts the explosion of youth protests, the rise of feminism,
and then the Years of Lead—as they later came to be called—with youthful
enthusiasm and the illusion of renewing a world that was now old and corrupt
from its roots. A pure illusion of a bygone era; then came the slow ebb,
eventually leading to Tangentopoli.
The reconstructions of the locations are notable, such as Piazza
del Plebiscito, traversed by the cars of the time: the modest Fiat 600s and
1100s, which were considered luxurious. Then there are the clothes and
styles—the men in hats, the girls with wide, long skirts. And the first modest,
economical vacations in rented houses on Ischia, with beach umbrellas brought
from home.
Certainly, the historical reconstruction brought those distant years back to
life for those who lived them and introduced them to those who couldn’t even
imagine them. However, while the details are historically accurate, the same
cannot be said for the behavior of the girls of the 1950s, who are the
protagonists.
Take, for example, Lila's marriage, which takes place when she’s
around 16 years old. In the 1950s, a marriage before the age of 18 or 20 usually
occurred only if it was what was then called a "repair marriage": the couple had
had sex and conceived a child (caused “a problem”) and thus were compelled to
marry.
Instead, we see a 15-year-old girl pushed toward marriage with a young man she
doesn’t want, only to skillfully maneuver things so that she marries someone
else.
Above all, Lenù’s attitude—she later becomes the writer—is hardly
in line with the spirit of the 1950s. At that time, even the most daring girls
might allow themselves to be touched or fondled by their boyfriends, and perhaps
a little more, but they were careful to protect their virginity. If not for
ethical reasons, at least because losing it would make it difficult to be
accepted as a wife. In those days, the white of a wedding dress wasn’t just a
fashion choice; it signified a real state of purity, as it was said.
This didn’t mean that girls didn’t lose their virginity—perhaps overcome by
passion with their boyfriends or manipulated by them through skill or deceit
(hence the phrase “seduced and abandoned”).
In the TV series, however, we see Lenù, frustrated by her
inability to fulfill a love she had dreamed of since childhood, openly asking an
older man—whom she finds repulsive, especially after he had previously groped
her—to have full intercourse for the first time. How could a 1950s girl behave
in such a way?
Later, she has relationships with two other boyfriends as if it were completely
normal, as it might be today. She then meets the man who becomes her husband,
who rejects her willingness to have premarital sex and patiently waits for their
wedding. Even here, one wonders: if a young man values the principle of a
bride’s virginity, how could he fall in love with someone who not only rejected
that ideal but continued to do so?
Later in the story, Lenù shamelessly betrays her husband in their marital home: one night, she leaves her husband’s bed, slips into another man’s bed, has sex with him, even in the bathroom, while her husband waits outside, before eventually leaving him and their daughters. But such a story could happen in any era, as it is universally condemned.
Another historically unrealistic element is the portrayal of the
Solara brothers, considered the neighborhood’s bosses, although their crimes are
not made clear.
The camorrista or mafia boss is usually a calm, cold individual who acts
with measured prudence. Don Achille, the previous mafia boss at the start of the
story, is depicted this way: when the two little girls accuse him of stealing
their dolls, not understanding what they mean, he gives them money to buy new
ones—a shrewd act befitting a mafia boss. Instead, the Solara
brothers—particularly one of them—are portrayed as extremely hot-tempered,
violent, and ready to savagely beat anyone who displeases them, even risking
murder. But this behavior is more typical of henchmen, the enforcers of
gratuitous violence, not those who manage organized crime and profit from it