I would like to offer a few thoughts on Ulrich Seidl’s Rimini (2022) as the limited space on MUBI prevents me from providing broader context for my telegraphic comments. Above all, I am interested in exploring the film’s deep message, since most of the reviews I’ve come across have failed to grasp its broader implications. Suffice to say is that most critics dismissively label this film as a “late” or “minor” creation by an “aging filmmaker.” However, I contend that Rimini is a remarkable, audacious accomplishment, despite my strong reservations about its politics.
Before we delve into the ideologies underpinning this film, it is useful to remember that Rimini – which debuted at the Berlinale in 2022 – is one half of a diptych that also includes Sparta, a film I have yet to watch. I will therefore ignore the controversy surrounding the latter’s release. Also – and this is a warning – my comments contain spoilers.
The central argument I wish to advance is that Rimini primarily serves as a commentary on immigration within Europe. I believe that my claim is substantiated by the narrative and exemplified by the three main characters, who hail from different backgrounds, set against the backdrop of the lamentable gaudiness of Rimini, a seaside town in Italy perpetually trapped in a nonexistent, idealized past.
The first character introduced is Richie Bravo, portrayed brilliantly by Michael Thomas. Bravo, an Austrian singer and gigolo, is depicted as a corpulent man clad in spandex outfits and adorned with sealskin overcoats. It becomes soon clear that Bravo’s popularity must have reached greater heights at some point in his career, but his decline – likely connected to his struggles with alcoholism, poor financial management, and an inability to adapt to the “new demands of the marketplace” – has compelled him to perform primarily for elderly Teutonic women visiting this desolate, third-rate summer resort in the heart of winter. During his performances, Bravo makes these women feel “special” and, afterwards, offers them sexual gratification in exchange for payment. Essentially, Bravo is the quintessential “has been” who reinvented himself as a different kind of performer. He is a former celebrity who has transitioned into the realm of male escorting. It becomes apparent that Bravo’s survival is sustained more by his involvement in the domain of sex work rather than his singing career, and yet the two are intertwined. In essence, he is just another cog in the gig economy, offering IRL services provided by apps like OnlyFans and Cameo. He mostly performs in dilapidated hotels that have remained untouched since the 1970s, mirroring the prevailing shabby condition of many parts of contemporary Italy. The recurring image is piles of chairs in dimly lit, likely dusty, deserted alleyways. Rimini is - literally and metaphorically - a ghost town, an example of hauntology.
Ulrich Seidl, Rimini, 2022
The second character can be described as generic, representing the black African immigrants who primarily serve as urban adornments. In Seidl’s portrayal, they are generally depicted either sitting immobile or lying on the ground under the most disparate (often desperate) weather conditions. They are static and passive. Unlike Bravo, these individuals lack a distinct voice, charisma and identity. They are portrayed as interchangeable and easily replaceable. Throughout the film, we frequently encounter them in groups of four or five as Bravo approaches or leaves his villa. As he walks along a mist-filled beach, carrying a bag in hand, he barely spares a glance at these statuesque men, treating them as mere background figures. Props, Exterior design.
Ulrich Seidl, Rimini, 2022
The third character is another collective presence, albeit with a touch of individuality. It encompasses the Muslim men and women who have figuratively invaded Rimini, symbolizing the influx of immigrants into Italy, specifically within the context of the Emilia-Romagna region. Their invasion, however, is not a literal one. Rather, they have been inadvertently aided by Richie’s daughter, Tessa (portrayed by Tess Göttlicher), whose boyfriend, a silent and bearded man, standing at close distance with his arms perpetually crossed, appears primarily interested in managing her finances. The Muslim immigrants are portrayed as an organized force, donning camouflage fatigues, hoodies, military boots and black attire. While they possess an aura of vague menace, they also maintain a certain detachment as they seem focused on amassing critical numbers for a possible take over. In fact, as the story unfolds, they end up literally occupying Bravo’s villa, where they recline on their carpets, smoking and enjoying tea, indifferent to the admittedly tame weak lamentations of the legitimate owner. Domestic tasks, such as cooking, are primarily delegated to by women, mirroring the behavior of both local inhabitants and fully integrated immigrants like Bravo, who relies on the services of an African cleaning woman to maintain his villa, which he rents out to wealthier Austrian couples to cover his expenses.
Ulrich Seidl, Rimini, 2022
In addition to the aforementioned characters, there exists a potential fourth entity, one that remains largely invisible throughout the film: the Italians themselves. The great paradox of Rimini is that it unfolds in an Italy that appears to be largely devoid of its own people. The locals are relegated to the periphery of the frame, playing minimal, marginal roles in the narrative. Old hotel clerks and faceless baristas are the extent of their presence. Like the African immigrants, they also lack a voice and they play no narrative role. Notably absent from Seidl’s portrayal of Italy are children, suggesting their scarcity within this context. It seems that Italians, either having departed or passed away, are no longer prominent inhabitants. The survivors, therefore, are left to manage an obsolete, decaying urban infrastructure comprising arcades, hotels, and bars – a relic of a bygone era that lacks a vibrant and thriving Italian community. Bravo’s decadent, tacky villa, full of cheesy mementos and cheap memorabilia that he occasionally sells to a shark to pay his bills, alludes to a precarious economy of a country stuck in a perpetual crisis.
Ulrich Seidl, Rimini, 2022
Within Seidl’s narrative, it is evident that Richie Bravo serves as a metaphor for intra-European immigration. As a citizen of Austria, a wealthier nation, Bravo relocates to Italy, a comparatively poorer country, to seek employment in its dominant (read: the only functioning) industry: hospitality. Presently, Italy’s primary economic activity revolves around the service sector. Given the country’s aging population and ongoing brain drain, it becomes an appealing prospect for individuals like Bravo, a middle-aged man catering to busloads of retired tourists – an expand demographics, consisting of individuals with disposable income and free time. However, the service industry alone does not ensure survival. Like many Italians, Bravo is compelled to practice l’“arte d’arrangiarsi” (lit., the art of making do) through various scams, tricks, and cons targeted at affluent visitors, as a means to sustain himself in the face of financial hardship.
Ulrich Seidl, Rimini, 2022
In contrast to Bravo, the black African immigrants exist mostly on the outskirts of society. This group is collectively portrayed as passive beggars who have even renounced begging, fully conscious of its futility. They do not engage with others, maintaining a motionless or resigned demeanor, akin to a sculpture crafted by Maurizio Cattelan. Seidl's objectifying representation is all but manifest. The sole exception arises with the aforementioned cleaner, who brings her baby along while performing her duties for the affluent white man. Bravo admonishes her with a stern gaze and makes an unequivocal remark: “[We have a] baby problem”. This statement can be interpreted in two ways: firstly, questioning why she brought the baby when he only hired her for cleaning, the "servant" imposing the burden on the "master", and secondly, as commentary on the fact that the responsibility of social reproduction in Italy, a country with one of the world’s lowest birth rates alongside Japan, predominantly falls upon the immigrant population. The white man frames the presence of the African woman’s baby as a “problem,” revealing his perception, as an immigrant himself albeit from a privileged European country, that the changing landscape of the stereotypical Italian identity – where the new Italians are not predominantly white – is regarded as problematic. It is worth mentioning that the shift from Italy as a monoculture to Italy as a more diverse country – a process that is now accelerating – partially explain the rise of the Far Right and the ascent of Georgia Meloni, who has been quickly "normalized" by the Italian mass media and by the European establishment.
The Muslim immigrants are portrayed as parasites within Seidl’s narrative. None of them has a recognizable – let alone, reputable – job. Instead, they navigate Europe on their RV held together by scotch tape and settle in the parking lot of an abandoned hotel, one among many in Rimini. While not precisely squatters, their ultimate objective is to seize the homes of wealthier Europeans, starting with Richie Bravo’s villa. They indulge in smoking, drinking tea, praying on their carpets, and playing music for Tessa’s provocative and derisive dance – a performance intended to humiliate her father, Richie, who's watching aghast behind a fence.
Ulrich Seidl, Rimini, 2022
Interestingly, akin to the African woman who works as a house cleaner, Tessa is the sole character in the film engaged in the function of social reproduction. In fact, she becomes pregnant by her Muslim boyfriend, and in the latter part of the film, we observe her reclined on her father’s sofa, endlessly scrolling through her phone alongside her equally apathetic boyfriend, both fixated on their devices like typical millennials hungry for their dopamine shot. In essence, Seidl links the arrival of the Muslim “army” to Angela Merkel’s 2015 unilateral decision to admit a substantial number of refugees fleeing war and famine from regions such as Syria into Germany. The Muslim “army” poses a greater threat compared to the African immigrants because they have a plan – an intent to replace White European citizens under the guise of conomic retribution. It is important to recall that Tessa arrives uninvited in Rimini, demanding her perceived share of the money she believes she is owed after her father abandoned her and her mother. In other words, in the film Tessa represents the vessel through which the Muslim “army” can conquer Europe without resorting to violence. Tessa is the entitled millennial, serving as a willing accomplice in the dismantling of the previous order – a function she embraces wholeheartedly. Seidl’s depiction suggests that the corruption and decay of Old Europe, personified by Richie, is exploited by a new kind of “woke” Europe represented by millennial Tessa, justifying what far-right thinker Renaud Camus calls “Grand replacement.”
What I find intriguing – and frankly disconcerting – is the explicit, overt articulation of such a narrative by Seidl, who appears more annoyed by the complicity between Old Europe and Woke Europe than by the apparent deception itself. In fact, Richie does not truly fight Tessa’s machinations; resigned, he becomes an accomplice in his own demise, displaying a sense of masochism. Incidentally, the gigolo’s BDSM fetishes are explicitly depicted in a series of cringe-inducing sex scenes throughout the film. It is fair to say that the third act of Rimini aligns with Michel Houellebecq’s perspective presented in Submission (2015), portraying an impending takeover of France by the Muslim population. Seidl seems to suggest that Richie deserves his fate not because he is a scammer like your average EU technocrat. He is ultimately punished because he is passive and enjoys the “abuse” by the free loaders. He is, to borrow a term popularized by the alt-right, a cuck.
In the final role of his career, Hans-Michael Rehberg portrays Richie Bravo’s father, a man afflicted with dementia residing in a hospice somewhere in Austria. Interestingly, despite his condition, the man appears more lucid than initially perceived. Rehberg’s character, in a sense, provides Rimini’s ideological frame. The film opens with a scene in which he attempts to escape the hospice using his walker, only to find all the doors sealed shut, leaving him trapped. This sequence seems to serves as a metaphor for Europe – a place where entry is allowed from the outside, where people, namely African and Muslim immigrants, can enter legally or illegally, but those already inside cannot escape. There is no alternative destination for them; they find themselves in a metaphorical “golden cage” as they are forced to perform trivial cognitive tasks, like completing sentences such as “the early bird…”
The man’s political leanings are all but manifest. As a military veteran spending his remaining days, he sings war songs, showcasing a clear nostalgia for a different era of Europe, a recurring theme in many of Seidl’s films. Thus, singing acts as a common thread connecting father and son, although the content and style of their songs vary. The father, who sleeps next to an oxygen tank, cares for themes of nation, race, and imperialism, while the son, a rotund, decadent, corpulent figure who indulges in alcohol, sex, and tobacco, reminisces about failed and banal love stories, exemplified by the hyper-cheesy ballad “Emilia.” The song carries multiple layers of meaning within the film: it represents an imaginary woman in the diegetic world of the song, a real character within the diegetic world of the movie – an older female groupie whom Bravo seduces and abuses for financial gains – and the region of Emilia-Romagna, symbolizing Italy’s inexorable decline in the Neoliberal age. In essence, with Rimini, Seidl portrays a shift from the (albeit misguided) pathos of the past represented by the father to the bathos of the present embodied by the pathetic son.
Both narratives depict a profound sense of failure.
Ulrich Seidl, Rimini, 2022
The closing scene, arguably the most powerful in the entire film, showcases the man singing alone in his room, while gazing out of the window. Recognizing that the end is imminent, he looks in the camera and let outs a cry for help: “Mama, where are you”? This poignant scene underscores the weight of the situation, encapsulating the somber tone of the film as a whole, but also serving as a damning verdict.
As always, in Seidl’s films, the personal is political.
