Living in Naples, right beneath the looming shadow of Vesuvius, must come with its own set of anxieties. It’s not merely the fact that it’s an active volcano, capable of erupting at a moment’s notice, but also its historic track record of eruptions—most notoriously in 79 CE, when it obliterated the Roman cities of Pompeii and Herculaneum, entombing them in ash. Today, these sites are infamous tourist destinations where visitors confront the remnants of ancestors who perished in horrific circumstances, choking on ash and toxic fumes, reminding us that such a fate could befall anyone at any time.
Filmmaker Gianfranco Rosi adeptly captures this pervasive unease in Below The Clouds, shot in striking black and white that imparts a dreamlike quality to the narrative (it even opens with a quote from surrealist Jean Cocteau). The director weaves through various individuals and locations in Southern Italy’s capital, encapsulating the city’s broad spectrum of civic institutions and lived experiences.
Unique elements of the city emerge throughout the film. The local carabinieri examine illegal tunnels used to raid ancient tombs. The fire department remains vigilant, monitoring seismic activity linked to the volcano. A language tutor conducts after-school sessions, teaching French by drawing parallels with the Neapolitan dialect. Artistic interludes resemble pillow shots: trains clattering along their routes, ocean waves juxtaposed with lava streams, timeless Greco-Roman statues resting on the seabed.
In many ways, Naples serves as a microcosm reflecting the looming catastrophes that threaten the world at large. This becomes especially evident—and occasionally humorous—when local residents call the fire department following minor earthquake tremors, often interpreted as harbingers of a potential eruption. The callers range from frantically concerned (“What death awaits us?” exclaims one woman) to absurdly irritated (“I was in the middle of making a lovely ragù,” moans a disgruntled man). Never before has Marx’s famous assertion about history haunting the living felt so immediately tangible.
As the narrative unfolds, the urgency of such threats intensifies. Rosi nods to thematic elements from his earlier works, Fire at Sea (2016) and Notturno (2020), addressing the European migrant crisis and ongoing conflicts in the Middle East. A scene depicts a freighter staffed by Syrians shuttling grain between Odessa in Ukraine, now under Russian bombardment. The crew watches news of other ships being targeted, yet one remarks nonchalantly, “We Syrians know war and bombs well.”
Moments of somber reflection arise during scenes set within a museum’s catacomb-like storage areas. Viewers catch glimpses of galleries brimming with statues and ancient artifacts—some meticulously stored, others haphazardly piled together, showcasing a kaleidoscope of eras: Greek, Roman, Bourbon, and modern. Noteworthy pieces, such as a statue of Lakshmi (dubbed “the Indian Venus” by a researcher), discovered at Pompeii, highlight the ancient connections to Eastern civilizations.
These poignant scenes, where historical art meets Rosi’s stunning visuals, evoke a poignant memento mori for the civilizations and rulers long since relegated to history’s margins. They remind us that the notions of borders and nations are recent creations; Naples predates the very idea of the Italian state, established only in 1861. Moreover, Pompeii itself is older than Naples, and Vesuvius, ancient and eternal, will outlive all of us.
Below The Clouds will be screened at the New York Film Festival (144 West 65th Street, Lincoln Square, Manhattan) on October 5 and 6.
