I am Marcello

The last night was italian, in the silence and loneliness of my subterranean appartment. Extraordinary moments in black and white, captured many years before I was even born. For a few hours, I am the great Marcello Mastroianni. And I remember.

La Notte (Antonioni, 1961). I remember the impossibility to communicate, the parties without fun, the boredom that never goes away, the feeling that I didn't want it to be like that, that something went wrong along the way, the fake, everything happening too slowly, the love that fades away with time and cannot come back.

La Dolce Vita (Fellini, 1960). I remember the incredible brightness of a nordic smile at night, unreachable beauty appearing in the middle of the daily absurdity, like if it was coming from another world where everything is possible, even happiness, and suddenly shining its own light on the chaos around me, making it so apparent, so painfully visible. And then disappearing forever when the morning comes. Like a dream. So powerful that it will linger for my whole life. Haunting me forever with something that could have been, but was not. I remember the choices we cannot make, the decadence, the drunkenness, the stupidity, the amorality, the lies all around and the vultures who feed on these lies. I remember how people I admired for their strength and their choices are even more prisoner and weak than I am. I remember the last sequence, when I have a last chance to do the right choice, to follow the innocence path, but I just don't understand, once again no communication is possible, and I walk away.

The beautiful ghosts and sordid decadence of a Fellini movie look like a snapshot of my own memory.

A few nights ago there were other journeys through black and white marvel. Different emotions, different associated memories. The Third Man, A Streetcar Named Desire, On the Waterfront, To Have And Have Not, The Big Sleep, Key Largo, L'Avventura. Definitely, I love NetFlix.

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