Giarabub

The film offers one of the more nuanced portrayals of intimate, small-scale endurance within the corpus of wartime Italian cinema, achieving a surprisingly reflective tone beneath its surface as a patriotic exhortation. While it is undeniably structured around the mechanics of siege warfare, the narrative prioritizes the emotional landscapes of its characters over the technicalities of combat. What emerges is not a war film preoccupied with tactics or strategy, but rather a quiet chamber piece unfolding within the claustrophobic boundaries of a desert outpost-less about winning or losing, and more about sustaining dignity in the face of inevitable collapse.

This emphasis on human relationships, particularly those forged among men in extreme conditions, is conveyed with deliberate intimacy. The paternal figure of the major serves as the film's emotional axis-not just a commander, but a surrogate father who tempers military duty with a sincere investment in the moral and emotional well-being of his soldiers. His habit of appending affectionate notes to their letters home, calling them "bravi ragazzi", underscores the degree to which the film's core message is interpersonal rather than martial. These moments, often rendered in still, contemplative scenes, are where the film finds its most resonant humanity. There is no bombast in these exchanges-just the weary honesty of men confronting an unwinnable situation.

The acting, particularly in these interior scenes, achieves an unforced naturalism that distinguishes the film from the more declamatory tone of other Italian productions from the same period. In contrast to the ideological rigidity that defines works like Bengasi (1942), which was filmed simultaneously at Cinecittà, the film offers space for vulnerability. The characters are not mouthpieces for doctrine, but men navigating fear, boredom, hunger, and the awkward tenderness of comradeship. The dialogue often unfolds slowly, with pauses and interruptions that allow silences to speak as eloquently as words. Even the younger soldiers, including the wounded lieutenant played by a very young Alberto Sordi, are sketched not as symbols, but as fallible, sympathetic individuals. Their banter, fatigue, and longing lend the film a texture that is rare for its genre and period.

The inclusion of the character played by Doris Duranti-a fixture of fascist cinema-might initially appear incongruous. Her presence as a beautician or "manicurist" seems a bizarre concession to escapist fantasy, especially given the film's otherwise grim realism. Yet her role is, interestingly, minimal and often sidelined. Confined to her quarters for much of the runtime, she operates more as an ethereal reminder of prewar normalcy or fleeting sensuality than as an actual participant in the plot. Alessandrini's own description of her character reinforces this function: not a romantic interest, but a spectral comfort, symbolizing the world beyond the siege-unreachable, yet not entirely forgotten.

Visually, the film reflects this introspective focus through its spatial compositions. Interiors-barracks, command posts, infirmaries-are shot with an eye for detail and atmosphere. Characters are often grouped tightly in confined spaces, their bodies leaning toward or away from one another in subtle, unspoken expressions of support, anxiety, or frustration. Exterior shots, though shot in Italy and not on location in Libya, maintain a convincing verisimilitude thanks to careful set design and the integration of actual wartime footage from Luce newsreels. These documentary inserts are seamlessly incorporated, but it is telling that they serve more to contextualize than to dominate. Combat is always present, always looming, but rarely center stage.

Renzo Rossellini's score, while marked by the martial crescendos typical of fascist-era productions, also includes quieter, elegiac themes that mirror the film's humanistic undertones. The tension between triumphalist messaging and intimate storytelling reaches its most poignant expression in the film's closing sequences. As defeat draws near, the narrative does not turn to despair, but to a kind of weary optimism. There is no hysteria, no martyrdom fetish. The characters meet their fate with understated resolve, the tone somber rather than exultant. This restraint gives the final moments a haunting dignity that lingers beyond the runtime.

What ultimately makes the film notable within the canon of World War II cinema is its delicate balancing act: it functions as state-mandated morale-building, yet subverts many of the conventions typically associated with propaganda. Unlike The North African Campaign as depicted in Anglo-American films like The Desert Rats (1953), where action and valor are foregrounded, the film draws its strength from introspection and human connection. The true enemy here is not the British, whose presence remains abstract and distant, but entropy-time, hunger, despair.

Its famous anthem, with its stirring refrain "Colonel, I don't want bread, I want lead for my rifle", exemplifies the overt message the regime wished to send. But the real emotional gravity of the film lies not in slogans or military declarations, but in the quiet moments of shared fatigue, stoic acceptance, and stubborn fraternity. Even with its ideological underpinnings, the film's enduring power comes from this nuanced portrayal of human resilience-one that, despite the circumstances of its creation, still resonates on a deeply personal level.

Goffredo Alessandrini's GIARABUB, perhaps the most famous war film produced in Italy during World War II, gets its title from the name of an Italian military oasis-post in the Libyan desert. The Italians are under siege by enemy British forces, and the situation for the Italians is hopeless; they have few supplies, almost no food. It is a matter of time before they are overtaken. An emissary from the British forces gives the Italians an ultimatum for surrender. But to Major Castagna (Carlo Ninchi) surrender is not an option. The point of the film seems to be to send a patriotic message to the Italians as the worst days of the war approached, that they might maintain their calm and dignity and sense of sacrifice for the motherland in the face of overwhelming odds. The movie was required inspirational viewing for all students in Italy. The song written for the film's credits has the lyrics: "Colonel, I don't want bread, I want lead for my rifle. I don't want praise; I died for my country, but the end of England starts with Giarabub."

The movie does not deal with the thornier aspects of Italian/German military aims or fascism. Mussolini is never referred to. This is a kind of Italian DUNKIRK or LOST PATROL. Much of the film centers around the paternal major, his assessment of the situation he knows to be hopeless, his personal interest in his men (he writes addenda to their letters home noting that they are "bravi ragazzi"---good lads.) In the midst of all there very improbably appears Dolores, played by Doris Duranti, who provides some romantic appeal for as while, but is absent in her quarters for much of the movie. Alessandrini described her role as that of a soldiers' masseuse/manicurist. Doris Duranti was the great feminine icon of the Italian fascist cinema, and was reputed to have had relations with the Duce himself. Most of the film is quiet and talky, illustrating the camaraderie among men in war. The film's ending is filled with "optimism in defeat." In its way, for its human elements, the film is actually quite likable.

The battle scenes were convincing and incorporated footage from Luce documentaries that had been shot on location in Africa. The exteriors were shot in Italy. The fort itself was reconstructed in the Scalera Studio. At the same time at Cinecittà, Augusto Genina was shooting BENGASI, another North-African war film. Among the cast of GIARABUB is a very young Alberto Sordi as a wounded lieutenant. Renzo Rossellini, brother of Roberto, provided the musical score, as he did for his brother's fascist era films and post-war OPEN CITY and PAISAN.