The first thing we see is a coldly lit corridor, through which a porter is slowly approaching the viewer on an escalator with a suitcase in complete silence. Some electronic music accompanies him, with soothing vocals complemented by the pulse of a quite anxious rhythm. The melody is the only sound in the scene; without it, it would become distilled quiet. The frame almost freezes, setting a distance between the image and the viewer: this scene is a direct call to observe, but quietly, with no participation. The guy appears in the first frame already on the escalator track and leaves us, getting off it noisily: we don't see where he came from, nor where he is delivering the suitcase — the director reveals only an excerpt of his path. 

Where is the portier? He has already left the previous hall but has not reached the next one yet – that is, neither there nor there; just in between. In this between, on the boundary (border) between the premises, there is an empty space with nothing changing (the escalator tape will rotate forever, repeating its circle) and nothing happening (the cold light hints: the climate here is unfavourable for life). The corridor only leads "from" "to": no one stays here (becomes present) – they only pass it in transit.

Generally, this is all; you won't see anything new until the denouement - this is how Sorrentino, in the first two minutes of The Consequences of Love, generously presents the viewer, who doesn't know about it yet, with a foregoing panorama: a man with a suitcase and the monotony stretched along the escalator inside the between.

Le Conseguenze dell'Amore, Paolo Sorrentino / 2004

It is valuable to see, a director finding a kindred actor. The latter thus becomes a permanent conductor of the creator's ideas into the real world and, at the same time, represents an embodied director’s creation. The actor and the director together overcome a colourful path through a series of images, evincing and revealing each other in it. In Anna Karina we see Godard; Truffaut lives in those told from the screen by Jean-Pierre Leo; for Sorrentino, that is Tony Servillo, also known as Gambardella, Andreotti, Berlusconi, and Di Girolamo. Through the eyes of the latter, from him and through him, the entire film is shown, the keys to which we will try to pick up.

We find Titta di Girolamo in a Swiss hotel, where everything is familiar to him, but nothing causing any bond. Such a state permeates his life. Titta, a lonely and not frivolous person, lacks imagination, as he says about himself — he is fully present in no action. He lives in the middle of the quiet beauty of Switzerland but does not leave the hotel. During the day he is not busy; at night he cannot fall asleep. He is always amid people but speaks to no one. He calls his relatives but does not communicate with them.

Girolamo's life is similar to the sound of a clock—unceasing, precise and monotonous: every day — observing a hotel’s hustle; every night—a new overheard portion of the neighbour's despair; every Wednesday at ten o'clock — a dose of heroin; every week — a visit to the bank; every month — a check given to the hotel’s director; every year — a course of complete blood purification; eight years in a row — the same room. Amidst the silence, the music besets just echoes of monotonous footsteps. Girolamo avoids everything that may disturb this balance or touch him: the attention of a bartender, an accidental acquaintance, stories from his brother. His car remains covered. For the entire film, he will be sitting in front of an unstarted chess game.

Titta comes to life once a week when a suitcase full of money appears on his doorstep. His mission is to deliver it to the bank. "Before" (from where it was delivered) and "after" (its placement in a bank’s vault) of a suitcase remain out of his sight and attention, but within transit Titta is dominating, displaying a sprinter’s agility and a royal posture. He is really present only while accompanying the money to the bank and when the bank is accepting it — the amount agreed by the bank means that the suitcase disappears from the frame again (and therefore, from Girolamo's life).

Soon we will learn what brought the character to the point where he is revealed to the viewer. Girolamo is a former successful broker who lost billions in mafia investments. "They realised I hadn't stolen it. They pardoned me and shut me up here..." A sin (ἁμαρτία — a miss) was committed, but not through the brocker’s fault. He does not deserve hell, but is sent to a Swiss purgatory… 

Titta committed his sin as a mediator — and now, for atonement, he is always only a mediator. A broker does not have his own business — he is only an intermediary staying between the counterparties. Girolamo is always in such an intermediate state with no position belonging to him. Does he have a house? Is he a drug addict? Does he have a family? Is he sleeping? Is he alive? The answer to all questions hovered between "yes" and "no", like himself… The only thing where Titta remains an actor is his mediation (handing over the suitcase), in which he shows mastery, prudence, and confidence. The brocker's sin lays in an undetected risk; since then, his life has been transparently traced; devoid of any variety or flexibility, any unlit nooks. 

Beyond his only function of carrying a weekly suitcase, Titta is a constant insomniac, both day and night: he can do anything, but all he wants to do is to fall asleep. His daytime silent walks continue nightly rounds through the hotel. Amidst the silence, the music besets just echoes of monotonous footsteps. In this "beyond", the intermediary is only waiting for a weekly signal from his only counterparties, whom he can mediate by appearing in their "between". Titta does not leave the environment of the first scene — a transit terminal (would they get along with Victor Navorsky?)

The only thing left for him is to fill time is the joys of the master of small things: he examines, studies, masters all the little things available to him in his environment. There comes a state when it is difficult to distinguish Titta from his environment. On the one hand, all his purgatory (including the beauty of the Alps, his brother’s energetic stories, accidental scenes in the bar) combine into an endless crossword, which the captive (without any interest) is rather filling than solving, forced by boredom. At the same time, Titta himself resembles a Deleuzian tick, remaining indifferent and impervious to attempts to impress him, continuing, nevertheless, as it seems, to wait for a circumstance that will ignite his interest. “We must never lose faith in our fellow men.” So far, even speaking to others, he is acting in the same way as examining the circuit diagram on his floor: an interlocutor is only a thing, some features of which may be emphasised out loud, for himself, without considering any consequences. The reaction will remain unnoticed, because it is not a dialogue, but a continuous observation, in which Titta is single, alone in the world, locked among not very interesting trifles. “You were always a superficial man. You're not even a man.You're just a boy.” Cards taken from an inner pocket of the gambler. Is there anything in his field of vision besides the suitcase?

The situation that brought Titta out of his habitual indifference — the cameraman emphasises this by rapidly shifting the focus to the change in his facial expression; the music pierces the viewer with a call to attention, conveying the impression of the character — is almost the only one in the entire film: his friend is mentioned. “Dino Giuffrè, he is my best friend. If you make friends with someone, it's forever,” even though they have never seen each other for twenty years. To be friends that is, for each of the two, to be a friend to the other or, as Deleuze writes, to complement each other, to depersonalise in each other, to be singularities regarding each other. So, are Girolamo and Giuffrè friends, or is it just Titto's useful prejudice, which gives nostalgic cosmetics to the life of a broker, deprived of support in the present?

Let us try to absorb this issue with another, more extensive and more obvious one, presenting which Sorrentino leaves the viewer with a tangible hunger for an answer upon the end credits — what kind of love is the film named after? Titta's love for Sophia? His love for himself? There is only one love mentioned aloud, in the car before the final scene: "You know, Nitto's fond of you...." The consequences of this love are obvious — they’ve been cast for posterity in concrete. For now, let us refrain from such a radical immersion into the question — perhaps we should take a few steps back to see the answer.

What is love? In love, two are in a relationship implying mutual devotion: as openness to accept love, as well as openness towards the object of love in expressing one's feelings. The described devotion is manifested in directing (concentrating, limiting) oneself (one's attention and activity) to the object of love, as well as being captivated by it. In this way, the mutual intrusion of those loving in love makes possible a birth of something new and unified of theirs. Intrusion means violation of boundaries and the resulting change due to external influence. Openness in love entails not only risk, but also irreversibility (having undergone changes, becoming the one you’ve been will not work). It is not for nothing that Love and the Irreversible are on a par! Another important circumstance is that we fall in love, as into despair, into childhood, etc. — that is, being captivated by such a state, we bind ourselves to/with the object of love. Horrendum est incidere in manus amoris vivi! A fall must obviously be preceded by a disturbance of balance; and in the case of love — all vital, everyday balance…

Let's summarize: the one who loves opens oneself up to love; loses balance and puts oneself at risk; defines (limits) oneself (one’s activity) by an object of love; allows the object of love to overcome his boundaries and change him. In other words: one who loves determines one’s position; appears in it; must, through that, become visible (and, as a side effect, vulnerable). Love, then, involves a risky self-restraint — a decision — through which an actor emerges in relation of love (determines oneself).

As long as Titta remains in a shell of his everyday life, he is insured against an unsuccessful fall, but has not yet evinced, revealed himself, has never self-determined. As a result, Girolamo is in limbo; he is everywhere-absent. Nevertheless, Titta dares to open up. The first consequence of his decision is crossing a usual limit: for the first time in years, he misses an injection. Immediately, the second consequence occurs: Girolamo, for the first time, agrees to answer who he is (in contrast to the dialogue at the film’s beginning). An illustration of the accepted risk did not take long: the broker appropriates (makes his own) part of the money. Having taken his own position, he is no longer a mediator, what he declares in the most obvious way.

The factors with which we could explain this resolution after eight years of waiting are too accidental and insufficient: we see the result of Girolamo's realised freedom. Does he love Sophia? Is it her achievement? Quite unlikely: it is not for nothing that there is no place for sex (the most literal manifestation of a love mutual intrusion) in their relationship. Another argument is added by the scene of the road accident. This is the only episode in the entire film that is created and remains out of reach for Titta. The rest of the film unfolds for us only through his visions and thoughts (for example, we know nothing about the exterior of the hotel: Titta has never been filmed in its background); the viewer is always looking through Girolamo — with this only exception. A conclusion can be reached by repeating the said: in the film, we see the course of Titta's life through his eyes; it defines the plot of the film. What is excluded from his life flow should remain out of the picture — it does not matter. So, Sophia's death could change nothing in the story (Girolamo's life): he is waiting with his luggage not for her — but for the consequences of his decision (an act of love) approaching irreversibly. He is heading to meet them.

Having left the purgatory by his own free will, Titta is slowly descending, like credits to an entire movie. However, he is feeling no descent: his spirit is at the height of the power lines raised even above the Alps—with his best friend.