Film Review: The Decameron (Il Decameron, 1971)

The late 1960s and early 1970s marked a golden era for adapting grand literary classics to the silver screen, exemplified by Sergey Bondarchuk’s monumental War and Peace (1965–1967) and Franco Zeffirelli’s lush Romeo and Juliet (1968). Amid this wave of ambitious adaptations, Italian director Pier Paolo Pasolini sought to bring medieval literature to the forefront with his 1971 film The Decameron, based on Giovanni Boccaccio’s 14th-century masterpiece. While the film failed to achieve the same critical acclaim as its peers, it became an unexpected commercial sensation in Italy, even spawning a new genre of low-budget, sex-driven “decamerotico” films. Pasolini’s project was both a homage to Boccaccio and a bold experiment in blending irreverent storytelling with socio-political critique, though its legacy remains as contentious as its content.

Boccaccio’s The Decameron, composed in 1353, is a compendium of 100 tales told by seven young women and three young men sheltering in a Florentine villa during the Black Death. The stories, rife with bawdy humor, sexual explicitness, and sharp satire targeting the Church and aristocracy, became a cornerstone of early Italian literature. Despite its popularity, the book was condemned by the Catholic Church in the 16th century and placed on the Index Librorum Prohibitorum, banned for its “immoral” content. Yet its wit and humanity ensured its survival, inspiring countless adaptations across art forms.

By the time Pasolini began his project, Boccaccio’s tales had already been reimagined in three earlier cinematic attempts: the 1924 silent Decameron Nights (a German-British collaboration), its 1953 Hollywood remake starring Louis Jourdan and Joan Fontaine, and a 1965 Czech animated short, Archangel Gabriel and Madam Goose. These adaptations, however, were constrained by censorship and budget, focusing on only a handful of stories. Pasolini, by contrast, aimed for a more expansive vision, weaving together ten tales while discarding Boccaccio’s framing device of plague-ridden Florence.

In Pasolini’s version, the stories are linked by the journey of Giotto’s fictional pupil, a character played by the director himself. This painter travels to Naples to decorate a church, his progress intertwined with tales of greed, hypocrisy, and exploitation. The film’s tone is set early: in the first story, Andreuccio (Ninetto Davolò), a naive Perugian merchant, is swindled by a woman posing as his long-lost sister, who robs him and leaves him penniless and covered in excrement only for young man changes his fortune via opportunistic grave robbery. Later, a young man (Vincenzo Amato) pretends to be mute to secure a job in a convent, only to discover the nuns’ illicit desires. These vignettes exemplify the film’s irreverent, subversive spirit, blending farce with incisive social commentary.

The film emerged during a transitional period in Western cinema, as pre-1960s censorship norms collapsed but new regulatory frameworks lagged behind. Pasolini seized this freedom, infusing The Decameron with unapologetic nudity—both male and female—and scenes of implied sexual activity. One notorious sequence even features an erect penis, a bold choice at the time. Yet, despite its provocative content, the film avoids exploitation aesthetics. Its artistic merit is underscored by Pasolini’s visual poetry and thematic depth, ensuring it transcends mere shock value.

The film’s artistic gravitas is most evident in its framing sequences, where Giotto’s pupil encounters visions of the Virgin Mary (played by Silvana Mangano, grand diva of Italian cinema). These moments, rendered in Pasolini’s signature neorealist style, contrast sharply with the ribald tales. The painter’s struggle to reconcile his art with divine inspiration mirrors Pasolini’s own existential inquiries, blending spirituality with Marxist humanism. The result is a layered work that balances slapstick humor with philosophical reflection.

Pasolini rejected conventional orchestral scores in favor of Italian folk songs performed by the cast. This decision, paired with period costumes, dialects, and locations—shot across Italy and France (with the latter standing in for medieval Germany)—enhances the film’s authenticity. The director’s commitment to historical detail extends to the architecture and landscapes, creating a vivid, lived-in medieval world that feels both timeless and grounded.

The film also reflects Pasolini’s complex ideological landscape: Catholicism, Marxism, and his own homosexuality. The character of Ser Ciappelletto (Franco Citti), a manipulative thief who fabricates a deathbed confession to be hailed as a saint, embodies the director’s fascination with hypocrisy and redemption. Meanwhile, homoerotic undertones permeate scenes involving male nudity and camaraderie, subtly challenging societal norms.

Marxist themes dominate the film’s social commentary. Set in the impoverished South of Italy, the stories often feature Neapolitan dialect speakers, a deliberate choice by Pasolini to evoke the region’s marginalised status. By transplanting Boccaccio’s tales into this context, Pasolini critiques contemporary Italy’s economic disparities and the Church’s complicity in perpetuating inequality. The film’s medieval setting becomes a mirror for modern struggles, blending historical satire with urgent political discourse.

As an anthology, the film’s quality fluctuates. Some segments feel uneven, with performances ranging from amateurish to compelling. However, the raw authenticity of non-professional actors and locations compensates for any technical shortcomings. The absence of certain scenes, reportedly lost or censored, leaves gaps, yet the surviving footage coheres into a vibrant, if imperfect, mosaic.

Critical reception was mixed: while some praised Pasolini’s audacity, others dismissed the film as a vulgar curiosity. Its Silver Bear at the Berlin Film Festival underscored its artistic merit, yet its box-office success in Italy owed much to its explicit content. This duality birthed the “decamerotico” subgenre, as filmmakers rushed to replicate its formula with cheap, sex-driven medieval romps.

Pasolini followed The Decameron with adaptations of The Canterbury Tales (1972) and The Arabian Nights (1974), collectively forming his “Trilogy of Life.” These films share a focus on humanity’s primal instincts and social contradictions, rendered through medieval frameworks. The Decameron, while uneven, remains a testament to Pasolini’s daring vision—a fusion of literary reverence, political rage, and unapologetic eroticism that continues to provoke and intrigue.

RATING: 7/10 (+++)

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