Rescued from obscurity by the French New Wave, Roberto Rossellini’s deceptively mild tale of marital distress still captivates almost sixty years after its original release. You would be forgiven for thinking a melodrama about a marriage in crisis from the 1950s would have little to say about relationships today, but JOURNEY TO ITALY retains a peculiar resonance; the gaping void where love ought to be in the lives of this couple is something that many will sadly relate to, particularly in these days of high divorce rates and family breakdowns. But it’s a journey that fascinates, intrigues and challenges too.

The couple in question, Katherine (Ingrid Bergman) and Alex (George Sanders), have been married only a few years but already are romantically adrift, bored with each other and heading towards nothing but more of the same. Their car journey to Naples, as the film opens, says it all: Sanders is fast asleep in the passenger seat while Bergman is driving with no idea where they are. On their way to arrange the sale of a villa bequeathed to them by their locally popular uncle, they try to turn the trip into something of a holiday – but their differing interests drive them apart. It’s not long before Alex is turning his attention to other women, while Katherine potters around the city remembering a pre-war friendship with a doomed romantic poet and visiting nearby museums.

This is a film all about death; in particular the living death of a relationship gone wrong

The rich photography of pre-tourism boom Italy certainly adds to its charms, but there is no question this is a film all about death; in particular the living death of a relationship gone wrong. The couple are continually surrounded by the lifeless past: the ruins of nearby Pompeii, the museum artefacts from long dead civilizations, skeletons dug up by archaeologists. A local funeral brings the city to a halt, and it was even a death that brought them to Italy in the first place. If it’s not death from the past, then it’s the imminent threat of death in the future, with Vesuvius lurking in the background as a reminder that life is too short and fragile to waste.

Any passion Katherine and Alex once might have shared is now dormant; like the volcano that dominates the view from their villa, it’s a relic from a different age. They realise this is the first time since their wedding that they have been truly alone together, and it fills with them with unease. Mundane Pinter-esque dialogue only increases the gulf between them. Neither are very sympathetic or likable. Their unwillingness to try to resuscitate their relationship only reinforces the suspicion that this was a long time coming. Both leads are perfectly cast: Sanders is on fine caddish form, but Bergman in particular is excellent as the humourless wife, caught between what she wants and what she feels she must do.

A suspiciously sudden happy ending raises hopes that perhaps it’s not too late to salvage something after all, but the writing is on the wall. It might feel uneventful and slightly hollow, but that is precisely how Rossellini conveys the nature of a relationship in its death throes.

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