Last night I watched Divorce, Italian Style on Netflix. I had seen multiple Marcello Mastroianni movies when I was young (or as we used to call him, Marcello Macaroni), but had never gotten around to this particular one. I knew it was a comedy about a man who wants to murder his wife so I supposed it was some sexist Italian thing that I would find offensive or that would bore me. I was mistaken. It was actually a very funny satire of Italian mores and morals and it entertained me all the way through. So, if you haven't seen it, I recommend it.
The first "grown-up" movie I ever saw was Fellini's La Dolce Vita -- starring Marcello, of course. It was one of a long-line of art house films that influenced my generation's outlook on the world. These European films were full of post-war cynicism. We who had studied Jean Paul Sartre and Albert Camus in high school were ripe for their messages about the empty veneer of society and the meaninglessness of it all. To us, European post-war decadence was glamorous, especially in contrast to our white bread American lives.
Marcello was sexy in his dark sunglasses and cool detached persona, but I didn't want to make love to him. I wanted to be him. We all did.
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