ANIMATION WORLD MAGAZINE - ISSUE 5.05 - AUGUST 2000
A Letter To A Master
by Giannalberto Bendazzi
© Art Today.Dear Max,
I'm not writing you just because it's been almost fifteen years since you passed away, nor because of your degree in mathematical physics from one of the hardest universities in the world (the college at Pisa), though I wouldn't miss the opportunity to note that mathematics is everything except outlines and rigidity.
You were born in Turin on October 7, 1924, as Giorgio Massimino-Garniér (note the accent, which should require one to pronounce it "Garnierrrr," but everybody mistakes it for the French pronunciation "Garnyea" -- and you never bothered to correct them. As for the name you were baptized with, George, you allowed it to be relegated to official documents, and turned yourself universally into Max). You devoted the best of yourself to Paul Film in Modena. You died in Rome on December 21, 1985.
Why am I writing you, then? Because you were one of the greatest figures in Italian, as well as international, animation during the last 50 years. And with the century and the millennium drawing to a close, I want the young people of your and my world (animation to be precise) to know about you and not forget you. To see how, despite everything, you were successful. But let's go in the proper order.
In 1954 you founded Paul Film in Modena, together with Paolo (Paul) Campani. He would make designs, you would write plots and scripts. You enlarged the business, and made a fortune when the government television station RAI invented the advertising formula called Carousel: a minute and a half of pure entertainment with a 30-second tail containing an advertising message. It was then, from 1957 on, that the little Italian animation industry was really born, because animation became the king of Carousel, and you from Paul Film, then Bozzetto, Gamma Film, Pagot, DeMas, Piccardo, Biassoni, Cavandoli, and many others seized the opportunity to make that 90-seconds into so many little series with such delightful recurrent characters. You and Paul made Toto and Tata, Angelino, Pupa and Bob-Bob, Snacker and several others. For some 15 years you were among the most fertile and rich producers of Italian animation.
Then Paul Film dissolved, and you went to Rome to coordinate, for Corona Films, The Tales of Europe project: more than 40 short films, each one a traditional story for children from a European country, made by an animator from the country of origin in co-production with an Italian. In 1976 Ezio Gagliardo, the heart and soul of Corona, and your direct contact, died. You left the company but remained in Rome, founding a film company with the producer Aldo Raparelli and the painter/animator Manfredo Manfredi.
Then came the damned cancer. You would always say to me, joking (but not too much): "Sick? When someone's sick, I don't go to see them, don't telephone, don't write, move to another town..." or "Dying? It's only a probability based on the incontestable fact that in the end all humans are mortal. But what if I'm the blessed exception?"
You would joke in order to seem cowardly, or was it rather, ironically, in order to show how courageous you were? But from youth on you practiced fencing, and in 1952 you qualified for the final selection for the Olympic team at Helsinki. You were intrinsically a fighter. Death never had a harder adversary to subdue. You never gave up going to festivals, participating in conferences, joking, and being (not just seeming!) serene. During times you spent in the hospital you would proselytize for animation even among the medical workers; each time your x-rays were developed, you would hold them up, saying, "Here's your storyboard, doctor."
You did story and script for highly prized advertising films that are lost and gone astray now. In your European Tales you became a kind of itinerant artistic supervisor, giving lots of guidance, but rarely getting credit as a single creator. Metamorpheus (1970), the short on which you collaborated with Czech animator Jiri Brdec ka, and which was a powerful emotional hymn to artistic freedom, hasn't been screened for decades. No festival has shown the 14 minute-long mini-films you made with Paul Campani, four in 1968 and 10 in 1973: aphorisms, gags, striking and sarcastic lyrics, brilliant, excellent -- and forgotten.
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