Poor Roman Antonio (Lamberto Maggioriani) is hired as a painter and buys his bicycle back from a pawn shop. On his first day of work, Antonio's bike is stolen. The police aren't any help, so Antonio, his son Bruno (Enzo Staiola) and a few friends canvas Rome's streets looking for the bike. Even when Antonio finds his suspect (Vittorio Antonucci), he's unable to make any headway, growing increasingly desperate.
It's common wisdom that neorealism provides a dispassionate, documentary view of Italian life. Yet Bicycle Thieves should dispel that dogma: it's as sentimental as any Hollywood melodrama. Its power lies not in strict realism but down-to-earth craftsmanship. Bicycle Thieves makes few political points, beyond Bruno staring covetously at rich restaurant patrons and Antonio plastering American movie posters all over town. It's a richer portrait of people living through hard times.
De Sica captures the melancholy of Italians still recovering from war. Things are so bad a bicycle means the difference between work and the poor house. The police aren't any help, the Superintendent outright telling Antonio he'd better investigate himself. People grow desperate enough to waste money asking a blind "seer" for advice. When Antonio finally tracks the thief he's mobbed by the suspect's friends and family. The movie's sole glimmer of life comes through its father-son bond: Antonio will do anything to support his family.
De Sica uses nonprofessional actors, though several used the movie as a springboard to full-time acting. Lamberto Maggioriani gives a powerful performance, his anguished, beaten-down expression belying a hopeful exterior. Enzo Staiola's Bruno is likeable, avoiding silly kid schtick, while Lianella Carell is affecting in her brief scenes. Assistant director Sergio Leone cameos as a German seminary student.
Bicycle Thieves is a gem. While not as hopelessly bleak as Rossellini's War Trilogy, its palpable cry of despair will tug at the stoutest of heart strings.
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