Shafts of sunlight pierce the yellow glow of the carriage as the train rattles towards the next station. Taking the Metro B from Termini towards EUR you travel through two thousand years of history, passing under the Coliseum and the Circus Maximus as the train weaves its way southwards.
They started building the EUR district in 1938. It was supposed to hold the World Fair of 1942 which would have celebrated twenty years of Fascist rule. However, WW2 got in the way. Its colossal marble and limestone buildings combine classicism, rationalism and fascist propaganda. Passers by are dwarfed by these austere leftovers of Italy’s totalitarian past.
The Italian director Federico Fellini described EUR as perfect for anyone who creates images for a living. Unsurprisingly it has provided the backdrop to numerous films from Fellini’s own Boccaccio 70 to one of cinema’s biggest flops Hudson Hawk. But it’s another film made at EUR which comes into my head as I make my way to work: the 1968 Spaghetti Horror classic The Last Man on Earth.
Starring one of Horror’s legendary names, Vincent Price, The Last Man on Earth tells the story of a world in which a mystery disease has transformed the human race into vampire-like creatures. Only Price’s character is immune. Every day he follows the same routine: driving around EUR hunting vampires and disposing of their infected corpses. The film explores the loneliness of Price’s character, Dr. Robert Morgan. Price’s vain attempts to make contact with other possible plague survivors end in disappointment as it becomes ever clearer that he is the last of his kind.
The film is punctuated by the monotony of Dr. Morgan’s daily life which is framed by EUR’s monumental architecture. He locks himself into his house to escape the vampire hordes outside; his only moment of pleasure is listening to Jazz records on a gramophone.
Back on the Metro B, the commuters huddle, fidget and battle for space in the overcrowded carriage. The tedium of the journey is broken up by moments of politeness and discourtesy as some passengers battle with their conscience and offer their seats to older travellers while others display their menefreghismo, or ‘I don’t give a damnism’, lounging comfortably while reading one of the numerous free daily newspapers which litter Rome’s streets.
Getting off the train at EUR Fermi, I can already hear the hustle and bustle of the market stalls above. Walking up the damp and newspaper sodden stairs I squint my eyes to adjust to the natural light. The January sun warms my face; the brightness of the never-ending Roman sky stretches out above me as I make my way towards the office. There is something about this place that bombards my mind with memories, forcing me to reflect on the past. Moments of fear, pleasure, and shame come flooding back simultaneously.
Watching the other commuters busily make their way to work, it strikes me that our lives are similar to Price’s character in the Last Man on Earth. The humdrum of our daily existence is marked by a loneliness which we struggle to overcome. Our moments of pleasure come from the MP3 players which ease the uncomfortable silence. We too vainly attempt to make contact with the outside world through conversation, only to be left disappointed by monosyllabic replies, stony silence or ignorance.
It seems that modern life has closed off many of the normal channels of human contact. We rush back home at night to lock ourselves into our houses and apartments, shutting out all others in our own B Movie Horror. Sometimes it really feels like we’re all Dr. Robert Morgan: we’re all the Last Man on Earth.
