Federico Fellini had worked writing scripts for Roberto Rossellini before coming into his own as a director of impressivei films in the 1950s. The form of fashion was Neorealism, a rough-hewn documentary approach to a more realistic feel. But by the 1960s, Fellini's work began to change and reflect a flamboyance that would mark him as a truly unique visionary. He was among the only film storytellers to document his entire life in intensely personal terms.

A one-time crime reporter and aricaturist, Fellini began his career with an original story for Rossellini's WAYS OF LOVE (1948). Using sympathetic characters, Fellini startled audiences with the powerful debut of LA STRADA (1954). Poetic and moving, it revealed Fellini's ability to mix the grotesque with the sublime. Instantly, his name gained international attention.

But widespread acceptance of Italian films was achieved through LA DOLCE VITA (1960) where the depth of the story was matched with striking and unforgettable images, particularly scenes of Anita Ekberg, the film's sex interest. The film was a hit despite condemnation of both the Catholic Church and the Italian government.

Fellini was suddenly paralyzed by the global fixation on him. Feeling suffocated by his creativity, he made light of the his own panic in EIGHT AND A HALF (1963) and forged ahead to JULIET OF THE SPIRITS (1965), his first color film. By FELLINI SATYRICON (1970), the bawdy adventures of pre-Christian bisexuals, a signature of the Fellini films were absurdist humor. His work being far less focused, he indulged his own eccentricities to excess before AMARCORD (1974) reaped his fourth Oscar as Best Foreign-Language Film. By then the damage was done. In the 80s, no one was willing to finance his surreal fantasies. He completed his last film VOICE OF THE MOON (1990) and picked up a special Oscar for lifetime achievement in 1993.

Like the autobiographical films of [12]Ingmar Bergman and [13]Woody Allen, Fellini's stories assumed a distinctive style, coined "Felliniesque," to describe his collage of cerebral dreamstates against real life situations. Like LA DOLCE VITA, his film career had no definitive conclusion, making it all the more mysterious and powerful. One day after his 50th wedding anniversary, he suffered a stroke and went into a coma at age 73, never to recover.

BORN: January 20, 1920 in Rimini, Italy
DIED: October 31, 1993 in Rome, Italy

My comments: All bold and italics are mine. AA

Individualism and Existentialism (Nietzsche and the end of Modernity/Humanism). Study of Self: Mind & Body, Soul & Spirit. Postmodern construction from the void. Nihilism, Absurd and Cration of Meaning.

Crisis is a permanent state of being (Bergson, Hiddegger on time). From Dramatic conflict to Life as Tragedy.

Irony. Dante's "Divine Comedy" -- humans can't be tragic.

What is "human"? Eternal and inner world -- changed subject. Changed methodology -- lost "common knowledge" and mutual criteria.

Postmodern view of Fellini: Derrida (deconstruction), Deleuze (rhyzom), Baudrillard (simulacra), Foucalt (disciplines = culture), Virilo (dromology). Others***
New Physics (Einstein, 1905): no center, no vertical, relativism. Atomic, electronic, space ages. The End of History and National Cultures. The end of Space and Time.

***"Man in Postmodern Conditions" (Lautor) and "Society of Spectacle" (Deborg)
Experience of WW II and totalitarism. Freedom becomes an inner category. End of society.

Tarantino, David Lynch, Cohen Brothers -- everything new is the result of this catastrophe (Beckett).

I have to bring the cultural context and subtext (religion, history, culture, literature). The textbook is very technical. To understand the difference between Fillini and Bergman, we have to talk about South v. North. The same with Tarkovsky: West v. East -- and the space in between. Thought as Feeling and Feeling as Ideas (I have to write more in Film600 directory). Too much for a film class...

The biggest problem -- they read nothing postmodern. Even the classical philosophers are just names. I have to introduce Hegel, if I want to talk about dialectics. Never mind Marx and his concept of individual. They live it, but like children do not see them selves. Also, this is America, the land of "movie people" (saw this commercial on cable). I think there is a resistance to understand... because at the end they have to understand themselves.

Bergman: Wild Strawberries

Prof. Borg: AT THE AGE of seventy-six, I feel that I'm much too old to lie to myself. But of course I can't be too sure. My complacent attitude toward my own truth-fulness could be dishonesty in disguise, although I don't quite know what I might want to hide. Nevertheless, if for some reason I would have to evaluate myself, I am sure that I would do so without shame or concern for my reputation. But if I should be asked to express an opinion about someone else, I would be considerably more cautious. There is the greatest danger in passing such judgment. In all probability one is guilty of errors, exaggerations, even tremendous lies. Rather than commit such follies, I remain silent. As a result, I have of my own free will withdrawn almost completely from society, because one's relationship with other people consists mainly of discussing and evaluating one's neighbor's conduct. Therefore I have found myself rather alone in my old age. This is not a regret but a statement of fact. All I ask of life is to be left alone and to have the opportunity to devote myself to the few things which continue to interest me, however superficial they may be. For example, I derive pleasure from keeping up with the steady progress made in my profession (I once taught bacteriology), I find relaxation in a game of golf, and now and then I read some memoirs or a good detective story. My life has been filled with work, and for that I am grateful. It began with a struggle for daily bread and developed into the continuous pursuit of a beloved science. I have a son living in Lund who is a physician and has been married for many years. He has no children. My mother is still living and quite active despite her advanced age (she is ninety-six). She lives in the vicinity of Huskvarna. We seldom see each other. My nine sisters and brothers are dead, but they left a number of children and grandchildren. I have very little contact with my relatives. My wife Karin died many years ago. Our marriage was quite unhappy. I am fortunate in having a good housekeeper.
This is all I have to say about myself. Perhaps I ought to add that I am an old pedant, and at times quite trying, both to myself and to the people who have to be around me. I detest emotional outbursts, women's tears and the crying of children. On the whole, I find loud noises and sudden startling occurrences most disconcerting. Later I will come back to the reason for writing this story, which is, as nearly as I can make it, a true account of the events, dreams and thoughts which befell me on a certain day. In the early morning of Saturday, the first of June, I had a strange and very unpleasant dream. I dreamed that I was taking my usual morning stroll through the streets. It was quite early and no human being was in sight. This was a bit surprising to me. I also noted that there were no vehicles parked along the curbs. The city seemed strangely deserted, as if it were a holiday morning in the middle of summer. The sun was shining brightly and made sharp black shadows, but it gave off no warmth. Even though I walked on the sunny side, I felt chilly. The stillness was also remarkable. I usually stroll along a broad, tree-lined boulevard, and even before sunrise the sparrows and crows are as a rule extremely noisy. Besides, there is always the perpetual roar from the center of the city. But this morning nothing was heard, the silence was absolute, and my footsteps echoed almost anxiously against the walls of the buildings. I began to wonder what had happened. Just at that moment I passed the shop of a watchmaker-optometrist, whose sign had always been a large clock that gave the exact time. Under this clock hung a picture of a pair of giant eyeglasses with staring eyes. On my morning walks I had always smiled to myself at this slightly grotesque detail in the street scene. To my amazement, the hands of the clock had disappeared. The dial was blank, and below it someone had smashed both of the eyes so that they looked like watery, infected sores. Instinctively I pulled out my own watch to check the time, but I found that my old reliable gold timepiece had also lost its hands. I held it to my ear to find out if it was still ticking. Then I heard my heart beat. It was pounding very fast and irregularly. I was overwhelmed by an inexplicable feeling of frenzy. I put my watch away and leaned for a few moments against the wall of a building until the feeling had passed. My heart calmed down and I decided to return home. To my joy, I saw that someone was standing on the street corner. His back was toward me. I rushed up to him and touched his arm. He turned quickly and to my horror I found that the man had no face under his soft felt hat. I pulled my hand back and in the same moment the entire figure collapsed as if it were made of dust or frail splinters. On the sidewalk lay a pile of clothes. The person himself had disappeared without a trace. I looked around in bewilderment and realized that I must have lost my way. I was in a part of the city where I had never been before. I stood on an open square surrounded by high, ugly apartment buildings. From this narrow square, streets spread out in all directions. Everyone was dead; there was not a sign of a living soul. High above me the sun shone completely white, and light forced its way down between the houses as if it were the blade of a razor-sharp knife. I was so cold that my entire body shivered. Finally I found the strength to move again and chose one of the narrow streets at random. I walked as quickly as my pounding heart allowed, yet the street seemed to be endless. Then I heard the tolling of bells and suddenly I was standing on another open square near an unattractive little church of red brick. There was no graveyard next to it and the church was surrounded on all sides by gray-walled buildings. Not far from the church a funeral procession was wending its way slowly through the streets, led by an ancient hearse and followed by some old-fashioned hired carriages. These were pulled by pairs of meager-looking horses, weighed down under enormous black shabracks. I stopped and uncovered my head. It was an intense relief to see living creatures, hear the sound of horses trotting and church bells ringing. Then everything happened very quickly and so frighteningly that even as I write this I still feel a definite uneasiness. The hearse was just about to turn in front of the church gate when suddenly it began to sway and rock like a ship in a storm. I saw that one of the wheels had come loose and was rolling toward me with a loud clatter. I had to throw myself to one side to avoid being hit. It struck the church wall right behind me and splintered into pieces. The other carriages stopped at a distance but no one got out or came to help. The huge hearse swayed and teetered on its three wheels. Suddenly the coffin was thrown out and fell into the street. As if relieved, the hearse straightened and rolled on toward a side street, followed by the other carriages. The tolling of the church bells had stopped and I stood alone with the overturned, partly smashed coffin. Gripped by a fearful curiosity, I approached. A hand stuck out from the pile of splintered boards. When I leaned forward, the dead hand clutched my arm and pulled me down toward the casket with enormous force. I struggled helplessly against it as the corpse slowly rose from the coffin. It was a man dressed in a frock coat. To my horror, I saw that the corpse was myself. I tried to free my arm, but he held it in a powerful grip. All this time he stared at me without emotion and seemed to be smiling scornfully. In this moment of senseless horror, I awakened and sat up in my bed. It was three in the morning and the sun was already reflecting from the rooftops opposite my window. I closed my eyes and I muttered words of reality against my dream—against all the evil and frightening dreams which have haunted me these last few years. ISAK: My name is Isak Borg. I am still alive. I am seventy-six years old. I really feel quite well. When I had muttered these words I felt calmer, drank a glass of water, and lay down to ponder on the day which was ahead of me. I knew immediately what I should do. I got out of bed, pulled open the curtains, found the weather radiant, and breathed in the fine morning air. Then I put on my robe and went through the apartment (where the clocks were striking three) to the room of my old housekeeper. When I opened the door she sat up immediately, wide awake.

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