In Mel Brooks' The Producers, the driving scenes are shot front-on, a two-dimensional view into the life of the driver and passengers. You can see out the rear window, but the others are obscured, masking the world behind it – all that matters is the here and the now, the road disappearing into the past behind. The same technique was used in La Dolce Vita as Marcello and Maddalena drive through Roman streets. To La Dolce Vita's Rome, the only matter is portrait, a shallow dimension you can peer straight through. Its people live in pain, trying to break free from their bodies, but they remain trapped within their porcelain figures. An actress yearns for love, and finds it in a stray kitten. Maddalena yearns for connection, and finds it in an echo chamber, disconnected from the other end. We wonder if Marcello ever found his. Fellini's closing shot is hopeful – everything before it isn't.
Fellini's finger-waggle at Roman culture is soaked in now-termed 'felliniesque' trademarks; an object suspended in the air above, men in love, women in love, and a begrudging world that chews them up and spits them out. In 8½ a visionary struggles to discover his muse, a 'perfect' woman who is ultimately underwhelming. In La Dolce Vita, Marcello's identical epiphany doesn't wait until the conclusion. He encounters the blonde and buxom Sylvia, a ditsy actress who relishes her time in the spotlight, only to follow her through the streets of late-night Rome. She howls in the wilderness, rescues a mewing kitten, and paddles into a fountain in a bout of rebellion. The water flows down the stone carvings, but as Marcello wades after her it runs dry, the still water cementing his hopelessness. Fellini's Rome is spiteful, kicking its fools when they're down. Marcello's eyes only continue to darken as Fellini's cynicism grips ahold.
La Dolce Vita seems to celebrate the women who change the world and deplore the men who stand and watch. Actresses stroll from their luxurious private jets as a mob of journalist squabble and brawl like schoolboys on prom night; intellectuals observe an aboriginal singer strum and sing, only for men to fawn over her looks ("foreign women are far superior," one announces before his wife); just as an army of spectators and journalists blindly gather around two children who claim to see the virgin Madonna. Many are skeptical, but one woman offers her wisdom: "People find God wherever they look." Marcello's intellectual friend, Steiner, shares Fellini's insight. His son can accept the beauty of what is already there — he can observe a flower and laugh, for it is beautiful — but his daughter is captivated by invention, coining poetic phrases like "Who is the mother of the sun?" Rome's men are captivated by beauty, but oblivious to what lays behind.
Marcello Mastroianni is a worldly actor whose figure is a canvass of emotion. He needn't open his mouth, lest it pile upon the magnitudes of emotion already plastered over his exterior. His smiles are lopsided and faulted, cold and cynical, grappled by the obligations of love and the heartless venom of his Rome. His romance struggles between the wealthy seductress Maddalena and the long love of his destructive lover at home, leaving him exhausted and trapped between the realms of loneliness. The Roman worlds are of tired love and plastic people, and the two can't resist headbutting each other into submission.
It's Fellini's descent from neorealism which cements his confounding and disorganized world as an exquisite mass in the story, the essential planetoid whose gravity pulls everything inwards. La Dolce Vita is widely considered a hallmark in sharpened satire, a dagger piercing the heart of Roman 'café society'. It is said Fellini was spat on, berated, and called communist and atheist outside of his theatre showings. Biting satire is a curveball which strikes once its audience is whipped into submission – it seems his audiences were wholly convinced by his cautionary tale, and no curveball could nudge them over its edge. Marcello's life may appear amicable and, to some, desirable, but the dark clouds beneath his eyes indicate otherwise. His life feels faulted and satanic, and Fellini's tale reminds me of a lecture from a protective parent so their teenage kid doesn't sneak out at night.
The film begins with a statue of Christ above Rome, and ends with a leviathan being wrestled onto the seashore. La Dolce Vita confounds beauty with the snarl of a beast, mocking its existence with theatrics and showmanship. Fellini revisits his trademark obsession with the circus, but it is overshadowed by relentless melancholy – a lone performer trumpets solemnly, only to march out, the balloons on the ground following through the door. A fellow performer sheds a tear to his performance, just as we, the audience, should for Marcello. We're the performers that share his stage.
La Dolce Vita gave birth to the term 'paparazzi', a contortion of celebrity photographer Papparazzo, who spends his days and nights stalking the upper-class men and women of Roman society, be it celebrity or royalty. But beyond etymology, La Dolce Vita has given us something more. In his era of Italian film, Fellini's audio is almost all post-production. It's a near-flawless conversion, but sometimes a word is spoken while a mouth is closed, or vice-versa. It's easy to collapse into Marcello's world, to live in it and to breathe its air, but only the minor details tore me out. La Dolce Vita doesn't ignore the small print, no, but suggests you draw back its veil and tear off the mask. It urges you to see through its facade. Of course, it's all a fantasy, mere images on a screen, but it's more: it's a film about men, about women, about the capitalist and the communist, about the saint and about the whore. Fellini captured a moment, and in it, all is laid bare.
Fellini's finger-waggle at Roman culture is soaked in now-termed 'felliniesque' trademarks; an object suspended in the air above, men in love, women in love, and a begrudging world that chews them up and spits them out. In 8½ a visionary struggles to discover his muse, a 'perfect' woman who is ultimately underwhelming. In La Dolce Vita, Marcello's identical epiphany doesn't wait until the conclusion. He encounters the blonde and buxom Sylvia, a ditsy actress who relishes her time in the spotlight, only to follow her through the streets of late-night Rome. She howls in the wilderness, rescues a mewing kitten, and paddles into a fountain in a bout of rebellion. The water flows down the stone carvings, but as Marcello wades after her it runs dry, the still water cementing his hopelessness. Fellini's Rome is spiteful, kicking its fools when they're down. Marcello's eyes only continue to darken as Fellini's cynicism grips ahold.
La Dolce Vita seems to celebrate the women who change the world and deplore the men who stand and watch. Actresses stroll from their luxurious private jets as a mob of journalist squabble and brawl like schoolboys on prom night; intellectuals observe an aboriginal singer strum and sing, only for men to fawn over her looks ("foreign women are far superior," one announces before his wife); just as an army of spectators and journalists blindly gather around two children who claim to see the virgin Madonna. Many are skeptical, but one woman offers her wisdom: "People find God wherever they look." Marcello's intellectual friend, Steiner, shares Fellini's insight. His son can accept the beauty of what is already there — he can observe a flower and laugh, for it is beautiful — but his daughter is captivated by invention, coining poetic phrases like "Who is the mother of the sun?" Rome's men are captivated by beauty, but oblivious to what lays behind.
Marcello Mastroianni is a worldly actor whose figure is a canvass of emotion. He needn't open his mouth, lest it pile upon the magnitudes of emotion already plastered over his exterior. His smiles are lopsided and faulted, cold and cynical, grappled by the obligations of love and the heartless venom of his Rome. His romance struggles between the wealthy seductress Maddalena and the long love of his destructive lover at home, leaving him exhausted and trapped between the realms of loneliness. The Roman worlds are of tired love and plastic people, and the two can't resist headbutting each other into submission.
It's Fellini's descent from neorealism which cements his confounding and disorganized world as an exquisite mass in the story, the essential planetoid whose gravity pulls everything inwards. La Dolce Vita is widely considered a hallmark in sharpened satire, a dagger piercing the heart of Roman 'café society'. It is said Fellini was spat on, berated, and called communist and atheist outside of his theatre showings. Biting satire is a curveball which strikes once its audience is whipped into submission – it seems his audiences were wholly convinced by his cautionary tale, and no curveball could nudge them over its edge. Marcello's life may appear amicable and, to some, desirable, but the dark clouds beneath his eyes indicate otherwise. His life feels faulted and satanic, and Fellini's tale reminds me of a lecture from a protective parent so their teenage kid doesn't sneak out at night.
The film begins with a statue of Christ above Rome, and ends with a leviathan being wrestled onto the seashore. La Dolce Vita confounds beauty with the snarl of a beast, mocking its existence with theatrics and showmanship. Fellini revisits his trademark obsession with the circus, but it is overshadowed by relentless melancholy – a lone performer trumpets solemnly, only to march out, the balloons on the ground following through the door. A fellow performer sheds a tear to his performance, just as we, the audience, should for Marcello. We're the performers that share his stage.
La Dolce Vita gave birth to the term 'paparazzi', a contortion of celebrity photographer Papparazzo, who spends his days and nights stalking the upper-class men and women of Roman society, be it celebrity or royalty. But beyond etymology, La Dolce Vita has given us something more. In his era of Italian film, Fellini's audio is almost all post-production. It's a near-flawless conversion, but sometimes a word is spoken while a mouth is closed, or vice-versa. It's easy to collapse into Marcello's world, to live in it and to breathe its air, but only the minor details tore me out. La Dolce Vita doesn't ignore the small print, no, but suggests you draw back its veil and tear off the mask. It urges you to see through its facade. Of course, it's all a fantasy, mere images on a screen, but it's more: it's a film about men, about women, about the capitalist and the communist, about the saint and about the whore. Fellini captured a moment, and in it, all is laid bare.
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