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        Article contents

  New Directions in the Study of Dubbing
  The Transition to Sound, and the Consolidation of Dubbing
  Cines-Pittaluga’s Dubbing Process: Between Routine and Experimentation
        Cines-Pittaluga and the Composer Romano Borsatti
        Conclusion
        Footnotes
  

    
     
		
	

     ARTICLE
   
Translating Music: Dubbing and Musical Strategies in Italian Cinema of
        the Early Sound Period
		

    Luca Battioni
    


    Sound Stage Screen, Vol. 1, Issue 1 (Spring 2021), pp. 47–76. This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution 4.0 International License. https://doi.org/10.13130/sss14132.




    Throughout the 1930s, the large majority of films distributed and
    eventually screened in Italy were dubbed. Dubbing practices inevitably had
    an impact not only on the way sound was experienced in film but also the
    configuration of the emerging Italian film industry following the
    introduction of synchronized sound on the one hand, and the consolidation
    of the Fascist regime on the other. In fact, drawing on the work of Andrew
    Higson, among others, I wish to argue that dubbing complicates the notion
    of national cinema in the Italian context of the 1930s. Higson was among
    the first scholars to theorize the concept of national cinema. In his work,
    he argues against production-centric conceptualizations, pointing out that
    a full understanding of national cinema begins from the assumption that it
    is a complex cultural aggregate, and that at its core lies the reception of
    films by popular audiences. Higson’s approach “lay[s] much greater stress
    on the point of consumption, and on the use of films (sounds,
    images, narratives, fantasies), than on the point of production.” This, in
    turn, encourages “an analysis of how actual audiences construct their
    cultural identity in relation to the various products of the national and
    international film and television industries, and the conditions under
    which this is achieved.”
    
        [1]
    



    The pervasiveness of dubbing in the 1930s needs to be addressed in these
    terms, and a film’s dubbed soundtrack must be considered as a channel
    through which audiences construct their own identities—regardless of the
    geographical provenance of the film screened. Nevertheless, in the case of
    dubbed movies, the negotiation between the ‘national’ and the ‘foreign’
    takes place in the film’s soundtrack at the stage of production as well:
    for the original images of a movie are combined with voices, sounds, and
    often music that are conjugated in national, or at least nationally
    familiar, terms. For this reason, both the productive and receptive sides
    of dubbing ought to be considered when discussing its use in national
    cinema.



    Martine Danan argues that “dubbed movies become, in a way, local
    productions,”
    
        [2]
    
    and Pierre Sorlin claims that, through the process of dubbing, a film
becomes a different performance of the same text.
    
        [3]
    
    Considering that dubbed foreign movies accounted for the vast majority of
    cinematic screenings in Italy in the 1930s, it is no exaggeration to claim
    that these films significantly contributed to the shaping of Italian
    national cinema, even and indeed especially at a time when domestic
    productions were few and far between.



    The way sound technologies were understood and used when cinema converted
    to sound indelibly oriented subsequent national filmmaking practices and
    aesthetics. For instance, in his foundational work on the introduction of
    sound in French and American film, Charles O’Brien contends that France’s
    preference for direct sound since the 1930s has shaped the development of
    French national cinema and defined its stylistic signature.
    
        [4]
    
    In Italy, by the same token, the preference for dubbing for both imported
    and domestic films had a significant impact on later filmmaking practices.
    Grasping the role of dubbing in Italian cinema of the 1930s is fundamental
    if we are to better understand Neorealism as well as the cinema of such
    auteurs as Michelangelo Antonioni, Federico Fellini, and Pier Paolo
    Pasolini. These filmmakers’ style was defined by post-production sound
    techniques that crystallized during the first decade of sound cinema.



    In recent years, dubbing has increasingly been approached as an audiovisual
    translation technique. In translation studies, a fair amount has been
    written on both dubbing and subtitling from the perspective of both
    cultural studies and linguistics.
    
        [5]
    
    Film scholarship on Italian dubbing has focused mainly on the leading
    personalities and their voices.
    
        [6]
    
    For her part, Antonella Sisto compiled a groundbreaking work on dubbing
    from the perspective of sound studies.
    
        [7]
    
    This latter contribution traces the cultural trajectories of dubbing from
    its establishment under the Fascist government to its artistic legacy as a
    postproduction technique used in Italian films of the postwar period. In
    Sisto’s work, however, the 1930s are considered only with respect to
    censorship and the discrepancy between the voice and its putative anchor,
    namely the image of the actor’s body. Further scholarly research has
    pointed out that the choice of dubbing, including its institutional
    implementation, was indeed a reflection of Fascist politics of foreign
    anesthetization.
    
        [8]
    



    New Directions in the Study of Dubbing



    The singular focus on the Fascist institutionalization of dubbing, however,
    overlooks the mechanics of the dubbing process itself. The political and
    ideological conditions that underpin the development of dubbing should be
    coupled with an understanding of it as a practical experience. Admittedly,
    the scarcity of relevant primary film sources—often no longer accessible or
    difficult to locate—hampers the study of the subject. Nevertheless, as I
    will illustrate, much archival material has survived, allowing for an
    investigation of dubbing that takes into account not only the final visual
    products but also the written documents that informed and accompanied their
    making.



    The backbone of this research is an assortment of archival materials
    preserved at the Museo Nazionale del Cinema in Turin.
    
        [9]
    
    These documents are critical to the study of dubbing in the early sound
    era. They contain official instructions followed in the dubbing process of
    many early 1930s foreign movies released in Italy, and they illustrate
    that, as the dubbing process unfolded, the censors’ choices were closely
    linked to technological constraints and artistic considerations.



    In the following I illustrate my argument in three sections. In the first,
    I briefly chart the passage from so-called silent to sound cinema. The
    Fascist government did not take long to perceive foreign voices and sounds
    as threats to national identity. Film reviews of the time provide a rich
    taxonomy of the multifarious practices adopted in the transition to
    sound—multiple language versions of the same film, sound movies made silent
    again, movies with alternative Italian soundtracks, and films poorly dubbed
    abroad were in the forefront of Italian movie theaters before the arrival
    of dubbing around 1932. Sounds, like images, underwent all sorts of
    manipulations.



    In the second section, I examine archival documents related to the earliest
    dubbed movies distributed by Cines-Pittaluga, the company which played a
    major role in the production and distribution of dubbed films during the
    early years of sound cinema in Italy. Here, I argue that since its origin,
    the dubbing process was an opportunity for experimentation with sound. In
    addition, the efforts revolving around dubbing made up for the lack of a
    robust domestic film industry and contributed to establish a technical and
    artistic framework that would inform Italian cinema’s aesthetic outlook for
    decades to come. Fully aware of its impact on a film’s narrative and
    consequently a film’s reception, dubbing directors gave particular
    attention to every aspect of the soundtrack.



    In the final section of the article, by foregrounding the collaboration of
    the Italian composer Romano Borsatti with the Cines-Pittaluga studio, I
    contend that music contributed to the ‘domestication’ of foreign movies
    dubbed in Italian. A close reading of letters sent by Cines-Pittaluga to
    Borsatti will also provide a framework to understand the role played by
    Italian composers in the dubbing process. As we shall see, dubbing not only
    shaped the minds of audiences and the modus operandi of composers but also
    public perceptions of language in its relation to the emergence of a
    national cinematic culture.



    The Transition to Sound, and the Consolidation of Dubbing



    We do not find it far-fetched to state that, when attending the screening
    of a foreign film, a large part of the audience does not perceive, recall,
    or know that the lines or voices they hear are not the original ones
    uttered and delivered when the film was shot—in short, they do not realize
    or recall that the film has been dubbed.
    
        [10]
    



    This passage by film critic Tell O’Darsa (pseudonym of Dario Sabatello)
    suggests that in 1937, just a few years after the emergence of dubbing, the
    practice went mostly unnoticed by Italian audiences. However hyperbolic it
    may seem, this writing testifies to the quality of Italian dubbing. Indeed,
    foreign dubbed films could pass as local productions. To try and account
    for this seeming oddity, this section traces the convoluted trajectory of
    film sound as experienced by Italian audiences in the early 1930s. This
critical transition has been documented in the weekly magazine    Cinema illustrazione and will be discussed here with examples from
    specific sections devoted to reviews curated by film critic Enrico Roma.
    Although very little is known about Roma, he appears to be the only critic
    who, as Italian cinema made the transition to sound, devoted a few weekly
    lines to the quality of dubbing. Though less frequently and systematically
    than Roma, other commentators also expressed informed opinions about
    dubbing; in 1931, for example, Ettore Maria Margadonna wrote an extensive
    and skeptical review about it, despite foreseeing the potential of such
    postproduction technique.
    
        [11]
    



    While in the US the official narrative of the history of sound cinema
    begins in 1927 with the release of The Jazz Singer, in Italy any
    such history would have to begin two years later, when the same film was
    screened for the first time in Rome. However, since the Italian film
    industry revolved around silent cinema, the establishment was reluctant to
    adapt to the new technology.
    
        [12]
    
    In every major Italian city, movie houses had their own professional
    orchestras with renowned conductors and pianists who carefully studied the
    scores to synchronize with the films to be screened.
    
        [13]
    
    An entire industry, including musicians, composers, and editors, gravitated
    towards an art form that would soon phase out permanently.



    Having screened foreign sound films for only a few months, Italy made a
    quick turnabout. On October 22, 1930, a ministerial decree prohibited the
    screening of films that included speech in other languages, imposing the
    removal of any scene involving dialogue spoken in languages other than
    Italian.
    
        [14]
    
    The result was catastrophic. Of the original soundtracks of foreign films,
    only music and sound effects were left intact, while intertitles in Italian
    were interpolated, constantly interrupting the images’ rhythm. Those movies
were termed “100 percent read films” by the satirists of    Marc’Aurelio by way of contrasting them to the “100 percent spoken
    films” featured in other parts of the world.
    
        [15]
    
    The subsequent adoption of dubbing, while silencing foreign utterances, at
    least gave the voice back to Italian audiences.
    
        [16]
    



    “Silencing” movies was not the only option. Hollywood production companies
    were already experimenting with alternative solutions to exploit the
    European markets. Although dubbing technologies were already available by
    the early 1930s, film companies embarked on the production of
    multiple-language versions (MLV)—namely, movies that were shot
    simultaneously, or in a staggered fashion, in more than one language, with
    different actors, directors, and crews.
    
        [17]
    
    One of the most emblematic MLVs was The Big Trail (1930, US),
    which was produced in four versions—Italian, French, German, and
    Spanish—each starring different actors. In his 1931 review of the Italian
    version (Il grande sentiero, 1930), Roma commented on it with
    irony, and criticizing MLVs produced in the United States for featuring
    Italian-American actors who mainly spoke Italian dialects influenced by
    American accents. Furthermore, as Roma noted, the actors’ lines were too
    poetic and literate, in jarring contrast with the characters’ or the plot.
    
        [18]
    



    The European hub of MLV films was Joinville Studios in Paris. In his review
    of Televisione (Television, 1931, US) Roma describes it in harsh
    tones:



    Joinville! That says it all. Only two days of programming, and the heckling
    resounds. It seems impossible. Anytime the Italian language is spoken in
    our cinemas, a storm quickly unleashes (aside from the Pittaluga company,
    which takes things quite seriously in this respect). And understandably so.
    How could you expect a foreign régisseur to possibly judge the
    diction of our actors? I bet de Rochefort considers Orsini a great Italian
    actor, whereas his obvious Neapolitan accent (which at times is comical
    indeed) and his declamatory emphasis would make him a good addition to the
    Compagnia Scarpetta.
    
        [19]
    
    […] Is this the end of Joinville’s mishaps? I don’t believe so…. But we
    could truly do without…
    
        [20]
    



    Italian audiences, as it turned out, did not appreciate these efforts
    produced abroad. The scripts were written in a language detached from
    everyday speech, and while the actors had an Italian background they were
    still complete strangers to Italian audiences, who instead laughed at the
    combination of southern Italian dialects and English spoken with a
    contrived Italian accent.



    Mario Quargnolo has written about another Italian experience crucial to
    this period of transition to dubbing, namely the sonorizzazioni.
    The process involved either the accommodation of old silent films to suit
    modern taste or the adoption of imported sound films stripped of all
    foreign-language dialogue.
    
        [21]
    
In his work, Quargnolo uses the words sonorizzazione and    ammutolimento (muting, i.e. “the process of making a film
    speechless by deleting all the dialogue”) interchangeably. However, in 1931
    Roma seemed to have identified them as two distinct practices:



    Getting rid of doublages [dubbing]? Easier said than done! Which
    films could replace those with foreign speech, when experience suggests
    rejecting solutions like ammutolimento and sonorizzazione, which both strip a film of large sections of its footage, while the
    national industry is still in a swaddling blanket?
    
        [22]
    



    Although Roma does not clearly explain the two different processes, I would
    argue that ammutolimento applies to those instances in which the
    whole soundtrack (including music, sound effects, and dialogue) was wiped
    out, thereby leaving the original film literally “silenced.” On the other
    hand, sonorizzazione—in addition to the widespread practice of
    synchronizing afresh films from the silent era—could be understood to
    describe the process of rendering a sound film speechless, while retaining
    music and noises whenever possible (or remaking them for the occasion).
    Both systems relied on Italian intertitles to replace original dialogues.
    In 1930, Roma described the sonorizzazione process as follows:



It must be noted that this time the transposition    from sound with full speech to sound only—save for the handful of
    harmless French lines—has turned out better than it has in previous foreign
    works released since the start of the season. The cuts go almost unnoticed
    and the intertitles, inserted to substitute speech, are well written and
    suffice for comprehension and effects.
    
        [23]
    



    Arguably, the decision to either silence a film (ammutolire) or
    maintain/remake it as a speechless sound film (sonorizzare) also
depended upon the kind of production to be adapted.    Il principe consorte (1929, The Love Parade, US),
    discussed in the review cited above, was a musical comedy. Silencing this
    production (ammutolimento) would have ruined the film and
    compromised its success; thus, the sonorizzazione—“from sound with
    full speech to sound only”—was deemed a better option.



    In the early years of sound film other peculiar solutions were adopted in
    an attempt to overcome both political and national barriers:



    The film is spoken in Italian (i.e., doublé [dubbed]) in the same
    manner as Morocco. That is to say, there were insertions of
    footage shot in Paris with Italian actors. The trick, this time, worked out
    less badly. It is still annoying, though, because we can tell that the
    actors are different, and the disconnect between the two parts is
    inevitable. Oh, well.
    
        [24]
    



    Cutting scenes with English speech and replacing them with new footage of
    Italian actors speaking their own language was a practical (though not
fully successful) solution adopted in films such as Marocco (1930,    Morocco, US) and Disonorata (1931, Dishonored,
US, the actual subject of the review). Interestingly enough,    Marocco, dubbed and released in France as Coeurs brûlés
    in 1931, was well received by the critics and as such must be considered
    one of the first well-judged examples of dubbing.
    
        [25]
    



    The convoluted cinematic jungle through which an Italian spectator had to
    move in the early thirties is aptly described by Roma in the following
    passage:



    The old production reluctantly engages with the new one, and the latter
    with the brand-new one. Every film undergoes modifications and adaptions
    depending on the market, the country, the screens where it is sent to by
    the distributors. We have killed the silent film, but we are now forced to
    mute the spoken ones because no one would understand them, and censorship
    would prohibit their distribution anyway. Of a “100-percent-talkie” film we
    are now offered a version in which voices have nearly disappeared.
    
        [26]
    
    Kilometers of intertitles replace these voices; yet amidst this silence,
    there suddenly appears a line in German or English, a song, a choir, or an
    insignificant noise. Of a scene featuring fifty people moving, silently, we
    hear but the single blow of a stick, the slamming of a door, or knuckles
    tapping on a wall. Puerility. Confusion.
    
        [27]
    



    As Roma points out, the situation for film critics over this period was
    more difficult and frustrating than ever. The edited movies presented in
    Italy made it impossible for a critic to judge a piece of work impartially,
    and it is hardly surprising that films “received with shock in Milan or
    Rome had been completely successful in Berlin or New York.”
    
        [28]
    
    It is also not surprising that in 1931, Roma—having already been exposed to
    a few years of spoken movies—wished for a kind of cinema with little to no
    room for spoken dialogue, resulting in what he called “the cinematic
    symphonic poem” (Il poema sinfonico cinematografico).
    
        [29]
    
    In Roma’s nostalgic imaginary, music and images work together in perfect
    harmony, whereas speech is “a ball and chain” (Una palla al piede) to the
    music. This vision falls within a widely shared opinion at that time which
    considered the use of dialogue as unaesthetic (i.e., too similar to
    everyday conversation) and condemned the talkies for abolishing the
    difference between art and reality. In this view, “Silence and music were
    excellent vehicles for achieving the poetic prominence of pure form,
    understood as a sort of rhythm—visual, oral, or both.”
    
        [30]
    



    Although Roma’s prediction did not materialize, his descriptions and
    responses offer a frame of reference for the understanding of the Italian
    situation at the time and reconstruct the Zeitgeist of the early
    sound period. Moreover, Roma’s reviews represent a litmus test for the
    quality of sound technology from the dawn of sound cinema throughout the
    early thirties. The number of critical notices decrying the poor quality of
    Italian versions of foreign films would gradually decrease. For example, in
    the reviews published in 1933, almost no reference is made to dubbing,
    accents, quality of scripts, etc. This would seem to indicate that by that
    time dubbing techniques had improved and audiences had become habituated to
    the new status quo.



    Foreign experimentations came to an end as the process of dubbing found a
    permanent home in Italy. The earliest dubbing efforts made in Italy date
    back to late 1931 and involved primarily German films,
    
        [31]
    
including, for instance, Salto mortale (1931) and    Fortunale sulla scogliera (Menschen im Käfig, 1930).
    According to Roma, these movies—dubbed by Cines, an Italian film company
    founded in 1906—were technically well made. Roma also points out that
    director Ewald André Dupont shot them with dubbing in mind, allowing images
    to better fit would-be dubbed voices:



    Il fortunale is an Italian spoken film presented by Cines. And
    even from this angle, it is a good film. The voices are well chosen, and
    the acting is excellent. Dupont, in shooting the German edition, must have
    taken into account the needs of the other versions, thus minimizing the
    difficulties. But the main reason for the laudable result is that the
    actors are not known and are therefore credible even when speaking Italian.
    A doublage is therefore not a bad option as long as it does not
    involve celebrated film stars.
    
        [32]
    



    According to this review, dubbing influenced filmmaking techniques to the
    point where certain angles, shots, or montages were preferred to others so
    as to accommodate future versions. Thus, cinematic aesthetics and
    techniques were often subordinated to a potential for dubbing. O’Brien
    analyzes the aesthetic consequences of dubbing on shot composition in
    Hollywood films, highlighting many of the techniques used to keep the
    viewer’s gaze away from the actor’s lips.
    
        [33]
    
    Additionally, Roma points to the practice of famous American stars speaking
    Italian as a cultural constraint that dictated the failure of several
    dubbed movies. According to Joseph Garncarz, however, the cultural
    acceptance of dubbing must be considered as a learning process through
    which audiences began to embrace the discrepancy between bodies and voices
    that are out of sync with one another.
    
        [34]
    



    Following these early experiments, the dubbing industry permanently settled
    in Italy in Spring of 1932, thus becoming the only avenue to screen foreign
    films. Not only was dubbing in Italy more in tune with the national taste
    than the imported films dubbed abroad, but its increasing frequency was
    also due to a 1933 measure by the Fascist regime which prohibited the
    screening of Italian versions produced abroad.
    
        [35]
    
    At that point, the Fascist government had become aware of the potential
    role dubbing could play in shaping, through cinema, the understanding of
    anything “foreign.” Dubbing finally “provided an ‘acoustic roof’ over the
    native soil, a linguistic barricade whether against the encroaching Babel
    of generalized modernity or against regional political expansion.”
    
        [36]
    
    Moreover, censorship could be smoothly disguised simply by adjusting the
    soundtrack over a cut sequence.
    
        [37]
    
    According to Sisto, the “clash of the ordinary sonic with the unfamiliar
    visuals” engenders a “psychic resistance in the reception of the
    moving/sounding image,” and in so doing, “dubbing destroys any possibility
    and real empathic believability of the other into a fictitious domesticity
    that perceived as such becomes just an untrue and dismissible spectacle.”
    
        [38]
    



    This interpretation neatly applies to early audiovisual translation
    attempts, when the foreign and the national (“mock” national, in the case
    of productions made abroad for the Italian market) clashed visually and
    orally in the audiences’ minds. However, and following O’Darsa, I would
    argue that dubbing became widely accepted. The general audience no longer
    questioned the national character of the cinematic body with the same
    urgency, and eventually accepted the films as genuine Italian products. Of
    course, these audio-visual dissonances were more difficult to accept when
    well-known foreign stars were involved. Nevertheless, the association of
    specific actors with their respective Italian voices throughout their
    career—aided by the fact that their original voices had never been
    heard—gradually eliminated the perception of them as “foreign-national
    others.”



    To summarize, the development of sound cinema in Italy unfolded, from its
    inception, under the rubric of nationalism. Unlike other European
    countries, the spectrum of different solutions adopted to accommodate
    increasingly stringent Fascist policies was very wide. The common
    denominator, however, was to wipe out possible ‘threats’ from abroad and
    within the country. Dubbing was recognized as the perfect formula for both
    carving a strong national identity and controlling the intrusion of the
    foreign into the native soil.



    Cines-Pittaluga’s Dubbing Process: Between Routine and Experimentation



    Cines-Pittaluga was the main player in the transition from silent to sound
    cinema in Italy. Founded as Cines in Rome on March 31, 1906, the company
    was then acquired by SASP (Società Anonima Stefano Pittaluga) in 1926.
Cines-Pittaluga produced the first Italian sound film,    La canzone dell’amore (1930), directed by Gennaro Righelli, and
    became one of the main distribution companies in the country. The group was
    also the first to experiment with dubbing in Italy, and it went on to
    establish the first Roman dubbing production in the Spring of 1932. The
    arrival of sound cinema in Italy is indeed intertwined with the figure of
    Stefano Pittaluga himself, who was also responsible for the first screening
    of The Jazz Singer in Italy.
    
        [39]
    
    The historical significance of Cines-Pittaluga in Italy is connected to the
    development of a state-owned cinema and its vertically integrated model.
    Importation, production, and pervasive distribution was the company’s modus
    operandi, as described by Steven Ricci: “While Pittaluga built his position
    of strength by importing American films, his production studio (Cines) was
    supported by a chain of first-run theaters in every major Italian city.”
    
        [40]
    



    Drawing on archival documents related to a number of foreign-language
    movies dubbed by Cines-Pittaluga in 1931, this section examines the
    company’s dubbing procedures in the 1930s. As I will demonstrate, dubbing
    grew into more than just a technical chore in that it tied into sound
    design, the choice of voices, and the use of music. This state of affairs,
    in turn, impinges on the relationship between dubbing and censorship.



    The idea of manipulation is often associated with censorship, dictatorship,
    power, or ideology. Within the field of Translation Studies, Jorge Díaz
    Cintas distinguishes two types of manipulation: technical (“changes and
    modifications to the original text are incorporated because of technical
    considerations”) and ideological (“unfair changes that unbalance
    the relationship between source and target products take place on purpose
    and unscrupulously”).
    
        [41]
    
    Under the Fascist regime, the suppression of a film’s scene, song, or
    speech prior to it being dubbed—and after its examination by the
    censors—clearly falls in the second category. However, when considering the
    final product of dubbing, it is important to ponder the dialectic between
    these two forms of manipulation. In fact, the lack of a
    technologically-informed reading of dubbing might at times bolster the
    common assumption that any deviation from the original resulted from the
    ideological agenda or political climate of the era. For instance, a pioneer
    of dubbing studies in Italy, Mario Quargnolo, reported on the dubbed
    version of a 1930s French film with the following words:



    The main attraction of Feux de joie, made in 1938 but released in
Italy only in 1942, was the popular band    Ray Ventura et ses collégiens. Well, Ray Ventura’s orchestra was
    completely dubbed over with an Italian orchestra which remained anonymous.
    … Probably they did not want to propagandize French music, which was
    carefully avoided even on the radio.
    
        [42]
    



    Although censoring French music might well have been part of the Fascist
    regime’s agenda at the time, a deeper understanding of French film sound
    technology helps us complicate such a reading. Over the first decade of the
    sound era, the tendency in France was to simultaneously record images and
    sounds (son direct), as opposed to the Hollywood practice of
    separating sound production from image production.
    
        [43]
    
    To retain the original music, the Italian version would have had to
    rerecord the original music, which was otherwise impossible to separate as
    a distinct track from the images and dialogue. Understanding sound
    technology provides the basis for a more accurate reading of censorship and
    its manifestations.



    The first archival testimony for our survey of Cines-Pittaluga is a file on
    the dubbing of Hôtel des étudiants (Student's Hotel,
1932, France). The film, translated into Italian as    Vita goliardica, was released in a dubbed version in 1933. The
    document “Notes related to the dubbing of the movie” features a list of
    instructions on how to dub the film.
    
        [44]
    
    Some of the guidelines—“dub all the dialogue”—are obvious enough. Instead,
    other annotations testify to how the technical and the ideological are
    intertwined.



    At this early stage in the history of dubbing, the need to manipulate the
    original music was purely technical, since it was impossible to split the
    dialogue track from sound effects and music. Only the physical separation
    of the different elements of the mix would have allowed producers to mix
    noises and music with the newly dubbed Italian dialogue track. In its
    absence, an alternative kind of music had to be mixed with the dubbed
    dialogue. Sometimes the original music track was sent to the distribution
    company for use alongside the dubbed track. Occasionally there may have
    even been the opportunity to record the music again. Yet this was not the
    most common scenario. In most cases, the Italian dialogue was mixed either
    with newly recorded music similar to the original, or with a musical track
    taken from the dubbing company’s library of pre-existing music.
    
        [45]
    



    One possible reason for the removal of original songs or music from a film
    was that song lyrics were in a foreign language, or that the lyrical
    content had not been considered appropriate by the censors. It was
    therefore necessary to address these issues in the process of dubbing, as
    shown by the following excerpts taken from the aforementioned document:



    Having suppressed the canzonetta sung by Odessa as she cooks eggs,
    it would be useful to have a musical commentary on all the following scenes
    up until the end of the reel […].





    Dub the dialogue until the end—when the three teenagers go down the stairs
    singing, replace the singing with a simple vocal hint of the motif, i.e. a
    “trallalla, trallallera,” etc. …




    In the coffee scene, remove the French students’ singing and leave only
    their vocal “trallalla, trallallera”—or, if possible, use any local
    goliardic chorus to these scenes and dub Gianni’s lines.




    When Odetta and Massimo leave, replace the mocking French tune with the
    well-known goliardic chorus “È morto un bischero,” or something of that
    nature.
    
        [46]
    



    In each of the above scenarios, musical editing was a necessary technical
    expedient to accommodate the modifications requested by the censors, rather
than an ideologically driven choice per se. Moreover, many changes in    Vita goliardica were not due to technical constraints; rather,
    they reflected specific cultural and aesthetic values:



    Underscore with soft musical accompaniment those dialogue scenes that imply
    and thus call for it.




    Underscore dialogues with music, and fill the transitions with the original
    score, if available, or a new piece.




    All scenes after Odetta and Gianni hug until the end of the reel will
    require a musical comment, to be mixed with the dialogue but without
    overwhelming the lines spoken by the actors … and ending on the header “End
    of Part Two.”
    
        [47]
    



    As these instructions make clear, the changes to the music are dictated by
    choices that have less to do with technological limitations than a purely
    aesthetic evaluation.



    Another aspect worth exploring is the use of preexisting music. Following
    Tom Gunning and Martin Miller Marks, Emilio Sala distinguishes a “music of
    attractions” from a “music of narrative integration” to describe the
    different uses of music in the context of silent films. Sala cautions
    against strictly adhering to the assumption that “music of attractions =
preexisting music, while music of narrative integration = music composed    ex novo,” and he opposes considering this dichotomy from a
    teleological perspective, that is to view the music of narrative
    integration as a step forward in film music history.
    
        [48]
    
    Both tendencies have coexisted and interacted with each other throughout
    the history of cinema. As dubbing instructions illustrate, preexisting
    music was extensively employed in the early years of dubbing. The sources
    point to two scenarios. The first, as mentioned earlier, is the use of
    well-known Italian goliardic songs such as “È morto un bischero”, a method
    which operates dramaturgically by activating a musical memory and drawing
    on the collective imagination.
    
        [49]
    
    The second case is the use of preexisting repertoire drawn from musical
    libraries, as evidenced by another dubbing instruction:



    Replace the tune Massimo plays on the gramophone with an Italian record
    from the Pittaluga musical library suitable to that scene and to the scenes
    that will follow, overdubbing the Italian lines.
    
        [50]
    



    In this case as well, the indications corroborate an attempt at narrative
    and aesthetic integration. The preexisting Pittaluga track must match the
    scene’s mood but must also interact narratively with the scenes that
    follow. In Hollywood, the use of musical libraries and preexisting music at
    the time was typical of low-budget productions.
    
        [51]
    
    By contrast, the use of preexisting music in Italian cinema was often the
    result of an attempt to culturally adjust the original product for the
    local audience.



    One last aspect emerging from the documentation on dubbing concerns the
    attention paid to sound design (I deliberately use an anachronistic term
    here to highlight the keen awareness of the filmic soundscape on the part
    of the practitioners of the time). Instructions such as “reproduce such
    sound effects as strictly necessary” (Riproducendo quei rumori che sono
    strettamente indispensabili,) for instance, raise a series of questions
    that are difficult to answer without having access to copies of these early
    dubbed films: Which sound effects were deemed necessary to a film scene,
    and which were not? Were they necessary for the sake of realism or
    narrative comprehension?



    Dubbing instructions for several other films also showcase a similarly
    holistic understanding of the sound mix. The following example from the
    files on Febbre di vivere (1932, A Bill of Divorcement,
    US) testifies to the great care put into the construction of the mix:



    After the opening titles (with the original music), play an English waltz
    (on the header: “Christmas night in the old England”) mixed with the buzz
    of the conversation. Continue with the waltz, in accordance with the
    appropriate sound perspective of the various settings, up until the moment
    when it joins the original.
    
        [52]
    



    The original music was likely an English waltz that had to be substituted
    because it could not be blended in. The new musical track had to be
    adjusted according to space and sonic context, and had to fade back into
    the original one. These instructions demonstrate an already clear and
    innovative awareness of the sound’s power to shape cinematic space.



    From the same file, we can see another example of “substitution of
    narrative integration” (i.e., a change that takes into account the film
    narrative):



    We cannot use the piano sonata composed by the protagonist included in the
    original [track].
    
        [53]
    
    It is therefore necessary to choose a sonata that we own, keeping in mind
    that:



    1) This new sonata must have with a closing allegro movement which will
    start a few moments before Sydney’s final line, when she talks about joyful
    music.



    2) The sonata must be in D major because the dialogue explicitly refers to
    a D major sonata.



    For the ending, the theme developed by the piano during the last scene must
    transition to the full orchestra.
    
        [54]
    



    It is unlikely that Italian audiences would have noticed the exact key of
    the sonata (beyond perhaps recognizing whether it was in major or minor).
    Nevertheless, such a method testifies to the meticulous, even fastidious
    care devoted to every aspect of the film during the dubbing process in
    order to strengthen the realistic quotient of dubbing itself.



    In Notte di fuoco (1932, Radio Patrol, US), the dubbing
    director was given the freedom to silence the music to highlight a
    particularly salient moment:



    At the discretion of the dubbing director, for a few segments of the action
    it will be possible to use the original soundtrack, only without music—only
    noises and sounds. That is because the absence of music seems to enhance
    the meaning of those sounds intrinsic to the action—for instance, in the
    scene in which the two police officers chase Kloskey in the slaughterhouse,
    or when the baby emits his first wails.
    
        [55]
    



    In this case, as against the original version, the subtraction of the music
    is a narratively motivated choice that enhances the soundscape while
    simultaneously drawing attention to a salient moment in the action. Such
    interventions testify to a keen awareness of the soundtrack’s power to
    enhance a film’s narrative as well as the acknowledgment of the audience’s
    potential reception.



The following example, referring to La pericolosa partita (1932,    The Most Dangerous Game, US), further supports this perspective:



    It is necessary to reproduce all the noises and voices which bear great
    importance in this film as they serve to create a particular atmosphere of
    fear and emotion—i.e., the screams of castaways, calls and screeches of
    birds, knocks on doors, a cup toppling over, the crashing of a piano, a
    vase falling, doors closing, dogs barking, water rushing, etc., etc., in
    accordance with the original.
    
        [56]
    



    In conclusion, dubbing in the 1930s was not simply a routine operation, but
    rather a process involving artistic and culturally sensitive choices. In
    this connection, it is worth pointing out that between 1930 and 1935, out
    of 1,700 talkies distributed for release in Italy, only 128 were Italian—a
    mere 7 percent of the total.
    
        [57]
    
    The remaining mass of foreign-language films constituted a vast field of
    experimentation and crystallization as regards dubbing and other
    post-production techniques. Companies such as Cines-Pittaluga, which
    produced most of the early Italian-language movies, also acted as one of
    the major distribution companies. The same technical staff, then, would
    work on both fronts, allowing for interactions and innovations across the
    Italian-language / foreign-language divide. One could contend that dubbing
    in the 1930s represented a laboratory to test film sound techniques—a space
    to develop awareness of the role and potential of the soundtrack—which in
    turn influenced the production of domestic films. The post-production of
    the cinematic voice began in those very years. At the same time, work on
    accent, timbre, and interpretation—at first along the same lines as in the
    theater—was also precipitated by dubbing and its extensive use in the early
    years of sound cinema. It is certainly true that cinema developed through
    its constant interaction with radio and other media, too.
    
        [58]
    
    Yet, dubbing too played a primary role in shaping the cinematic landscape,
    as corroborated in its use in subsequent eras (e.g., Neorealism). Such an
    outsized role would be unthinkable had dubbing been limited to domestic
    productions. As Ricci points out, the mutual relationship between dubbing
    foreign films and the growth of a national cinema was due primarily to the
    sharing of the same infrastructure:



    To this day, this institutional regulation [i.e., dubbing instead of
    subtitling] affects the Italian mode of production. It supports a small
    dubbing industry and encourages film producers to take advantage of its
    technical infrastructure.
    
        [59]
    



    By the same token, I would argue that the dubbing infrastructure enabled
    the Italian film industry to develop a repertoire of post-production, sound
    techniques which contributed to the emergence of a national sound-film
    style.



    Cines-Pittaluga and the Composer Romano Borsatti



    As shown by the dubbing instructions, music for dubbed films was often a
    mixture of both preexisting tracks available in musical libraries and
    original compositions. As dubbing was delegated to dedicated staff, in most
    cases composers played a rather marginal role. Yet it is still worth
    asking: what was the role of composers in the dubbing process? And how much
    new music, if any, was composed specifically for dubbed productions?



    In the following pages, I explore the relationship between Cines-Pittaluga
    and the Italian composer Romano Borsatti. Drawing on letters sent by the
    company’s musical department to the composer, I provide a more detailed
    picture of the world of dubbing. This includes the way Cines-Pittaluga
    built its own musical library, and how this happened. Due to a fire at the
    Cines-Pittaluga headquarters in 1935, which destroyed all their documents,
    these surviving letters are of great value to understand the development of
    sound cinema in Italy in the early thirties.



    Romano Borsatti (1892–1962), born in Trieste, began to study music at an
    early age. He studied both violin and piano, as well as counterpoint and
    composition. He taught violin at the Conservatory of Music in Trieste
    before deciding to focus exclusively on composition and performance. During
    the silent cinema era, he also worked as a piano accompanist, providing
    music for screenings of films. As a violinist, he participated in various
    opera and symphonic seasons at the Verdi and Rossetti theaters in Trieste.
    His work as a composer ranged from operas, operettas and several
    compositions for cinema, up to an array of popular songs interpreted by
    renowned local artists such as Mario Latilla, Nino Marra, Dina Evarist, and
    Gabré.
    
        [60]
    



    This brief biography foregrounds aspects of Borsatti’s career that might
    have been of interest to a film company like Cines-Pittaluga. First,
    Borsatti had a solid musical education and a strong background as an
    established performer, conductor, and composer. Second, Borsatti was a
    popular composer, and his songs were successful among Italian audiences,
    indicating his familiarity with the listeners’ tastes and expectations.
    These aspects of Borsatti’s career may well account for why Cines-Pittaluga
    decided to turn to him not only to take care of the music in its dubbed
    films but also build a musical library for the studio.



    I have been able to locate six letters from the company addressed to
    Borsatti.
    
        [61]
    
    They were written between May 1932 and May 1933 (the same time frame of the
    documents presented in the second section of this article). As previously
    mentioned, film dubbing by Cines-Pittaluga began around the spring of 1932,
    but it is likely that some practices such as the sonorizzazioni 
    continued for a while. In the first letter addressed to Borsatti (May 18,
    1932), Cines-Pittaluga shows appreciation for the composer’s choice to
    release his compositions with their own publishing company, in line with
    the typical synergy between cinema, editors, and record labels of the time.
    
        [62]
    
    The music featured in popular films was then distributed by Cines-Pittaluga
    as part of an effective commercial strategy, and had to follow specific
    requirements:



    We inform you that, for our immediate needs, we would like some pieces of
    joyful character, but not dances. Simple and graceful musical interludes,
    to be adopted for scenes featuring little movement, such as a living room
    conversation, an easy stroll, a house gathering, and the like. We would
    like to point out that these interludes should not be stylized, and they
    should preferably be in one tempo only.
    
        [63]
    



    Recorded and stored in the company’s musical libraries, these compositions
    were likely utilized as backing tracks for producing dubbed dialogues in
    several films. The company also requested Borsatti to limit himself to
    their list of instruments when orchestrating his compositions. This was
    likely due to the orchestral resources available at Cines-Pittaluga.



    On September 10, Cines-Pittaluga informed Borsatti that one of his
compositions had been used in the film L’ultima squadriglia (1932,    The Lost Squadron, US), and asked the composer to arrange
    additional descriptive music for love scenes and dramatic scenes. In the
    letters from October 29 and November 9, respectively, Cines-Pittaluga
    notified Borsatti that his compositions Momento erotico (“Erotic
    Moment”) and Agitato drammatico (“Dramatic Agitation”) had been
    accepted. One of the letters included a royalty form to be filled out and
    signed by the composer. The compositions were thereafter stored by the
    company and registered at the Italian copyright collecting agency SIAE
    (Società Italiana degli Autori ed Editori) to allow Borsatti to receive the
    requisite royalty each time they were featured in dubbed films.



    In the last two letters from the collection, Cines-Pittaluga informed the
    composer about the recording arrangements put in place in various dubbed
    movies. The first part of the letter (13 May 1933) is particularly relevant
    for our discussion:



    We have been informed by our Maestro Tamanini that you serve as musical
    conductor of several small orchestras in public venues, and that it would
    not be difficult for you to include our works for such ensembles in your
    programs. While we strongly recommend you make use of our repertoire, we kindly ask
    you inform us if you are in possession of any of our publications, and that
    you kindly provide us with the names and addresses of those “chef
    d’orchestre” [conductors] who currently perform with small orchestras in
    public venues.
    
        [64]
    



    Cines-Pittaluga, aware of Borsatti’s activity as a conductor, openly
    suggested the use of its own musical repertoire published by the Società
    Anonima Stefano Pittaluga. Furthermore, the composer was asked to provide
    the names of conductors performing in public venues. The company’s goal was
    to enlarge its distribution network to music venues, outside the realm of
    movie theaters, by asking conductors to play Cines-Pittaluga’s repertoire.
    The company was seemingly attempting to impose the pieces it featured in
    its dubbed or domestic productions on concerts and musical events all over
    the country, and to distribute them in its own editions. Emilio Audissino
    argues that the Fascist attempt to strictly control the sound of Italian
    cinema through dubbing was not only an effort to ban foreign voices, but
    also to help establish a homogeneous spoken language, analogous to
    standardized written Italian, in preference to the predominant regional
    dialects.
    
        [65]
    
    This offers tantalizing points of similarity with the way in which
    Cines-Pittaluga attempted to spread its repertoire onto the concert stage
    to develop a standard soundscape that would be recognizably Italian. The
    ramifications of this operation are significant, as the viewers’ musical
    imagination was thus shaped by the very same body of music produced by
    Italian composers and which was heard both on the screen and in live
    concerts in public venues. In this sense, the early 1930s bear a continuity
    with the silent period, when many compiled scores featured in movie
    theaters were based on the orchestrine repertoire.
    
        [66]
    
    In the years of sound cinema, however, the orchestrine repertoire
    appears to be shaped by film scores featured in both foreign and domestic
    films. Furthermore, the similarity of musical themes heard in concerts
    outside movie theaters raises the question of whether dubbed productions
    were truly perceived as foreign products, or whether they could have been
    experienced, to a certain extent, as domestic. The answer is not clear-cut,
    and additional factors such as the growing network of stars further
    complicate this perspective. To conclude, I would argue that the Italian
    practice of compiling scores for films—the main modus operandi in the
    silent period—survived to some extent into the sound era, when sound for
    dubbed films was produced by compiling pre-existing pieces and the
    composition of original scores was still limited to a few domestic
    productions.



    Conclusion



    Locating and gaining access to the original films is one of the major
    difficulties in the study of dubbing. In this article, I have attempted to
    make up for the lack of audiovisual sources by inspecting alternative
    documents that provide insights into the early practice of dubbing and open
    new paths of research on the subject, and coupling them with studies on
    fascism, censorship, and propaganda as well as considerations on
    technology, film aesthetic, local adaptation, and the domestic production
    system. Further complications to the study of conversion-era cinema springs
    from what O’Brien calls a “historiographical prejudice” in film history—a
    prejudice that privileges the international film d’auteur at the
    expense of other films that while commercially and technically significant
    were and continue to be viewed as lacking in historical resonance.
    
        [67]
    
    Because dubbing has traditionally been considered an anti-artistic practice
    that degrades an original product for the sake of profit, dubbed movies pay
    an even higher price in the history of cinema. However, as Jean-François
    Cornu contends, in many countries the practice of dubbing brought talking
    cinema to every social class, a phenomenon which “can also help us better
    understand the development and standardization of film-sound processes and
    practices.”
    
        [68]
    



    O’Brien points to two additional limitations of film historiography on
    dubbing. First, the supremacy attributed to the role of the visual over the
    sonic in film studies. While image techniques experienced a standardization
    by the late 1930s, O’Brien argues that “the sound accompaniment may well
    vary substantially from one national cinema to the next to thus condition
    national approaches to mise-en-scène, cinematography, and editing.”
    
        [69]
    
    In other words, the uniqueness of a national cinema must be sought in the
    soundtrack, especially when discussing the first decade of sound cinema,
    and particularly, I would add, when considering dubbed movies. Second, the
    tendency of film historiography to associate stylistic changes in films
    with specific directors or movements does not apply to the conversion era
    because “when style seemed so obviously a function of technical
    constraints, explanations in terms of filmmakers’ intentions seem
    applicable to only a small portion of the film industry’s output.”
    
        [70]
    



    Although here I have focused mainly on the practical applications of
    dubbing, we are still left with a series of key questions concerning the
    way this technology made sense within the Italian cinematic industry. To
    grasp the effect of postproduction on film style, one must analyze the
    Italian national cinema in Higson’s terms; that is, considering both filmic
    production and consumption. Within this larger framework, we can begin to
    answer questions such as why Italian domestic cinema wound up preferring
    the use of postproduction sound as opposed to direct-recorded sound.
    Furthermore, how did the transition from
    dubbing-as-a-mode-of-audiovisual-translation to
    dubbing-as-a-mode-of-domestic-production develop? Was it determined by
    sharing the same infrastructure, or was it driven by an aesthetic and
    stylistic outlook?



    Further research might move along two lines. First, an investigation of the
    superseding of original music with music arranged by Italian composers for
    dubbed versions of films would be welcome. Although in many instances the
    companies drew on their own musical libraries, it was not unusual for new
    soundtracks to be composed with a specific production in mind.
    
        [71]
    
    The second research direction should involve an extensive investigation
    into the reception of dubbing. Because the need for manipulation arose from
    a Fascist decree and left an indelible mark, the point of emphasis should
    ultimately be the effect of such manipulations on audiences,
    regardless of their producers’ motivations. This is not a purely
    theoretical reservation, as this process had material consequences which
    become apparent when we recall the writings of Roma and O’Darsa: the
    increasing perfecting of dubbing techniques, the experimentation with sound
    design, and the construction of an Italian soundscape might have been
    necessary for Italian audiences to accept dubbing as such, and hence to an
    uncritical embrace of such an anesthetizing view of the foreign, which the
    Fascist government was so keen to promote.




    

    

    
        
            
                [1]
            
            Andrew Higson, “The Concept of National Cinema,” Screen
            30, no. 4 (1989): 45–46.
        

    

    
        
            
                [2]
            
Martine Danan, “Dubbing as an Expression of Nationalism,”            Meta 36, no. 4 (December 1991): 612.
        

    

    
        
            
                [3]
            
            Pierre Sorlin, Italian National Cinema, 1896–1996
            (London: Routledge, 1996), 10.
        

    

    
        
            
                [4]
            
            Charles O’Brien,
            
                Cinema’s Conversion to Sound: Technology and Film Style in
                France and the U.S.
            
            (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 2005).
        

    

    
        
            
                [5]
            
            See, for example, Irene Ranzato,
            
                Translating Culture Specific References on Television: The Case
                of Dubbing
            
            (London: Routledge, 2015); Maria Pavesi, Maicol Formentelli and
            Elisa Ghia, eds.,
            
                The Languages of Dubbing: Mainstream Audiovisual Translation in
                Italy
            
            (Bern: Peter Lang, 2014).
        

    

    
        
            
                [6]
            
            See, for example, Mario Guidorizzi, ed.,
            
                Voci d’autore. Storia e protagonisti del doppiaggio italiano
            
(Sommacampagna: Cierre, 1999); Gerardo Di Cola,            Le voci del tempo perduto.
            
                La storia del doppiaggio e dei suoi interpreti dal 1927 al 1970
            
            (Chieti: Edicola, 2004).
        

    

    
        
            
                [7]
            
Antonella Sisto, Film Sound in Italy: Listening to the Screen (New York: Palgrave Macmillan,
            2014).
        

    

    
        
            
                [8]
            
            See Carla Mereu Keating,
            
                The Politics of Dubbing. Film Censorship and State Intervention
                in the Translation of Foreign Cinema in Fascist Italy
            
            (Bern: Peter Lang, 2016); Mereu Keating, “Censorial Interferences
in the Dubbing of Foreign Films in Fascist Italy: 1927–1943,”            Meta 57, no. 2 (2012): 294–309; Mereu Keating, “‘100%
            Italian’: The Coming of Sound Cinema in Italy and State Regulation
            on Dubbing,” California Italian Studies 4, no. 1 (2013):
            1–24.
        

    

    
        
            
                [9]
            
            Fondo Società Anonima Stefano Pittaluga, Museo Nazionale del
            Cinema, Turin, Italy. A work-in-progress digital catalog is
            available at http://pittaluga.museocinema.it/home.
        

    

    
        
            
                [10]
            
            “Non crediamo sia azzardato affermare che una buona parte del
            pubblico nell’assistere alla proiezione di un film straniero non
            avverta, non ricordi o non sappia che le battute e le voci che
            sente non sono quelle originali, pronunciate ed emesse quando il
            film è stato girato, che in una parola non avverta o non ricordi
            che il film è stato ‘doppiato.” Tell O’Darsa, “Le voci del cinema,”
            in Cinema illustrazione, September 22, 1937, 9. All
            translations from Cinema illustrazione and archival
            materials are mine, unless otherwise indicated.
        

    

    
        
            
                [11]
            
Ettore M. Margadonna, “Parabola del ‘parlato:’ il ‘dubbing,’”            Comoedia, November 15–December 15, 1931, 17–18.
        

    

    
        
            
                [12]
            
            Mario Quargnolo,
            
                La parola ripudiata: l’incredibile storia dei film stranieri in
                Italia nei primi anni del sonoro
            
            (Gemona: La Cineteca del Friuli, 1986), 1–3.
        

    

    
        
            
                [13]
            
            Quargnolo, La parola ripudiata, 1.
        

    

    
        
            
                [14]
            
            Quargnolo, La parola ripudiata, 13.
        

    

    
        
            
                [15]
            
Mario Quargnolo,            La censura ieri e oggi nel cinema e nel teatro (Milan:
            Pan, 1982), 49–50.
        

    

    
        
            
                [16]
            
            In Italy, the dubbing industry was inaugurated in 1932 by
            Cines-Pittaluga. For a short recollection of the early phases of
            the introduction of dubbing in Italy, see Mario Quargnolo,
“Pionieri e esperienze del doppiato italiano,”            Bianco e nero 28, no. 5 (1967): 66–79; Paola Valentini,
            “La nascita del doppiaggio,” in Storia del cinema italiano, vol. 4, 1924–1933, ed. Leonardo Quaresima (Venice:
            Marsilio, 2014), 286–287.
        

    

    
        
            
                [17]
            
            See Ginette Vincendeau, “Hollywood Babel: The Coming of Sound and
            the Multiple-Language Version,” in “
            
                Film Europe” and “Film America”: Cinema, Commerce and Cultural
                Exchange, 1920–1939, ed. Andrew Higson and Richard Maltby (Exeter: University of
            Exeter Press, 1999), 212.
        

    

    
        
            
                [18]
            
Enrico Roma, “Le prime a Milano,” Cinema illustrazione,            March 25, 1931, 13.
        

    

    
        
            
                [19]
            
            A Neapolitan theater company.
        

    

    
        
            
                [20]
            
            “Joinville! È detto tutto. Due soli giorni di programmazione e
            fischi sonori. Pare impossibile. Quando, nei nostri cinema, si
            parli italiano, la tempesta non tarda a scatenarsi (la Pittaluga a
            parte, che da questo lato fa le cose sul serio). E si capisce. Come
            volete che un régisseur straniero possa giudicar la
            dizione di attori nostri? Scommetto che per il de Rochefort,
            l’Orsini è un ottimo attore italiano, mentre il suo spiccato
            accento napoletano (in certi momenti decisamente comico) e la sua
            enfasi declamatoria, ne farebbero un buon elemento per la Compagnia
            Scarpetta. […] Son finite le malefatte di Joinville? Non credo… Ma
potremmo anche rinunziarvi…” Enrico Roma, “I nuovi film,”            Cinema illustrazione, September 9, 1931, 12.
        

    

    
        
            
                [21]
            
            Quargnolo, La parola ripudiata, 30.
        

    

    
        
            
                [22]
            
            “Farla finita con i doublages? È una parola! Con quali
            films sostituire i parlati stranieri, se l’esperienza induce a
            scartare altri ripieghi come l’ammutolimento e la sonorizzazione,
            che sottraggono a un film buona parte del metraggio più utile,
            mentre l’industria nazionale è ancora in fasce?” Enrico Roma, “I
            nuovi films,” Cinema illustrazione, September 16, 1931,
            12.
        

    

    
        
            
                [23]
            
            “Si deve inoltre osservare che questa volta la riduzione da
            sonoro-parlato integrale a sonoro, salvo le poche battute di
            dialogo in francese, che non guastano, è riuscita meglio che nei
            precedenti lavori stranieri pubblicati dall’inizio della stagione.
            Le amputazioni quasi non s’avvertono e le didascalie, messe a
            sostituir la parola, sono scritte a dovere e bastano alla
comprensione e agli effetti.” Enrico Roma, “Le prime,”            Cinema illustrazione, October 29, 1930, 12.
            Emphasis mine.
        

    

    
        
            
                [24]
            
            “Il film è parlato italiano, intendo dire doublé,
            con lo stesso sistema di Marocco. Cioè vi sono stati
            intercalati pezzi girati a Parigi con attori italiani. Il trucco,
            questa volta, è riuscito meno male. Ma disturba lo stesso, poiché
            riconosciamo gli attori inseriti fuori testo, e lo stacco tra le
due parti è inevitabile. Pazienza!” Enrico Roma, “I nuovi films,”            Cinema illustrazione, January 20, 1932, 12.
        

    

    
        
            
                [25]
            
            Martin Barnier, “The Reception of Dubbing in France 1931–3: The
            Case of Paramount,” in The Translation of Films: 1900–1950, ed. Carol O’Sullivan and Jean-François Cornu (Oxford: Oxford
            University Press, 2019), 229–231.
        

    

    
        
            
                [26]
            
            The label “100-percent talkie” identified movies with audible
            dialogue throughout, distinguishing them from the “synchronized”
            films and the “part-talkie” ones.
        

    

    
        
            
                [27]
            
            “La vecchia produzione s’innesta suo malgrado alla nuova, e la
            nuova alla novissima. Ogni film subisce modificazioni e
            adattamenti, a seconda del mercato, del paese, delle sale cui è
            avviato dai produttori. Si sono uccise le ‘mute,’ ma poi si è
            costretti ad ammutolire le parlate, perché nessuno le capirebbe e
            la censura ne impedirebbe lo smercio. Di un’opera, originalmente
            parlata al cento per cento, ci si offre un’edizione in cui le voci
            sono quasi scomparse. Chilometri di didascalie prendono il posto
            delle voci, senonché, tra tanto silenzio, ecco a un tratto una
            ‘battuta’ in tedesco o in inglese, una canzone, un coro o un rumore
            insignificante. Di una scena dove si muovono in cinquanta,
            silenziosamente, non ci giunge che un colpo di bastone su una
            tavola, lo sbattere di un uscio, un picchiar di nocche contro una
parete. Puerilità, confusione.” Enrico Roma, “Le prime a Milano,”            Cinema illustrazione, October 22, 1930, 6.
        

    

    
        
            
                [28]
            
            “Non è raro il caso di leggere che un film, clamorosamente caduto a
            Milano o a Roma, ha trionfato a Berlino o a New York.” Enrico Roma,
            “Le prime a Milano,” Cinema illustrazione, December 9,
            1930, 12.
        

    

    
        
            
                [29]
            
Enrico Roma, “Esperienze del sonoro e del parlato,”            Cinema illustrazione, April 15, 1931, 14.
        

    

    
        
            
                [30]
            
            Giorgio Bertellini, “Dubbing L’Arte Muta: Poetic Layerings
around Italian Cinema’s Transition to Sound,” in            Re-viewing Fascism: Italian Cinema, 1922–1943, ed.
            Jacqueline Reich and Piero Garofalo (Bloomington: Indiana
            University Press, 2002), 39.
        

    

    
        
            
                [31]
            
            Antonio Catolfi, “Censura e doppiaggio nelle forme narrative del            cinema italiano, nel cruciale passaggio al sonoro degli anni            Trenta,” Between 5, no. 9 (2015): 11.
        

    

    
        
            
                [32]
            
            “Il fortunale è un parlato italiano, per opera della
            Cines. E anche da questo lato, è buono. Le voci sono ben scelte e
            la recitazione è ottima. Il Dupont, nel girare l’edizione tedesca,
            deve aver tenuto presente la necessità delle versioni, limitandone
            al minimo le difficoltà. Ma la ragione principale del lodevole
            esito è nel fatto che gli attori non hanno alcuna notorietà tra noi
            e perciò, anche parlando italiano, sono credibili. Non è quindi
            escluso un possibile doublage, purché non si tratti di
star famosi.” Enrico Roma, “I nuovi films,”            Cinema illustrazione, November 4, 1931, 12.
        

    

    
        
            
                [33]
            
            See Charles O’Brien, “Dubbing in the Early 1930s: An Improbable
            Policy,” in O’Sullivan and Cornu, The translation of films, 177–189.
        

    

    
        
            
                [34]
            
            Joseph Garncarz, “Made in Germany: Multiple-Language Versions and
the Early German Sound Cinema,” in Higson and Maltby, “            Film Europe” and “Film America,” 259.
        

    

    
        
            
                [35]
            
            Quargnolo, La parola ripudiata, 36.
        

    

    
        
            
                [36]
            
            Nataša Ďurovičová, “Vector, Flow, Zone: Towards a History of
Cinematic translatio,” in            World Cinemas, Transnational Perspectives, ed. Nataša
            Ďurovičová and Kathleen Newman (New York: Routledge, 2010), 102.
        

    

    
        
            
                [37]
            
            Sisto, Film Sound in Italy, 52.
        

    

    
        
            
                [38]
            
            Sisto, Film Sound in Italy, 77.
        

    

    
        
            
                [39]
            
            Paola Valentini,
            
                Presenze sonore: il passaggio al sonoro in Italia tra cinema e
                radio
            
            (Florence: Le lettere, 2007), 30.
        

    

    
        
            
                [40]
            
Steven Ricci,            Cinema and Fascism: Italian Film and Society, 1922–1943 
            (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2008), 66.
        

    

    
        
            
                [41]
            
            Jorge Díaz Cintas, “Clearing the Smoke to See the Screen:
            Ideological Manipulation in Audiovisual Translation,” Meta
            57, no. 2 (2012): 284–285.
        

    

    
        
            
                [42]
            
Quargnolo, La censura, 52, quoted and translated in Sisto,            Film Sound in Italy, 35.
        

    

    
        
            
                [43]
            
            O’Brien, Cinema’s Conversion to Sound, 111.
        

    

    
        
            
                [44]
            
            “Note relative al doppiaggio del film Vita goliardica,”
            undated, SASP0093, Fondo Società Anonima Stefano Pittaluga, Museo
            Nazionale del Cinema, Turin.
        

    

    
        
            
                [45]
            
            For a detailed discussion on the issue of mixing dialogues with
            music, see Ermanno Comuzio, “Quando le voci non appartengono ai
            volti,” Cineforum 224, no. 5 (1983): 23–32.
        

    

    
        
            
                [46]
            
            “Essendo stata soppressa la canzonetta che canta Odetta quando si
            cuoce le uova, converrà commentare musicalmente tutte le scene che
            seguono da questo punto sino alla fine del rullo […]
        


            Doppiare il dialogo sino alla fine – quando i tre giovani scendono
            le scale cantando, sostituire il cantato con un semplice accenno
            vocale del motivo – cioè un trallalla, trallallara, ecc. ecc.
        


            Nella scena del caffè, abolire il canto francese degli studenti
            limitandosi a riprodurre il ‘trallalla, trallallera’ vocale degli
            stessi – oppure, se è possibile, applicare a queste scene un
            qualunque coro goliardico nostrano, doppiando le battute di Gianni.
        


            Quando Odetta e Massimo vanno via, al coro canzonatorio francese
            sostituire il famoso coro ‘È morto un bischero’ di carattere
            goliardico o qualche cosa del genere.”
        


            “Note relative al doppiaggio del film Vita goliardica.”
        

    

    
        
            
                [47]
            
            “Sottolineare con accompagnamento musicale in sordina le scene
            dialogate che lo comportino e lo richiedono.
        


            Sottolineare con musica i dialoghi e commentare quei passaggi di
            tempo riproducendo la musica originale dove esiste o applicandone
            della nuova.
        


            Si ritiene che tutte le scene che si svolgono dal momento in cui
            Odetta e Gianni si abbracciano sino alla fine del rullo comportino
            un commento musicale, prendendo in mixage le battute, senza che per
            altro disturbi le battute… chiudendo sul titolo ‘Fine della Parte
            Seconda.’”
        


            “Note relative al doppiaggio del film Vita goliardica.”
        

    

    
        
            
                [48]
            
            Emilio Sala, “Dalla ‘compilazione d’autore’ al ‘poema
            lirico-sinfonico,’” Archivio d’Annunzio 4, no. 10 (October
            2017): 147–148. The reference is to Tom Gunning, “The Cinema of
Attraction[s]: Early Film, Its Spectator and the Avant-Garde,”            Wide Angle 8, no. 3/4 (1986): 63–70, and Martin Miller
            Marks,
            
                Music and the Silent Film: Contexts and Case Studies, 1895–1924
            
            (New York: Oxford University Press, 1997), 61.
        

    

    
        
            
                [49]
            
            The song’s melody is the same as “Qual mesto gemito” from the
            finale of act 1 in Gioachino Rossini’s opera Semiramide.
        

    

    
        
            
                [50]
            
            “Sostituire invece con un disco italiano di musica Pittaluga adatto
            alla scena e alle scene che poi seguiranno il disco che Massimo
            mette sul grammofono, eseguendo in mixage le battute italiane.”
            “Note relative al doppiaggio del film Vita goliardica.”
        

    

    
        
            
                [51]
            
Ronald Rodman, “The Popular Song as Leitmotif in 1990s Film,” in            Changing Tunes: The Use of Pre-existing Music in Film, ed.
            Phil Powrie and Robynn Stilwell (Farnham: Ashgate, 2006), 121.
        

    

    
        
            
                [52]
            
            “Dopo il titolo di testa (sul quale rimane la musica originale)
            attaccare (sul titolo ‘Notte di Natale nella vecchia Inghilterra’)
            un waltzer inglese, mixato col brusio della conversazione.
            Continuare questo waltzer, nella debita prospettiva sonora a
            seconda del variare degli ambienti, fino al punto a cui esso giunge
nell’originale.” “Dispositivo per la sincronizzazione del film            Febbre di vivere,” 1934, SASP1363, Fondo Società Anonima
            Stefano Pittaluga, Museo Nazionale del Cinema, Turin.
        

    

    
        
            
                [53]
            
            This might suggest either a copyright/licensing issues or technical
            limitations in the replacement of the original track with dialogue
            and noises/sounds.
        

    

    
        
            
                [54]
            
            “La sonata per pianoforte composta dal protagonista, non può essere
            utilizzata dall’originale. Bisognerà quindi prendere un’altra
            Sonata di nostra proprietà, badando soltanto:
        
        


            1º) che questa Sonata termini con un movimento allegro che attacchi
            qualche momento prima dell’ultima battuta di Sydney, la quale parla
            d’una musica di carattere gaio.
        


            2º) che essa sia nella tonalità di Re maggiore, perché nel corso
            dei dialoghi si parla esplicitamente di una Sonata in Re maggiore.
        


            Per il finale, lo stesso tema sviluppato dal Pianoforte durante
            l’ultima scena deve passare in piena orchestra.”
        


“Dispositivo per la sincronizzazione del film            Febbre di vivere.”
        

    

    
        
            
                [55]
            
            “Per alcuni brani dell’azione potrà pure, a giudizio del Direttore
            di sincronizzazione, essere utilizzata la colonna originale
            composta di suoni e rumori, ma senza musica. E ciò perché l’assenza
            della musica sembra in tali brani valorizzare maggiormente il
            significato dei suoni inerenti all’azione. Così, ad esempio, per la
            scena in cui i due poliziotti inseguono Kloskey nel mattatoio, e
            per il momento in cui il bimbo emette i primi vagiti.” “Dispositivo
            per la sincronizzazione del film Notte di fuoco,”
            1932–1933, SASP1721, Fondo Società Anonima Stefano Pittaluga, Museo
            Nazionale del Cinema, Turin.
        

    

    
        
            
                [56]
            
            “È indispensabile riprodurre tutti i rumori e le voci che in questo
            film hanno una grande importanza in quanto servono a creare una
            particolare atmosfera di paura e di emozione. E cioè: grida di
            naufraghi, stridi e starnazzar di uccelli, colpi alle porte, tazza
            che si rovescia, fracasso del pianoforte, vaso che cade, porte che
            si chiudono, latrati di cani, fragore di acque, ecc. ecc.
attenendosi all’originale.” “Note relative al doppiaggio del film            La pericolosa partita,” 1933–1934, SASP1375, Fondo Società
            Anonima Stefano Pittaluga, Museo Nazionale del Cinema, Turin.
        

    

    
        
            
                [57]
            
            Sorlin, Italian National Cinema, 56.
        

    

    
        
            
                [58]
            
            See Valentini, Presenze sonore.
        

    

    
        
            
                [59]
            
            Ricci, Cinema and Fascism, 61.
        

    

    
        
            
                [60]
            
            These biographical notes draw on a brief biography written by
            Borsatti’s daughter and various press articles collected in the
            personal archive the film critic Quargnolo (Fasc. 108, Fondo Mario
            Quargnolo, La Cineteca del Friuli, Gemona).
        

    

    
        
            
                [61]
            
            Fasc. 108, Fondo Mario Quargnolo, La Cineteca del Friuli, Gemona.
        

    

    
        
            
                [62]
            
            See Valentini, Presenze sonore, 189.
        

    

    
        
            
                [63]
            
            “Vi comunichiamo che per il n/ fabbisogno immediato ci sarebbero
            utili pezzi di genere gaio, ma non ballabili. Intermezzi semplici,
            graziosi da poter adottare a scene di poco movimento come
            conversazione da salotto, passeggiatina flemmatica, un ricevimento
            in casa ecc. Vi facciamo notare che tali intermezzi non debbono
            essere stilizzati e preferibilmente di tempo unico.”
            Cines-Pittaluga to Romano Borsatti, 18 May 1932, Fasc. 108, Fondo
            Mario Quargnolo, La Cineteca del Friuli, Gemona.
        

    

    
        
            
                [64]
            
            “Dal ns/maestro Tamanini veniamo informati che Voi dirigete
            orchestrine in pubblici ritrovi e che non vi riesce difficile poter
            inserire nei programmi di esecuzione la ns/produzione per
            orchestrina.
        


            Mentre Vi raccomandiamo caldamente tale ns/repertorio, Vi preghiamo
            di volerci far sapere se siete in possesso delle ns/pubblicazioni e
            di volerci cortesemente fornire il nome e gli indirizzi di quei
            ‘chefs d’orchestre’ che attualmente dirigono orchestrine in
            pubblici ritrovi.” Cines-Pittaluga to Romano Borsatti, 13 May 1933,
            Fasc. 108, Fondo Mario Quargnolo, La Cineteca del Friuli, Gemona.
        

    

    
        
            
                [65]
            
            Emilio Audissino, “Italian ‘Doppiaggio’ Dubbing in Italy: Some
            Notes and (In)famous Examples,” Italian Americana 30, no.
            1 (2012): 22–32.
        

    

    
        
            
                [66]
            
            Marco Targa, “Reconstructing the Sound of Italian Silent Cinema:
            The ‘Musica per Orchestrina’ Repertoires,” in
            
                Film Music: Practices, Theoretical and Methodological
                Perspectives. Studies around
            
            Cabiria Research Project, ed. Annarita Colturato (Turin:
            Kaplan, 2014), 135–167.
        

    

    
        
            
                [67]
            
            O’Brien, Cinema’s Conversion to Sound, 40.
        

    

    
        
            
                [68]
            
            Jean-François Cornu, “The Significance of Dubbed Versions for Early
Sound-film History,” in O’Sullivan and Cornu, The Translation of Films, 191.
        

    

    
        
            
                [69]
            
            O’Brien, Cinema’s Conversion to Sound, 42.
        

    

    
        
            
                [70]
            
            O’Brien, Cinema’s Conversion to Sound, 102–103.
        

    

    
        
            
                [71]
            
            An interesting case I am currently working on is the Italian
            edition of Frank Capra’s It Happened One Night (1934, US;
            it. Accadde una notte). While the original American talkie
            does not present much music aside from the opening and ending
            titles, the Italian version makes abundant use of a score composed
            by Amedeo Escobar. Such a clear scoring strategy posits the idea of
            a direct involvement of the composer in the making of the Italian
            edition. The result is two completely different movies, and two
            different ways of consuming films in Italy and America.
        

    





    



                

            

                

            

          
          
        
        
        
