Italia the fatherland, Roma the whore-mother. Federico Fellini’s Eternal City fugue is neither memory (“Oh, you and your damned Proust!”) nor documentary (the craning camera pretending to be following a rain-spattered traffic jam is actually orchestrating it). Imagery is instead arranged in impressionistic, movable blocks that ebb and flow in a sea of molten lava.
Fernando F. Croce
September 16, 2009