I trecento della Settima

Rarely has wartime Italian cinema managed to articulate the specific experience of mountain warfare with such visual austerity and narrative focus as seen in this film. Produced at a time when Fascist propaganda had already explored the Navy (Uomini sul fondo, Alfa Tau!), the Air Force (I tre aquilotti, Gente dell'aria), and the colonial campaigns (Giarabub, Bengasi), it arrives not only as a thematic novelty but as a deliberate act of filling a representational gap-the mythicization of the Alpini, long present in Italian national consciousness but, until this point, underrepresented on screen. The only prior attempt, Quelli della montagna (Vergano, 1943), had been met with cold reception by the Alpini corps itself, dismissed for its sentimentalism and detachment from frontline reality.

This film, by contrast, approaches its material with a more austere, unadorned visual strategy. Shot largely on location in Limone Piemonte and later at the foot of Monte Bianco, it substitutes narrative flourish for topographical immersion. The alpine landscape is not merely a setting but a psychological terrain. Snowfields, vertical ascents, and fog-choked bivouacs dominate the mise-en-scène. The camera often positions the soldiers as small figures swallowed by the immensity of nature, reinforcing both the physical strain and the symbolic isolation of the front. There is a stark physicality to how marching, fatigue, and the slow erosion of human energy are portrayed-less through melodrama and more through cumulative visual attrition.

One of the film's most defining features is the use of non-professional actors-real soldiers, many of whom were veterans of the Greek front where the story is set. This decision, motivated in part by budgetary constraints and partly by ideological design, creates a documentary-like surface. Their performances are stiff and frequently monotone, but this stiffness paradoxically amplifies the realism: these are not fictionalized heroes but anonymous figures of endurance. Dialogue is sparse, reactions are often minimal, and rather than weakening the drama, this creates an atmosphere of somber restraint. In contrast to the theatrical expressiveness found in Quelli della montagna, where emotional gestures and interpersonal bonds are foregrounded, here the emotional texture remains submerged beneath the fatigue of marching and survival.

The hybrid structure of the film-part narrative, part war reportage-is reinforced by the incorporation of documentary material from the Istituto Luce. These segments, intercut with the dramatized scenes, are not seamlessly integrated but rather coexist in a juxtaposed rhythm. The editing style never fully attempts to disguise these shifts, allowing the viewer to remain aware of the constructed nature of the piece. In this sense, it shares a formal affinity with Rossellini's La nave bianca, which also blended documentary footage with scripted drama to create an elevated realism. However, while La nave bianca adopts a more lyrical approach in its portrayal of wartime medical services, this film remains closer to the ground-literally and metaphorically.

Sound design is remarkably subdued. There are few musical interludes, and those that do appear are far from the martial bombast characteristic of the genre. Instead, the soundscape is dominated by the crunch of boots on snow, the howl of wind across ridges, and the intermittent thud of distant artillery. These elements serve to underscore the vast, often indifferent environment in which the human action unfolds. This sonic restraint distances the film from the triumphalist tendencies seen in I tre aquilotti, which leaned heavily on symphonic cues to glorify aviation. Here, the emphasis is on the disintegration of energy, the exhaustion of men rather than their exaltation.

Visually, the cinematography favors long static shots and natural light, especially in exterior sequences. Interiors-often limited to tents, huts, or chapels-are dimly lit and spare, reinforcing a material austerity that mirrors the soldiers' conditions. This approach differentiates it not only from Quelli della montagna but also from other fascist films set in heroicized spaces like warships or aircraft hangars, where lighting and mise-en-scène tend to glorify the war machine. In this film, the only glorification lies in the act of survival, in the maintenance of cohesion amid elemental adversity.

The only professional actor in the cast, who portrays the chaplain, brings a contrasting degree of theatrical control and measured gravitas to the screen. His scenes, while few, mark the closest the film comes to classical performance. Yet even these moments avoid sentimentality; the chaplain's role is ritualistic more than dramatic, serving as a symbolic pivot rather than a source of moral guidance. This choice emphasizes the collective over the individual, again contrasting with Quelli della montagna, where character development and personal stakes are given more weight than collective anonymity.

Production-wise, the film reflects both the ambition and the constraints of late Fascist cinema. It mobilized entire Alpine units, artillery detachments, and even aerial elements for specific shots. This logistical scale gives the film an operational authenticity that surpasses the often more stagebound nature of earlier propaganda pieces. However, the lack of professional cinematic polish is evident in the sometimes uneven blocking, the mechanical pacing of dialogue, and the occasional overreliance on voiceover to convey transitions. These are not accidental flaws but structural features of a film trying to construct affect through presence rather than polish.

The film was released at a moment when Italian morale was beginning to collapse and war fatigue had set in deeply. Unlike the tone of exaltation found in 1941-42 productions, it carries an unspoken melancholy, a tacit recognition that the war effort no longer inspired confidence but required endurance. This sentiment permeates the cinematography, the pacing, and even the silences between lines. It is not a film of victory, but one of tenacity in the face of futility-despite its official purpose.

By focusing exclusively on mountain troops and refusing the flamboyant heroics found in other subgenres of Fascist war cinema-especially naval or aerial-it positions itself as a quieter, more grounded artifact of military propaganda. The camera does not soar; it trudges. The heroes do not proclaim; they endure. This visual and narrative ethic aligns the film not only with the topographical harshness of its setting but with a broader ideological shift occurring in late Fascist cinema: a retreat from spectacle into the stubborn, resigned celebration of collective sacrifice.