If the House Could Talk, It Would Be Malaparte himself
“Malaparte” in Italian means “the wrong side” (mala parte). And yet there is nothing even remotely “wrong” about this architectural masterpiece perched on a seaside cliff on the island of Capri.
So why am I writing about it? First, because someone asked me to. Second, because the story behind this house is genuinely fascinating.
Imagine this: you’re a well-educated journalist with a German father and an Italian mother. You’ve grown up and studied in Italy during one of the most turbulent political periods: the era of World War I. As a man with a strong personality, sharp mind, and an active citizen you take part in history in any ways you can: as a soldier, a war correspondent, and later, as a writer.
The values you’re raised with -and your youthful judgement- lead you into the Fascist movement, which you support for a few years. But this doesn’t mean you surrender your critical thinking. Quite the opposite. Now you have experience, not theories; evidence, not assumptions. And you take a stand.
Your first step? You change your name from Kurt Erich Suckert to Curzio Malaparte. A clever play on words: mala parte (“wrong side”) and a twist on Bonaparte (“good side”).
Curzio Malaparte then begins writing autobiographical essays about politics and the strategic realities of WWI. Some are difficult to publish, others get banned entirely because he dares to comment on people and events that were best ... left untouched. In one chapter, he titles a section dedicated to Hitler “A Woman: Hitler.” That line alone gets him expelled from the Fascist party and exiled to the island of Lipari.
He returns to Italy in 1938 -a changed man, scarred, and inspired enough to “build” his own namesake villa.
You can find plenty of biographical details online, as well as descriptions of the villa and how it came to be. But here are the essentials: at first, he commissioned an Italian architect, Adalberto Libera. Their collaboration failed. So Malaparte altered the plans himself to match his vision -his personality- and with the help of a builder friend, the house was constructed.
The building seems to grow out of the natural rock. It respects the landscape’s shape and rhythm, yet it never tries to hide within it.
It’s a house full of meaning, contradictions, and emotion.
Beyond the obvious (a remote villa accessible only via a two-hour walk or, when the sea allows, by boat) this home is a kind of chosen exile. Malaparte believed that human beings aren’t meant to be free; they’re meant to discover freedom inside their own prison.
And there’s so much more one can sense by studying this structure. Malaparte himself called the house “a self-portrait in stone.” Influenced by the prisons of Rome where he had twice been held, the church on the island where he had been exiled, and ancient Greco-Roman ideals, he created something that still provokes thought and stirs emotion today.
The Location
At the edge of a cliff on an island adored by Italy’s Fascist-era elite, battered by the winds and elements. That is where Malaparte chose to build his home. Far from everyone, in a harsh yet breathtaking environment.
A house that looks as if it was born from the wild landscape, tough and resilient enough to endure it.
It takes courage, confidence, and a certain amount of audacity to live in such a place.
The Red
Originally the house was supposed to be white. Eventually, Malaparte chose terracotta red instead.
Depending on the hour, the sun, and the season, the house changes color, mood, and presence.
But why red?
The red of revolution? Of passion? Of communism -or Christianity- both of which he embraced at different points in his life?
The Symmetry
Is it a representation of good and evil coexisting in harmony? Two sides of the same coin?
A reminder that perspective can change, even at the extremes?
Either way, the rooms align symmetrically along a long central corridor that leads to an enormous living room with panoramic views - like a final destination.
Malaparte designed and built this house to confront his demons, or perhaps in peace with them.
It became his ideal, voluntary prison: a place where reflection and internal dialogue seem to be demanded by the architecture itself.
He left behind a monument. A kind of cenotaph, where his personality still lingers and quietly unsettles every visitor.
Researching Villa Malaparte was a journey in itself. It made me feel things like curiosity, introspection, wonder. And then disappointment, when I discovered the villa isn’t open to the public, meaning I can’t visit it.
I haven’t watched (and probably won’t watch) Godard’s Contempt, even though everyone insists that the film is inseparable from the villa’s atmosphere.
If you want to dive deeper, this blog offers incredible information and analysis:
http://red2malaparte.blogspot.com/p/medias-and-communication.html
I hope it fascinates you, too.
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