Understanding Fellini's 8 1/2
I first tried watching Federico Fellini's 8 1/2 fourteen years ago when I was a film major in college.
I watched it mostly out of obligation, hoping to discover why it was such a “big deal”. The result was less than satisfactory. As much as I loved the way the film looked, I couldn’t make it past the first thirty minutes. So frustrated by my inability to even finish the film, let alone enjoy it, I tried again (and again) throughout my twenties, to watch it and comprehend why it was so beloved. Again (and again) my experiment failed. I childishly chalked it up to film-buffs being pretentious: “They’re the ones who don’t get it. They’re all pretending. Not me!”
This afternoon, all of that changed.
Not only did I finally “get” 8 1/2, I sincerely fell in love with Fellini’s masterpiece. This time around, it made perfect sense why I didn't enjoy the film when I was on the backend of my teens. All I wanted was to get away from my childhood. I hadn't lived enough to connect with Guido's nostalgic malaise.
At 33, I found 8 1/2 as immersive as virtual reality, but the matrix I entered was that of protagonist Guido Anselmi’s consciousness.
The film playfully weaves between Guido's reality, his fantasies, his dreams, and his memories, each moment inviting audiences deeper into his mind. This structure reveals to us, over the course of a lively two hours and fifteen minutes, exactly who and, perhaps more importantly, why Guido is.
It moves like an improvisational dance; there are discernible steps, but we don’t know exactly where it’s going, and every so often there is an insightful flourish that evokes our own reality, fantasy, dreams, and memories. When we see how the various dots of Guido’s life connect, we perform the same reconciliation he does.
This structure allows Fellini to simulate how the human mind actually works (especially during periods of stress and disillusionment).
There are two moments, in particular, that exemplify the structure's power.
About 31 minutes in, during a dinner party, there are men at Guido’s table discussing the relationship between Marxism and Catholicism, and the emptiness of identifying with the political right or the political left. They are as sure of themselves as they are obtuse. In other words, they're common dinner-party guests.
Then there’s Guido, sitting bored and quiet, with a little grin on his face. He is supremely confident and dashing in his simple suit, sleek grey hair, and black-rimmed glasses. The mere image of him suggests he lives in a fundamentally different world than the balding, bloated, uselessly angry men in his orbit.
That's when he notices a beautiful French actress, eating ice cream, seated across from him. He perks up, and asks her if she’s enjoying her ice cream.
She smiles and answers in a manner that suggests she understands him completely. While theirs is a performance of another kind, it’s far more sincere (and tangibly satisfying) than the political and philosophical posturing seated nearby.
This moment shows exactly who Guido is and what his present priorities are. We see the world he enjoys living in.
If he has any religion or philosophy, it’s Women (with a capital W).
The second moment comes at the end of this dinner party when a “mind reader” offers to guess what Guido is thinking.
Guido is a bit annoyed at first, but he eventually agrees.
He thinks, and the mind-reader writes down, “Asa Nisi Masa”.
Guido, wearing that same slightly amused grin, confirms she guessed correctly. From here, we are instantly transported to Guido’s childhood, and we learn the origin of the phrase “Asa Nisi Masa” (I won’t spoil it for you in case you haven't seen the film).
It is a poignant “mini-Rosebud” tucked into the heart of the film. Like similar flashbacks and fantasies, we gain a historical context for Guido’s present relationship with Women, and insight into why he, as an adult, often behaves like a child.
A lesser film would withhold such revelations until the end, or show Guido cry as his forlorn face cross-dissolves into an image of the past.
But, in 8 1/2, reactions and transitions are subtle, delightfully odd, and entirely authentic to the nature of human consciousness. Some of the film’s most pleasurable moments are when Guido is alone, entertaining himself, humming, walking sillily, or glaring at life from afar as if it’s a strange, funny game he longs to play...but can't. And so he retreats into the comfort of his own mind.
A calm detachment similarly informs his approach to the film he’s producing. He’s slightly exasperated with the seriousness and sincerity of everyone around him, and somewhat resigned to the fact that he has no concrete ideas for finishing the film - just as he has no concrete ideas for finishing his life.
As Guido says, summing up one of the film’s central themes, “I really have nothing to say...but I want to say it all the time.”
He’s only able to find answers, and solid footing, in the past. The past came and went, after all. He knows how it went, and he’s free to reinvent it. There, he’s not responsible for his actions, and he’s free to please only himself.
It is a melancholy portrait, beautifully framed. And it's not one I could appreciate when I was in my cynical twenties, eager to escape my childhood. Now, as an adult, I'm able to empathize with Guido's ache for the past, and admire Fellini's skillful examination of it.
It may have taken me fourteen years to see it, but I’m glad I finally did.
