When rating a film I ask myself these three questions: What is the director’s goal or purpose? How does the director try to achieve it? Is the director successful? Hence a big box office hit may get a “5” while a Eurosleaze sexploitation flick gets a “7”. My rating system in a nutshell:
10 = Brilliant!
9 = Exceptional
8 = Very Good
7 = Good
6 = Average
5 = Forgettable
4 = Bad
3 = Dismal
2 = Dog Barf
1 = Beyond Awful
~ ~ ~ ~
The Palm Beach Story (USA 1942) (7): Despite the censors being unhappy with the film’s flippant attitude towards matrimony in general, Preston Sturges’ iconic screwball comedy still ranks as one of Hollywood’s most popular. In order to help her husband, a brilliant but financially strapped inventor (Joel McCrea), turn his idea of a high-tech airport into a reality his doting wife (Claudette Colbert) comes up with an outlandish plan: head to Florida for a quickie divorce then enter into a marriage of convenience with the first millionaire who crosses her path. But before she can annul her first marriage she meets up with a wealthy recluse (Rudy Vallee) and all hell breaks loose when her jealous husband has second thoughts and comes looking for her. Colbert hits comedy gold hovering between ditzy airhead and pragmatic schemer while McCrea provides the perfect foil as the taciturn spouse who can’t quite keep up. Meanwhile Vallee spoofs himself as the crooning tycoon and Mary Astor yuks it up with double-entendres as the man-eating sister who latches onto McCrea. From the opening credits’ puzzling montage (it eventually makes sense) to that ingenious closing shot (experts are still not sure how it was filmed) this is a whimsical little farce, directed with a light touch and featuring a cast that play off each other perfectly. And that prolonged scene featuring Colbert sharing a train car with a group of drunken, shotgun-toting businessmen borders on the surreal. Fun stuff!
The Best Years of Our Lives (USA 1946) (9): Winner of seven Oscars, including Best Picture, William Wyler’s 3-hour small town epic dared to go where many films at that time refused. At the end of WWII three soldiers return to an America that has changed almost beyond recognition. Al (Fredric March, Best Actor) reunites with a family that has grown independent in his absence—his adoring wife (Myrna Loy) can’t quite understand him and his grown children are practically strangers. Fred (Dana Andrews), moves in with a wife (Virginia Mayo) who now has a life of her own. And Homer (real life amputee Harold Russell, Best Supporting Actor) who lost his hands in a fire reacts to the pity he receives with increasing hostility. As the three men try to integrate back into a peacetime population which no longer treats them with deference—jobs are scarce, banks are reluctant to give loans, some question whether the war was even worth it—alcohol, PTSD, and despair will all take their toll. Pretty controversial for a movie that was released just one year after D-Day and Hiroshima, but Wyler and screenwriters Robert Sherwood and MacKinlay Kantor (who wrote the novel) bring their own wartime experiences to the forefront giving the whole production not only an air of authenticity but of utmost compassion as well. Lacking the pessimism that would mark later Viet Nam era films like Coming Home and Apocalypse Now, Wyler does offer some light at the end of his three tunnels, but the GI Joe bravado which influenced Hollywood during the war is here tempered by a dose of sobering reality. Highly watchable and occasionally brilliant. Celebrated songwriter Hoagy Carmichael co-stars as Homer’s barkeep uncle and Teresa Wright plays Al’s headstrong daughter.
The Letter (USA 1940) (8): An early precursor to Film Noir, William Wyler’s multiple Oscar nominated melodrama features Bette Davis as the gracious wife of a Malaysian rubber plantation owner who kills a man one night after she claims he tried to rape her. But an incriminating letter soon surfaces which casts serious doubts on her story… Davis’ over-the-top performance shifts between coyness and hysterics while a more grounded James Stephenson provides some dramatic ballast as the conscientious defense attorney who begins to question her innocence. But the real star is Tony Gaudio’s evocative B&W cinematography which revels in shadows and nighttime skies with the moon itself cast as heavenly judge and jury. Too bad the Hays Office felt the need to sanitize Somerset Maugham’s original story. Herbert Marshall gives a stiff upper lip as the doting husband, Gale Sondergaard is pure malice as the deceased’s wife, and Victor Sen Yung begins his film career by playing Stephenson’s oily paralegal.
Susannah of the Mounties (USA 1939) (6): Perpetual orphan Shirley Temple gives a sparkly performance as the lone survivor of an Indian attack who is taken in by dashing Mountie Randolph Scott in this egregiously inaccurate tale supposedly set in the wild west of 1860s Canada. Of course she wins the hearts of every white man and Indian she crosses, winds up quelling an uprising, and even manages to get stoned puffing on a peace pipe (how did that get past the censors?). Naturally the natives are portrayed as Hollywood stereotypes despite the fact the opening credits proudly proclaim they were all played by actors hired from the Montana Blackfeet reservation. All except for Maurice Moscovitch who was cast as their fearless leader, Chief Big Eagle, his heavy Yiddish accent destroying all credibility. Margaret Lockwood co-stars as Scott’s love interest, a chaste little deb all the way from TORONTO!
My Night at Maud’s (France 1969) (6): Okay, so I’m not a fan of Éric Rohmer and this “morality tale” didn’t do much to change my mind despite its two Oscar nominations. Backsliding Catholic Jean-Louis (Jean-Louis Trintignant) has set his hopes on meeting a nice Catholic girl, preferably blonde, with whom he can live happily ever after. But he discovers just how weak the flesh can be after he spends a chaste night with Maud (Françoise Fabian) a seductive libertine who challenges everything he believes in from religious piety (she’s an atheist) to love and morality. An awkward love triangle develops between Maud, Jean-Louis, and Françoise, a cute blonde he met at church (what are the odds?) leading to a lot of wordy navel-gazing as our lovestruck protagonist comes to realize nothing in life is quite as simple—or virtuous—as it first appears. Fate plays its hand and Pascal’s famous wager figures prominently as Jean-Louis decides which woman to place his bets on: the earthly pleasures of Maud or the virginal Françoise, two women he barely knows. Interesting premise marred by endless banter and existential hand-wringing à la Rohmer. The director’s intention may have been comedic but, for me at least, the result was tedium. Nice B&W cinematography however—Françoise is never far from a crucifix; an arduous climb up an icy hillside is cleverly balanced by a later descent down a sunny sand dune—and the three stars are easy on the eyes. And ears.
A Special Day (Italy 1977) (9): In the spring of 1938 Adolf Hitler received a hero’s welcome when he rode into Italy for a meeting with Mussolini. In what was declared a national holiday pretty much all of Rome donned their official party uniforms in order to cheer the two leaders on—all except for browbeaten housewife Antonietta (Sophia Loren). Left to tend to the housework while her overbearing husband and six children went to join the crowds celebrating the Führer’s historic visit, Antonietta finds a kindred spirit of sorts in Gabriele (Marcello Mastroianni) a quiet neighbour who has his own reasons for not taking part in the fascist rally. Over the course of one day superficial coffee chat will slowly build to something far more meaningful as both Antonietta and Gabriele come to realize that loneliness, like despair, can take on many guises. Shot in dull washed-out shades to reflect his protagonists’ colourless existence, co-writer/director Ettore Scola further underscores their sense of social and emotional isolation with a continuous background roar of distant cheers and jingoistic radio broadcasts. Loren is nothing short of magnificent. Striking despite the dowdy housedress, unkempt hair, and lack of make-up, she gives a star performance as a woman clinging to her dignity even as she rages over the fact that life will hold no surprises for her beyond duty to husband and family. In his Oscar-nominated role Mastroianni delivers an emotional kick playing a vulnerable yet angry man who carries his own dignity like a shield because, unlike Antonietta, he knows perfectly well what life has in store for him. With an empty apartment complex providing a suitable metaphor—an escaped pet bird makes a statement on the pursuit of freedom; a clothesline of drying sheets provides an apt backdrop for a game of psychological truth-or-dare—Scola’s nicely realized two-hander melds historical fact with intimate drama. His constant juxtaposition of Totalitarian propaganda with the plight of two unhappy souls in search of personal liberation may be fuzzy at times, but in the end the sheer star power of his leads manages to carry it through.
2 Days in Paris (France 2007) (7): Writer/director/editor/co-star Julie Delpy does a passable Gallic Annie Hall while Adam Goldberg gives an irritatingly accurate Woody Allen in this hit-and-miss riff on Richard Linklater’s superior Before trilogy. On their way home to New York from Italy, Marion and her American boyfriend Jack decide to spend a few day at her parents’ home in Paris. Over the course of those two days—with cultural and language barriers providing an ongoing background joke—the lovers will see their relationship come to a breaking point: Marion has not been completely honest about her past relationships (a fact which comes to haunt the couple through a series of chance encounters); while Jack’s raging insecurities, coupled with his hypochondria and generally sour outlook, will widen the rift that’s already developing between them. Will they make the return trip to Manhattan as a couple…or two singles? Copying Linklater’s style, the bulk of Delpy’s film is composed of Marion and Jack playing off one another in a series of interlocking monologues with Marion’s somewhat scattered bohemian parents (Delpy’s real life mom and dad) providing local colour along with a host of her avant-garde friends and exes. Wine flows (or in the case of Jack “whine”) confessions are dropped like bombs, and sexual politics are never far from everyone’s mind. But whereas Linklater’s scripts plumbed some discomfiting truths about love and fidelity, Delpy’s interactions are mainly neurotic banter—Jack obsesses over pathogens, a drunken Marion is convinced she’s dying, and the two argue over the longterm implications of a blow-job. In fact it’s not until the film’s final moments that the shallow jabs begin to hit home with the two conducting a painfully honest appraisal of both themselves and their future together. But for all that I found the pacing never lagged, the conversations were at least interesting if hardly riveting, and those humorous touches kept things from spinning into pathos. It’s all sparkle and fluff of course, but sometimes that’s all you need.
I Like Movies (Canada 2022) (7): It’s graduation time and obnoxious teenaged movie geek Lawrence dreams of leaving the cultural wasteland of Burlington, Ontario by applying to the prestigious film program at NYU where he hopes to become a great director. Only two things stand in his way however: lack of talent and lack of funds—both of which lead to a number of theatrical meltdowns. Set in the early ‘90s, this charming little indie dramedy from writer/director Chandler Levack features winning performances from Isaiah Lehtinen whose socially awkward narcissist both grates and endears; Krista Bridges as his long-suffering single Jewish mother; and Percy Hynes White as the BFF whose patience for Lawrence’s grandstanding is quickly reaching its limit. Kudos also to Romina D’Ugo in the role of Lawrence’s boss at the local video store, a woman whose own Hollywood dreams went up in smoke years earlier. Refreshingly devoid of the dramatic hyperbole and moral lecturing often found in English-Canadian productions, this is a quaint little coming-of-age tale which lends credence to the old Stones’ lyrics: “You can’t always get what you want…but if you try sometimes you might find you get what you need.”
Akira (Japan 1988) (8): So this is the trippy little cartoon which introduced Western audiences to the art of anime…and what a trip it is! In a post-apocalyptic Tokyo where motorcycle gangs regularly butt heads with both police and each other while ineffectual politicians twiddle their thumbs, The military has resurrected a very dangerous research project aimed at heightening human abilities. What they’ve created instead is a homicidal superman with god-like psychic powers and it’s now up to the army, a trio of mutant children, and a ragtag group of teenagers riding souped-up hogs to defeat it. Although somewhat dated, the animation and sound effects remain superb—the tinkle of falling pebbles is rendered with the same meticulous care as all those gargantuan fireball explosions and the use of skewed camera angles was cutting edge for its time. It does run a bit long at just over two hours but writer/director Katsuhiro Ōtomo’s adaptation of his own manga contains enough blood and cyberpunk mayhem to keep tedium at bay. An absolute must for fans of the genre.
Fortune Favors Lady Nikuko (Japan 2021) (8): Much of the cultural references and in-jokes get lost in translation, but this cute coming-of-age anime from Studio 4°C still retains enough of its cheerful zeal to charm Western moviegoers. Kikuko lives with her lovably eccentric and somewhat portly mother on a houseboat in a sleepy little fishing village. While mom ekes out a living waiting tables, Kikuko navigates the joys and pains of adolescence from interpersonal dramas at school to her budding crush on a strange young classmate. And even though her boyish body has yet to “bloom”, she is content to simply enjoy life as it comes. But as the lazy days of summer give way to winter’s first snows, Kikuko will have to face a few unsettling truths about herself and the people around her… With beautiful pastel landscapes providing a maritime backdrop, director Ayumu Watanabe takes great delight in little everyday idiosyncrasies—mom’s emotional swings give rise to some funny theatrics; toilet paper (or lack thereof) proves to be an ongoing issue; and terse commentary is offered by the unlikeliest of characters. A sweet and gentle comedy-drama which emphasizes family bonds and the importance of choosing your own path.
Masculin Féminin (France 1966) (6): Writer/director Jean-Luc Godard presents 15 B&W vignettes meant to reveal the mindset of young Parisians coming of age in the tumultuous '60s and the result is a sometimes pretentious, sometimes droll bit of nouvelle vague navel-gazing. Concentrating on the shifting relationships between a group of friends just entering their twenties, Godard mixes a bit of slapstick (a mugging goes wrong), a bit of satire (the military provides a nice target in the age of Vietnam), and a whole lot of hot air: a giggly fashion model evades questions about socialism and birth control while a chain-smoking reactionary goes on strike, and a truculent boyfriend finds an outlet in spray painting graffiti. But beneath the somewhat shallow pretensions Godard does manage to touch on some vital points as his brash protagonists’ drone on about alienation, political idealism versus the rise of American-style consumerism (theirs is the generation of “Marx and Coca-Cola”), and the empowerment of women both at home and in the workplace. In one telling, if overly long, scene a young naif munches on an apple like a modern day Eve while steadfastly refusing to answer questions about her sex life posed by an offscreen male voice. Seemingly filmed on the fly with partially improvised dialogue and verité style camerawork, Masculin Féminin will forever be stuck in the ‘60s. But even though it may not speak to France’s newest generation it just may help them to understand what the hell happened to their grandparents. Great use of background art however, with posters and billboards adding a bit of sly subtext.
Arabesque (USA 1966) (6): Director Stanley Donen revisits the romantic-comedy-thriller genre of 1963’s Charade this time replacing Audrey Hepburn and Cary Grant with Sophia Loren and a poorly cast Gregory Peck whose stiff performance flubs every punchline he’s handed. When he’s asked to translate a sheet of ancient hieroglyphics for a ruthless Arab tycoon, egyptologist David Pollock (Peck) finds himself embroiled in an international game of political intrigue, espionage, and murder. Aided and abetted by the millionaire’s pouty wife Yasmin (Loren) Pollock must dodge assassins and evade the police long enough to discover the secret behind the symbols—but with double and triple crosses all around him who can he trust? Notable for its eccentric camerawork (Loren is reflected in a whorled gemstone, a midnight trek through a zoo turns into a furry funhouse) and Loren’s gorgeous Dior outfits, this is an entertainingly camp take on Hitchcock—look for salutes to Sabotage (1936) and North by Northwest (1959)—somewhat marred by an unnecessarily convoluted plot and a wholly unbelievable love connection between its mismatched leads. Nice climax though involving horses, wrecking balls, and a rickety railroad trestle. Like a glass of flat champagne it goes down easy enough but the fizz is long gone and not even Henry Mancini’s music can bring it back.
Overlord (USA 2018) (7): Just as I was about to give up hope on ever seeing a halfway decent WWII Nazi Zombie Horror Monster Movie, director Julius Avery comes up with a little blood-soaked confection to put a smile on my face! On the eve of D-Day a squad of American GIs tasked with taking out a German outpost behind enemy lines is shot down over France. The survivors, determined to complete their mission, make their way to a nearby village where they discover the Germans have been working on a terrifying secret which threatens not only the outcome of the war but the future of mankind itself…muahahahaha!! Highlighted by fantastic gore effects—people and things blow up real good—and a cast who throw themselves into their roles of comic book heroes and villains, this is pure Saturday matinee overkill with gut-churning violence and a big fiery finale. Avery intercuts the technicolor carnage with B&W stock footage and radio spots with good effect and the action moves along so quickly you don’t have time to dwell on the historical inaccuracies—it winds up feeling like a modern film pretending to be set 75 years in the past, but it’s a small distraction that is easily forgiven. If you like your war movies served with a side of mad scientists and body parts you’re in for a treat.
Return of the Secaucus Seven (USA 1979) (3): Ten years after graduation a group of friends from the class of ’69 gather for a reunion in a small town where, over the course of a weekend, one relationship will disintegrate while another take root, sexual liaisons will form and evaporate, and everyone will take turns ruminating on life, pop culture, and the reality of turning 30. Before he went on to bigger and better things writer/director John Sayles, who has a cameo playing a bored hotel clerk, made this demo which was not intended for theatrical release…and it shows. A script of pedestrian small talk isn’t elevated by the inclusion of a few political triggers—one friend is a democrat, another a republican (uh-oh!) and a pair of yuppies are offset by a penniless drifter heading to L.A. with dreams of becoming a big C&W star (cue handful of really bad songs). Then there’s the uninspired camerawork which lingers far too long on an impromptu basketball game and skinny-dippers repeatedly diving into a quarry pool. But the biggest nail in the coffin is a cast of largely untalented amateurs whose wooden performances couldn’t have been any worse had they been holding the actual script in front of their faces while reading directly off of it for the first time. The stiff posing meant to look natural, the self-conscious emoting (a meltdown at the local pub is pure cringe), and the faux nostalgia ultimately feel like really bad summer stock—in one unintentionally ironic scene the friends mercilessly critique a local theatre production and all I could think of was the proverbial pot and kettle. Thankfully Sayles honed his skills and Secaucus would go on to serve as a template for Lawrence Kasdan’s The Big Chill released four years later.
Hell or High Water (USA 2016) (6): Not sure if it actually deserved those four Oscar nominations, but from a purely technical aspect director David Mackenzie’s Western Noir is certainly noteworthy. From those washed out Texas backroads baking beneath big blue skies (actually filmed in New Mexico) to a host of colourful yokels and a charming turn from Jeff Bridges playing a gruff son-of-a-bitch sheriff, Hell or High Water certainly has all the earmarks of a cult classic. In order to save the family farm from foreclosure following the death of their mother, the introspective Toby Howard (Chris Pine) and his psycho ex-con brother Tanner (Ben Foster) decide to pull a string of heists—ironically stealing from the very bank threatening to take their land. Determined to raise the necessary thousands before the looming deadline, their brazen robberies attract the attention of lawman Marcus Hamilton (Bridges) and his Mexican/Comanche partner Alberto (Gil Birmingham) who are equally determined to stop them. So basically it’s a stylized cat and mouse road movie doused in “social commentary”, macho strutting, and some off-colour humour for thicker skinned viewers: Hamilton is a lovable racist; Alberto has a few comeback zingers of his own; and the two brothers take turns smacking one another upside the head. The trouble, for me at least, lies in the fact that Mackenzie and screenwriter Taylor Sheridan try to manipulate audiences into seeing this as a southern take on David & Goliath with the downtrodden brothers socking it to the evil bank by taking money which doesn’t belong to them and shooting a few bystanders in the process. Are we really expected to cheer them on? I find it all but impossible to root for gun-toting thugs no matter how many times the camera lingers over white trash misery or how many hard luck twangy cowboy ballads are squeezed into one soundtrack. And as for that irritatingly ambivalent non-ending…the only thing missing was Old Glory waving in slo-mo and maybe a screeching eagle.
Despair (Germany 1978) (5): With the Nazi party gaining prominence in Germany, Berlin businessman Hermann Hermann (Dirk Bogarde) is facing a series of existential crises. His chocolate factory is going bankrupt; his voluptuous airhead wife is having an affair with her cousin, an artistic poseur; and his Russian Jewish heritage is becoming an increasingly thorny issue. But when he begins to hallucinate a doppelgänger in his own image smiling at him from the shadows he hits upon a most desperate plan: hire a body double then stage his own death so he can begin a new life with a new identity. The devil, however, is in the details for the man he hires looks nothing like him and staging the “perfect crime” proves trickier than he imagined. Despite its big budget, director Rainer Werner Fassbinder’s adaptation of Vladimir Nabokov’s satirical novel is pretty much a cinematic bust which begs the question, is Fassbinder using one man’s pathological disassociation as an allegory for the fracturing of pre-WWII German society…or is it the other way around? Bogarde puts in a crass performance as the disintegrating Hermann whose warped self-image clashes tragically with reality (now he believes himself to be a musician, now an actor preparing for his big close-up) and he’s joined by a loud and equally crass supporting cast whose sexual hi-jinks fail to titillate and whose cerebral disses on everything from Communism to Socialism to the Arts fail to hit whatever sardonic mark they were aimed at. The art deco sets are beautiful though, with special emphasis on mirrors, windows, and glass doors which reveal more than they hide. A loud and lunatic melange of mental illness and political subversion right up to its Sunset Boulevard ending which is delivered with enough affectation to give Gloria Swanson a run for her money.
Latter Days (USA 2003) (6): When a group of Mormon missionaries rent an apartment in his complex, L.A. party boy “Christian” (ha ha) is immediately smitten by hunky blond elder Aaron, even betting his co-workers at the restaurant where he works that he can seduce the kid in record time. But despite a reciprocal interest Christian finds his own life choices being called into question after the naïve yet grounded Aaron calls him out on his shallow arrogance. Complications and tragedy ensue which call into question whether or not opposites can ever really attract. Based partially on his own experiences, writer/director C. Jay Cox’s romantic gay dramedy is crammed with the usual homo stereotypes from the closeted church boy to the club slut (Christian’s short shorts and tank top are straight out of the ‘70s), and from the hellfire parents to the bitchy bff. In addition, a cliché-riddled script and largely amateurish performances don’t amount to much while the romantic angle itself is a wholly contrived rush job. In other words I really should have disliked this film more than I did. But leads Wes Ramsey and Steve Sandvoss generate a certain onscreen charm (Sandvoss’ Aaron truly is adorable) and despite its many narrative stretches and suspiciously convenient “coincidences” it does leave you with a good feeling even though you know you’ve just been played. If there were a glut of mature films out there dealing with gay relationships in a realistic manner Latter Days would be little more than a corny diversion. However, for its overall message of positivity and compassion not to mention a welcome spotlight on the trauma wrought by religion, it deserves more than a passing nod. And yes, the ending did leave a tear in my eye…dammit. Co-stars include Mary Kay Place as Aaron’s judgemental mother; Joseph Gordon-Levitt as a homophobic missionary; Jacqueline Bisset as Christian’s understanding boss; and Erik Palladino as an embittered man whose losing battle with AIDS gives Christian yet another wake-up call.
Europe ’51 (Italy 1952) (5): Wealthy society snob Irene Girard (Ingrid Bergman) has a change of heart after her neglected young son commits suicide. Now an angelic social reformer who’s not above working with the unwashed masses or holding the hand of a dying prostitute, she dedicates her life to the downtrodden. But her newfound sense of “do unto others” doesn’t sit well with either her bourgeois husband, the town’s industrialist rulers, or a complacent church whose tired old platitudes have failed to gloss over the realities of poverty—all of which condemn Irene to a modern day martyrdom. Writer/director Roberto Rossellini's 2-hour socialist diatribe takes itself far too seriously to be considered satirical (although Bergman's overblown messiah couldn’t have been any cornier had she sported a halo) while its central message of Humanism vs Capitalism, with a bit of God thrown in for dramatic effect, is drilled home with all the subtlety of a brick to the head. Nice B&W cinematography however which turns a noisy factory into a kafkaesque circle of Hell, plus the vivacious Giulietta Masina lifts the mood somewhat playing a penniless single mother of six who won't let privation rain on her parade.
Spotlight on a Murderer (France 1961) (5): Lavish location sites, filmed in and around the Chateau de la Bretesche, and some quaintly antique ‘60s technological touches are the only things going for this lacklustre French whodunnit. Upon the supposed death of their patriarch, Count Kéraudren, heirs to his vast country estate gather to divvy up the spoils only to receive a double dose of bad news. Firstly, even though he was actively dying the count has disappeared and therefore he cannot be declared legally dead. Secondly, with no corpse to prove he is deceased they will have to wait five years before they can inherit a single franc. Meanwhile they are on the hook for back taxes plus the cost of upkeep for the castle and its grounds. In order to raise money they decide to turn the medieval fortress into a tourist attraction but before the money can start rolling in a murderer begins picking them off one by one… Who is the killer? Who will be next? And where is the old man’s body? After 90 minutes of tepid suspense and weak stabs at humour a more appropriate question would be does anyone even care? Agatha Christie would have fallen asleep.
8½ (Italy 1963) (7): For this, his final B&W movie, director Federico Fellini produced a hodgepodge of autobiographical confessions and industry critiques all wrapped up in a gloriously nostalgic love letter to both cinema and the slightly unhinged minds who bring it to life. Celebrated director Guido Anselmi (Fellini mainstay Marcello Mastroianni in top form) is stuck in a creative rut: his latest production—a big budget sci-fi epic—is going nowhere; his producer is howling for results; his writer is having artistic differences; and the film critic he’s hired for advice is worried he’s making yet another avant-garde flop. Plus his potential leading ladies are proving to be divas and just to add misery upon misery his ex-wife and former mistress decide to show up at the same time. With reality thus falling into chaos Guido checks in to a “health spa” where his memories and daydreams begin to take on a life of their own. Life is a comedy right up until that final spotlight and few knew how to bring this to the screen better than Fellini, and rarely did he do it as well as here. Combining the vaudevillian whimsy of La Strada with the spiritual torpor of La Dolce Vita (an opening shot is oddly reminiscent of the Christ statue flying over Rome), Fellini then adds a bit of cheeky Catholicism which he would later revisit in 1972’s Roma (ineffective cardinals and nuns abound), and that signature frightened reverence toward the fairer sex which would reach its most sublime in 1980’s City of Women—strong female characters all leave their mark on Guido from the big brute of a woman whose raw sexuality haunted him as a child to the blonde muse (Claudia Cardinale) forever out of his reach. It’s loud, it’s theatrical, it’s a big boisterous carnival of a film whose final fade to black—a swirling dreamlike ode to both actors and their craft—is so iconic it’s been used by the likes of Martin Scorsese and Woody Allen. International bombshells Anouk Aimée and Barbara Steele co-star as the fed up ex-wife and an unbalanced groupie respectively.
