“Being a hero is a thing of the past,” claims a character in Rosi's elegiac 1981 examination of a contemporary Italy that, still haunted by the political turmoil and class warfare of the 1970s, seemed at the verge of collapse. Three brothers-a lawyer, a radical, and an idealist-return to their southern Italy family farm for their mother's funeral. Through their lives and dreams, Rosi presents the state of a nation nearing exhaustion, torn apart by class conflicts, the north/south divide, terrorism, and urban poverty. But this is Italy, and this is Rosi: through a father's memories, or a grand-daughter's joy, Rosi infuses modern critique with the timelessness of family. The film's grand opening and closing credits-a blank apartment block, surrounded by rats and garbage, versus a man's weathered hands, and a wife's wedding ring next to his own-sum up the film's quietly devastating critique-and celebration-of modern, eternal Italy. “A great film . . . extraordinarily beautiful” (David Denby).