You know that feeling when you watch a "classic" movie and it feels like a dusty museum piece? Yeah, The Decameron 1971 film isn’t that. Not even close.
Pier Paolo Pasolini was a provocateur. A genius, sure, but a man who seemed to thrive on making the Italian establishment lose its collective mind. When he decided to adapt Giovanni Boccaccio’s 14th-century masterpiece, he didn't go for the high-brow, stiff literary approach. He went for the dirt. The sweat. The messy, beautiful, and sometimes gross reality of being a human being. It's the first entry in his "Trilogy of Life," and honestly, it’s probably the most joyful thing he ever made, which is saying a lot considering the guy ended his career with Salò.
People often get The Decameron 1971 film wrong by assuming it's just "erotic cinema." It’s so much more than some vintage skin flick. It’s a radical political statement wrapped in a fart joke.
The Raw Grime of the Middle Ages
Forget the Hollywood version of the Renaissance where everyone has perfect teeth and clean tunics. Pasolini hated that. He cast non-professional actors—people he found on the streets of Naples—because he wanted faces that told a story before they even opened their mouths. You see crooked teeth. You see sun-damaged skin. You see people who look like they actually live in the 1300s.
It’s visceral.
The film drops Boccaccio's "frame story"—the one about the ten wealthy youngsters hiding from the Black Death in a villa—and instead dives straight into the tales. It’s a anthology of ten stories that range from the darkly comedic to the genuinely touching. You’ve got Andreuccio, the naive gem merchant who gets tricked, dumped into a cesspool (literally), and eventually ends up robbing a corpse. Then there’s Masetto, the gardener who pretends to be deaf and mute so he can get hired at a convent and, well, "service" the nuns.
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It’s hilarious. It’s also deeply human.
Pasolini himself shows up in the second half of the movie. He plays the "best pupil of Giotto," a painter tasked with creating a massive fresco. It’s a meta-commentary on the act of creation. He spends the whole movie observing, sketching, and trying to capture the divine in the mundane. There’s a line he says at the very end—it's basically the thesis of his entire career: "Why complete a work when it’s so beautiful just to dream it?"
Why the Censorship Boards Lost Their Minds
When the movie premiered at the 21st Berlin International Film Festival, it won the Silver Bear. But back in Italy? Total chaos.
We’re talking about dozens of lawsuits. The film was seized. It was banned. It was un-banned. The Catholic Church was particularly unhappy, which, if you’ve seen the segment with the nuns or the "miracle" of the fake saint Ciappelletto, isn't exactly a shocker. Pasolini wasn't just showing nudity; he was showing the clergy as sexual beings, and he was doing it with a smirk.
But here’s the thing: Pasolini wasn't being cynical. He actually loved these characters.
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He saw the "sub-proletariat"—the poor, the uneducated, the marginalized—as the last bastions of reality in a world being flattened by consumerism. To him, a peasant’s laughter was more sacred than a bishop’s prayer. He used The Decameron 1971 film to celebrate a pre-industrial world where bodies were just bodies, and sex wasn't something to be ashamed of or marketed. It was just part of the landscape.
The Neapolitan Connection
The language is another hurdle for some. Pasolini insisted on using Neapolitan dialect. If you speak standard Italian, you might struggle to catch every word without subtitles. Why do this? Because Neapolitan is earthy. It’s rhythmic. It’s the language of the street, not the palace. It gives the film a texture that feels lived-in.
If you watch the movie today, the pacing might feel a bit loose. It’s not a tight, three-act structure. It meanders. It lingers on a face for three seconds too long. It follows a dog down an alleyway for no apparent reason. But that’s the point. Pasolini is inviting you to inhabit this world, not just consume a plot.
The Visual Language: Bruegel and Giotto
You can’t talk about this film without talking about the look of it. It’s basically a living painting. Pasolini and his cinematographer, Ennio Guarnieri, leaned heavily into the aesthetics of Northern Renaissance painters like Pieter Bruegel the Elder and, obviously, Giotto.
The compositions are often flat, crowded, and bursting with detail. Look at the wedding scene or the market squares. There’s a specific "arranged chaos" that makes every frame feel like it belongs in a museum, even when the subject matter is a man hiding in a giant tub while his wife’s lover sneaks out the back.
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- The use of light: Natural, harsh, and unforgiving.
- The locations: He shot in Naples, Caserta, and even parts of Yemen to find architecture that hadn't been ruined by modern "progress."
- The costumes: Designed by Danilo Donati, who won an Oscar later for Casanova. They look heavy. They look itchy. They look real.
Is It Still Relevant?
Honestly, yeah. Maybe more than ever.
In a world where everything is filtered through Instagram and every movie is color-graded to death in post-production, The Decameron 1971 film feels like a bucket of cold water to the face. It’s a reminder that we are biological creatures. We eat, we poop, we lust, we die.
There’s no "message" in the traditional sense. Pasolini isn't trying to teach you a lesson. He’s just showing you a version of humanity that he felt was slipping away. He called it the "disappearance of the fireflies"—the loss of small, beautiful, natural things to the blinding glare of modern life.
How to Actually Watch It Today
If you’re going to dive in, don't watch a crappy compressed version on a pirate site. You’ll miss the texture. The Criterion Collection put out a restored version that is absolutely stunning. You can actually see the brushstrokes on the fresco and the sweat on the actors' foreheads.
- Context is everything. Read a quick summary of Boccaccio's original stories first. It helps you see where Pasolini stayed faithful and where he went rogue.
- Watch it as a trilogy. If you like this, move on to The Canterbury Tales and Arabian Nights. They get progressively more dreamlike and experimental.
- Forget the "Old Movie" bias. Don't wait for a jump scare or a Marvel-style quip. Just sit with the imagery.
- Look for the subtext. Notice how the church is portrayed versus how the "sinners" are portrayed. Pasolini’s Marxism is all over this movie, even if it’s hidden behind a codpiece.
The Decameron 1971 film remains a landmark of world cinema not because it’s "important," but because it’s alive. It’s messy, it’s loud, and it refuses to apologize for being exactly what it is. Whether you find it beautiful or repulsive—or both—you won't forget it.
Actionable Insights for Film Enthusiasts:
To truly appreciate Pasolini's work, compare the "miracle" sequence in the film to the original Boccaccio text (Day 1, Tale 1). You’ll see how Pasolini uses visual irony to critique religious hypocrisy far more effectively than words ever could. If you're a filmmaker or photographer, study the "Giotto's pupil" sequences; they are a masterclass in how to use the "rule of thirds" and deep focus to create a sense of historical immersion without using a single CGI effect. Don't just watch it for the plot—watch it for the faces. Those faces are a map of a lost Italy.