Anna Magnani was among the most powerful of all Italian movie stars, known for the sense of bedrock authenticity she brought to her characters. Writing about Jean Renoir's romantic comedy The Golden Coach (1952), critic Pauline Kael said Magnani had become "the embodiment of human experience, the most 'real' of actresses," with "roots in the earth so strong that she can pull them out, shake them in the face of pretension and convention, and sink them down again stronger than ever." Along similar lines, Robin Wood observed that for American audiences "she represented exactly what Hollywood had consistently failed to produce: 'reality,' the nonglamorous human being." Wood noted that Magnani was not pretty by conventional standards, but millions of moviegoers have found her gorgeous anyway. As journalist Judith Thurman wrote in a different context, "some charismatic women...are beautiful by an act of will."

You wouldn't guess the full extent of Magnani's earthiness from watching her first major movie, The Blind Woman of Sorrento, aka La cieca di Sorrento, an Italian production directed by Nunzio Malasomma and now available from MYA Communication in a well-produced DVD edition. The film was released in 1934, about halfway through the fascist reign of Benito Mussolini, which lasted from 1922 until his execution when World War II was drawing to a close. Italy had its most revolutionary impact on international cinema in the decade after the war, when the great Neorealist filmmakers – Roberto Rossellini, Vittorio De Sica, Luchino Visconti, and others – made unglamorous authenticity their guiding principle. Before the war, however, Italian directors were chiefly inspired by Hollywood styles, presenting well-groomed comedies and dramas with crowd-pleasing stories, alluring stars, and picturesque studio sets. Malasomma was entirely at home in this environment, and judging from the striking performance she gives in her debut picture, Magnani was too, even though she later starred in Rossellini's classic Rome, Open City, which launched the Neorealist movement in 1945.

The screenplay for The Blind Woman of Sorrento, written by Tomaso Smith, is based on an eponymous 1852 novel by journalist and playwright Francesco Mastriani, which also inspired film adaptations in 1916, 1952, and 1963. Malasomma's version begins in Naples in 1834. In the opening scene we see a group of conspirators planning a subversive action, taking care to dodge the police, who are on the lookout for intrigue. In a nearby home, meanwhile, a robber connected with the cabal invades the bedroom of the sleeping Marchese di Rionero and suffocates the helpless woman when she wakes up and sees him in the act. Her little girl, Beatrice, witnesses all this and soon goes blind, evidently because of the resulting trauma. Deceived by a faulty clue to the crime – a scarf belonging to another man, found outside the window of the murdered marchese – the police arrest the wrong conspirator, who accepts death on the gallows rather than betray the real culprit, a notary named Basileo.

Skipping over ten years, the story resumes in 1844, when Beatrice has grown into a lovely and sophisticated young woman, living in Sorrento with her father. Hoping that medical science can now restore her sight, a professor who lives nearby brings in a celebrated English physician to examine her; the doctor happens to be the son of the honorable loyalist who died on the gallows, but his surgical skills are genuine, and he agrees to perform the necessary operation. Basileo is also on the scene, however, wooing Beatrice under a false identity and trusting that her blindness will forever prevent her from identifying him as the man who took her mother's life. The surgery works – it always does in movies like this – and after some days of confusion Beatrice recognizes Basileo's eyes as those of the murderer, furiously unmasking him at the height of a stylish ball attended by all the gentry in Sorrento.

Dria Paola is highly engaging as the adult Beatrice, and eight-year-old Miranda Bonansea is astoundingly good as little Beatrice in the murder scene, which Malasomma films with particular brilliance. But the most riveting performance comes from Magnani in the supporting role of Anna, the murderer's mistress. She was a rising stage actress in the early 1930s, with no screen experience except a tiny part in a 1928 silent picture. Her marriage to a movie director in 1933 increased her contact with the film community, however, and her recruitment for The Blind Woman of Sorrento was a result. From then until her international breakthrough in Rome, Open City, her earthbound appearance and no-holds-barred style generally led filmmakers to cast her in fiery secondary roles rather than star-making parts. But what she lacked in prettiness she more than made up in power, intensity, and charisma. The Blind Woman of Sorrento is an excellent showcase for her talent and her temperament, allowing her to simmer with suppressed tension through a large part of the story, then erupt into volcanic rage when her wicked lover finally pushes her over the edge. She is one of the rare performers whose eyes can truly be called blazing, and she makes the most of that asset even in this early role.

Magnani's passion stands out all the more because this movie is so decorous and buttoned down in other respects. In the tradition of Italy's smoothly polished "white telephone" productions, Malasomma unfolds the drama at a leisurely pace against a background of elegant interiors – the production design by Alberto de Poletti becomes especially lush when the Sorrento scenes begin – and Arturo Gallea's cinematography lends a touch of refinement to everything except Magnani's vibrant features and the murderer's panicked face in the climactic scene. Malasomma appears to be influenced by Alfred Hitchcock, as when Basileo hides his face behind a cloak like the title character in The Lodger (1927), and in its best moments the film projects a moderate degree of Hitchcockian suspense. This diverts attention from the story itself, which is fortunate, because the plot makes little sense on a basic level: If little Beatrice lost her sight as a result of psychological trauma, how does an eye operation bring it back?

The Blind Woman of Sorrento looks good in its DVD edition, despite some imperfect patches resulting from the age and condition of the print used for the transfer. The package is minimal, though, since the feature clocks in at only 69 minutes and there are no extras to accompany it. That said, the arrival of this little-seen feature is a welcome event for everyone interested in Italian film, and for Magnani admirers it's a rare and authentic treat.

The Blind Woman of Sorrento, visit Mya DVD. To order The Blind Woman of Sorrento, go to TCM Shopping.

by David Sterritt