One Paragraph Movie Review: La Dolce Vita

Three hundred and third film: La Dolce Vita, the 1960 Fellini classic that confirms what we have long suspected: that rich people are assholes. An impolite three hours, it explores in great repetitive depth how empty wealth and fame can be, but how the idea of a normal, quiet life seems repulsive in comparison, the long duration feeling exactly like the stale burp of dawn after a big night. Main guy Marcello is a gossip columnist who thinks he might want to be a serious writer, except serious writing is hard and following actresses, socialites, sub-royalty and artistic poseurs is both easy and lucrative. We accompany him through a number of nights that end in grubby, smeared mornings with an icky familiarity — unable to enjoy himself, unable to resist. Everybody is doing everything for empty attention, from Anita Ekberg as voluptuous actress Sylvia, to desperate heiress Maddalena, to two little kids faking a Virgin Mary sighting, and the media — including Paparazzo the photographer (the original) crowd around the well-dressed ennui to get a good shot. It’s bloody marvellous and feels awful. Yep. Four feather-coated drunk girls our of five.