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I keep taking the bus to go to Pinelli’s home, he lives outside of Rome.
It’s the only thing I do willingly, take the bus, because it feels like I’m moving away from the film, I’m leaving.
This morning a young soldier who travelled almost the whole way with me asked: “Why don’t you make a movie against compulsory military service?”. With his Aramis moustache, his sharp and delicate profile like an aristocratic revolutionary, Cavazzoni listens to the account of the stories I invented while reading his book.
He doesn’t comment. Detached, perhaps incredulous, he silently looks at me, who knows what he’s thinking. Only a couple of times did he blush slightly.
