Having joined Eduardo De Filippo’s theatrical company while working as a clerk at the Military Hospital in Naples, Enzo Cannavale acted in 120 films. Of every genre. With practically every director and actor. From films with Bombolo and Bud Spencer to films directed by Marco Ferreri and Giuseppe Tornatore. Beneath the appearance of perpetual weariness or resignation, interrupted by brief flashes of dismay, lay that which Giulio Baffi called the perfection of the acting machine: metronomic timing, impertinence and vivacity, a taste for puns, and a body that adapts to the costume, not the other way around. It was his hands, however, which appeared to be connected to some sort of invisible Wi-Fi, in perfect synchronization with his gaze, that energized the space around his slight frame: in the best tradition of the “digital gesturalism” typical of Southern Italians, Cannavale was no less than a minute and erudite deity of the screen. In life, he loved walking his dog through his neighbourhood or spending long hours on his terrace overlooking Piazza Plebiscito at dusk, with the pink profile of Vesuvius behind him. This documentary, made in collaboration with his children, attempts to paint a portrait of the man and capture the unforgettable impact he left on those who knew him — as much as that is possible.