Opiniones de usuarios

Our hero explains to a doctor at the beginning of this film that there are only two types in the world. Men who slave, raise families and are basically simple good men and the Corporals of the world who make life difficult for regular guys.

This is a good film of classic, sometimes obvious, satire and good old-fashioned slap-stick comedy. The ending is very realistic, however, regarding the fate of good men.

The films of Toto are always fun to watch and the comedy is excellent. This film does not have the power of "The Passionate Thief" but it is definitely worth your time.

Shot in 1955, this film belongs to that narrow but potent line of Totò comedies set in the crucible of the Second World War, where the familiar cadence of his humor collides with the formal stiffness of military and occupation authority. The wartime setting is never a mere scenic pretext: it informs the blocking, the costume detail, the stark contrast between convivial civilian interiors and the disciplined, impersonal spaces of German command posts. The black-and-white cinematography moves fluidly between broad, open lighting in moments of comic ease and denser chiaroscuro in scenes dominated by uniforms and insignia, visually framing the absurdist energy of Totò against the rigid geometry of power. This calculated visual opposition makes the comedy feel not only spontaneous but insurgent.

Central to this insurgent humor is the pernacchia-the raspberry-delivered by Totò to a high-ranking German officer. To a non-Italian audience, it might appear as a simple childish insult, but within southern Italian, and particularly Neapolitan, culture, the pernacchia carries a far richer connotation. In Naples, it has long functioned as an earthy, instantly understood form of popular dissent, a sonic gesture that collapses the pretension of the powerful into ridicule without requiring words. It is a refusal to dignify authority with argument, a bodily sound that reduces pomp to parody. Totò, deeply rooted in Neapolitan stage tradition, elevated this humble gesture into a national symbol, refining its timing, elongation, and accompanying expression until it became an art form in itself. In the context of postwar Italy, the pernacchia directed at a Nazi officer was not merely a gag; it was a condensed act of historical revenge, a reclaiming of dignity through laughter. For audiences in the mid-1950s, many of whom had lived under Fascist and Nazi dominance, that single moment offered a cathartic reversal: the uniform, once untouchable, deflated by the sound of popular mockery.

The film's title phrase, siamo uomini o caporali-literally "are we men or corporals"-operates on a similar level of cultural resonance. In Italian popular discourse, particularly after Totò's usage, it became shorthand for a fundamental moral distinction: between those who retain their humanity regardless of circumstance, and those who, when given even a scrap of power, use it to dominate and humiliate others. In the wartime setting of the film, this is not an abstract moralism; it is embodied in the petty authoritarian figures-often non-commissioned officers, minor collaborators, or opportunists-who wield local power with cruelty out of proportion to their actual rank. Totò's repeated invocation and dramatization of this phrase transformed it into a lasting piece of popular philosophy, one that continued to resonate in everyday Italian speech as a way to describe any abuse of authority, whether in politics, the workplace, or daily life.

Technically, the film's rhythm reflects these thematic contrasts. The director grants Totò space for long, unbroken takes in which facial expressions, pauses, and small gestures accumulate into a comic crescendo, especially in confrontations with authority. In more tense wartime sequences, however, the cutting tightens, compressing reaction shots and sharpening the beat between set-up and punchline. This approach is akin to I due marescialli (1961), where the comedy draws directly from the absurdity of bureaucratic and military structures. In that later film, the pernacchia evolves from the compact narrative beat it serves here into a full-blown comic apotheosis, a centerpiece gag whose sheer duration and escalating audacity push it from symbolic rebellion into an unforgettable display of Totò's mastery of timing and audience manipulation.

Supporting characters function as mirrors for the "men" and "corporals" dichotomy: the decent everyman under pressure, the opportunist ready to betray, the collaborator whose petty meanness is amplified by the uniform. The visual design underscores this division-lighter, more open compositions for the humane characters, tighter and more oppressive framing for those in positions of petty authority. Even the soundscape plays its role: moments of silence before a gag, the echo of boots in a narrow hallway, all make Totò's voice and gestures feel like a disruption of the oppressive order.

Produced a decade after the war, the film reflects an Italy still negotiating how to remember, and how to laugh at, its recent past. The pernacchia and the "men or corporals" motif provided a safe yet pointed way to revisit questions of authority, complicity, and resistance. By translating them into the language of slapstick and verbal wit, Totò ensured they would outlive the specifics of the conflict, entering the fabric of Italian cultural identity. In 1955, audiences left the theater not just amused but with the reaffirmation that, in the great division between men and corporals, the former could still have the last laugh.