Fifty years ago, Toni Servillo wrote a novel. It was praised, won an award, and he came to Rome and got caught up in the party set. He earns a living as an interviewer. Occasionally he is asked why he never wrote another novel, and he offers various, patently untrue reasons. Now his first love, whom he has not seen in more than forty years, has died. He turns thoughtful. He remains amused by the circus of the party set, but shreds their pretensions with a few well chosen words. He is obviously suffering a spiritual crisis, but when he tries to seek advice from a cardinal who is said to be next in line for the Papacy, the man walks away.
The obvious movie to compare this to is Fellini's 8½, but I see its roots in Samuel Pepys' dictum that "when a man is tired of London, he is tired of life." Servillo is not tired of life, but he is tired of this life, and sees death coming for him. He is perfect in the role.
Writer-director Paolo Sorrentino fills the screen with beautifully shot images: the overblown spectacle of the party set trying to amuse themselves, and the quiet beauty of the old Rome, its bridges, the shores, the Colisseum across the street from Servillo's apartment, the remembered image of his first love. It's a rich, beautiful, thoughtful, wistful movie.
The obvious movie to compare this to is Fellini's 8½, but I see its roots in Samuel Pepys' dictum that "when a man is tired of London, he is tired of life." Servillo is not tired of life, but he is tired of this life, and sees death coming for him. He is perfect in the role.
Writer-director Paolo Sorrentino fills the screen with beautifully shot images: the overblown spectacle of the party set trying to amuse themselves, and the quiet beauty of the old Rome, its bridges, the shores, the Colisseum across the street from Servillo's apartment, the remembered image of his first love. It's a rich, beautiful, thoughtful, wistful movie.