Eduardo De Filippo

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Eduardo de Filippo and the Neapolitan Theatre

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SOURCE: Bentley, Eric. “Eduardo de Filippo and the Neapolitan Theatre.” Kenyon Review 13 (winter 1951): 111-26.

[In the following essay, Bentley surveys de Filippo's themes in his major plays and discusses the influence of his life in Naples on de Filippo's work.]

Both in technique and philosophy, Eduardo de Filippo is traditional. At the same time he strikes me as one of the three or four original figures in the theatre today. Let me tell something about his plays, beginning with the two latest: La Grande Magia (The Big Magic) and La Paura Numero Uno (Fear Number One).

Calogero di Spelta is so jealous he will hardly let his wife Marta out of his sight. Her friend Mariano has to resort to strategem to be alone with her. He bribes a visiting conjurer to use Marta in a disappearing act. The conjurer thus brings her where Mariano is—but instead of returning after fifteen minutes, as arranged, the young couple run off to Venice. Meanwhile the conjurer must save face before his audience. He tells Calogero that his wife can be produced out of a small box—which he shows the company—if he, the husband, has complete faith in her, that is, is sure she is “faithful” to him.

Otto the conjurer saves the occasion. But days pass, and weeks, and months, and the waiting husband is not to be appeased by the improvisation of a moment. He has to be convinced of the truth of the whole magical philosophy of life: what seems real is only illusion. Thus, while Calogero has the illusion of time passing, he yet, under Otto's influence, has faith that no time has passed: all this is but a dream transpiring in the moment before Marta's reappearance at Otto's performance.

The idea grows on Calogero. It is a game, which he is more and more determined to play out to the end. He is so eager to agree to the basic premise (time is not passing) that he tries to do without eating and excreting. Otto, who had practised conscious deceit from the start, takes pity on him and urges him to open the box and finish a losing game. Calogero, however, is determined to win. He will open the box only when his faith is complete. He is just reaching this point and is bracing himself to open the box, “one, two …” when Otto cries “… and three!”—Marta has returned, after four years. But it is a moment too soon. The box is still closed, and Calogero's faith still untested. He cannot accept Marta on these terms. He clings to the box, and does not open it.

When this story was first placed before an audience, in Rome last February, everyone cried “Pirandello!” Like the Sicilian master, Eduardo had insisted that illusions were needed because the truth was more than we could stand. Like Pirandello in Il piacere dell'onestà (The Pleasure of Honesty) and Ma non è una cosa seria (But it isn't a serious matter), Eduardo had shown an idea beginning as fiction, an escape from life, and later incorporated into life. There are even more specific resemblances to Enrico IV. At the beginning of each play a man retires from the bitter reality—of sexual rivalry into a deliberate unreality in which time is supposed to stand still (though its not doing so is in both cases indicated by the protagonist's greying hair). At the end of each play reality irrupts into the illusion in a way calculated to shatter it; but the result is the opposite; the illusion is accepted by the protagonist in perpetuity.

Whether Eduardo was influenced by Pirandello or was simply nourished from the same sources and interested in the same problems was not discussed. Worse still: the word “Pirandello,” as such words will, prevented people from seeing things that would otherwise have been evident. For all the superficial “Pirandellism” of La Grande Magia, the play is really a much simpler, more commonsensical affair. Pirandello, if I am not mistaken, manufactures out of his despair a nihilistic relativism. The veiled lady at the end of Cosî è (se vi pare) is one person or another as you choose; in which proposition the law of contradiction itself (that a thing cannot both be and not be) is denied. In Eduardo, on the other hand, no such nonsense is thrust upon the universe. If one man has an illusion, another sees it as such. The apparent magic in even his spookiest play Questi Fantasmi (These Phantoms) is all explained away as the chicanery of a servant or the secret generosity of a friend. So in La Grande Magia, Otto's “little magic” is rather brutally exposed from the beginning as mere charlatanism. The “big magic”—the magic not of the parlor but of life itself—is magic only honorifically. The word “magic” is a figure of speech. Illusions, mad ideas (we are given to understand), may be instrumental in a man's moral development. Thus Calogero's sin had been jealousy, lack of faith in a woman. Once he has entered upon the great moral game of life, he must not be deflected from it until he has ceased to be jealous, until he has found faith. Otto's assumption that it would be enough to produce Marta—as out of a hat—shows to what a degree his understanding is limited to the realm of the little magic. His actually producing her is the completest betrayal of the greater game. Now Calogero will never open the box: his faith is locked in it.

La Grande Magia, then, is not about the nature of reality, it is about faith in one's wife. Eduardo likes to use some big, much-discussed subject as a kind of come-hither. It turns out to be incidental. He may almost be said to have tried this once too often with La Paura Numero Uno where the big, much-discussed subject is right now so bothersome that, once mentioned, it is not easily shaken off. This subject—our “fear number one”—is the third world war. Eduardo deals so cleverly with it in his first act, and even his second, that the third, in which it is definitely pushed into the background, seemed pretty much of an anti-climax to the audience that gathered to see the play at the Venice Festival in July. We should have to be as free of “fear number one” as Eduardo wishes us to be to recognize all at once that the subject of his play is parenthood.

Eduardo shows us a father and a mother. Matteo Generoso, paterfamilias, is so possessed with fear of the third world war that all business on hand, and notably his daughter's wedding, keeps being postponed. The young people decide to put his soul at rest by faking a radio announcement that war has actually broken out. … The mother of the play is the bridegroom's mother, Luisa Conforto. She also is an obstacle in the young couple's way since she resists the loss of her son. She has lost his only brother already and his father. In the fanaticism of her maternal love she contrives to postpone the marriage for eleven days by walling her son up in a little room where she feeds him all his favorite dishes.

In the end the marriage is celebrated, and war has not broken out; the play is a comedy. What of the delusions and distortions in the minds of the two parents? The conclusion enforced by the action of the play is that the father's case, though “normal,” is more deplorable because it disqualifies him from being a father. The mother's case, though a psychiatrist would take a stern view of it, is found excusable, a case of virtue driven into a corner. One recalls the conjurer's accurate description of Calogero in La Grande Magia. “[He] is not mad. He is a man who knows he has been stricken and reaches after the absurdest things in order not to confess it even to himself.” Calogero will continue his fight for faith if he has to “reach after the absurdest things” in the process. Luisa Conforto will continue to be a mother even if she too does the absurdest things in the process.

In calling Eduardo traditional, I had in mind, among other matters, that drama has so often and over so long a period been a defense of family piety. In Greek tragedy it is the desecration of this piety that horrifies us. In the comedy of Molière it is the desecration of this piety that we find ridiculous. Then in modern times there has been that enormous assault upon all our intimate relations which Balzac described through all the volumes of his great comedy and which Marx and Engels announced in their tragic rhapsody of a manifesto.

Italy has written its own sad chapter in this story. After the heroism of Garibaldi and his thousand, the indignity of the millions. The fascist era was but the lowest point of a steep descent, and whether the long climb up again has really got under way since 1945 seems doubtful. Abroad, people know about the brutalities of fascism, far more indeed than the citizens of fascist countries. What they know less about is something evident in every institution and every social group where fascism has secured a foothold—the corruption, the petty knavery, the bottomless indignity, the dishonor.

There is no politics in Eduardo but in play after play he has put his finger on the black moral spot. Perhaps Le Voci di Dentro (The Voices from Within), famously written in 17 hours, is its most devastating diagnosis. A man accuses a whole family of mudering a friend of his. Later he realizes that he dreamt it all, perhaps not even dreamt it. The friend is alive. But the accuser is not mad. He had sound intuitions (“voices from within”) and they crystallized into a single clear hallucination. Eduardo's main point is in the subsequent behavior of the family. They accept the charge because each thinks it quite possible that one of them has committed the murder. As their accuser cries:

I accused you and you didn't rebel although you were all innocent. You thought it—possible—normal—you have written Murder in the list of daily events, you have put Crime in the family book of accounts. Respect, mutual respect, that puts us on good terms with ourselves, with our conscience … what shall we do to live, to look ourselves in the face?

In Questi Fantasmi, it is the petit bourgeois protagonist who has lost self-respect:

If you knew how humiliating it is, and sad, for a man to have to hide his poverty and pretend to be playful with a joke and a laugh. … Honest work is painful and miserable … and not always to be found. … Without money we become fearful, shy, with a shyness that is embarrassing, bad. [To his rich rival:] With you I don't feel envy, pride, superiority, deceit, egoism. Talking with you I feel near God, I feel little, tiny … I seem to be nothing. And I like destroying myself, seeming nothing … in this way I can free myself from the weight of my own being which oppresses me so.

In Napoli Millionaria (Millionaire Naples), Eduardo shows how common folk are de-humanized, how a family is ruined and divided—mother from father—by blackmarketeering In Natale in Casa Cupiello (Christmas with the Cupiellos), he portrays a father who lacks paternal maturity and we realize to what a large extent the childishness of the “little man” may contribute to catastrophe.

Luca Cupiello, your father, was a big baby. He took the world for an enormous toy. When he saw it was a toy you couldn't play with as a child any more but only as a man … he couldn't make it.

The special relevance of Eduardo's defence of the pieties may now be clearer. They are the bedrock above which everything else, even sanity perhaps, has been shot away. The sane are only hypocritical parties to the general offence. Humanity has taken refuge in the crazy and infirm. Uncle Nicolo in Le Voci di Dentro has vowed himself to silence because he holds that mankind is deaf. From time to time he spits. Old Luisa Conforto in La Paura Numero Uno needs no convincing that war has broken out because she holds that it is in full swing already! Deprived of both her sons, she now has nothing much to call her own save her jams and conserves. How these can mean so much is perhaps explained by a longish quotation. The passage is worth exhibiting also because, however simple, it could be by no playwright but Eduardo.

MATTEO:
Now, I swear, if twelve wars broke out one after the other, they'd make no impression on me. But you never believed in this “outbreak of war.” You've been convinced all the time that we're at war! And I don't know what I'd do. …
LUISA:
Don Mattè, you're a darling! I'm old now as you see … you are much younger than I am—but I assure you I wouldn't change my brain for yours!
MATTEO:
Why not?
LUISA:
Why, because you believe a thing when the radio says it. I mean: to you the radio is more important than your own thoughts. You want to convince me there isn't a war on while you yourself talk of it—as a “tragic problem that makes you sick of life itself”: you complain of the chauffeur who forces you into selling your car so as to be rid of a nuisance, of the maid who doesn't take a liking to you and robs you, of your struggle with the tenants, of the tailor who drives you into the poorhouse, of the frauds, extortions, betrayals of friends. … Come here. (She goes towards the cupboard where the conserves are. Matteo follows her automatically.) Do you like jam?
MATTEO:
Yes. I'm not mad about it, but a little once in a while. …
LUISA:
(opening the cupboard doors and showing Matteo the little jars). These I made for you.
MATTEO:
And what exactitude! (Reading some of the labels:) Amarena, strawberry, apricot. How nice to keep all these things at home. (Fastening his attention on a jar of cherries preserved in spirits.) Oh, those! I'm crazy about them! In winter they're a real comfort. (Reading:) “Cherries in spirits.”
LUISA:
I've taken to these jams. I love them. As if they were my children. When I'm alone and a longing for a bit of amarena comes over me, for example, I talk to it as to a living soul.—“How good you are. How tasty you are. I made you with my own hands. How happy I am you've turned out well.”—And they answer—with their bit of sweetness. The only sweetness a poor woman like me can expect in life. And I understand … I understand why my good soul of a mother did the same and turned the house upside down if someone in the family helped themselves without asking her permission.
MATTEO:
Oh yes. Says she: “That's mine!”
LUISA:
Surely. But it's hard. The jam is really mine and nobody can take it away from me. The same with the flowers. You see this balcony. … They're all plants I made grow with my own hands. (Pointing to a plant:) That one, I don't know, I don't recall how many years I've had it. Just think, I was a young lady. Many's the move I've seen. Like that piece. (She points to the writing table.) It was my grandmother's, then my mother's … when we lived at Foria … then at Riviera … then near the Church of the Conception … I can't tell you how many different houses that table has lived in. (In a good-natured tone, thoughtful:) Not long ago your wife said: “Blessed be you that can take life so easy!”
Don Mattè, I never let my sons breathe. From the time they began to use their reason I'd interfere with any of their pleasures rather than lose their company even for a moment. If ever they came home a half hour later than they were expected, I was thinking of a disaster right away. I used to think out ways of keeping them in the house. No good, I couldn't curb them. And sometimes they openly let me know my presence annoyed them. They ran out. They went away. They found excuses, pretexts. They told me a pack of lies to get away, to leave me, to live their own life, which was to be no concern of mine. … Don Mattè, I shut Mariano up! You see now? With a wall of brick and cement … he couldn't get out! And if one of you had gone and reported it, wouldn't the authorities have shut me up in the madhouse? “Crazy!” “See her, she's crazy!” “You know what she's done? She shut her son up in a room and built a wall in front of the door!” “And why?”—Because I wanted to have him near me, because I didn't want to lose him! … You yourself, in the family circle, haven't you said almost these very things? (At this point she can't control her feelings. Her voice becomes thick. But a quick succession of sobs, at once repressed, puts her to rights.) Don Mattè, before God you must believe me. If what I say is a lie may I never see tomorrow's light I am not sorry for what I did. For fifteen days I felt him to be once more—my son. Like when I had him here. (With both hands open she strikes her stomach.) Don Mattè, take good note: here! (She repeats the gesture.) Like during the nine months of pregnancy when I found a way of being alone with him, lying on a couch with my hands like they are now, to talk to him. And he moved inside me and answered. As the jam answers me today. And I ate … I ate more than I wanted, so he'd be born strong and healthy … For fifteen days I slept peacefully—as I'd never managed to sleep since he came into the world. So many things to keep me busy, thoughts, responsibilities. … Ever since he started to walk. “If he falls. … If he hurts himself badly. …” And the vaccinations, the fevers, the illnesses. … And then the war. … You remember hearing the German's giving instructions over the radio? … “Those men who do not present themselves at German Headquarters will be punished with death”. … “Parents hiding their sons will be shot at sight. …” For fifteen days he was my son again. Shut in! And in bed with my hands here (repeating the gesture) I went to sleep happy because I felt him inside me once more. …”

II

It is sometimes debated how far we need to know an author's background in order to judge his work. I should think we need to know it whenever we should otherwise be in danger of taking something as his personal contribution when it is a representative product of his time and place. Thus some of Eduardo's attitudes, as I have described them, may seem forced when we take them an assertion of his will, whereas as an expression of a social tradition we might let them pass. I have in mind the impression probably produced by the foregoing pages that what Eduardo principally does in a play is to put his own special ideas across—the impression in short that he writes laborious drames à thèse.

The extreme individualism of Matteo's final attitude to war—“if twelve wars broke out one after the other they'd make no impression on me”—may be open to criticism but, in context, is an expression of a traditional group feeling and not a pet idea of the author's. It belongs to Naples where the State is regarded as an enemy—and whose regionalism the fascist State did in fact try to suppress. To tell people to forget the newspapers and get on with their private lives, valid or not as a piece of advice to us all, has somewhat different meaning in a city which for so long has had to consider how to survive under different masters and amid recurrent conflagrations. Eduardo is true to this situation when he shows people, such as Luisa, achieving dignity in their apartness. When he longs for dignity, moreover, he is not an aristocrat or would-be aristocrat bemoaning the inundation of aristocratic culture by plebeian hordes. On the contrary it is the dignity of the plebs he is championing, the urbanità of the poor who throng the alleys and docksides of Naples while the aristocrats and their wars come and go.

Not that Eduardo sees the life of “the other half” as uniformly dignified. The lower depths of Naples form as fantastic a society of adventurers and desperadoes as can well be imagined. Living by the skin of their teeth, a dreary past behind and a blank future ahead, they accept the present with peculiar vehemence. Familiar with death, they do not take life too seriously. They are willing to see it as a joke, a paradox, a fantasy, a show, a game. As absurd, the existentialists would say. There is something existentialist, in one of the popular meanings of the word, about La Grande Magia: the world is lawless, ethics are at best improvised, yet the imperative remains to improvize them. Perhaps it was occupation by the Germans that precipitated the anguish of the French writers and of this Italian. To Eduardo's credit it must be said that he gives also the sense of emerging from under the incubus and looking about him. A recurrent character in his plays is coming to be the man in midpassage through life, tortured, perplexed, deflected from normal paths, but undefeated, questing. But Eduardo has never stuck in the quagmire of “Teutonic” lugubriousness. Here again plebeian Naples came to his aid. There is a philosophy of the absurd, after all, in plebeian humor in general: your life is hopeless but you laugh, you are cheerful, and morally positive, against all reason. Thus, while La Grande Magia is one of Eduardo's most somber pieces, it is also his most ambitious projection of the idea that life is a game. And it is when we feel that fairy-tale quality of the story that we get it right—when, that is to say, we talk less of pirandellismo and more of Naples.

Naples is the reservoir on which, consciously and unconsciously, Eduardo draws. Not only the city as a whole but the Neapolitan theatre in particular. It is a popular as against an art theatre. This means, to begin with, that it is a dialect theatre and not an “Italian” one. It uses a popularly spoken language and not an official, national, bourgeois language—in this respect resembling Synge and O'Casey rather than Pinero and Galsworthy. The lack of a national theatrical repertoire in Italy may be deplorable but the quality of the defect is—the regional repertoire.

The next most salient feature of Neapolitan popular theatre as I have seen it is the style of acting. In Paris today you hear much about commedia dell'arte. What they show you is Jean-Louis Barrault and the Piccolo Teatro di Milano (the latter being more the rage in Paris than in Milan). These things are very fine but they are art theatre, and the commedia dell'arte was nothing if not popular theatre. You would find a much more authentic version of its famous artificial clowning in the Neapolitan comedian Totô. And for another side of the tradition—not famous at all unfortunately—you must go to Eduardo.

It is no slur on his playwriting to say that he is first and foremost an actor, perhaps the finest actor in Italy today, the son of a fine actor, the brother of a fine actor and an even finer actress. For anyone who comes to Italy with normal preconceptions, for anyone who has seen any of the great Italian stars of recent times or who today catches the last echo of D'Annunzio's generation in the voice of the aged Ruggeri, Eduardo on the stage is an astonishment. For five minutes or so he may be a complete let-down. This is not acting at all, we cry, above all it is not Italian acting! Voice and body are so quiet. Pianissimo. No glamor, no effusion of brilliance. No attempt to lift the role off the ground by oratory and stylization, no attempt to thrust it at us by force of personality. Not even the sustained mesmerism of big Ibsen performances. Rather, a series of statements, vocal and corporeal. When the feeling of anti-climax has passed we realize that these statements are beautiful in themselves—beautiful in their clean economy, their precise rightness—and beautiful in relation to each other and to the whole: there are differentiations, sharp or shifting, between one speech and the next: there is a carefully gauged relationship between beginning, middle, and end.

My point here is not so much to praise Eduardo as to observe that here is an actor more likely—for demonstrable historical and geographic reasons—to be the heir of commedia dell'arte than any other important performer now living and that his style is distinctly different from anything one expected. It is a realistic style. It makes few large departures from life. No oratory, no stylization. Both in speech and in gesture, rhythm, accent, and tempo are an imitation of life. The “art” consists in the skill of the imitation, the careful registering of detail and nuance, and a considered underlining of the effects—the outline is firmer, the shape more sure. The assumption is that there is more drama in real speech and gesture—for these are arts and not raw material like a sculptor's clay—than in invented speech and gesture. That this realism is not just Eduardo's personal style or due—God save the mark!—to the influence of Stanislavsky you may prove by visiting the grubby popular theatres of Naples, notably the Apollo and the Margherita, any day of the week.

One of the persistent heresies about commedia dell'arte, often as Italian scholars denounce it as such, is the idea that the actors made up their lines as they went along. The nearest they ever got to this is probably that they sometimes wrote their lines, the script being the fruit of a collaboration between various members of the cast. At any rate Eduardo de Filippo began his career as an actor doing this sort of writing. From reports I gather the impression that the plays he acted in must have been rather like Chaplin shorts. There would often be several to an evening, and they would represent incidents in the life of the little man, the povero diavolo. A play like La Grande Magia is of course as far from a one-act farce or melodrama in a popular Neapolitan theatre as Monsieur Verdoux is from a Keystone Comedy. In each case, however, the later work is made up to a surprising extent of elements from the earlier. And it is these elements which save both film and play from polemical aridity, which give them a tang and an identity, which make them dramatic art.

They would not do so if they operated as mere comic relief or melodramatic seasoning; their function is to lend definition to the author's subject. Thus in La Grande Magia, the idea of life as a game, the world as a show, is given body and form by, among other things, the brilliant theatre of Otto's conjuring, in which we get a back-stage glimpse of all the mechanism of magic. To be told, as my reader has been, that Otto had to convince Calogero of the reality of magic is very little compared to actually seeing Otto play his phonograph record of applause and persuade Calogero it is the sea. To be told, as my reader has been, that Matteo in La Paura Numero Uno is tricked into believing war has broken out is very little compared to actually seeing the enactment of the ruse with the microphone and the comic sequences that follow. Matteo talks at cross-purposes with the other tenants: he thinks they are talking about the war, they think he is talking about the house. Another sequence ends with Matteo's mistaking a multi-national group of pilgrims for an invading army. These two sequences lead up to a climax of laughable absurdity at the conclusion of acts one and two respectively.

For, although Eduardo's plays are chock full of amusing and imaginative details—minor characters, bits of business, meditations as of an unsophisticated Giraudoux—they have a solid over-all structure, usually in three clearly marked phases or acts. If the sequences within the acts often derive from popular farce, the act-structure is even more often that of popular melodrama. Eduardo likes to bring the curtain down, especially the curtain of act two, on a terrific moment—which means “at the psychological moment,” a moment when two lines of narrative suddenly intersect by amazing coincidence. Thus in Natale in Casa Cupiello, the ugly rivalry of husband and lover reaches boiling point just as Luca Cupiello's idyll, the adoration of the magi, comes to actual performance—a big curtain for act two! In La Grande Magia, it is the denouement in act three where the arm of coincidence is longest and most active: it just happens that Marta, absent for four years, re-appears one second before Calogero is to open the box. Eduardo is saying not only “such is the wonder of fairy land” but also “such is the perverseness of reality.” He has not surrendered to melodrama; he has exploited it. For him it is not a jazzing-up of otherwise inert and tiresome elements. It is a legitimate accentuation of the fantastic character of life.

This purposeful manipulation of fable is nowhere more striking than in Eduardo's most popular play, Filumena Marturano. Since this play is also one of his most realistic works, the reader may be interested to see in more detail how the apparently curious mixture of realism and its opposite actually works out. Since moreover the play is Eduardo's most powerful tribute to mother love, a note on it may serve to bind together the first and second parts of this essay and leave us with a rounded if not complete impression of Eduardo's playwriting.

The story is the unprepossessing one of the man who makes an honest woman of a prostitute. What stands out in Eduardo's play is the prostitute herself, a heroic plebeian, a tigress of a mother. The portrait derives half its life from the language—which, in translation, can scarcely be shown. But, as already intimated, the mode of the narrative is a contributory factor.

Filumena comes from the lower depths of Naples. She is rescued from poverty by a prolonged liaison with a rich man, Domenico Soriano. When they are both getting along in years, and he wants to marry a younger, more beautiful, and more respectable girl, Filumena pretends to be dying and arranges a death-bed marriage. The ceremony over, she jumps lightheartedly out of bed, and Domenico realizes he has been had. It is at this point that Eduardo raises the curtain on his first act! The stormy exposition is followed by a revelation. Filumena has not been acting selfishly. Unknown to Domenico she has three grown-up sons: they are now legitimized!

The first act ends with Domenico rushing off for a lawyer to rescind a marriage held under false pretences. In the second, it seems that he will have his way, and Filumena, crushed for the moment, accepts the hospitality of her son Michele. As a parting shot, however, she tells Don Domenico that he is the father of one of the three sons. Another melodramatic revelation! Further: with a secrecy at once melodramatic and realistic, she will not tell him which one, because she wants no discrimination against the other two. End of the second act.

Act three is a happy epilogue. In the time between the acts, Domenico has come around. The old marriage has been rescinded, but a new one is now being celebrated. He gladly accepts Filumena as wife and all three young men as sons. “I am 52, you are 48. We are two mature souls in duty bound to understand what they are about—ruthlessly and to the depths. We have to face it. And assume full responsibility.”

This sententiousness is naive but the language, sunny and bland in the original, implies some unworried awareness of the fact. There is an irony about this happy ending (as there is about many others). What stays with us is the conclusion arrived at and, far more, the sense of danger and

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The Drama of de Filippo

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