#140: 8 1/2

February 16 - March 4, 2010

#140: 8½

1963, 138 minutes, Black and White, 1.85:1

Language: Italian

Directed by Federico Fellini

[A note on spoilers: Chock-full of ‘em.]

Oh, to go back in time. How nice it would be to re-capture the feelings and emotions of doing something for the first time.

When I first started this Criterion adventure, I had no set agenda of order in which to watch the films; I would just let it reel out in a somewhat organic fashion. I began with “Roberto Rossellini’s War Trilogy” because it had just been released and was something I was hell-bent on watching right away. It coincided with my desire to start the blog—that is if it wasn’t the impetus setting the notion in motion. Snowy weather then led me to The Ice Storm. Criterion’s announcement of a new and improved version of Walkabout then sent me to the Australian Outback.

Walkabout was certainly a fascinating movie. It still lingers with me. Because it is so powerful, I just didn’t know where to go next. I pondered maybe a dozen titles, each of them catching my fancy for one reason or other, but then rejecting them because there was something that didn’t fit quite right after such an emotional excursion as Walkabout was. I felt like Goldilocks. There was just something too about each of them; too deep, too superficial, too visual, too long, too harsh, too too.

Then I thought, hell, why don’t I just start at the beginning? I don’t have a record of the order I bought my Criterion Collection DVDs, but I never will forget the first. It’s not light film fare, 8½, but at least I found a reason to choose something and stick with it. So, now I go back to the beginning.

I first stumbled across 8½, and the Criterion Collection as a result, seven years ago. Little did I know what I had discovered. I was learning Italian and took to heart a suggestion to immerse myself in the language through film. I found myself in the bookstore browsing the “Foreign DVDs” section for something, anything, Italian. The selection of Italian titles was quite sparse, and 8½ stuck out if only because it had one single element of familiarity: the director’s name, Federico Fellini. I had heard the name before, to be sure, but knew little of him other than was extraordinarily famous. It was quite pricey, but it was the only title that broke through my ignorance. I decided to drop the cash and take my chances, and thus began a fulfilling excursion into, and appreciation of, a whole world of film new to me.

What would be nice about going back in time would be to re-capture what I thought about the movie, and the director, coming into it fresh with no pre-conceived notions or ideas. I just popped it in and watched it. Unfortunately, that was long before I started keeping a journal of the movies I watched, so I have no record it. Even though I can’t go back, there are some things that certainly stuck with me from the first time I saw 8½, that still delight me every time I watch it: Sgulp! Marcello Mastroianni, and, of course, la Saraghina.

Sgulp!

What a fun word. I smiled the first time I heard it and can’t help but utter it myself from time to time, usually to bemused reactions. It is such a playful word. As far as onomatopoetic words to, this one really tickles me. Not only how it sounds, but it feels fun to say it. It reminds me of the sound made when something is quickly submerged, like dropping a pebble into a pool. The word is repeated several times through the course of the film, as some expression that the hero is in over his head. In fact, there is a scene where he is doing some introspective pondering. He says, “A crisis of inspiration? And what if it weren’t a passing one, my dear? What if it’s the final collapse of a filthy liar with no flair or talent?” and punctuates his thoughts with, “Sgulp!” as if he has gone under.

Fellini’s 8½ was my first experience with Marcello Mastroianni. I’ve seen him in several movies since, but his performance in 8½ is my favorite. His Guido is a fascinating character, whether you’re well versed enough in film lore to recognize him as a projection of Federico Fellini or not. Even though Guido was swamped with anxieties, frustrations, and self-doubt, Mastroianni managed to hold him together in a way that was not only bearable to witness, but also possible to empathize with him. His face was a mask of resignation that allowed me to feel for him. I enjoyed his antics, such as when he would try to make an escape from people he didn’t want to confront, miming a walk down stairs, or lowering himself in increments as if collapsing with each ring of the telephone. I get the biggest grin when he is alone in the hallway, returning to his room, humming a few bars of The Barber of Seville, and making a sliding whistle as he kicks his foot out.

And, of course, la Saraghina!

Who could ever forget her? She emerges from her hut, a concrete bunker on the beach, like some sort of behemoth rising from the depths of the sea. What a hulking mass of flesh that, though frightening, still exudes a sensual aura. No wonder young Guido and his friends were fascinated by her. Her rumba will certainly leave an impression on anyone who sees her dance it for the first time. The way she would open her eyes as wide as she could on certain beats of the music is what really makes the dance memorable for me. In the audio commentary it was said that Fellini described the real-life Saraghina as smelling of a “combination of seaweed, fish, tobacco, rotten wood, and gasoline,” and that odor almost wafts off of the screen. I will always like this scene, but sadly something has happened since I first saw this movie that does taint my pleasure of it a bit. I was a latecomer to the Harry Potter franchise and didn’t see any of those movies until after seeing 8½. Now, whenever I see la Saraghina, I can’t help but notice a possible family resemblance between her and Hagrid. Damn you, Robbie Coltrane!

It’s the simple things like that that I recall so fondly, but the movie as a whole is a marvelous cinematic experience. I don’t know if I could have done any better than to make this my first Criterion selection, serendipitous as it was.

The opening scene is entrancing. The silence immediately grabs me and pulls me in. The claustrophobic sensation—the fear, the anxiety, the desire to escape—is almost palpable. The level of apprehension increases as the gridlocked car begins to fill with smoke. There is a sense of relief when the unidentified man escapes and floats away, free of all fetters. But his freedom is all too brief as he finds himself tethered and yanked back to the harsh reality of his life.

It is a powerful opening, setting the scene for the entire movie, the story of a man drowning in an overwhelming state of affairs, with an intense desire to escape, but unable to do so. The man is revealed to be a renowned director, Guido Anselmi (Mastroianni), in the midst of making his next great movie. Those around him believe in him, but they are unaware that he has no idea what he is doing. He is at a profound loss, seemingly for the first time in his career, as his ability to create has fled him. To make things worse, he is also suffering crises of a personal nature with his wife—and his mistress—both of whom he has invited to the movie location. Though it’s not difficult to empathize with him, it’s not all that easy to pity him completely, for he has brought some of his problems upon himself. Regardless, it does make for an intriguing story.

Some people may be put off by the slow pace of the movie, but I enjoy very much. It may be slow, but it is not plodding, and it plays out evenly, almost serenely, from one scene to the next. With each viewing, I am surprised at how quickly the time seems to pass. Each scene has something that I look forward to seeing again, and once complete I am already looking forward to the next. Before I realize it, the band marches in and the circus-like finale takes the screen with full force.

The movie has been described as one of the greatest films about filmmaking. I must admit that aspect was lost on me initially. What I saw was a man who lost his mojo, and that story alone was enough to keep me hooked. I’ve been there before, experiencing that dreadful feeling of not being able to translate the thoughts and ideas in my head into the thing I envisioned, personally and professionally, whether it was a story I wanted to write, a drawing I wanted to make, or a project I wanted to realize. It’s most frustrating when it is similar to something I’ve been able to do with relative ease before. Then there is that moment, when I’m at my lowest and my self-doubt is the greatest, something clicks and everything just flows, the words seem to write themselves, the pencil strokes flourish, and the pieces just fall into place. What was dreadful has become thrilling again.

Yes, it is a film about filmmaking. All the elements are there: director, producers, actors, agents, scriptwriters, set designers, a critic (who talks incessantly, and who, humorously, is imagined to be done away with at one point), extras, musicians, and the like—even journalists asking inane questions. It has the feel of making a film, but it is not about how to make one. It is about the creative forces, logistical issues, personal dilemmas, and financial concerns that swirl around the entire production. The mechanics of it aren’t shown. The camera is not a character to be seen, but rather, it is a participant, at times making me feel I am present in the activity on the screen and not merely a witness to it. A camera is never shown on the screen.

Yes, it is a film about making a film, but specifically about the film being watched, 8½. It’s a fun concept, really, and is most evident near the end of the film when Guido is being pressured to make his selection of actors from a host of screen tests. Since the film Guido is making is essentially the one being watched, the actors in the screen tests are unmistakably playing the roles of people we’ve already met: Guido’s wife Luisa (a striking Anouk Aimée), his mistress Carla (a darling Sandra Milo), la Saraghina (a formidable Edra Gale), just to name those with the biggest roles in Guido’s life. The swirling clouds of Guido’s problems really begin to coalesce into a menacing thunderhead in this scene as his wife feels humiliated watching herself portrayed on screen, hitting far too close to reality for her comfort, and storms from the theater.

The film’s primary setting is a bit surreal. One place I would never consider for a film to be made would be a resort specializing in mineral water treatments and steam baths. Guido’s anxieties had taken a physical toll on him and the rehabilitative spa was prescribed for his health. But, the show must go on, and the production activities follow him to the springs and cavernous steam rooms (where it’s interesting to see him smoking a cigarette as he descends into them). It is odd, yet somehow seems natural, at least in the context of this film, for the action to unfold in this setting. His personal and professional lives don’t seem to have any definitive boundaries, all of it melding into one life.

Guido’s only avenue of escape is a retreat into his memories and fantasies. I would think it’s something most people can identify with. I know I certainly can. When life is most stressful and anxieties are running high, it’s not all too difficult to let the mind wander, to slip into a daydream recalling fond memories or imagining pleasanter conditions. They aren’t a permanent escape, but a momentary respite, and reality recalls the mind back to consciousness and to the issues of the corporeal world. His dreams and musings don’t seem to be only a means to escape his reality, however. They also allow him to ponder, reflect, and search for an answer to his predicament.

It is these scenes of surrealism that give the film its greatest life. I most enjoy how they are presented. They possess a temperate mellowness that is neither too fantastical nor too somber, but placidly balanced between the two.

His dreams roam far and wide. His muse, a lovely Claudia Cardinale, airily walking on her toes, almost floating, visits him on occasion as he tries to find the inspiration to bring his movie to life. He speaks with his mother and father, and though they don’t give him the answers he seeks, they may provide him a moral compass to help him navigate his troubles. He sees a bulbous woman who sparks the memories la Saraghina, where, though she dances the spirited rumba she also sings a tranquil melody with the sea.

An encounter with a magician and a psychic takes Guido back to his childhood. Even in his youth he is treated like a prince and surrounded by women. He acquiesces when the psychic asks to determine what he is thinking. She says she can’t say and instead writes “ASA NISI MASA” on a chalkboard, asking if that is correct. He smiles and nods. His mind then returns him to his childhood where he is doted upon, given a wine bath, swaddled in rich linens, and placed in a warmed bed of his own. A young girl calls out to him in a whisper to remind him that it is the night the portrait in the room is to come to life. She asks if he remembers the spell and recites it for him, “Asa Nisi Masa.” He sits up, a sliver of light glows around his silhouette and catches in his tousled hair like a halo, and he stares at the portrait, waiting for it to come to life.

My curiosity about “Asa Nisi Masa” was satisfied by the audio commentary where it is explained that is most likely the word anima with extra syllables added to it. Anima is Italian for soul. It’s easy to see that it is the basis of the word to animate; to give motion to, to bring to life. I see this moment as the conception of Guido’s life as a director. It was that seed, planted in the fertile mind of a child, that gave him the desire to bring images to life by making films. And, coupled with the earlier chants of the children, “Guido is sacred. Guido is sacred,” he believes he has the power to do so. When the psychic asks him what he is thinking, it is “Asa Nisi Masa” because he is searching for that spark, and it takes him back to this particular point in his life to try and draw from the genesis of his creativity in order to recapture the inspiration he needs for his film. It is his “abracadabra” to make the magic happen again.

I just love the entire scene. A dulcet string melody quietly accompanies all the activity of the bathing and the quietude after the children are put to bed. It’s a warm and sweet scene. It ends with a shot of a fire, as if Guido can sense embers of creativity still burning within him.

The other more notable scene also takes Guido back again to the home of his childhood, but this time as an adult. This dream sequence is initiated by a confrontation with his wife over his mistress. He begins by imagining the two of them, Luisa and Carla, getting along merrily and then drifting to the childhood home filled with all the women of his life, where they all are getting along very together, still doting on him. He is again bathed in a large, steaming bubble-bath and swaddled in linens. The anxieties and stress of his real life are echoed in the dream when the women stage a rebellion, curiously initiated by la Saraghina. He quells the mutiny (replete with a woman swinging from the ceiling like a pirate, and Wagner’s “Ride of the Valkyries” sounding the charge) with the memorable image of Marcello Mastroianni wielding a whip, wearing his glasses and director’s hat, the linens draped over him like a toga. Order is restored and all the women cheer as if it were one of Guido’s grand productions. He makes a speech, saying, “Darlings, happiness is being able to tell the truth without ever making anybody suffer.” This scene represents to me his recognition that he is culpable for the circumstances of his life, personally and professionally, being as they are, and his desire to set things right. If he can make his film, everyone can be happy. And his film will be the truth.

The ending is a scene unto itself. Guido’s hand is finally forced. The producers call a press conference, and it is here that Guido will either have to divulge the essence of his film or to admit that he has nothing. He resists, but if physically dragged to the escapade. The press conference is a bit of an enigmatic moment, I think, open to interpretation.

My take on it, at least for the time being, is that he did cave to the pressure and admitted defeat. I think his suicide is figurative. It is in that admission that he can’t go on that he finally reaches a catharsis. He thinks to himself, but directing his thoughts to his wife, “Luisa, I feel I’ve been freed,” and “I’m not afraid anymore of telling the truth.” By quitting he has been freed of the pressures that were muddling his ability to create. The story was all around him, if only he were able to see the truth as a story and to tell it as such. With that clarity, he’s got “it” back. He’s found his mojo again.

Another thing that I suppose is open to interpretation is whether Guido actually succeeded in making his masterpiece. In 8½, Fellini definitely made a great film, if not his greatest. Though he succeeded, there may be some question as to whether Guido really did or not. For me, he did. When he dons his hat, picks up his megaphone and starts directing with vim, it is real and not his imagination or something he is dreaming.

It certainly is a grand finale. A small marching ensemble, headed by a young Guido and including a tuba player with a little dog under his arm, leads the procession. The entire cast descends upon the scene, a circus-like atmosphere filled with Nino Rota’s infectious music, and parade around the now-festive setting.

I love how the movie ends, with a young Guido dressed in white, alone on the stage, playing a solo on the flute, and then marching off the screen. To me, it says that Guido has once again found the spark of his youth that set him on the journey to his success, and that there is more to follow.

I can’t think of a better way to have been introduced to Federico Fellini than through 8½. I’ve seen several others of his since, but they’ve been a little hit and miss with me. Of the ones I’ve seen thus far, there’s none that I would say I really don’t like. It’s just that some resonate more than others, and 8½ is the one that has resonated with me the most.

I liked it the first time, and have watched it a few times over the years and liked it each time. There have also been many times when I thought I might like to watch it and haven’t, or have started to and quit. That is because I do allow myself to get caught up in the myth and mystique of the man and his work. I can be daunted by it. I have to prep myself for it. I am about to embark on Fellini’s 8½, I will think to myself in awe, as if I am approaching the Dalai Lama of cinema.

I even felt that way this time, almost abandoning the idea of watching it altogether. If it weren’t for the fact that it was my first Criterion film as the justification for watching it now, I probably would have put it back on the shelf. But I told myself to just forget about all of that and just watch it as if I had never seen or heard of it before. That’s what I did, and I enjoyed the movie very much.

Now, the thing with writing for this blog is that it does take me deeper into the movies and derive more appreciation for them as a result. It is fun, but I found it very difficult to write an essay on 8½ after watching it this time. It’s been over two weeks since I first popped it in the player. The difficulty was that I was struggling to formulate my words in a way that would do justice to such a marvelous film. Though I enjoy the film a great deal and love to watch it, I suppose I am a bit intimidated by it still because of its reputation. Trying to write about it made me feel like Guido in a way. I knew what I wanted to say, but I didn’t know how to say it. I’ve had many false starts on this essay. I went away from it, watched some other movies for fun, and kept coming back to it. Like Guido, I even took to wearing a goofy hat, in hopes that it would help me break the barriers I set for myself. Frankly, I don’t think my words do the film justice, but I wasn’t going to give up on it, and what I had produced was too much to simply scrap. If I haven’t succeeded in writing something that I feel meets the standard I set for it, at least I finished it.

Though it’s been difficult, it has been fun. I do appreciate this movie much more than I did before, and that’s saying a lot. I do look forward to watching it again, and even more so with the knowledge that I don’t have to write about it, but can just absorb it. I started this essay by saying it would be nice to see this movie again for the first time, to enjoy the experience of realizing I have discovered something enriching and fulfilling that opens the doors to a whole new world of cinema, and that is true. I envy anyone who can experience something such as this for the first time. But, then again, I have watched this movie several times now and I may enjoy it just a little more every time I do.

Supplemental Features:

Written Supplements:

The booklet contains two essays, “When ‘He’ Became ‘I’” by Tullio Kezich and “A Film with Itself as Its Subject” by Alexander Sesonske, and two short excerpts from I, Fellini by Charlotte Chandler. The essays center on the conception of the film rather than the content and are very interesting. The excerpts of I, Fellini tell some of the story of how 8½ came about in Fellini’s own words, and of the four pieces in the booklet it is these two I find most interesting. I especially like the portion in the first excerpt telling of how Fellini had written a letter that would have ended production of the film, but, essentially because of a chance event, realized that too many people were dependent upon him and his film, and from that realization was able to fill in the missing pieces of the puzzle that were keeping him his creative juices bottled up.

Disc One:

Introduction by Terry Gilliam:

Terry Gilliam seems to be about the most appropriate director to make an introduction for 8½. I find Gilliam fascinating for a number of reasons. There’s his work with Monty Python, his own bizarre filmic creations, and then the zest he exudes when he speaks.

In this seven minute introduction, interspersed with clips and stills from the movies, as well as archival photos of Fellini and taken on-set during the making of 8½, Gilliam provides his personal insight and speculations into the creative force within Fellini as well as Fellini’s influence on him and his own work.

Gilliam speaks about the opening sequence as the most important in his life because he has been trying to re-create it ever since seeing it. Watching this intro did make me think of Gilliam’s Brazil, for which the title 1984 ½ was considered as a title in homage to 8½, to the point where I’m considering watching again it very soon. The influences of 8½ on Brazil are clear, and Gilliam reaffirms that, but one thing I find very interesting is that early in 8½ a woman’s face appears on the screen, briefly though predominantly, who very much resembles, at least to me, Katherine Helmond’s character in Brazil. I would bet this to be pure coincidence for I doubt Gilliam wouldn have made the effort to liken the appearance of a main character of one his films to that of an anonymous face appearing so fleetingly in another movie, regardless of how much the whole film may have influenced his own work. Then again, I may be wrong, because from what I can tell of Gilliam, he could be capable enough to work up to obsession to do something so obscure.

Gilliam feels he and Fellini both are part of the same school of thought when it comes to creation, pointing out both are cartoonists in addition to being directors, and have an interest in the grotesque and the odd. It was interesting to learn the influence la Saraghina had on Gilliam’s own artwork, which is more obvious to me now after learning that.

The introduction is a nice touch to the film. I also think it would do well to revisit it before watching one of Gilliam’s films.

Commentary:

The commentary audio track contains an audio essay read by actress Tanya Zaicon and commentary by Gideon Bachmann, a documentarian and friend of Fellini’s, and Antonio Monda, NYU Film Professor.

The audio commentary is densely packed with information, insights, film history, and trivia. With a film of the stature of 8½, I wouldn’t expect anything less.

Though it is evident that 8½ is largely autobiographical, it is pointed out early on that the film is not simple autobiography, that it is full of truths, lies and fantasies. It may provide some insight into Fellini’s life, but it certainly doesn’t mean anyone who watches this film gets to know Fellini. It is probably safe to say that, as it was with Guido and his film, 8½ was the machinery of film that kept reeling Fellini back in; he couldn’t escape it even if he wanted to.

I would have thought that someone of Fellini’s renown would be above reproach, but 8½ was marked as Fellini’s break from his neo-realist roots, and he was vilified by some for his “betrayal.” So, for me it was interesting to learn he wasn’t immune to criticism, and to realize that my knowledge of him is in retrospect, that there was a time when he was forging a new path for cinema and would therefore be subject to criticism because of it. What he was doing was something new and unconventional at the time, and was an assault on the sensibilities of those not prepared for, or accepting of, it.

I enjoyed the greater exposition of “Asi Nisi Masa”, delving into the feminine aspects of the mind and some philosophical context, which also led to discussion about women’s role in Fellini’s life and pictures. One thought to ponder was something Mastroianni was attributed with saying, “Love, sex, friendship, and marriage are four things that have no connection to each other.”

I also found interesting the relationship Fellini had with his actors and how he had a habit of using them for only one or two films, with Mastroianni being the most notable exception. Also interesting, how in this movie he took two stars known for their dashing looks and portrayed them in a less flattering appearance, aging Marcello Mastroianni and making Anouk Aimée out to be quite plain.

I had wondered before, especially after watching Rossellini’s “War Trilogy” why post-synching dialogue was so prevalent in Italian filmmaking, and was pleased to have this explained. In Fellini’s case, there were two primary reasons, the first being the same as it was for other filmmakers, that the studios weren’t suited to recording during production, and secondly because it gave Fellini the opportunity to add or change dialogue after filming was complete.

References to Pinocchio were pointed out. I have yet read the original (though I already have a copy of it, in both Italian and English, and hope to some day), and therefore not aware that in the original Pinocchio is a more diabolical character than portrayed by Disney. Guido is mired in a web of lies, at one point wears a false, elongated nose and at other times, such as when lying to his wife Luisa about his relationship with Carla, he subconsciously taps his nose. Luisa’s friend, Rosella, is also a confidante of Guido’s and, like the cricket in the Pinocchio story, serves a bit as Guido’s conscience.

I liked learning some more of the use of the critic in the film. Doing so allowed Fellini to, in a way, “pre-critique” his film, and disarm critics of it, both negative and positive.

I very much enjoy the scenes where an adult Guido returns to his childhood place, amusingly called la fattoria delle donne, or, “woman farm,” and there is quite a bit of discussion around this scene. Aside from the more scholarly analysis of it, I was more intrigued by the visual aspect of it. It is a pleasure to watch, and found it enlightening to learn what it was that made it so visually appealing on a subconscious level. Fellini felt something was missing in the scene and came up with the idea of flitting ribbons in front of the camera that gave the scene its fluidity. It is something that could be distracting, but, when done well, gave the scene its flair and was noticeable only for its effect and not the method.

The screen test scene was also pondered in the audio commentary. One of the questions I had, considering the reality of Fellini’s life that was very much a part of the movie, was what his wife, Guilietta Masina, would have thought of that scene in the movie, if she experienced discomfort similar to what Luisa exhibited in the film. Unfortunately, the commentary only posed this question as well, and was unable to provide an answer.

A couple tidbits of trivia I found to be fun were also tossed out. One was a bit of an inside joke. Early in the film Guido meets his producer who gives him a watch that Guido makes a point of announcing to the others in the room. This references a previous film Fellini made in which a producer profited greatly and demonstrated his gratitude by presenting Fellini with a watch, a rather insulting gesture that was paid back by mocking it in 8½. The other tidbit is that the movie set where the monstrous launch pad was built is the same site where Pier Paolo Pasolini was murdered years later.

A quote I noted, but don’t recall who it is attributed to, is “disgusting piece of self-exhibitionism,” referring to the self-reflective nature of the film. I was taken aback by such a cynical opinion of the movie. I can see where someone may hold that opinion about 8½, but I think it can also well be said that it was quite brave of Fellini to expose so much of himself in his work, unflattering truths and all.

There were also a couple of other reflections that I found to be at odds with each other. It was noted how 8½ can be an example of how one can turn hesitations, both personal and professional, into a work of art. On the flip side it was also posited, “it is better to destroy than to leave something imperfect.” In another of the special features included in the DVDs, Fellini – A Director’s Notebook, I learned of one of Fellini’s abandoned projects, The Voyage of G. Mastorna. In the documentary, monumental sets (in the senses that they are on a grand scale and also that they have become monuments to an aborted opus) are shown, demonstrating that much had already gone into the effort before it was capitulated. It’s hard to imagine what the world of film would have missed out on had Fellini gone with the latter philosophy and thrown in the towel on 8½, and also to wonder what might have come had he applied the former to G. Mastorna, maybe another cinematic masterpiece. Then again, maybe G. Mastorna was so imperfect that it was proper to destroy it. I suppose that his instincts about 8½ were accurate enough to forge ahead with it that it would be fair to assume his instincts were just as accurate for G. Mastorna. Still, I can’t help but wonder, what if.

Of all that I mentioned about the enriching knowledge I gleaned from the audio commentary, I’ve only scratched the surface. There is so much more to it that I can only recommend that anyone who has the opportunity to take it in do so.

Trailier:

The trailer manages to take a two-and-a-quarter hour film that is already densely packed with powerfully memorable scenes and condense it into a three minute barrage of images set to Nino Rota’s music. After watching the film several times, it is quite an assault on the senses. I can’t imagine what it would be like to see the trailer without having seen the film. I would guess that it would either scare someone away for all time or pique the curiosity so much that one would simply have to watch it just to see what it really is all about. If I watch it once, I have to watch it twice.

Disc Two:

Fellini – A Director’s Notebook:

This fifty-one minute program is no ordinary documentary. Calling it a notebook is most appropriate because it plays out like a visual notebook of projects that never came to fruition and those that are being planned.

I didn’t notice on the first viewing that in the menu there is a letter written by Fellini to producer Peter Goldfarb in which he lays out his ideas for the program and the reasons underpinning it. The letter is very well written and informative, and does much to put the show in context. I think it best to read it before watching the show.

Fellini, in making a film, experiences a lot of interesting things, and it is these people and places he wanted to present in the show. It is a crazy and bizarre piece, and when I first watched it, expecting a traditional documentary, I was quite taken aback.

The show is a journey, traveling to the set of the abandoned project The Voyage of G. Mastrona where hippies have taken up residence, tours the Roman Coliseum at night in an effort to find a connection between past and present in preparation for Satyricon, shows some outtakes of Nights of Cabiria, a subway ride through Ancient Rome, Marcello Mastroianni’s home, a slaughterhouse, the Appian Way, and screen tests that are quite comical. It is a very intimate behind-the-scenes look at the making of a film, but with enactments and scripted scenes with ancient gladiators, senators, and the like, it transcends a documentary in a way that probably gives a truer picture of not only observations of what goes on during the filmmaking creative process, but also what is going on in Fellini’s mind.

Nino Rota – Between Cinema and Concert:

This forty-seven minute documentary tries to paint a portrait of the man behind the music of many of Fellini’s movies, as well as many, many others. Because Rota is known for his music, but not much of a public figure, this documentary is kind of an “In Search Of” for the composer.

Interviews:

Sandra Milo: An intimate twenty-six minutes spent with Sandra Milo, who played Guido’s mistress Carla in 8½. Milo affectionately tells of her life with Federico Fellini. Of the three interviews on the DVD, this was, for me, the most enjoyable.

Lina Wertmuller: A seventeen minute interview with famed director Lina Wertmuller, who began her career on 8½. She spoke of Fellini’s ability to bring out the best in people, how he was searching for his movie while he made it, and how she took from Fellini the basic concept of filmmaking would be to remember you are telling a story as if to a good friend.

Vittorio Storaro: The cinematogropher spent seventeen minutes discussing his trade. Of the three, I found it the least engaging, but still a worthwhile piece.

Photographs by Gideon Bachmann:

A small scrapbook of photos taken during the making of 8½.

Stills Gallery:

A series of stills from the movie, with some on-the-set photographs, interspersed with some occasional notes and bits of trivia. It captures some of the fun and magic that went on during the making of the movie.

Blu-ray:

The Blu-ray version contains a documentary on the alternate ending for 8½ that was scrapped after Fellini decided to change it when a better idea struck him while making the trailer for the film. Unfortunately, this feature is not included in the DVD package, because I think it would indeed be very interesting and informative.

I looked at some of the screen caps on DVDBeaver.com comparing the DVD and Blu-ray versions. I think the DVD does a wonderful job of presenting this film, but the Blu-ray version offers an even sharper and more wonderful image. If it were at all possible to snap up the Blu-ray version, even if just for the added special feature, that would be the way to go.

In conclusion, I think 8½ is a truly great movie. I really soaked up the experience of the movie and the supplemental features over a two-week period and found it to be very fulfilling, if not a bit exhausting. It is certainly a film I will happily come back to, though maybe not quite as in depth as I did this time. My experience with Federico Fellini is limited only to his movies released by Criterion Collection and La dolce vita, issued by Koch Lorber (which also has a good selection of Italian films). They are all good films in their own right, but it is 8½ that gives me the most pleasure. I do, however, look forward to watching the others again as I continue on my quixotic Criterion quest (probably throwing in a few words on La dolce vita because I am sure to check that one out again too).