More than sixty years after its release in 1945, Rome, Open City undoubtedly still deserves its place in the hall of neo-realist fame, numberless university syllabi, and in the hearts of audiences around the world, though newcomers to the tradition of Italian neo-realism may initially wonder why. The first in Rossellini's neo-realist Trilogy, Rome, Open City occupies an uncontested place in the canon, as Otto Preminger has famously said, dividing the history of cinema into two sections, the time before and the time after its release. Greater praise for innovation would be hard to come by. However, while the ideological implication of on-site shooting, frequently non-professional actors and natural lighting (not to mention the less-than-ideal quality of available sound) are interesting and certainly attractive in theory, the practice of these innovations in the 1940s may leave contemporary viewers wondering why such an aesthetically compromised style survives the test of time and remains so interesting to theorists and theatre-goers alike. Canon aside, something about Rome, Open City continues to speak to us: decades later, as World War II risks becoming the stuff of somber nostalgia, and modern war is something far away, run by other people, Rossellini's dedication to stylistic integrity and humanity may have more to offer us than ever.

There is more to Rome, Open City than the pioneering of neo-realism's unapologetic social commentary, more, even, than cinema's ambition to tell history's stories so that the nature of the telling was intensely married to the tale itself. Over and above its place as a ground-breaking achievement in European cinema, the spark of life flickers wildly at the heart of this film: somewhere between the complete desperation of its subjects, the distinction between fear and cowardliness, and the room left for hilarity in the darkest of times, Rossellini's film becomes a bastion of humanity rising from the ruins of Rome. Maybe it's the very real proximity of the film to its events that has kept it so painfully fresh over the years. Neo-realism emerges out of ideology and necessity simultaneously, as the closing of Rome's central film studio and a scarcity of film stock made standard filmic resources hard to come by in 1945. Beyond this, the movie speaks to the reality of human desperation, asking what seem like cruel questions under the provided circumstance: What is happiness? Are we alone, if together? Have we earned our suffering? Most poignant perhaps: How do you give others hope when you fear you have lost your own? Rossellini doesn't shy away from these, nor does he give in to easy answers, sentimental resolution, or existential angst. Indeed, even what might feel like comic relief evolves into something dramatically different by the film's climax - every time we smile, every time we're given the opportunity to laugh, we feel, deeply, how much there is to lose.

Open City doesn't pretend to have all the answers either: in this world, love is a bonding power that might kill you as well as save your life, drive you to desperation, to dignity, to hardship, to happiness. Commitment to personal honesty may lead to pain and loss, (mirrored by neo-realism’s own aspiration to truth at the expense of luxury), but it might equally be the only “good life” available: which makes the question of religion, and specifically, faith, a very interesting one indeed, and one that the film's final sequence leaves absolutely ambiguous. Though it's tempting to look for hope in Rome, Open City, what we find in its place looks less like hope than dedication - a certain integrity that goes beyond the individual: as Francesco suggests to Pina, you must have hope no matter what happens - not for yourself, but for the future. Given this piece of wisdom, the film's trajectory is particularly interesting to trace in terms of family, as the resistance is whittled down to one known adult, the women are effectively done away with, and all known paternalistic organizations are neutralized by infiltration and occupation, from the Government to the final neutralization of the Church's underground activity. As we cut away from Don Pietro’s last breath (interestingly, towards San Pietro, as if the man had been immediately immortalized but also institutionalized) the new faces of the resistance descend on Rome, fatherless, communal, supportive, wounded, and carrying on nonetheless. The moment is inconclusive specifically because it is exactly that: with the deaths of their guardians and forefathers, Rome, Open City marks (dare we say hopes for) the beginning of a new Rome, reborn in the fearless rebellion of youth who have nothing to lose but the future, having already lost the past and the comforts of childhood. It is thus that the present dawns on Rossellini's film, thus that we feel that final moment on every viewing like it was the first time, as something bright and fierce born out of destruction, loss, incredible pain, and ultimately, love.

Amanda Tripp is an MA candidate at in the English program at McGill University. Her undergraduate background in Cultural Studies is film studies oriented with a particular interest in genre and gender.