The Voice of the Moon 1990

In a film that nods to the lunar-obsessed cadence of Italian poet Giacomo Leopardi, the story unfolds as a sharp, surreal fable about desire, chaos, and the oddly sacred power of the moon. At the center is a fractured trio of the Micheluzzi brothers—among them Giuanin Micheluzzi and Terzio Micheluzzi—who manage to literally pull the moon down from the sky with colossal farming gear, rousing awe, disbelief, and a flurry of political theater as the spectacle is turned into official propaganda. Amid this larger-than-life oddity, Ivo Salvini, freshly released from a mental hospital, becomes infatuated with Aldina Ferruzzi, a woman who embodies the moonlight he reveres. He pursues her with a fevered intensity, even as she makes it clear she wants nothing to do with him. Ivo’s fixation frames the film’s mood: brittle, wry, and tipped toward a carnival of lunacy that never quite loses its melancholy.

As Ivo fumbles his pursuit, he crosses paths with a cast of eccentric figures who seem plucked from a fever dream. There’s Gertrude, the oboist’s wife, who drifts through the days in a cemetery-quiet world, a man who spends his time meditating on rooftops, and Gonnella, the ex-prefect who has been fired for his growing paranoia. Gonnella takes Ivo under his wing, appointing him as his lieutenant in a ridiculous, shadowy investigation into the “wild conspiracies” that only seem to bloom in this feverish landscape. The pair lurch from one bizarre encounter to another, their partnership a parody of authority, ambition, and the thin line between genius and madness.

The film hurtles into a farcical beauty pageant, where Aldina is crowned “Miss Flour of 1989” and then finds herself wandering the moonlit farmlands, her path crossing with graceful African women chanting in the moonlight. The journey then sidesteps into a warehouse of dreams and distortions: inside this forgotten space, a brutal disco of fashion victims erupts, their delirious dancing set to Michael Jackson’s “The Way You Make Me Feel.” The moment is a riot of color and sound, a capsule of the film’s feverish energy that teeters between celebration and chaos. Ivo’s realization that Aldina’s shoe fits every Cinderella who dares it on becomes a playful, maddening joke inside the larger absurdist universe.

Meanwhile, the three Micheluzzi brothers’ moon capture becomes a ceremony of contradictions. What should be a sacred, almost magical moment is upended by the appearance of priests and politicians who seize the scene for propaganda, turning awe into a public spectacle. The gathering devolves into a volatile confrontation when a pistol-wielding madman erupts, crying out, “What am I doing here? Why was I put here in the first place?” The scene snaps with raw, uneasy energy, a reminder of the film’s willingness to mix farce with a piercing, unsettled undercurrent. The aftermath leaves Ivo Salvini at the center of the storm, the final, haunting moment settling on his weary, revealing words:

If we all quieted down a little, maybe we’d understand something.

This line lingers as the screen fades, a quiet counterpoint to the night’s loud, surreal revelry. The movie overall crafts a delicate balance between satire and sadness, using a moonlit carnival as a lens to explore longing, miscommunication, and the messy humanity that arises when dreams collide with reality. The performances—led by the mournfully comic energy of Ivo Salvini and the offbeat charisma of Gonnella—thread a hypnotic, hypnotizing mood that lingers long after the credits roll, inviting audiences to question what they hear, what they see, and what they believe when the world seems to tilt toward the impossible.