The 1986 FIFA World Cup
was supposed to be held in Colombia. In late 1982, the prospective host withdrew
from its commitment citing 'economic difficulties' (actually asymmetric internal armed conflict) and Mexico
was awarded the privilege in their place. The tournament went on to be a great success – the collected images of Diego
Maradona are some of the most iconic in the sport – but it’s been said that the
physical infrastructure was found wanting. The fact of the matter is that
Mexico wasn’t afforded the time to adequately prepare for the job – just three years.
Most of the venues dated back to the 1960s, some were even older. Throw a major
earthquake into the mix, eight months before the competition was due to
start, and one begins to think that maybe the Mexican Football Federation
pulled off something of a coup. Furthermore, despite their age some of the stadiums were
actually quite impressive. The Estadio Olímpico Universitario, completed in
1952, is an extraordinary building, while the mighty Estadio Azteca, opened in 1966,
is one of the most imposing structures of its kind.
Such tribulations were unlikely to befall Italy’s preparations for hosting the world cup in 1990 (although it is a place
vulnerable to seismic activity). Not only did the Federazione
Italiana Giuoco Calcio (FIGC) have the more
usual six years in which to prepare for the tournament, but Serie A was the preeminent league of its day. There was the feeling that this could be the greatest World Cup ever.
The Italians elected to use the same number of stadia as the Mexicans. Of those twelve, two were new-builds (the Stadio delle Alpi
in Turin and
Stadio San Nicola in Bari), another two may have well been (the Stadio Comunale Luigi Ferraris in Genoa and Rome’s
Stadio Olimpico), while the remaining eight were enlarged, reconfigured and
refurbished. This posed various problems and architects came up with
various solutions ranging from the ostentatious through to the subtle, by
way of the ingenious, with varying degrees of success. But it was never about
volume. What the FIGC was paying for was architecture.
In the end the
quality of the actual football was relatively disappointing. The tournament saw the lowest
goals-per-game average for a World Cup and what at the time was a record of 16 red cards. More to the point, it wasn’t always pretty.
There was mention of the ball – the Adidas Etrusco
Unico – being unfavourably light and thus harder to control, which is a common complaint these days but wasn't so much back then. There might be something in it. Try and find match footage from
Mexico ‘86 – Brazil v. France will do – and see how comfortable the players look
in possession. Then watch Brazil v. Argentina from Italia ’90 and
count how many shots fly high and wide.
But
I digress.
A
number of problems have since arisen. For one, the quality of the original construction
work was not always of a high standard. Within just a few seasons,
terracing that had been completely refinished for the world cup was crumbling
underfoot and reinforced concrete supports were starting to spall. Second, Serie
A is no longer Europe’s wealthiest league: it’s the fourth behind England’s Premiership,
Spain’s La Liga and the German Bundesliga. Less money to spend on players means
less success means dwindling attendances means less revenue to spend on the
upkeep of the stadia. Finally, the oval stadium format which permeates
throughout much of Italy has slowly become redundant as European clubs have
embraced the rectangular ‘English style’ which deems a running
track an encumbrance. (Italian football grounds have historically been built
using public funds. For this reason, local authorities have reasonably
insisted that they cater for athletics.)
In
1990 the Stadio delle Alpi and Stadio San Nicola were admired for their architectural adventurousness. Today, the
former has been demolished and the Juventus Stadium erected in its place, while the latter presents a sorry sight, many of its Teflon roof sections blowing in the wind or ripped from their fastenings entirely. To be fair the grounds
they replaced also had athletics tracks. However, the Stadio Comunale and Stadio Della Vittoria were smaller
stadiums. At full capacity a running track isn’t so much of a problem. The Stadio delle Alpi and Stadio
San Nicola was/is never full to capacity.
It’s not so much that the Italian authorities made a mistake but missed an opportunity. It’s a moot point as far as Verona or
Bologna or Napoli or Cagliari are concerned, because Verona and Bologna and
Napoli and Cagliari didn’t have new grounds built for them. The only cities
that really benefitted, in that they were left with stadiums that anticipated
the emerging trend, were Milan and Genoa.
When Stadio Giuseppe Meazza – or plain ‘San Siro’ as it was
called up until 1980, whereupon it was renamed after the former AC and Inter
player who died the previous year – was built in 1925, it was unusual for not encompassing
a running track. The reason why is because the San Siro was privately funded by
a consortium headed by A.C. Milan’s then president Piero Pirelli – of the homonymous
tyre company – enabling them to build in any style they pleased. They opted for
the Anglo-Saxon model, comprising of four rectilinear stands, including a
covered main stand, and space for 35,000 spectators, 20,000 on seats (the
remaining 10,000 stood upon parterres
situated in front of the three uncovered tribuna).
Possibly because of its configuration, the ground proved very popular, and up
until the inauguration of Rome’s Stadio Olimpico in 1937 was the venue of
choice for the national football team. Realising its financial potential, in
1935 the local council purchased the ground and set about increasing its size still
further. By 1937 the smaller goal-end terraces had been extended and all four
stands connected by way of four curved corner sections, allowing for a capacity
approaching 65,000. In 1947 local rivals Internazionale became tenants,
ushering in a period of Milanese semi-domination with four of next available
eight scudettos ending up in the city,
honours even. (The 1949 Superga air disaster certainly had something to do with
this, wiping out the Grande Torino
who’d dominated Serie A since the end of the war, and to an extent before it).
The
next phase of development happened in 1955 and would come to define the
stadium. The plan initially was to raise the capacity to 150,000 by way of two
additional tiers. Perhaps realising the sheer ambition of the scheme – or the
cost – the plans were retrenched. Instead, a single, continuous freestanding
tier was built around the existing structure, completely enveloping it, making enough
room for a mere 82,000 spectators. Nothing particularly innovative going on
here – Real Madrid had done something similar eight years earlier at
what was then known as the Nuevo Estadio Chamartín – except architect Armando Ronca had carefully considered the question of
access, economy of space and aesthetics. Nineteen 200 metre long helical
ramps were attached to the stadium’s exterior, each rising gradually to
a height of nearly 20 metres. These parallel
walkways led directly to individual vomitories providing access to the second
tier at equidistant points, thus displacing the crowds that would otherwise have
gathered outside. More than that, it gave the stadium a visual identify to set
it apart from other football grounds; it became a thing of architectural
interest in its own right. [Ronca’s most recognised work is probably the Eurotel
in Marano (1958-1960) which appears to have taken its inspiration from Le
Corbusier’s Unité d'habitation.]
Italy’s
winning bid for the 1990 world cup brought with it terms and conditions. If the Stadio Giuseppe Meazza was to host the opening game (restitution
for the final being played in Rome) then it would need an all-seated capacity
of at least 80,000, two thirds of which would have to be under cover. The Milan
Municipal Administration decided against building something bespoke and awarded
the architects
Ragazzi, Hoffer and Finzi the task of surmounting these obstacles by way of
refurbishment.
The
issue of space was dealt with in the same way it was 30-odd years earlier: a single freestanding tier was built around
the existing structure, completely enveloping it. Ostensibly, this upper
gallery is a continuation of the one already in place, but it rests upon eleven
cylindrical, reinforced-concrete pillars aligned to the stadium’s curved
rectangular perimeter. These colossal towers have their own ramps, spiralling
upwards in accord with the existing architecture. It should be noted that this
third tier is incomplete: the stadium is hampered on one side due to the presence
of the racecourse – hence the odd number of supporting pillars – and so the
east side of the ground remains as it was. An all-seated capacity of 85,700 is
achieved nonetheless.
As
well as propping up the third tier, the four (larger) corner towers support four
perpendicular steel girders, their ends protruding horizontally beyond the polycarbonate fabric
of the roof itself, which hangs above the stadium like an open-sided pavilion. The
burgundy-matt finish of the steel complements the pale grey patina of the
reinforced concrete, the effect accentuated against the backdrop of a cloudless
azure sky. It is a readily attainable perspective: San Siro – the district from
whence the stadium first got its name – is suburban, low-rise, remote, and to
the west of the ground lies a vast expanse of concrete, from which the sheer scale of the building becomes apparent.
The parallels between A.C. Milan and Genoa C.F.C. are
manifold. Both clubs began life as sort of English expatriate associations with
a side-line in cricket. In each instance, the English orthography would
prevail: Milan rather than Milano,
Genoa instead of Genova. Milan Cricket and Football Club proceeded
to privately build an exclusively football-orientated ground, and so too did Genoa Cricket and Football Club. These
same grounds were subsequently sold to their respective local authorities and
were also renamed after bygone players. And just as A.C. Milan would end up
sharing grounds with their local rival, F.C. Internazionale Milano, in 1946
Genoa C.F.C. invited the newly formed U.C. Sampdoria to play at theirs.
Stadio Comunale Luigi Ferraris began life in 1911 as the Campo di Via del Piano (also known as Campo Marassi) and was then little more than a green surrounded
by a horse racing track overlooked by a single stand with a gable in the middle.
In 1928 the pitch was rotated by 90 degrees and work began on what would become the
Stadio Comunale. By the time Brazil and Spain faced off in the first round of
the 1934 World Cup, the ground’s capacity had risen from a notional 28,000 to a
substantial 51,000 and had been entitled in honour of former player (and
engineer) Luigi Ferraris, killed in action during the Great War. At this point,
the stadium wasn’t too dissimilar in aspect to the San Siro: rectilinear
terracing with a vaguely neo-classical façade. But whereas the stands at San Siro were joined up to form a coherent hole, the work at Comunale Luigi
Ferraris displayed no overarching strategy. Cantilevered roof extensions were
later added to each end of the main stand, with spiral walkways providing access
to the goal-end terraces, achieving a symmetry of sorts. In 1951 an open
double-decker stand was erected along the stadium’s east side, facing the
covered single-tiered stand opposite. The ground as it then was could
accommodate 55,773 spectators, 40,000 of them seated, which is impressive considering the physical impediments that surround the site: housing tenements, the
Villa Mussi Piantelli, the Bisagno River, even a prison.
If
the Luigi Ferraris had been a stadium in Mexico in 1983, it would have been
left very much alone and may even have gone on to host a quarter final. Had it been
located anywhere else in Italy but the undulating and beset city of Genoa,
they would have probably knocked it down and replaced it with something on the edge
of town. In the event, the Luigi Ferraris was
knocked down but then rebuilt where it had formerly stood, and because there
was nowhere else for Genoa and Sampdoria to play in the interim, it was literally
done one half at a time. At no point did it not exist, and by the time it was
finished the ground was completely transformed.
But
why was Luigi Ferraris rebuilt at all? It was already large enough to host
international football (just) and granted no less protection from the elements
than Stadio Artemio Franchi in Florence or Stadio Renato Dall'Ara in Bologna. Did its piecemeal design
finally catch up with it? Was the stadium just a little too ‘English’ for its
own good? Whatever the reasons, the FIGC got their money’s worth. Vittorio Gregotti was given the job of
sorting it out and went about imposing his trademark rectangular prisms (see the Università degli Studi di
Milano-Bicocca) upon
the limited space available.
If the Giuseppe Meazza reflects a moderately Brutalist, post-war
impression of modernism, then the Luigi Ferraris is pure
pre-war Bauhaus functionalism; where Giuseppe Meazza embraces curves and oblique lines, Luigi Ferraris is
bound by right angles. The structure appears as rectangles as the sum of
squares, and the motif is repeated throughout: four square gaps in the external
wall behind each goal-end terrace; six protruding square-shaped stairwells
above the stadium’s main entrance; large square apertures in the sidewalls
revealing ramped walkways behind; fifteen smaller quadratic openings in the
walls diagonally opposite; rectilinear lines etched into the concrete itself. Holding
this diffuse geometry together are four rectangular towers, which support the
roof by way of white steel trusses and allow the building to prevail upon the
skyline. The roofs themselves are formed of an indistinguishable metal framework
but are countersunk and not visible from street level.
Unlike
the Giuseppe Meazza, which depends on distance to be appreciated, this assemblage of terracotta red boxes
would look adrift upon the wastelands of San Siro. In among the compact, quadrate
edifices of Marassi, the order of the Luigi Ferraris makes perfect sense. It
can be viewed in sections; it is to be viewed in sections. It is not the sum of
its parts but a collection of perpendicular vignettes comprised of linear
planes. Under the same conditions, the Giuseppe Meazza would have an intimidating effect and might
itself be confused with something like a multi-storey car park.
Over recent years, AC Milan and Inter have entertained the possibility of abandoning their home in favour of a brand new build, more than likely on the periphery of a motorway somewhere. The fashion for constructing stadia in the most insalubrious of surroundings aside, the problem with the Giuseppe Meazza is that it’s too big. Over the course 2016-17, Internazionale and AC Milan averaged an attendance of 46,620 and 40,294 respectively (although when they played each other approximately 78,000 fans turned up). There’s also the impression of neglect. Regardless, the intimation that the building could have run its course is an alarming one. Not for a moment would anybody entertain tearing down the Duomo di Milano, no matter what its condition, so why is the thinking different here?
The same goes for the Luigi Ferraris. Genoa’s terrain limits either club’s options, but I’ve read of plans to install strange viewing galleries upon the roofs, amounting to what would be an act of architectural vandalism. Such schemes are indicative of a trend that regards modern architecture as something ephemeral, to be disposed of in accordance with the vagaries of fashion. Everybody wants to build a Veltins-Arena all of a sudden, despite the fact that the Veltins-Arena could be easily mistaken for an electrical wholesalers’ superstore on an industrial estate. Armando Ronca and Vittorio Gregotti’s efforts deserve more.
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Postscript: In 2022 I visited Stadio Giuseppe Meazza expecting to find it in a bad way. I didn’t. And yet its days are apparently numbered. The decision to award the American firm Populous with a contract to build the ground's replacement is indicative of humankind's profligacy and appetite for novelty – for building anew for its own sake. To say that the Giuseppe Mezza is no longer 'fit for purpose' is defeatist, inarticulate, lazy and patently untrue. The structure is sound, the viewing angles are perfect and there's more room for manoeuvre than there is in many newer grounds (it is after all a UEFA Category 4 accredited stadium). If an architect can't find a way to put in place whatever amenities are supposedly lacking then they're not much of an architect. Moreover, if anybody makes a claim for sustainability, they're having a laugh. The environmental and economic impact of tearing down and disposing of a ground of this size will be massive, not to mention the cost of putting in place the foundations for what follows. And if you think I’m being naïve, cynical or overly romantic, then consider this. Stadio Giuseppe Meazza might be the most iconic and recognisable stadium in Europe. In an age where branding counts for so much, what sense does it make to get rid of it?
[The body of this article was originally published in February 2017.]
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