We could say that Giuseppe Damiata is now a director of weddings. The umpteenth one he films in Palermo, on 5 October 1967, is perfect. He follows it from start to finish. And we imagine him very satisfied with the result, but less fatigued than the groom, who is happy but in the long run appears tired: the camera mercilessly captures his face wet with sweat. At one point he seems unable to cope, plastered as he is in his suit, but then recovers. The bride has prepared well for her appointment and plays the part much better. Times have changed, we are in the middle of the sixties, and the matrimonial rigmarole includes, after the church, kisses and greetings from relatives and friends, travelling by car, a reception in a slightly out-of-the-way venue, toasts, lunch, cake, fashionable dances with an orchestra, and so on and so forth. Will one still feel like consuming 'for the first time' that same evening? Conjugal duties have only just begun.