FELLINI – SATYRICON (1969), dir. Federico Fellini

Here is ancient Rome envisioned by someone with a fever in his brain, and as it happens, Fellini was recovering from a serious illness when he picked up Petronius’ novel Satyricon, and found the inspiration for this depraved, fantastic film.

It should be noted the original novel only exists in pieces. Rather than try and rebuild it, Fellini left the narrative gaps in, and as a result, “Fellini – Satyricon” has a disconnected, dreamlike quality. It is effective nonetheless: we are haunted by its images and sounds; a hollow chime, which reappears throughout the movie, will heretofore be implanted upon the brain. But ask how various scenes of visual opulence are connected, and I could not tell you. As best I can figure, the plot involves two young Romans (Martin Potter, Hiram Keller) who may be scholars or artists, vying for the affections of a younger, androgynous-looking boy (Max Born).

These characters not so much travel as are magically shunted to various locales: a lavish bacchanalia, a galley ship full of captured slaves, into the desert helping kidnap an albino prophet, and face-to-face with the legendary Minotaur. Some amazing costumes are provided by Danilo Donati (who collaborated with Fellini numerous times), and production designer Luigi Scaccianoce’s sets include a building that resembles the Guggenheim Museum crossed with Dante’s Circles of Hell.

Meanwhile, Fellini and cinematographer Giuseppe Rotunno try to fit as many garish colors, layers of detail, and strangely-shaped faces and bodies into the frame as possible. Entire background shots are crammed full of people, and at certain times, they are coordinated with a precision that seems mind-boggling. Luckily, the filmmakers also provide a few stark, intriguing moments to keep the feeling of being fatally-overstuffed at bay: panoramic shots of deserts and coasts, the two male leads cavorting with an exotic woman they find inside a cave.

Like many Fellini movies, an earthiness balances out the beauty, but we are not just talking griminess. Characters shout at one another, belch, and lust in such a way that reflects their vigor for living. However, despite how fantastic the whole production is, there is great darkness here, too, as “Fellini – Satyricon” shows the dangers of excess, and explores man’s potential for limitless appetite.

The most powerful and successful secondary characters are depicted as willing to cross what viewers might consider ethical boundaries for art and experience sake: a great actor cuts off somebody’s hand as part of his stage act; a famous poet drinks himself stupid, carries on with a young boy in front of his wife, and has another guest beaten; the emperor himself, who remains unseen, orders boats to sail forth acquiring slaves for his pleasure.

Granted, laws existed in the ancient world, and the historical accuracy of “Fellini – Satyricon” could probably be debated, but the underlying question is a universal one: Can we live our lives solely for seeking pleasure? The movie dramatizes this question by involving the two main protagonists in what is essentially a pointless second half, carried along by exterior forces, greed, or lust. Naturally, when one develops sexual dysfunction, the quest for a cure becomes all-consuming (and leads to that whole fighting the Minotaur-thing – in a labyrinth, no less!). Fellini does tend to reflect his own insecurities in his art, and the theme of male potency reappears in his “City of Women” more than a decade later, but if anything, that only proves the universality of the earlier question.

I am not saying everyone will love this movie. You might argue it’s nothing more than the director indulging his subconscious through a parade of pretty trash, followed by sexually-charged nonsense. My response is: that’s all accurate, but that’s also the whole point.

Overall rating: **** (out of ****)

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CITY OF WOMEN (CITTA DELLE DONNE, LA) (1980), dir. Federico Fellini

From the Prick to the Brain, and Back Again (Return to Main Page)

A misogynist meets his match in this ambitious, surreal, but ultimately disappointing film by the legendary Italian director.

Snaparoz (Marcello Mastroianni), a handsome, middle-aged lothario, awakens across from a beautiful woman clad in leather boots (Bernice Stegers). He tries to coax her into a bathroom quickie, but their train stops, and she abruptly leaves him hanging. Snaparoz follows her off the train, hoping she will satisfy his burning lust. Instead, she disappears into the ether, having resisted such flattering compliments as, “God, you’re one hot bitch!”

After wandering in the nearby forest, Snaparoz arrives at a secluded hotel. Apparently, a conference among feminists has been scheduled, and the hotel is stacked to the rafters. The feminists come in all shapes, sizes, and intellectual leanings. Some appear friendly toward Snaparoz’s intrusion, while others react with suspicion. Since this is a Fellini film, one must expect theatricality, and some of the angrier feminists are portrayed in a semi-comic way that brings to mind the “femi-nazi” stereotype. Is Fellini ridiculing feminism? I don’t think so. More likely, he portrays them this way on purpose, so they represent what men like Snaparoz fear most: feminist extremism.

The woman with the leather boots reappears in the auditorium. She gives a brief lecture, in which she humiliates Snaparoz with photos of him, his fly undone. Snaparoz protests, then storms out of the lecture hall, only to find everyone in the hotel turned against him. A pair of young feminists seemingly arrive to his rescue. Instead, they convince him to put on roller skates, then send him hurtling down a flight of steps.

Now events conspire to take Snaparoz out of the hotel, into even stranger territory. A husky handywoman with a motorbike (Jole Silvani) agrees to give him a lift back to the train station. But she takes an unfamiliar route—a “shortcut,” she claims—which brings them to a farmhouse. There, she tries to rape him. The handywoman’s mother intervenes, apologizes to poor Snaparoz, and offers to have her other daughter take him to the station. On the way, however, they end up with the daughter’s friends: cigarette-smoking, bottle-swigging, foul-mouthed female versions of Marlon Brando's character from “The Wild One.”

At this point, I thought I picked up on what Fellini was doing. The predator who gives the hitchhiker a lift, then feels entitled to sex; the rowdies who play chicken with their cars, and drive down to the airfield to howl at passing planes—he’s using women to parody the disgusting sexual behavior of men, their aggressiveness on the road, and the way they worship phallic-shaped objects that make thunderous, angry, male noises, I reasoned. As if that weren’t enough, then Fellini introduces Dr. Zubercock (Ettore Manni), a former lord of the land who takes machismo to ridiculous heights. Dr. Zubercock is man whose universe revolves around his penis. He collects functional male erotic art, and his basement is a vast gallery of women whose orgasms he has documented. Snaparoz spends several minutes dancing merrily about the catacombs, pushing buttons, which trigger the recordings of Zubercock’s one-time loves in the throes of ecstacy (Is this supposed to represent the male fantasy of being able to satisfy a woman with a mere button-press?).

But Dr. Zubercock’s universe is rapidly disentegrating. The new feminist rulers have decreed that his castle—the structure “erected” by the male members of his family—must be torn down. To commemorate the end of the old order, Dr. Zubercock throws a lavish party. The man of the castle will enjoy his ten-thousandth sexual conquest afterward. In the meantime, the chief delights include watching said conquest perform a trick where she vacuums up pennies and pearls beneath her dress.

Ultimately, however, none of this penis-worship can distract from the change in the air. The feminist police crash the party. They kill the host’s dog, and nearly place Snaparoz under arrest. His longtime girlfriend Elena (Anna Prucnal), who makes an unexpected appearance, manages to convince the police not to detain him. But their intrusion proves that women are taking over, and men are helpless to stop them—a nightmare for alpha males like Zubercock.

There is something genuinely compelling about this "Twilight Zone"-ish inversion of gender roles. Fellini, however, isn't content simply giving misogynists what they deserve. He wants to show the kinder, gentler side of a man who objectifies women. And so, during the second half of "The City of Women," Snaparoz falls down a rabbithole, into a wonderland that could very well represent his own subconscious.

He finds himself sliding down a roller-coaster track in an amusement park lit up by hundreds of incandescent bulbs. The trip is crosscut with scenes from Snaparoz' childhood. Later, he searches for his ideal mate in an underground labyrinth, wherein a giant praying mantis lives (Although we only see its shadow cast against a nearby wall, it's otherworldly enough to be quite memorable). Does the monstrous insect represent that aforementioned idea of extreme feminism, since female mantises consume their male counterparts after sex? Is it a projection of Snaparoz' mind?

Finally, the hapless skirt chaser finds himself in a hot-air balloon. It is shaped, not surprisingly, like a woman, and poses the possibility of salvation. Or does it? Snaparoz has been led to believe that he will find his perfect woman once he reaches the balloon. But perhaps the notion of the one ideal mate is merely a trap set up by the male mind, which leaves him vulnerable to the advances of more aggressive (and possibly machine-gun toting) females.

A better question: Does the viewer really care about this? We should. Unfortunately, the transition from reality to fantasy is clunky, and some of the latter elements are just too bizarre. Also, the ending greatly disappoints. A film with this much audacity on the screenplay and production levels should go out with a bang, not a whimper. Its momentum should build into an explosive climax, not piss itself away, leaving us thoroughly unsatisfied.

Overall rating: ** (out of ****)

AMARCORD (1973), dir. Federico Fellini

And Fellini said, “Gradisca (Gratify Yourself).”

The title, literally translated, means, “I remember.” And in fact, “Amarcord” is presented like a series of memories. Plotwise, there is very little that connects each episode. The only similarities are the location—a picaresque Italian town that has stood since 268 BC—and the town’s numerous inhabitants, who behave in that trademark Fellini-esque way: theatrically.

“Amarcord” starts off as a history, told directly to the camera by a gray-haired gentleman, referred to as Mr. Lawyer (Luigi Rossi). Then it becomes a story about the trials and tribulations of an unremarkable family, the Biondis. The head of the household is Aurelio (Armando Brancia), a portly, balding, middle-aged man who frequently erupts into utter bedlam. A master builder by trade, his domestic life runs far less smoothly than his professional one. His wife Miranda (Pupella Maggio) nags him, and in one scene, gives him the silent treatment. Occasionally, she’ll offer him a sharp verbal jab, which leads him to throw his hands up as if to say, “Look what I gotta put up with.”

Frequently, it is Aurelio’s two sons, especially Titta (Bruno Zanin), the eldest, who give him fits. A pair of out-of-control juvenile delinquents, they and their pals make for a cruder, Italian-speaking version of the Dead End gang. They torment their schoolteachers, smear their faces against storefront windows. During the first of the movie’s many large-scale set pieces—the burning of a witch in effigy to commemorate the end of winter—the gang explode firecrackers behind unsuspecting adults. When the adults attempt to chastise them, they quickly give lip in reply. “That’s nothing compared to the sound my father’s ass makes,” Titta’s little brother says, after a particularly loud firecracker.

Since Titta and most of his pals are teenagers, their brains are consumed by sex. The town’s strong religious climate, and regular visits to confession, cannot keep the gang from piling into an empty car, and masturbating in unison (An act which causes the entire car to shake). To the priest, Titta plays down how often he attends to himself, repents, then moves on. The priest has to coax the confession out of him by mentioning how his impure acts make the saints weep. For Titta, however, the weeping of the saints is no match for the allure of women. Oh, the women in his town!

Through a montage of flashbacks, Titta reveals the many fateful encounters that have stimulated his mind and set his blood a-boil: His brief interactions with the tobacconist (Maria Antonietta Beluzzi), who has enormous bosoms, each one larger than the lad’s head; a french kiss at the lips and tongue of Volpina (Josiane Tanzilli), the local blonde beauty who is literally feverish with her lust for men. And of course, Gradisca (Magali Noel), whom he encountered in a movie theater and tried to put the moves on. She left an indelible impression upon his memory, though Titta was so awestruck he could nary speak.

The townspeople treat Gradisca like a local celebrity. During a visit to a shuttered hotel, a lounging Mr. Lawyer reveals what events made her a legend. It involves the same hotel, glorious during its heyday, and a visiting prince. Though specifics are never mentioned, we infer that Gradisca, by offering her substantial charms to the prince, performed a great service for the town. The scene where she “offers” is a truly magical piece of cinema. Done almost entirely without words, Gradisca removes one article of clothing at a time, then gently bends at the knees and waist, the absolute incarnate of a sexpot. She repeats this motion with the drop of each successive piece of dress, resulting in a montage that doesn’t imply sex so much as screams it from the top of a mountain.

Everybody in the town has a fantastic story to tell, if they aren’t living it already. Like Gradisca’s, their tales overflow with bawdiness, and revel in earthly joys. There is Biscein, a relatively minor character, who makes his living selling fruits and spices out of his cart. But even Biscein was once tossed a bone in life. According to legend, he made love to twenty-eight concubines of a visiting emir. It happened in a single night; he was driving past their hotel, when the love-starved women, initially dressed in sheets concealing their bodies, motioned to him from their windows. They lowered a rope made from bedsheets, and beckoned him to climb up. After ascending the makeshift rope several stories, Biscein entered the harem’s chamber, where the women performed an elaborate dance routine that resembled something from the stories of Scheherezade.

For the most part, Fellini infuses “Amarcord” with a kind of giddy energy. This can be a blessing at various times. Early on, there is a dinner table scene where Aurelio erupts at Titta, whom the night before defiled an important politician’s hat. In Fellini’s hands, a potentially-disturbing scene becomes somewhat charming. Aurelio chases Titta from the house, then argues with Miranda. She argues back, and he stands there and takes it, holding in his rage until his eyes bulge and his face starts to change color. The father-mother screaming match disturbs with its intensity. Luckily, the director uses two other characters at the table, Miranda’s brother Lallo (Nando Orfei), and Aurelio’s father (Giuseppe Ianigro), to offset the seriousness of the argument.

The latter wanders into an adjacent room, where he paces back and forth, and breaks wind at every count of three. The former, meanwhile, soldiers on with his dinner like a meathead. Aurelio’s father’s bizarre behavior distracts us from the arguing. At the same time, Lallo’s relatively blasé reaction goes a long way towards convincing us that this intra-family bickering is normal. By the time Aurelio returns to—shall we say—clear the table, we can chuckle a little. Fellini has defused the tension by giving us other things to focus on.

There is one other scene that crosses into the realm of the disturbing. After Lallo, a devout Italian fascist, reports that Aurelio has expressed doubts over the direction of the country, police raid the house. They drag Aurelio away in the dead of night. The fascists torture him, forcing castor oil down his throat until he vomits. It is not a pretty scene. However, Fellini balances out the unpleasantness by depicting the fascists as goons or fools. In the interrogation room, an elderly officer in a wheelchair prattles on to no person in particular; meanwhile, Aurelio’s chief tormentor hops up and down, shouting like an angry five year-old. The hunt for dissentors, which Aurelio found himself ensnared in, was precipitated by a gramophone that appeared in the center of town. The police managed to shoot it off its perch at the top of a clock tower. But they wasted an inordinate number of bullets on the stationary, defenseless object. Not exactly the kind of show of strength that reflects well on Italian fascism.

So what if “Amarcord” didn’t win the director any friends among surviving fascists? Clearly, Italy’s old political climate doesn’t sway his affection for the people themselves. “Amarcord” features an overflowing cast, but Fellini manages a semblance of order by bringing all the characters together at different points, just like Robert Altman would in “Nashville” (1975) and “Short Cuts” (1993). There is the aforementioned effigy-burning at the beginning, which the entire town attends. During the middle of the film, everyone spends an evening out at sea, in order to catch a glimpse of the Rex, Italy’s largest oceanliner. Finally, there is the wedding that closes the picture, mostly notable for the absence of certain characters.

Since Fellini has such a large cast to juggle, we never get to know any single person very well. Aurelio might be the possible exception. With him, we catch a glimpse of a soul not entirely devoid of poetry, despite his routine day job. During the glorious night on the water spent looking for the Rex, he stares up at the night sky, and wonders how the stars manage to stay suspended in the heavens. “With a house, it’s a certain amount of mortar, a certain amount of lime,” he says. But those stars… “Where do you put the foundations?”

“Amarcord” celebrates a town, a people, and a way of life. It depicts an Old World that still exists mostly in the memory. Here is a place to grow up, have adventures, and ultimately, depart. It is a place I will remember, quite fondly.

Overall rating: **** (out of ****)

NIGHTS OF CABIRIA (1957), dir. Federico Fellini

Magic and Loss: Fellini’s Autumn Tale

Poor Cabiria. An aging streetwalker who spends her nights selling her body beside the road, she dreams of romance. These dreams always seem to let her down. The proverbial hooker with a heart of gold (not to mention a tongue laced with acid), she has a tendency to let that beating organ run too fast, and for men who are less than worthy of it. Take Giorgio, the supposed beau who makes a brief appearance in the opening of the film. He embraces Cabiria, tells her to go stand by the river. Then he grabs her purse and pushes her in. Some eagle-eyed village boys save Cabiria from drowning. But that doesn’t seem to placate her much after she comes to and realizes what happened.

She’s incredulous over what Giorgio did. "Would he really have killed me for 7,000 lira?" she asks her friend.

"Men will kill for 500 lira," replies Wanda, a fellow prostitute. No doubt, she is correct, given the kind of men these prostitutes regularly encounter. Coke-dealing pimps, oily lotharios, johns who are only interested in appeasing their lust and loneliness. Each of them will take what they can from Cabiria, then abandon her by the side of the road (Or worse, in the case of Giorgio).

One cannot blame Cabiria for yearning after true love, given the degrading nature of her employment. Who can blame her for seeking out a man she can trust, someone who is interested in her, not just using her body? But alas, for a woman who is otherwise smart and independent, she manages her heart in such an impractical way. She is easily swept off her feet by style and good looks. The shrine to Giorgio that we see in her house implies she worshipped this slick-looking heartthrob much better than she knew him.

Anyway, what’s so great about love? Well, some might describe it as a kind of magic. If Cabiria is looking for magic, then she is in a movie by the right director. "Nights of Cabiria," which the legendary Fellini filmed in 1957, has some fantastical touches, even some surrealistic ones. It’s also a wonderful movie, with a great performance by Giulietta Masina as the title character. She convincingly plays an aging prostitute who falls in love, and actually turns back the clock thanks to that love. I assume the source of her metamorphosis must be somewhere within Masina. Directors are masters of many tricks, but even Fellini alone couldn’t have coaxed a smile as incandescent as the one in the final frame.

"Night of Cabiria" is assembled as a series of episodes. There’s a very loose main plot: Cabiria wants to leave the life of a prostitute behind. Events that precipitate this decision include a night at a fairy tale mansion where Cabiria only temporarily stands-in as Cinderella. Also, there is a morning encounter with a strange man near some caves. His kindness—and the appearance of a former prostitute now living like a Morlock—convince Cabiria to find a permanent spot in the light.

At first, an evening in the home of a famous actor named Alberto Lazzari (Amedeo Nazzari) seems like a dream come true. Cabiria is in the right place at the right time. Lazzari’s mistress runs off, and she happens to be selling her wares across the street. Primed for a good time, she soon discovers that Lazzari’s home, while full of lavish sights, is not necessarily built for mere mortals like her. The statues in his bedroom dwarf her; she nearly trips on one of the many dogs he has roaming the huge staircase. At one point, Cabiria even hits her head on a closed door, the glass being so clear as to render the door invisible.

And of course, Lazzari’s mistress returns. While Cabiria makes a good first impression on her host, she doesn’t stand a chance against the girlfriend. She’s blond, statuesque, beautiful—everything Cabiria isn’t. And unlike Cabiria, who looks thoroughly out of place in the house (thanks to Fellini’s clever framing), the girlfriend fits right in. The manor is grand in a dull kind of way, just like her. When she is photographed sleeping in Lazzari’s bed, Fellini lights her in the most flattering way.

Whatever magic exists in this palatial manner, it has been reserved for great beauties like Lazzari and his mistress. Cabiria must go elsewhere. Her next customer is no Alberto Lazzari, but will pay her all the same. On her way home the following morning, she crosses paths with a sad-looking young man. The youth has a loaf of bread sticking up out of his knapsack. He delivers food to the needy, who live in the nearby caves.

It is a strange, otherworldly sight, to see men and women crawling up from the dark crevices in the ground. Among them is a wreck whom Cabiria recognizes as one of the most famous prostitutes in Rome. That was a long time ago, of course. Since the height of her notoriety, she has lost her fortune, her looks, and her home. The sight of her causes Cabiria no shortage of distress. Having recently been rejected by Giorgio, then Lazzari, we infer that Cabiria is more than a bit self-conscious about ending up alone, penniless, living in a cave herself.

She is also moved by the Christian virtue of giving, displayed by the young man. It leads her to make a pilgrimage to Rome. There, alongside other whores, pimps, and sinners, she begs the Virgin Mary to bestow Grace on her. Cabiria’s journey to the Vatican, and her subsequent visit to the magic show, comprise the episodes of the film where she actively seeks out mystical answers. If there is a force that will turn Cabiria’s life around, she wants a piece. Unfortunately, she only finds disappointment, or worse.

Like the rest of the clamoring church crowd, Cabiria begs for spiritual direction, but her pleas go unanswered. Things get worse at the magic show. There, not only does Cabiria end up without any epiphany, she gets humiliated by the hypnotist. At first, the scene is played for comedy. The hypnotist invites men from the audience onto the stage, and entrances them, using a process that could be real magic. He tells them to pantomime rowing a boat, and the men make fools of themselves.

But then it is a woman’s turn. The hypnotist puts Cabiria under a spell. While she remains entranced, he removes his hat, revealing a second set of head ornaments that cannot be interpreted as a good omen. Under suggestion, Cabiria is introduced to a handsome young man for the first time. He invites her to dance, and a piano waltz begins to play in the background. The audience, which had bordered on rowdiness, falls silent, and watches as Cabiria glides across the stage, hand-in-hand with the air. The hypnotist provides the voice of the young man. In the ensuing conversation, Cabiria becomes so enraptured with the phantom stranger that the defenses around her heart drop completely. Her deepest longings are revealed, leaving her emotionally naked. The hypnotist awakens her, and the audience roars with laughter.

Embarrassed and confused, Cabiria hides backstage until the crowds have departed. There, a man named Oscar (Francois Perier) approaches her. Though shy in demeanor, he finds the courage to tell Cabiria how moved he was. He says something that sounds quite profound: "When we are faced with purity and innocence, the mask of cynicism drops."

Can Cabiria drop her own cynical mask, having suffered so much at the hands of other men? Oscar seems genuinely interested in her, but Cabiria is used to kissing frogs. She can’t help entertaining doubts, even when faced by what appears to be a genuine prince. Like the fellow prostitutes who learn of her good fortune, she has to wonder, "What does he really want?"

As viewers, we come to care about Cabiria. It helps that Fellini never shows her performing anything explicit. The closest are shots of her standing on the sidewalk. Only once do we see her getting into a stranger’s car. Because of this distance, and a focus on her non-professional life during the middle portion of the movie, we tend to think of her as a sassy gal, a keeper of hopes and dreams. We don’t imagine her as the performer of mechanical sex acts.

So we cheer for her to find happiness. Oscar's love seems to elicit a light from within her. During their initial meeting, he thought she embodied purity and innocence. As their courtship progresses, she becomes just that. But alas, remember the hypnotist and his headgear, and how nothing in this world is exactly how it appears. An ironic ending comes creeping around the corner. Since we care about Cabiria so much, we pray our instincts are somehow mistaken.

The thought of Cabiria’s dreams being shattered seems an intolerable cruelty. But as the saying goes, one cannot take the bitter without the sweet, and Cabiria’s parting smile is that of someone wiser, who has come to terms with life’s strange ways. It is the smile of someone transformed by true love, who found the source of that magic within her own beating heart. Her smile is a sliver of hope in a dark, cloudy future. It’s the perfect punctuation to a wonderful performance.

Overall rating: **** (out of ****)