“I think to scandalize is a right, to be scandalized is a pleasure, and those who refuse to be scandalized are moralists.”

Like many of his statements throughout the years, the words above have come to define Pier Paolo Pasolini as an artist. A filmmaker and writer who I myself have had difficult feelings towards, occurring somewhere between awed admiration and outright repulsion, Pasolini’s work has spoken to a kind of cinematic curiosity that many tend to harbour, an understanding of the world that he represents so beautifully in everything he put together, even if they tend to be mired by controversy on occasion. However, something that wasn’t always evident in his work was himself – he was driven by curiosity, but still retained a sense of humility, so his career was filled by vaguely autobiographical statements that served to satiate his artistic cravings, but never put himself at the forefront of his work. Despite this, he lived a fascinating life – as a character in the film remarks, Pasolini was a “poet, novelist, dialogue writer, screenwriter, actor, critic and director”, which is in itself an enormously impressive list of artistic endeavours, to which he simply responded that his passport bears the humble profession of “writer”. A bold but tragic figure, Pasolini’s life was a story that deserved to be told – and there are few filmmakers that could be trusted with the material more than Abel Ferrara. On the surface, he appears to be an unconventional choice – but when we realize how he was essentially borne from a generation that grew up inspired by Pasolini, and flourished into one of the most earnest cinematic provocateurs of his time, it’s easy to understand why Ferrara would be drawn to this material. A creative force of nature, and someone whose vision isn’t always attuned with mainstream sensibilities, but never fails to offer something new, the idea of Ferrara tackling Pasolini was daunting and exciting in equal measure – so the joy that comes when we realize just how brilliant Pasolini was is not to be underestimated in any way.

At first, Pasolini seems to be something of a malnourished film, whereby nothing about it seems quite right. It’s an Italian production that switches between English, Italian and French (even sometimes in the middle of a sentence), told in a non-linear fashion, whereby the very concept of time is manipulated by the director, and put together in a way that feels quite different from what we’d expect from a biographical film about an artist. Yet, in that very sentence there’s a fatal error – anyone expecting Ferrara to make a conventional biopic about Pasolini clearly have unnecessary expectations, since this film was never going to even come close to tradition in any conceivable way. Ferrara is a director who perpetually challenges the form, and his attempt at capturing the last few weeks in the life of one of cinema’s most revolutionary icons was bound to carry some sense of subversion. We never quite know where this film is heading – it feels almost incomplete (and running at a paltry 79 minutes, we have to wonder what could’ve been done had Ferrara even just slightly extended what he was doing here), but once we’re fully enveloped in this world, we can witness the director’s loving testimony to the lives of one of his personal heroes, and an artist whose perpetual search for some deeper meaning drove him to the edges of both reason and decency, and both ended up causing his demise, and establishing him as one of his medium’s great iconoclasts. The canonization of artists shouldn’t ever be a reckless process, but it feels as if Ferrara was actively doing something worthwhile with Pasolini, as it is exceptionally well-constructed, both narratively and formally, creating a mesmerizing biographical film that pushes the boundaries and says something worth the time it takes.

The casting of Willem Dafoe in the lead role is interesting, since he bears very little resemblance to Pasolini. Despite being an ardent devotee to Dafoe, the announcement that he had been cast even incited the seed of cynicism in my own mind – and years later, watching this performance in context doesn’t help assuage those concerns. However, what is made exceptionally clear is that Dafoe was cast for the precise reason that he didn’t look like the subject, but rather for who he is. A chameleon of an actor, Dafoe can do absolutely anything – so the fact that he didn’t need to change his appearance or accent (retaining his distinctive New York accent throughout) indicates that there was some form of meta-commentary going into this performance. Pasolini was an artist who admired his actors, especially those who had a sense of peculiarity around them – and stopping short of having some enormously famous heartthrob play him, it feels like Pasolini would appreciate having someone like Dafoe play him, an actor known for his dedication to roles and constant pursuit of giving oddballs and outsiders a place on screen. Even putting aside the intentions of casting him, Dafoe is naturally excellent in the part – at first, it doesn’t appear to be anything the actor wasn’t capable of. By this point, he had already established a strong relationship with Ferrara, appearing in a number of his films over the years (and subsequently) – and as someone who fits into the world of any director he works with, Dafoe is able to tailor his style to fit the needs of Ferrara, who in turn manages to play on Dafoe’s strengths consistently. He’s excellent in Pasolini, finding the nuance in every moment, and conveying such truth throughout this performance. Dafoe’s relentless ability to transform into his characters is truly remarkable, and allows him to beautifully command the screen without needing to announce his presence.

Despite being more driven more by dialogue than anything else, Pasolini works best in the moments of pensive silence, whereby the titular character drives through Rome, watching the city of his childhood crumble into debauchery around him. Convention has very little place in a film like Pasolini, so it stands to reason it makes great use of its alternative approach to make some bold statements. However, Ferrara is remarkably apolitical throughout the course of this film, which appears to almost be something of an intentional choice, especially since an early discussion in this film sees the main character remark that “there is nothing that isn’t political” – the emphasis is instead shifted to the more delicate moments of human drama, such as a brief meeting with Ninetto Davoli, his longtime collaborator who was his former lover, but who has now married and had a child, who Pasolini treats with as much as love as he did his father, or his adoration for solitude, creating works that play on his feelings of intentional loneliness, and the value that comes with being at ease with oneself as company. It’s a very challenging film in terms of getting a grip on the character motivations, but Ferrara allows it to play so well in the context of the story, it becomes almost inconsequential when the film seems to be taking a more abstract approach to some very real concepts. Even the graphic depiction of Pasolini’s murder is portrayed in a very poetic way, with the gritty violence interweaving with the achingly beautiful score and interspersed images of the city and various characters, creating a sense of admiration for Pasolini that stops just short of presenting him as some artistic martyr, a sentiment that has been conveyed so frequently, and which Ferrara is interested in debunking, even if his own adoration of the director is very well-documented throughout this film.

Ultimately, Pasolini isn’t a traditional film, but its the exact kind of film that the subject himself would likely have wanted to be made about his life. It’s a film that celebrates the art of scandalizing – and no one understands the value in a moment of well-placed discomfort more than Ferrara, who frequently employs a blend of beautifully elegant narrative storytelling with moments of unhinged insanity – think about the scene where two characters arrive in Rome and are taken to a “celebration of gays and lesbians”, which turns out to be an incredibly violent underground orgy that resembles an ancient wrestling tournament than a celebration – but which is set to the most sophisticated score, and viewed with such unnerving compassion, it’s difficult to feel one way or another about such a scene. Inarguably, Pasolini doesn’t try and replicate the titular director’s work – he’s the central character, and it’s his perspective that we follow. However, this doesn’t mean that Ferrara need to parrot his style or ideas – instead, he goes in his own direction, tells the story of Pasolini’s final stage of life with tact and commitment, showing his own incredible admiration for the director, and in the process pays better tribute to his revolutionary career than perhaps any other artistic biopic. Simple, gorgeously-written, well-acted and beautifully composed, Pasolini is a minor film with enormous aspirations, and through the sheer willpower of its own emotional impact, it achieves just that. This isn’t a film that has received the attention it deserves, and it does require some understanding of Pasolini’s life and work to fully appreciate – but even without it, the complexities and nuances underpinning this film are worth seeking out, and make for a truly riveting piece of biographical filmmaking that is oddly compassionate, even when traversing the most controversial of subject matter – and considering who the subject of this film was, could we hope for anything more than that?