Oct. 31 marks the 30th anniversary of director Federico Fellini’s disappearance. In honor of his work as one of the greatest geniuses of Italian cinema, we remember and celebrate him with a review of his beloved masterpiece La Dolce Vita (1960).
Review
By Vittoria Ferri / Contributor || Edited by Amber Alexander
“A me invece Roma piace moltissimo: è una specie di giungla, tiepida, tranquilla, dove ci si può nascondere bene.” The jungle, which we find originally associated with the saying “it’s a jungle out there,” purposely to suggest chaos, indocility and danger, here is presented as orderly, warm, almost like a mother’s womb. The apparent oxymoron of Marcello’s (Marcello Mastroianni) iconic comment is the first line of the love letter to Rome that is (also) the movie.
Like any other heartfelt relationship, even Marcello’s declaration to Rome has a component of hate, the famous amore e odio. It is no coincidence that the idea of Rome being a jungle is still very much voiced today, and yet, after 63 years, what follows is always the same desire to never leave. In his sentiment to the city, Marcello works initially as the spokesman of all the people not wanting and not having time to open their eyes to a society that is turning men into monsters, recalling in its brutality the depiction of Goya in his painting “Saturn Devouring His Son.” It is a Rome of falsities, scams, material riches and corruptions that hide nothingness. An illusion of freedom offered by the postwar flow of money that no one really finds comfort in.
Maddalena (Anouk Aimée) contrasts Marcello’s will to stay in Rome by voicing her desire to move somewhere new where people don’t know her. “Anch’io vorrei nascondermi ma non ci riesco,” she tells Marcello, who then comically suggests that she buys a private island. “Ma poi ci andrei?” Her question, to which we can easily find an answer, reveals the discontentment with what money can offer. She is the emblem of the boredom of life which translates into carrying out all activities; the sex between them being a fitting example, as mere emotionless distractions. Fellini’s portrayal of Italy is that of a country that has lost the vehemence of postwar reconstruction, and with it also its moral strength; a strength that can hardly be regained in a reality so chaotic and yet so still, a false show, a masquerade.
It is no surprise that the movie seems to have a “weak” structure: the plot is not necessarily strong, or we can dare say not necessary. The abandoning of narrative continuity helps Fellini put his focus on an almost neorealist idea of the “wander through Rome.” Though it feels like a single story, the narration is actually episodic. Marcello is the character that appears in every chapter as he jumps through different social circles playing the role of the observer. The genius of Fellini, and one of the reasons why Marcello is so critical to the movie, is the irony he places onto the character: he is a gossip reporter, and he must experience and participate in that same fraudulent, cliché world that he writes about daily. Fellini critiques here the superficiality of Rome and Italy at large: Maddalena would never find a “new” city even if she searched for it, at least not in the Italy of the early 60s.
Where should we look then? “Hollywood,” suggests Fellini in his introduction of the character of Sylvie (Anita Ekberg). The American diva is deified by Italian people, constantly followed by paparazzi and lusted for her irrepressible femininity. Physically and personality-wise, she embodies exactly what the public expected from a diva: blonde, buxom, sensual, bubbly, naive. Yet, besides showing her being drowned in opulence, Fellini indirectly enhances her innocence and simplicity of mind, a positive trait that distances her from the manufactured, corrupted nature of the other characters.
The strive for innocence and the impossibility to obtain it, properly because it is an illusion, is a dominant trait in Marcello. Fellini reveals: “Il mio personaggio trasforma il suo soggiorno romano in una personale e volontaria via crucis. Vuole spiegarsi delle sue prerogative di ‘essere puro,’ per perdersi sulla via del peccato.” He calls Marcello his character, which is not surprising if we keep reading on his perception of life: “per vivere bene fino in fondo bisogna emigrare, magari soltanto con la fantasia, altrimenti sei un semplice stanziale.” Unfortunately, the sweet life that comes from materializing fantasies is nothing but conformism: disrespectful to the poor in spirit, understanding and encouraging to those who think they are stars. Still, Marcello doesn’t give up looking for purity. He looks in the tranquility of Steiner’s home, a writer and the person he most admires; in children and exalted people claiming to have seen the Virgin Mary; in Paola, the church angel look-alike.
The search for something normal is to be found concurrently in Emma (Yvonne Furneaux), who wishes for Marcello to simply love her. Once again, her search proved exhausting and unsuccessful. She exasperates him and threatens to kill herself, without gaining anything in return except for a fake “amore mio” in between complaints of her insistence. She is not entirely wrong, however, in fearing that Marcello is infatuated with Sylvie: he compliments her, follows her, enters the Trevi Fountain with her after the “Marcello, come here!” Interrupted by the day approaching, however, the two don’t kiss. With this choice, Fellini brings the viewer back to the theme of the masquerade, of the false dream that diffuses with the night passing.
The absence of a happy ending places Marcello in a position that all viewers can identify with. In a way we are all Marcello, questioning his place in a reality that is young, thriving and sane only in appearance but that hides its true dark nature: that of Sylvie beaten by her husband, that of Steiner slaughtering his beloved children and taking his own life in the name of Montale’s taedium vitae.
Is it all lost? Not necessarily. In this chaos, Fellini tells us that a pure reality exists. It is contained in Paola inviting Marcello to follow her, in the final scene on the beach—but it seems impossible for him to communicate with her. At that moment, she feels unreachable. The pungent power of the movie is captured in the last frame with her turning to the camera so as to interrogate us: what would we do?
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