In the opening scene of ¨The Gospel according to St. Matthew¨ by PierPaolo Pasolini, the pale face of a teenage girl fills the screen. She is wearing a head shawl, and her large, innocent eyes look up at us apprehensively. She swallows and looks down, embarrassed. She is facing a middle-aged man with kind eyes. He sees a young woman, visibly pregnant, standing in front of a decrepit stone arch. This is Mary and, scrutinising Mary’s rotund figure in disbelief, is Joseph, her husband.
No dialogue is necessary. In a handful of silent minutes, Pasolini enables us to empathise with both individuals. At first, we are Joseph; we've come back to Mary, maybe after a long absence, to find her pregnant. His silent confusion is ours. We share his love for her, his thirst for answers to all the questions crowding his mind. When she fails to speak, we turn around with him to walk away.
Suddenly, through the camera's eyes, we become Mary; young, frail, dazed Mary. Mary who feels lost and above all scared. Mary who does not explain because she cannot explain. Mary who does not understand what has happened any more than Joseph does.
What Pasolini knew was that when words don't work, when speech is superfluous, you can always rely on the eloquence of silence.
No dialogue is necessary. In a handful of silent minutes, Pasolini enables us to empathise with both individuals. At first, we are Joseph; we've come back to Mary, maybe after a long absence, to find her pregnant. His silent confusion is ours. We share his love for her, his thirst for answers to all the questions crowding his mind. When she fails to speak, we turn around with him to walk away.
Suddenly, through the camera's eyes, we become Mary; young, frail, dazed Mary. Mary who feels lost and above all scared. Mary who does not explain because she cannot explain. Mary who does not understand what has happened any more than Joseph does.
What Pasolini knew was that when words don't work, when speech is superfluous, you can always rely on the eloquence of silence.
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