Nascondi­no (Hide & Seek)

Every year on 17 Jan­u­ary, the young pop­u­la­tion of Naples pours out in the wind­ing inner-neigh­bour­hood streets, gath­er­ing dead Christ­mas trees and burn­ing them on an enor­mous fire to mark San Anto­nio day. Over the years, these bon­fires have lost their reli­gious sig­nif­i­cance, and have been rein­car­nat­ed into an urban rit­u­al among work­ing class youths com­pet­ing to see which neighbourhood’s bon­fire will stand tallest.

It’s in this con­text that we’re intro­duced to the charis­mat­ic and mis­chie­vous young Entoni, a boy on the cusp of ado­les­cence who falls into the protagonist’s role in Vic­to­ria Fiori’s debut doc­u­men­tary fea­ture, Hide and Seek.

Fol­low­ing Entoni and his fam­i­ly over the course of four years, Fiori eschews sen­sa­tion­alised rep­re­sen­ta­tions of Naples and its rela­tion to the mafia and organ­ised crime, opt­ing instead for a more inti­mate van­tage point that grants access to the very depths of the locality’s psy­che. Fiori casts an obser­va­tion­al eye over her sub­jects that is all but detached, and there is a con­spic­u­ous, dream­like sense of atmos­phere baked into the core of the film as we fol­low the rebel­lious thrill-seek­er around the Span­ish quar­ters of the city.

He lives there with his moth­er, broth­er and grand­moth­er Dora, who, cig­a­rette firm­ly in hand, only ever divulges a care­ful account of her days in the mafia. She explains that ​“peo­ple here sin every day, only because we’ve got to sur­vive”. Heavy under­tones of hope­less­ness are direct­ed at her grandson’s future, which seems to be irrepara­bly set in stone. With his father incar­cer­at­ed since Entoni was three and his grand­fa­ther hav­ing died in prison at the age of 23, Dora has all rea­son to fear the self-per­pet­u­at­ing cycle of crime scyth­ing through her fam­i­ly, espe­cial­ly with new leg­is­la­tion allow­ing the forcible removal of chil­dren if fam­i­lies are linked to organ­ised crime. Sure enough, Entoni is sent to a home for trou­bled chil­dren after being involved in an inci­dent involv­ing arson.

Rather than mere­ly fol­low­ing him around, Fiore builds a pal­pa­ble sense of col­lab­o­ra­tion and trust with the young Entoni. Sev­er­al key moments are recre­at­ed, which, albeit show­cas­ing Entoni’s cre­ative involve­ment in the film­mak­ing process, weigh heavy over the nar­ra­tive. Regard­less, Fiori exem­pli­fies both an excel­lent com­mand over form, as well as a great affin­i­ty for poet­ic sto­ry­telling, using all the tools at her dis­pos­al to get to the dev­as­tat­ing truth at the core of the film: that instead of pro­vid­ing the nec­es­sary sup­port to under­priv­i­leged chil­dren trapped in gen­er­a­tional cycles of incar­cer­a­tion, the Ital­ian state choos­es to crim­i­nalise their behav­iour. Alfre­do de Juan’s lens cap­tures quo­tid­i­an beau­ty of the quar­ters with aplomb, silk dress­es and white bed­sheets sway­ing on wash­ing lines and inti­mate angles bot­tling the ener­gy and vital­i­ty of the young peo­ple roam­ing the inner-neigh­bour­hood streets.

Lit­tle White Lies is com­mit­ted to cham­pi­oning great movies and the tal­ent­ed peo­ple who make them.

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