All language subtitles for Marcello.Mastroianni.I.Remember.1997.720p.BluRay.x264.AAC-[YTS.MX]

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I remember, yes. I remember...

We'd see a movie most afternoons.

We'd take a snack along
and we'd see two films

plus the coming attractions
and Mickey Mouse.

We'd stay from 3:00 until suppertime.

I devoured cinema,
as did my whole generation.

The magic, dark, mysterious auditorium.

The projector's beam
with the cigarette smoke.

That was a fascinating thing
that doesn't exist now.

It was a place for escape.

But more than escape,
the cinema let you dream.

Gary Cooper, Errol Flynn, Clark Gable...

Tyrone Power.

We loved those actors.

When we left the theater,
we'd imitate them.

After seeing John Wayne
in Stagecoach with his gun,

we'd try to copy his walk.

And the actresses...

Try to find their like these days.

Greta Garbo, Marlene Dietrich...

To be honest, I never went for those two.

I appreciated their talent,
but at that age, 15 or 16,

I preferred the girl next door.

They were unattainable goddesses.

There were our actors too. Amedeo Nazzari.

Alida Valli. We liked Amedeo Nazzari.
He was a fine character.

They called him "Italy's Errol Flynn."

I worked with him. He was very generous.

Anna Magnani, Aldo Fabrizi.

Extraordinary.

And Totò, the magnificent, great Totò.

The French actors, too.

We loved Jean Gabin and Louis Jouvet.

It's odd since, at that age,
our obvious heroes

were Gary Cooper, Clark Gable, etc.

French films were more challenging.

But we loved them, too. And a few Germans.

The Axis powers produced films together.
I forget the names.

Mr. Mastroianni, we leave in ten minutes.

Thank you, Pedro.

Let's not forget
Ginger Rogers and Fred Astaire.

That's the realm of myth.

You could just cry watching Fred Astaire.

He was such a great dancer.

I've always been fond of musicals

and of dancing.

I've always thought that an actor

cannot express himself better
than by dancing,

using his body, instead of words,

supported by the music.

I think it's such a thrill
for actors to do that.

He tap dances, too?

I myself did a musical once: Ciao Rudy.

I tried to tap dance

and did it again occasionally —
in Fellini's Ginger and Fred,

in Ferreri's Bye Bye Monkey in New York.

Originally, it wasn't a dance.

What was it then?

The slave's Morse code.

- A wireless phone.
- Here we go...

The slaves couldn't talk
in the cotton fields.

If they did talk, the guard...

would have them flayed alive.

So, what did they do?

They talked to their companions
in this way.

"Look out, the guard."

"I've got the knife."

"Kill him."

Or...

"I love you."

"So do I."

Lovely, a language of love and death!

Who told you that?

I've always known. I could do a book.

Fifteen years, and in all that time,
he never told me.

Pippo, it's so important.
It's a lovely story.

I've got goose bumps.

You married couples...

We're not married.

Thanks, it was very interesting.

Kicks...

Spin me around.

- And now?
- Again.

- Slow turn.
- God, cramp...

That's good.

Tap dance.

How can I describe the beauty
of the cinema of that period?

Maybe we were just more naive

and it took very little
to enchant and excite us.

If I think of what the cinema,

the big screen, meant to my generation...

I wonder if the cinema today

has a comparable effect
on today's young generations.

Or whether they prefer
that mini-cinema that I hate:

television.

Fellini once said, "You know,

we used to watch Marilyn Monroe
like this, gigantic.

Now we watch her on the floor, all tiny."

It's different.

Another thing I remember
is following elephants

into Cinecittà for the first time.

The procession!

Throw the petals!

Throw the petals! More!

Higher!

Keep the distance!

Keep the same distance!

Slow down!

Forward, like that. Go!

Who's he?

Get down! Down!

Throw them higher!

Turn off the fans!

Cinecittà...

a mythical name, an impregnable fortress.

So many dreams.

Fellini described it perfectly
in Intervista.

The blue tram from the station

arrived at Cinecittà.

I did one of Dino Risi's first films
called Il viale della speranza,

all about the Cinecittà tram
and us young people full of hope.

I made my first film appearance
at the age of 11.

There, too, luck played its hand.

The family of friends of mine,
the Di Mauro family...

ran a restaurant inside Cinecittà.

There were three restaurants then:

first, second and third,

for the performers, employees and crews.

For years, Signora Di Mauro
got me passes to work as an extra.

You needed a pass to get in.

Pappalardo, the gatekeeper,
was a grouchy bear

who wouldn't let anyone in without a pass.

So, I first entered Cinecittà

in a Beniamino Gigli film, Marionette.

The scene was a village grape harvest
and I took my mother along.

We stayed up all night,

ate so many grapes
I think we were ill the next day,

and at dawn, they gave us 10 lire each.

Basically, it wasn't only a game
or a dream of doing this job.

I have to say that it was also
the need to earn a little money,

given the conditions.

I don't want to set you weeping.

This was the life of 80 percent
of Italians back then,

always chasing after crumbs.

One particular memory moves me...

for its very artlessness

and the way I tormented De Sica.

As a young woman, my mother
worked at the Bank of Italy.

Her friend, who also worked there,

was Signora Maria,
Vittorio De Sica's sister.

Just imagine. I wanted to be an actor

and occasionally, I'd say,
"Let's visit Signora Maria

so she can write a note to her brother."

We'd call on her,
drink coffee and all that.

And this woman
would patiently write me a note.

"The son of a dear friend..."

I would regularly go
to De Sica's set during the break.

"Sir, your sister..."

Each time, De Sica would say, "My boy" —
I was 15 at the time —

"Study, study! You'll see one day.
Just study now."

"Thank you, sir."

Three months later, I was back.

This went on for years.

I adored him then and even more
once I worked with him.

At the start of my film career,
two directors counted a lot.

First Luciano Emmer,
with a big hit called Domenica d'agosto,

in which I was a city-dweller
alone on a Sunday in summer,

having problems
with his pregnant girlfriend...

It was a hit abroad, too.

And Mario Monicelli,

with whom I made Vita da cani.

Monicelli worked with Steno then —
Steno and Monicelli —

and a lovely sketch,

perhaps the best sketch
in the film Padri e figli

where I was the only "non-father."

I grew fond of a little nephew

who then had to go back to his parents.

Enjoy.

Thanks.

Did the tooth hurt
when they pulled it out?

Not at all.

I told you so.

What is it?

What are you doing?

I kept a little to eat with you.

Pull up a seat then.

Want some?

I often worked with Monicelli.
Then came the masterpiece:

I compagni.

A film on one of the first ever strikes
in Piedmont.

The poor, ignorant workers

urged on and led by a madman,
Professor Sinigaglia,

a socialist and idealist.

He was dangerous, because his daydreams

could cause real trouble and even death.

Listen to me, my friends.

Just a second...

We've been forced to strike
to defend ourselves.

We make sacrifices and starve.

We're starving too! It's been a month...

Yes, I understand.
The bosses want to profit from it.

Don't back them against us.

So what do we do? If no one works,

we all starve,
and who gains anything then?

- Come on, guys, they want to fight!
- Wait, comrades...

Wait! Where are you going?

Wait!

Comrades...

Why are you doing this?

You swine, all attacking one man!

I was waiting for someone
in a New York hotel lobby

when an American said to me:

The Organizer was the US title.

"I am a socialist!" And he left.

I was stunned.
The film had been a flop in Italy,

despite the strong
Communist and Socialist parties.

And in America,
I found a socialist who said...

It's a wonderful film,
just like a documentary

shot at the time, it's all so realistic.

- Who is he?
- I know him.

You can't play here.

- Give me something.
- What?

Something for him. Come on.

Two lire. Who is he? Verdi?

Please leave...

Sir...

Sir!

Wait!

Here.

Thank you.

- Are you from the factory?
- No, I'm a teacher.

- A music teacher?
- No, a schoolteacher.

Forgive me for...

The money? I played for that.

You accept. Unlike that down-and-out!

Who? I know so many.

He hates my money.

Always going on about honest work...

- Who?
- My father.

He wanted to send me to the factory.

Sixteen hours a day, my hands in water,

to end up in a hospice
like so many others.

I changed trades. Have I done any harm?

What have I done wrong?

You did right.

Is that true?

Certainly.

I've changed trades too, see.

Why get involved?

I'm selfish.

- I don't understand.
- I like it.

Therefore, it's not a sacrifice.

And maybe so that one day,
girls like you...

won't have to do what you did.

These are the usual photographs...

to sign for your fans.

- What's her name?
- Colette.

- Do you want a pen?
- We'll do it later.

It's always the same thing.

They want a photo,
then say it's not for them,

it's for their grandmother!

I mean, I'm past 50 now.

- When's the car coming?
- At 10:00.

It's a good thing this director...

He's 88 years old.
He needs ten hours of sleep a night.

How does he do it?

We'll change in the trailer.

- In the trailer? Shall I take it?
- Take it.

Eighty-eight and he sleeps ten hours.
Elderly people sleep less.

I only sleep seven hours.

- Would you like some coffee?
- Please.

Descafeinado as they say here.

Thank God — such a beautiful view.

Angela!

Damn...

It's like being in Norway.

But from here, at times I feel
as if I'm at my house in Lucca.

It needs cypresses. That's what's missing.

But the rolling hills are almost the same.

We're in Peso at the Albergaria Boavista.

A beautiful region with kind people.

I'm talking to myself now.
Where's that coffee?

After so many films,
I still hunger for new experiences.

Like here in Portugal.
I'd never have come here otherwise.

I like...

the idea of those sure and safe films

in what I call "the factory,"
the studios at Cinecittà,

where there are more conveniences.

Everything is more relaxed, easier.

I don't know. But with the years,

I'm an employee doing office hours.

So now, I choose films
that take me here and there.

Frankly, I refer to myself

as a "luxury tourist," because no tourist,

however rich and famous,
can hope to savor fully

the deepest essence
of a country and its people.

The cinema allows you to enter
people's homes, to make friends.

Language can be a barrier,

but you find a way.

Manoel de Oliveira is 88.

I haven't seen his films.

I know him only by reputation.
Working with an 88-year-old

seemed like a privilege to me.

A director aged 25, 30 or 35 is normal.

But 88 years old!

He's so lively.

His sheer energy is irritating.

Some projects never come about,
bizarre dreams of mine.

For example, I kept saying,
"I'd like to be an elderly Tarzan."

Why not?

A comic film with a melancholy undertow

because of the problem of old age

of this kindly hero
whom no one mentions anymore.

Today's heroes all have guns,

kick each other in the balls,
and shoot each other.

No one cares about Tarzan anymore.

Basically, I had this idea

because I used to live in a house
on the Appian Way.

I found an Ethiopian couple,
husband and wife...

Home help has been hard to find
for years now.

Everything went well.
One Sunday, I came into the kitchen

and found another Ethiopian couple there.

I'm not a racist.

It seemed normal
that friends should visit.

But each Sunday,
the kitchen was fuller and fuller

with relatives and friends.

Maybe my democratic and generous attitude

encouraged them
to continually increase their presence.

This went on
until I had a thought one day,

"I'll end up coming home
from the set to find

that they pitched a tent
in the garden, lit a fire.

Then there'll be more tents,
fires and drums.

I'll be forced to go
and seek refuge up a tree."

There, "Tarzan!"

Know who lives here on the Appian Way?

My friend Marcello Mastroianni.

We've had fun working together.

Let's give him a surprise.
He's a real Roman.

In fact, he's from Frosinone,
but with a Roman's qualities and defects.

Keep off the grass.

Where's that fur?

This one?

In a nuclear disaster,
which books would you save?

What a question! Rather than books,

we should save manuals
on house-building or phones.

- In fact, you'd save comic strips.
- Above all.

Marcello, change your expression.

- Make it more virile.
- Virile?

Yes, but shy, too.

Virile and shy?

Too much.

Give him time to eat.

That's too warm. How about the mink?

Signor Mastroianni,
our readers want to know

the secret of your elegance.

- What elegance?
- You have to change.

I don't think I'm particularly elegant.

The secret of your elegance
is a single word: simplicity.

- Signor Marcè, the drops.
- Thanks.

What difference do you see
between Latin women and Nordic women?

I don't want to answer that.

- Signor Marcello, can I do a dive?
- Of course.

What diet do you follow?

No particular diet.
I eat everything I want.

Your English producer called, Davidon...

"Davidson," idiot.

About Abbot Faria.

I'm not doing it.
I'm not doing Abbot Faria!

You're right.

Why don't we make Mandrake?

It would be fun. Adapt it for me.

- "Mandrake of Frosinone."
- Let him do it.

Shoot. Why are you laughing? Shoot!

It's the Latin Lover. Go!

Hear that? A bus full of maniacs.

Americans! The Coliseum,
the catacombs, then here...

to see him.

Another dream was to do a film
in a wheelchair.

It pandered to my laziness.

In a wheelchair and a deaf-mute, too.
I wouldn't tire myself out.

Audiences are so naive. They'd say,

"Just think. He's in a wheelchair,
he can't talk or hear,

and we understood it all!"

They'd forget it was written
with this in mind.

Maybe I'd even win an Oscar,

or two or three.

One for the chair,
one for being deaf and one for being mute.

I don't have anything
against those who win.

But critics are very sensitive

to this kind of disability.

Gypsies! It's me!

Remember me? Romano!

I'm going out, but I'll soon be back.

I'll be back soon. Wait for me!

Millions of trees are dying,

the habitat of animals and birds
is being destroyed.

Wonderful scenery is vanishing forever.

And what's the reason for it?

We must be senseless barbarians
to burn up all this beauty

or to destroy something
we are incapable of creating.

Man has reason and creativity
to increase what he has been given.

Yet up until today,
he has done nothing but destroy.

The woods are getting smaller,

rivers are drying up,
animals are vanishing,

and the earth, day after day,

becomes increasingly poor and barren.

You're looking at me ironically.

You think I'm talking nonsense.

Yes, perhaps I am eccentric.

But when I pass woods
that I have saved from the ax,

or when I hear the rustle
of the trees I planted myself,

I know the salubrity of the climate

depends a little on me.

And that if man is happy
in a thousand years' time,

I'll have had something to do with that.

When I plant a young birch
and see it grow tall

and sway in the breeze,

my heart swells with pride.

That was a monologue by Dr. Astrov

from the first act
of Chekhov's Uncle Vanya.

The production was directed
by Luchino Visconti.

When I performed in it —

this happened years ago
and I was much younger —

I fell in love with Chekhov immediately.

Then, with the passing years,

this love became
more important and profound.

Perhaps I love Chekhov
in such a special way

because his characters and stories

resemble life.

Or perhaps they are just closer
to my nature,

my nature as an actor.

I love that tiny, understated world,

always peopled by failed characters,

full of enthusiasm, dreams and illusions.

"To Moscow!" A place they will never see.

And Vanya, who says, "Work, work.

That's the only resort man has."

Their meanness, their jealousy,
their absurdity...

I believe Chekhov to be the founder
of Russian comedy.

It's not by chance that he always wrote

a note to actors and actresses
appearing in his plays:

"Remember, they're comedies."

He doesn't bite. Don't worry,
you can lean on me.

Don't worry, I can manage.

Don't worry.

I can manage, I promise.

I know that illness.
My grandmother had it.

Take my parasol.

I heard what you said to your friend

about your legs being weak.

Exactly.

It must be synovitis. Is that it?

If only it was synovitis.

I have calcifications in my knee —
splinters, in fact.

How did it happen?

After the earthquake.
Have you heard of Vesuvius?

Yes. But that was before Christ was born.

Yes, but it's hereditary.
My ancestors lived in Pompeii.

Now that I come to think of it,

my ancestor was cured by a Russian!

Really?

I think it's just a myth.

Tell me about it.

I don't believe in miracles.

You've already started...

It's silliness. How can you recover--

Please...

- Well, we can try.
- Yes.

Whisper a Russian word to me.

- What word?
- Any word.

- Any word?
- Yes, yes.

All right.

It means "little dog."

I'm cured!

A miracle!

A miracle!

In actual fact, in Europe as a whole,

Chekhov has always been performed
in a dramatic style.

There's drama, true.

But it verges on the absurd
and makes you laugh, too.

I believe this is
where his greatness lies.

Shakespeare is great, enormous.

But I find Chekhov's understatement
much more moving.

It was a privilege to start
a stage career so wonderfully.

I made my stage debut
with Luchino Visconti.

By chance, they saw me
perform at university

and asked me to join the troupe.

The company included
Rina Morelli, Paolo Stoppa,

and Vittorio Gassman the first year.

We did Three Sisters,
a legendary production of that play.

Then I acted in Tennessee Williams'
A Streetcar Named Desire,

Arthur Miller's Death of a Salesman,

Goldoni's La locandiera.

We performed in Paris,
at the international theater festival.

My ten years on the stage

were definitely formative years.

Because Visconti's discipline,

his high standards
and perfectionism as an artist,

mean that if I can act now,

it's thanks to those years.

The stage is important for an actor.

After ten years,
I made a film with Visconti.

In White Nights, although the character

was another naive young man,

I went beyond the naivete
of a Roman taxi driver.

The film was more sophisticated.

Now I can say...

I've been dancing.

And I can say I've known happiness.

Gina, call your father! It's past 10:00!

People ask me the difference
between theater and cinema.

Here we could talk for ages,
calling on the theorists and fanatics.

Of course, there is a difference.

It's because the theater

requires discipline,
a "religiosity," in a way,

that the cinema doesn't.

The theater is a temple
where the sun never shines.

You work with very little light,

in absolute silence.

The text is respected completely,
it's analyzed,

because the words say everything.

The cinema is altogether different.

I don't mean the acting style,
which is already different.

In film, the emphasis is on the eye
and the foreground,

in the theater, on the voice.

The actor must keep this in mind.

You don't use your body in film.
On stage, you do.

In film, you're more or less cut off here.

I don't like that, because the body
has a precise function.

It expresses the character's attitude,
his state of mind.

However, I must admit that cinema,
because of its extravagance,

its approximations, its confusion,

all the outlandish things,

a microcosm blending everything —

The cinema has it all,
from the released convict to the poet.

The cinema requires no references,
it makes no demands.

Everyone joins the melting pot.

That is the magical aspect of the cinema.

For no reason, I'm thinking of New York,

which looks nothing like this.

Maybe those mountain peaks
reminded me of it.

It's a city that I like a lot.

I like its architecture.

When I was young and ambitious,
I wanted to be an architect.

But then the theater took hold of me.

I remember an interview
with a journalist there.

I compared Park Avenue
to St. Mark's Square.

He was horrified.
I couldn't make him understand

that they were two perfect expressions

of architecture and elegance.

I also like New York,

because it is grandiose and sordid,
rich and poor.

You find everything there.
It's like a scrap of Europe.

In fact, it was built by Europeans.
And Africans, of course.

Yes, it's a city I like.

I'd like to make a film there.
I shot one there recently,

but it was nothing special.

I made one with Marco Ferreri
many years ago, Bye Bye Monkey.

I remember it as one of my favorites.

One of the best characters
I've played on screen.

It was all so crazy.

This shows what we Italians can be like:

I was at the seaside in Italy
when Ferreri called to say,

"Come over to New York.
Tognazzi can't come. I need you."

"But I haven't read the script."

"Come anyway and we'll see..."

Everything was improvised,

everything was invented on the spot.

I must say I'm convinced
that cinema the way we do it

is more thrilling and beautiful.

As I was saying,

it was a charming character,

charming in his melancholy,

in his desperation
as a poor, old immigrant.

The Latin Lover!

My goodness!

It's been 35 years
since I made La dolce vita

and the Americans decided
I was the Latin Lover.

They need to put a tag on everything.

This one was picked up
in Italy and all over Europe.

Because it's simple.
"Latin Lover" says it all.

"Latin Lover," how come?

I never go to nightclubs
or roam Via Veneto,

though I shot a film there.

Okay, for coffee from time to time.

I don't know...

Maybe it's because in that film,
and also in others afterwards,

I was surrounded by beautiful women.

But that isn't a Latin Lover.

I was paid to embrace them.

We pretended to be in love, right?

Latin Lover. A crazy, stupid idea.

It cheapens me too.

I'd say, "Have you seen my films?"

After La dolce vita,
I fled distributors and producers

who wanted me in that jacket
with the gold buttons again.

I played an impotent man
in Il bell'Antonio,

then, in Divorce Italian Style,
an obscene cuckold.

I also played a pregnant man.

I was a homosexual in A Special Day.

I've played madmen
where sex wasn't involved.

Even in Fellini's films,
the erotic fantasies

are those of an adolescent,
almost a child.

What can you do? There's no solution.

At 72, I'm still the Latin Lover.

What am I? A sideshow freak?

I first went to New York

at the invitation of Lee Strasberg,
head of the Actors' Studio.

They were all there.

Apart from Brando, I saw them all,
Paul Newman, everyone.

I must have had a couple of whiskeys
for courage, to be relaxed.

I didn't speak any English. It was hell.

At one point, on entering another room,

I saw a gorgeous brunette
sitting on the floor

with these young men
from the Actors' Studio listening to her.

And I thought I'd use some lines
I said to Anita Ekberg in La dolce vita.

"Who are you?

Are you my mother, sister,
the earth, the moon? Who are you?"

And the girl answered,
"And who are you?" In Italian!

"You speak Italian?"

"Yes, and my name's Italiano."

"What are you doing
with these men listening to you?

I just got to New York.

Why don't you show me around
since you speak Italian too?"

Lord, what was her name?

Yes, Anne Bancroft!

My memory's going.

Anne Bancroft! What a beauty.

She looked like Magnani's daughter,

those genuine beauties
from southern Italy.

And she was very kind.

I didn't have a cent to my name.

I overdid my nonchalance

as a guest of the film's distributor,
Joe Levine,

who was particularly fond of me.

I went everywhere without money,
a true Italian abroad,

just like Sordi in films
set in London or wherever.

I thought, "I'll take up a collection!"

They all gave me a dollar or two.

I wasn't at all embarrassed —

although looking back, I am.

And we left together.
She took me to the Village,

to a restaurant called Pompeii

run by two tiny Italian twin brothers.

We talked about theater, the cinema.

It was a lovely evening and conversation.

I admired that actress.

But then and there, when I said,

"Are you the moon, my mother,
the earth?" and so on...

I deserved the title of Latin Lover.

It never suited me.

I made a film in Argentina
with Maria Luisa Bemberg.

In it, I married a dwarf.
Yes, a real dwarf.

I did it to demolish
the silly image of the Latin Lover.

Il bell'Antonio was the story
of an impotent young Sicilian.

The film was supposed to star
Brigitte Bardot's husband.

I remember getting a call
from Bolognini one day. He said,

"The French actor won't do it.
Will you be Antonio?"

"You and your foreign actors...

I'll do it, because I know the novel

and the screenplay by Pasolini."

He'd shown it to me earlier.

I don't know why
the French actor backed out.

Since he was Bardot's husband

and since actors can be stupid,

maybe he was afraid
he'd look impotent with Bardot.

Luckily, I made the film.

Il bell'Antonio was a great film.

There's a nice story about it.

In Brazil or Argentina,

a year or two later, the government bought
a decommissioned US warship.

The warship didn't work.

And it was nicknamed El bel Antonio!

Did you know your father
went to see mine?

Yes, I know.

- Since when?
- I found out after.

Your father would make such
an important decision without asking you?

Tell me, Barbara, do you approve?

- Answer me!
- Yes.

You swore we'd keep on loving
each other anyway, even more,

that God had blessed our house.

Now I know that the church doesn't.

Why? Who are we harming?

We're not harming anyone, but our marriage
doesn't exist in God's eyes.

When did you start thinking that?

When the Archbishop explained it to me.

You talked to him about it too?

Yes, a week ago.

How did it happen?
Why did you tell your father?

No, Francesca did,
when we fired her last summer.

And I confirmed it.

Why is he only reacting now
if he's known about it for months?

He clearly has plans for you.

I don't know.

Barbara, where is your love for me?

Answer me! Where has your love
for me gone?

I will always love you,
but not as your wife.

Why not?

Because we're not husband and wife.

- Since when?
- We've never been.

I didn't know before, but now I do.

Ever since they told me,

I blush whenever I'm near you.

No, Barbara. No...

We must confess our mistake
to the church in order to fix it.

Fix it, how?

It will nullify a marriage
that was based on a deception.

No...

Yes, a deception.

Your family was an honorable one.

Everyone waits, but you can't, see?

We have trusted friends.

In 24 hours, we'll know where they are.

Be brave...

Are you Baron Ferdinando Cefalù?

- Yes.
- I'm Immacolata Patanè.

I'm his wife.

I've come from Catania
to see what you plan to do.

Really, I...

That was provocation.

Serious provocation, I'd say.

Divorce Italian Style,
Germi didn't want me.

After La dolce vita, he thought

I was a Latin Lover
hanging out on Via Veneto.

It wasn't true,
but that was how he saw me.

He went through a list of actors
who, for various reasons,

turned down the part.

Perhaps they didn't think
he could make a comedy.

All his films had been dramas
up until then.

I remember having photos done
with smooth hair, curly hair

and sent them to Germi to convince him.

And I made that wonderful film,
Divorce Italian Style,

with the famous tic.

At first, Germi said,
"Why are you teasing me?"

"Teasing you? Why?"

"What's this?"

"I don't know. Just a tic,

to stress the character's state of nerves.

Oh, I see, I'm not teasing you!

I see you have a gum problem, so you go...

You do it all the time, like others yawn.

I just came up with this idea

off the top of my head."

He was there with his cigar
in his mouth...

Did he believe it? I don't know.

But he let me do it.
And we made that great film.

Life does begin at 40.

It's really true.

Memories are a sort of finality.

It's true.

Perhaps memories are all we truly own.

If I think of the memories
that touch me the most,

that I see most clearly...

Cinema? Fame?

No, none of that.

The strongest memories

are those of my childhood and adolescence,

my mother, my father, my brother,
and my neighborhood friends.

Summer when school was closed,

between bit parts,

I went to my father's
and grandfather's workshop.

They worked in a small garage,
each at a bench.

They were carpenters.

I had to stay there
with my taciturn grandfather.

At mealtimes, my father would leave.

He'd say, "Sweep up the sawdust.

Do some sandpapering here.
Look for the veneer.

And sharpen the tools."

And I'd say, "When do I eat?"

I can't say I disliked it, because...

I appreciated the work of these men
who always quarreled.

My father would say,
"You've worked all day on that.

How much will you get?"

Granddad would reply, "It's my duty.
A neighbor sent it to us for repair."

The generation gap.

I remember those years fondly,

despite the hang-ups I could have.

I was 15 or 16,
I'd started noticing girls.

Sometimes, my grandfather
would take me to mend blinds,

and I'd have to carry the tool bag.

Sometimes, there was a girl
I'd already noticed.

I'd get so embarrassed.

But I have fond memories
of that time anyway.

The smell of wood, for instance.

If you don't know it, you can't imagine it

mixed with their sweat, their curses,
and Granddad spitting.

He smoked a pipe.

I think I learned something
from this experience,

a certain...

awareness of modest things,
a certain humility.

Skinny arms, skinny, scrawny legs

that held me back, luckily,
because heroic roles don't suit me.

This short nose, my lips are full...

I've always loved thin lips,
like Jean Gabin's.

And aquiline noses,
to refer to Gassman again.

Even Ethiopians have aristocratic noses.

I have always enjoyed...

being ironic about my appearance.

I've even tried to undermine it.

I played characters older than my true age

before becoming an old man.

Also because, slyly,

I didn't want audiences to say,
"He's grown old."

No, I grew old first, so they'd say,
"He's made-up as old."

I don't know if these tricks worked.

Diderot's paradox on the actor
says it all.

Sensitivity limits actors
and makes them mediocre.

Intellect and composure make actors great.

Concerning an actor's suffering,

I've come across a number of interviews,

particularly with American stars,

who go through absolute hell
to "get into character."

Some lock themselves up in monasteries

or climb mountains to meditate.

I've never understood why.

If this profession is a game,

and we remember how we played
cops and robbers as children,

why all this torment,
why all this suffering?

I understand if no one offers you work,

people forget you.

That can cause suffering, of course.

If you have debts and no work,
that's suffering.

Audiences believe
what they read about suffering.

Even critics believe it.

If an actor is casual and says, like I do,

that his profession is fun,

people make light of it.

However, if he says,
"I had to study for six months,

and it was hell to get out of character."

I say, "When you come home,
do you continue?

And your wife doesn't react?

Do you sit at dinner
playing the tormented character?"

It seems excessive to me.
This is a marvelous profession.

You're paid to play and everyone applauds.

If you have talent, that is.

It's sacred,
an old man who died last Sunday

in his lavatory,

sitting on the toilet.

They say it was a heart attack.

His constipation proved fatal.

The excessive force used to expel

the miserable pebble
that made him suffer every day.

And what if it were?

That too was sacred.

I think he might have died
of a broken heart.

Yes, because ghosts crowd
into the small lavatory.

They get too close to you,
press against you.

And the thoughts and memories
come flooding back with them.

All crowded into the lavatory,
all tormenting you,

while you wait for the pebble to drop.

And a morning may come...

when you can no longer bear it,

when the pebble and the memories
are stronger than you.

Then that morning is sacred.

The cantankerous and lonely old man
is also sacred,

when he no longer stands up
from his seat one day.

They'll find him with his eyes closed,

his rigid hands on his knees,

while his headphones still sing

Bach's chorales in his ears.

I'd just like to be able
to choose the moment.

But then again, who wouldn't?

I believe that there must always be
a certain distance

between the actor and the character.

He must always keep one eye

winking ironically, as if to say,
"Don't take it too seriously.

Remember, you're just performing,

not living this character's life."

Emotional reactions do sometimes occur,

but it shouldn't happen.

An actor makes audiences cry,
but shouldn't himself.

Yet it can happen
if something in one particular play

touches you on a deeper,
more personal level.

For example, in the play
that I'm currently performing,

Le ultime lune,

there are a few minutes
when my eyes become weepy.

I find this embarrassing...

because it means that I do not maintain

the necessary distance from the character.

It must be controlled.
You follow the audience's mood,

either taking advantage
of the atmosphere created

or repressing it.

These are things
that can be better explained by actors

with more theatrical experience than me.

Vittorio Gassman, say,
whom I consider a great actor.

I began my career with him.

I remember a tragedy
by Vittorio Alfieri, Oreste,

that was in very difficult verse.

With no academic training,
I found it hard.

Gassman very generously
would come to my room,

without Visconti knowing,

and give me lessons.

But the emotion and stage-fright
were so great

on opening night
in Rome's Teatro Quirino,

that Gassman had to drag me
from the toilet.

I was so nervous, I couldn't stop peeing.

He grabbed me
just like he'd pick up a cat,

"Look, we have to go on!"

I ran after him, doing up my pants.

That is a very fond memory.

I had a profound belief
in what I was doing.

Not that I don't now, believe me, I do.

But here is the advantage of experience.

You no longer need to pee.

Your mouth's not so dry

that you need to keep
a glass of water in the wings

or your tongue gets too sticky
for you to speak.

Because that is fear.

Dicalozzi!

He's dead.

Deputy Dicalozzi is dead. Shot.

Close all the exits. Let no one out.

Check all phone calls.

In the chapel in an hour...

meditation on hell.

Todo modo, a very important film

about our "First Republic,"

the trouble, confusion,
businesses, money...

Strangely, or not that strangely,

this film, after all the scandals
we've had,

after Moro's murder,
anticipated in the film,

Petri was quite shaken

when Moro was killed,

because he showed it in the film.

Strangely, this film
that I consider very important

has never been rereleased.

Elio Petri, what a director!

I was in his first film, L'assassino.
We became friends.

My brother also knew him well.

When we had an odd idea,

I'd say, "Let's tell Elio Petri.
Wouldn't you like to make this?"

Then there was Necrofilo,

about a man with a basement,
like in an American horror film,

full of corpses among which

there was a dummy
that looked like Sophia Loren,

one like Gina Lollobrigida.

But I'd pass them by.

I'd choose a young boy...

Crazy stuff, but Elio Petri
was a committed director.

He never listened to us.
We were crazy to ask him.

My brother was mainly a friend.

Between brothers,
this kind of bond is not that easy.

He was five years younger,
but I saw him as a big brother.

I liked his outer solidity

but he had a fragile side too.

He was a very witty man
who never said much.

But when he told a story
or criticized or implied something

about his work as a film editor,

his remarks were scathingly witty,
full of humor.

We even made a film together once.

The director Gigi Magni wanted us.

The film was called
Scipione, detto anche l'Africano.

And he played Scipio the Emilian,
a corrupt politician.

Two thousand years have gone by,
but things are still the same.

For the first two weeks,
we did nothing but laugh,

until Gigi Magni got annoyed.

"You two are always playing jokes.

Let's get serious here."

But we couldn't be serious.

In the end, one fine day,

I was dumped by the woman
I was involved with.

And then I entered that gloomy state

typical of those
who feel abandoned, betrayed...

What a foul nature these Scipiones have.

Worse than your father!

It's only normal!

I, Publius Cornelius Scipio,
known as Africanus,

have a foul character!

It's natural!

We'd like to know,

from you and your brother,

should he deign to reply,

Lucius Cornelius Scipio...

Asiaticus, if you don't mind.

All right.

Please tell us, as joint commanders
of Roman forces in Syria,

what became of the 500 talents

paid by the King of Antioch
as tribute to Rome,

but which never actually reached Rome.

Scipiones...

Do either of you know?

Do you know?

When the film came out,

my mother went to see it and said,

"Well, Marcello,
you were as good as usual.

But il roscetto" —
my brother Ruggero had ginger hair —

"he was better than you!"

Remember poor Dad?

Here we go again!

Scipio the Spaniard!

He was a real man.

With him, yes meant yes.

And no meant no.

Who did you follow?

I'm the servant's son,
that's how you always saw me.

You were more handsome, more intelligent.

- Me?
- Exactly.

You were poor Daddy's darling.

And you were Mommy's.

Well done...

Fight.

Come back!

When I started appearing in films,

my father and mother were over the moon.

They'd see all my films,
two or three times.

They had one big peculiarity.

My father had gone blind
because of diabetes.

My mother had been stone-deaf for years.

They'd go to the movies
like Stan Laurel and Oliver Hardy.

They'd disturb everyone in the theater.

My mother would ask, "What did he say?"

And my father would reply,
"He said such and such..."

Then my father would ask,
"What did he do?" Because he couldn't see.

And my mother would explain what I'd done.

I could relate all this
in a totally tragic manner

but they formed a genuinely comic couple.

My mother once broke her thigh

as she was leaving the Cinema Appio
near Porta San Giovanni

on a typical Roman pavement
with a pothole that she fell into.

She didn't complain much
about this mishap.

She was already old then.

But she was upset, saying,

"If only I'd been to see Marcello.

It was an Alberto Sordi film!"

I often think about
the praise and the prizes.

I don't know whether I really deserved
them each time,

or if they were for other lies
on other occasions.

Prizes are a game of chance.

You have to satisfy other people,

governments, film industries.

Who knows when we were really good liars?

Each time I win a prize,

I always think of my mother.

I imagine her being there,

her discreet smile,

her efforts to quell her emotion
at seeing her son win.

That may sound banal, but it isn't.

For instance, a few years ago,

they launched a sort of European Oscar
called the "Felix,"

a truly hideous statue, I remember.

The first ceremony was held in Berlin.

I won one, as did Ingmar Bergman,
and some German actor.

My idea of Germany
was still linked to the war.

On arriving on stage, I didn't expect

to see men and women in evening dress

give me a standing ovation,

something you see less in Italy.

Because of my odd idea of Germany,

I was very surprised.

There, too, I thought of my mother.

If only she could have seen me in Berlin,

winning a prize.

I became a little weepy

and the cameras zoomed right in.

I mean, I was very embarrassed.

It's that usual thing
of showing no emotion in this job.

A Special Day brought me
a second Oscar nomination.

Ettore said, "Let's go to Hollywood."

I said, "I missed the first...

How can we win?
There's no reason for us to win."

"Let's go anyway and have some fun.
Let's go to Los Angeles."

Of course, I didn't win for best actor
nor did he for best foreign film.

One anecdote, though. One day,
we were invited to the house of Scorsese,

the famous American director.

There were no paintings on his walls,

just Italian film posters.

I remember The Leopard standing out.

There were so many posters
it was like wallpaper.

Scorsese asked me, "What's that film?"

It was a white poster,
with two black lines.

I couldn't say, there were no names on it.

It was Divorce Italian Style in Poland.

This story about
Scorsese's wallpaper reminds us

how much young American filmmakers
learned from Italian cinema

when they were still avant-garde.

If you think of Scorsese's Mean Streets,

you see the links
with Fellini's I vitelloni.

The characters were the same, but American

and therefore more violent.

The film also launched the careers

of Bob De Niro and Harvey Keitel.

Scorsese's a fine director
but he owes us a lot.

So do others.

I'm proud to say that
because I love my cinema.

What did you expect?

Kissing, fondling, a hand up your skirt?

You've waited all morning!

That's what a man does with a woman.

Men are all the same, huh?

No, don't touch me. Let go!

You have to feel it,
it's the most important muscle!

It's true!

Don't touch me.

I'm sorry. You're wrong, honey!

Totally wrong!
I'm not the superman you wanted.

I'm a fairy! A fairy!

That's what they call us!

The army would take guys like me

and ram stuff up our asses!

You understand? What do you know?

You're just a bored housewife in heat!

You act!

You act all prim and proper!

"Who do you think I am?"

But you're ready to screw on the terrace!
You dare judge me?

What do you know?

What do you know?
I'll go and call the janitor!

Janitor!

Let everyone know
the man on the third floor

is a fairy, a faggot,

a pervert!

In all my roving,
I remember years ago, with Fellini,

we were crazy about cars
as a means of travel.

We'd compete to see
who could change cars most often.

You won't believe this:
Fellini had a Mercedes 300 SL,

the one with the gull-wing doors.

It's hard to imagine Fellini
with a sports car like that.

He adored American cars,
black ones, always black.

We'd see who'd change most often.

It was a stupid game and a waste of money.

I'm sorry I didn't keep a record of it.

I should have done a board

with photos of me
standing by the cars I had.

Just to show my grandchildren
how stupid Granddad was.

You're thinking,
"What do we care about his cars?"

I'll talk about myself then:

I have no great qualities,
so I'll talk about

my small defects and petty weaknesses.

Proust said,
"True paradises are ones we've lost."

Those words are justifiably famous.

I should like to add

that there may be paradises
even more pleasant than lost ones:

those we have never seen,

the places and adventures
that we can sense.

Not behind us, like lost paradises
that fill us with nostalgia,

but ahead of us,
in a future that one day, perhaps,

like a dream coming true,
we shall be able to attain.

Maybe the appeal of travel
lies in this charm,

in this nostalgia for the future.

This force makes us fantasize,
or fool ourselves, about traveling

and finding, in an unknown station,

something that could change our lives.

Perhaps you are no longer young

when you are able to regret

and love...

only the lost paradises.

It's ridiculous.

When you think about it,

around 50 cigarettes a day for 50 years

makes almost one million cigarettes.

It's enough to cover the sky over Rome.

But why?

You know it's harmful,
and yet you continue.

Does it help fill a gap?

Even though I admit that it's harmful,

I'm sick of Americans. They go too far.

What do they want?
To put smokers in a ghetto?

Let people live and die as they choose.

It's really bad.

This is the River Douro.

That means "d'oro," golden.

This is the mouth
leading to the Atlantic Ocean.

In the face of this vast ocean,

you almost feel like talking
about profound things.

I believe in nature,

in love, in affection, in friendship,

in this wonderful landscape,

in my work and in my comrades.

I like people, I love life.

Perhaps that's why life
has loved me in return.

I consider myself a lucky man.

With the usual highs and lows, but lucky.

After 8 1/2 with Fellini,

I embarked upon a very risky
theatrical adventure.

I wanted a Broadway-like atmosphere
in a musical,

a kind of show I've always loved.

So we did this musical called Ciao Rudy.

I spent six exciting months
with male and female dancers

and a host of top actresses

and with amazing public attendance.

And the music...

And singing, even though
I don't have a great voice...

Gloria Swanson said to me,
"Why not come to America?"

"America? I've seen musicals.
The actors are all gods.

They sing, jump, dance.
They're unbelievable."

"So what? You're an actor.
You don't need to sing.

Did you see My Fair Lady?
Rex Harrison speaks the songs."

I didn't let her talk me into it.

The main reason I didn't was that,
at that very moment,

Fellini called me

for Viaggio di Mastorna,
a film we never made.

At the end of the Roman season,

I left Ciao Rudy

and broke my contract,

even though we were due
to perform in Milan.

I was sued for it.

I can't think of another case
of an actor paying so much

to give up the stage.

However, Fellini fell ill.

And Viaggio di Mastorna was never made.

Screen-test Mastroianni...

Lower your head a little, Marcello.

The head — Quiet back there!

Lower your head.

Why do you always have red eyes?
What do you do?

Another thing.
See to the mustache, it's loose.

You don't have to do it
in any particular way.

- Yeah, I got it.
- You look upset...

- Want coffee?
- No coffee right now!

I'm not upset, I'm just lost.
You keep changing things around.

You should express

a growing terror,
as he suddenly realizes...

You need this light here?
Can you see that light there?

Quiet back there!

I don't like that hat.
Maybe we'll try it later.

Look at the camera.

The important thing is to express
a growing sense of loss

because this instrument
represents pre-congenial awareness,

the awareness of his vocation...

It was a tense test.

Marcello could sense my unease.
My uncertainty confused him.

We tried a mustache, a wig, without,

contact lenses,

but Mastorna wasn't there.

He continued to hide from us.

I'll clean off my makeup.

- Shall we eat?
- Yes.

Look, Federi,
was the character fine in La dolce vita?

- And in 8 1/2 too?
- Yes, yes.

Well, what's so hard about Mastorna?

Does he have two heads?

No, Federico, the problem is...

I don't feel that you trust me.

It's as though you're afraid.

If I could convince you that I'm Mastorna,

you'd have no more doubts.

I'll be Mastorna!

Fellini wrote a preface
to a book on my film work,

a sort of biography,

and he said,
"Marcello and I see each other rarely.

Except, of course,
when we're shooting a film.

Perhaps that's the reason
for our friendship,

a friendship with no claims
or obligations,

that doesn't influence
or set rules and limits,

a true, deep friendship,
based on total mutual mistrust."

When he called me for La dolce vita,

I went out to Fregene,
where he had a villa.

We met on the beach.

Nearby, Ennio Flaiano was under a parasol.

Flaiano was his partner then
in writing the script.

I was, of course, very excited.

Suddenly, Fellini,

with that charming air of his,
that voice like a magic flute,

said, "Dear Marcellino" —

he'd always use diminutives,
which helped keep you calm —

"Marcellino, it's good to see you.

I'm planning a film
produced by Dino De Laurentiis.

But De Laurentiis would like
Paul Newman in the main role.

Now, Paul Newman is a great actor, a star,

but he's too important.

I need an ordinary face."

I didn't feel insulted or humiliated.

"Fine, I'm ready. I'm that ordinary face."

"The character is a sort of...

philanderer.

He can't have Paul Newman's personality."

I said, "Fine."

Then to lend myself
a little dignity, I said,

"I'd really like to have a look
at the script."

Just to seem professional.
He said, "Of course!"

And called to Flaiano,
"Ennio, could you bring the script over?"

Ennio Flaiano,
with that nonchalant air of his,

brought a folder over to me.

I opened it. It was empty,

except for one of those cartoons
Fellini was always drawing.

It showed a man swimming in the sea

with a penis dangling down to the seabed,

and, like in an Esther Williams movie,

a host of mermaids

frolicking around this penis.

I turned bright red, yellow, green,
every color possible.

I felt like a real fool.

I realized asking for a script
was too much.

What could I say?

"Of course, very interesting.
Okay, where do I sign?"

After that first time on the beach,

I never asked him for a script.

I did five films with him.

Some of the most important ones.

That's what I still dream of today.

Why do you need a script?

If you describe the character well,

is it so important to know
what happens tomorrow?

Wasn't his way more beautiful?

When I arrived in the morning,
I found a set, characters, situations.

I'd simply say,
"What do I do? What do I say?"

"Go up to him and say,
'I was waiting for you.'

We'll see when we dub it."

I was an actor, but above all a spectator
of the things around me.

There can't be a better way
of doing this job.

You can't do that with everyone,
but with him, you could.

Good evening, Maddalena.
You all alone?

- Care to dance?
- No.

How about a vodka?

No, everything's going wrong tonight.
I'm leaving.

- May I accompany you?
- Why not?

- Your friends are ready to attack.
- Where are you two going?

- Miss Maddalena.
- Leave me alone tonight.

Welcome back.
Lovelier than a movie star.

It's the same every night.
Don't they ever give up?

Paparazzo, that's enough.

You should be used to it.
You're a public figure.

Marcello, where are you taking her?

A few years ago, I had a strange dream.

I arrived at Cinecittà
after being away for a while.

Once I passed through the gates,

I didn't see anyone.

There weren't any people or cars.

The big open space
as you go in was deserted.

I set off along the path
leading to the bar.

At one point, I met four or five workers,

very tiny workers.

They were carrying bits of a set

for some epic about Hercules.

Yet not one of them greeted me by my name.

How strange...

I carried on and drew closer to the bar.

I met another worker, just as tiny,

and he didn't greet me either.

I asked him, "Is the bar open?"
"Yes, it's just over there."

I started to go into the bar,

but it had a very low ceiling

so that I had to get down
on all fours to go inside.

And then I woke up.

It was a nightmare.

It was so vivid.
I tried to find the meaning.

Either there was no room
for me at Cinecittà

or the cinema had become
a thing for small men

and small films.

Oh, Mandrake's wand hear my command:

bring back the good old days!

Yes, Sylvia, I'm coming too.

I'm coming too.

She's right.
I've got it all wrong.

We've all got it wrong.

Sylvia, who are you?

You're so beautiful. I'm tongue-tied.

You make my heart beat like a schoolboy's.

You don't believe me, do you?

You inspire true and deep respect.

Who do you love? Who do you care about?

You.

You've come just in time.

Why do you smile that way?

I never know if you're judging me,
forgiving me or mocking me.

I'm listening.

You said you'd tell me about the film.
I know nothing.

Could you leave everything behind
and start life all over again...

choose one thing only
and be faithful to it,

make it the reason for your existence,
the one thing that contains everything

because your dedication to it
makes it infinite?

Could you?

If I said to you, "Claudia"...

Which way are we going?
I don't know the way.

What about you? Could you?

The springs must be nearby.
Listen. Turn here.

No, this guy here couldn't do it.

He wants to grab everything and devour it.
He can't give up a single thing.

He changes direction every day
for fear of missing the path.

- He's slowly bleeding to death.
- Is this how the film ends?

No, this is how it starts.

Then he meets the girl at the springs,

one of those girls
who pass out the healing water.

She's beautiful...

both young and ancient,

a child and yet already a woman,
authentic and radiant.

There's no doubt that she's his salvation.

You'll be all in white,
your hair long, just as it is now.

Turn off the lights.

Now what?

Television is a tremendous invention.

It showed us the first man on the moon.

But the way they use it? Give me a break!

How can we keep on watching game shows?

"Hi, where are you from?"

"Who kept a hand in his waistcoat?"

- "Napoleon."
- "Well done! You win a million!"

And the variety shows!
One of them drives me mad.

It's a Knockout must cost a fortune.

I've never seen anything so stupid.

How can people grovel over this box

that could show us
exceptional and beautiful things?

There is something occasionally,
an old film, a documentary.

Instead, we have models swaying their hips

and mentioned in the same breath

as Greta Garbo, Marie Curie,

who must be spinning in their graves.

I can't stand it anymore. Could it be age?

Or is television really a cretinous thing?

I only watch nature programs.
I like them a lot.

Except for ones on birds. I like mammals.

Forget birds and fish.

Or war documentaries.

Don't go thinking I'm belligerent

or love heroic deeds. No.

It's just because such documentaries

take me back to the war years.

I was hiding in Venice.

I'd run away
from the Army Geographic Office

near the Austrian border.

In the mountains where I had been working,

sweaters with a deer motif
were all the rage.

These patterned sweaters
are back in fashion nowadays.

I was broke,
except for a little money I'd saved

because they paid us a little
at the Geographic Office.

I had an idea:

I unraveled all the sweaters
my mother had knitted.

They were made of wool
worn next to the skin,

that itched when you first wore them

but softened after a few days.

They stank of goat.
I don't know what wool it was.

I unraveled them
and rolled them into balls.

At Bassano del Grappa, there were mills

where they did the deer motif.
It was a crazy idea.

Only a 19-year-old
could think up such a scheme

with all the risks at the time,

the Germans, Fascists, war!

So what did I do?

I left one day with my wool.

I remember Mestre in the evening,
almost at nightfall.

I took a train
going to Bassano del Grappa.

There was a threat of air raids

so trains traveled in the dark,
without lights.

I remember this train
was packed with people

and you couldn't see a thing.

At one point, I felt...

a female presence, a woman talking,
perhaps with friends.

Perhaps she was going
to the country for food.

Despite the crush in that moment,
being an inveterate smoker,

I found a way of lighting a cigarette.

And, as I lit it,
it lit up my face, of course.

I was blinded by the light
and didn't see who was opposite me.

The woman came closer to me,

brushed against me and we kissed.

It was so thrilling, so mysterious...

I never saw who she was,

if she was young or old.

I never saw her.
At the first stop, still in the darkness,

the whole group got off.

I never knew whom I kissed.

I'm sure it was a woman,

but was she pretty or ugly? I don't know.

In any case,
the kiss was beautiful, because...

it lent a romantic aura
to my ridiculous journey.

How many years have passed?

Yet that moment is still present.

It's one of my most vivid memories.

Memory is a strange thing,
as strange as love.

I'm not a great reader, but some writers

or chapters or passages in books

have struck me and marked me.

I'm reminded of Stendhal's metaphor

in which love is
a sort of crystallization.

Yes, a crystallization.

"Take a dry branch," says Stendhal.

"And place it at the bottom of a mine.

When you return for it,

you'll find it covered
with magic crystals.

And what else is love?"

I'm here, waiting.

Adelaide...

My love, how do you feel?

Great.

Oreste, I've made
your favorite breakfast. Look.

Toast, ricotta and milky coffee!

The best breakfast!

I recommend it to everyone.

- There...
- Adelaide?

Yes?

I feel good with you, nice and cozy.

You're so handsome today.

Wait...

Look, I managed it.

I got the curls out. Do you like it?

It makes you more modern, younger.

I lacquered it, too.

It's like a helmet.
It won't stay like that.

My hair's uncontrollable.

Thanks anyway. May I?

I'm happy.

What happened?

The hand that hit you... a hammer blow.

- The only good one!
- The same.

- And a tooth too!
- Social Security will replace it.

You must have suffered...

I thought you loved that other guy.

Are you crazy?

And that you didn't want to see me.

Shut up, Oreste. That's not nice.

I'm yours, you must believe me!

I believe you. But...

I see a shadow on your face

The past is now buried

Go, hook up to the present

You're the one I love

Only you

My first film with Ettore Scola
was Dramma della gelosia.

It won me the best actor prize at Cannes.

I hope to make another film with him.

I like Ettore and his humor.
He's witty, intelligent, friendly.

He lets actors participate.

In A Special Day, that extraordinary film,

a pure masterpiece,
my character, a homosexual,

had a tricky phone call to make,
to my friend, of course.

I told Ettore,

"I think modesty

would prompt me to shoot it
from behind my head.

Put the camera behind me,

because the lines I'm saying
aren't violent.

They mustn't seem unpleasant."

Ettore agreed.
It's one of the finest moments.

Like when he asked if I remembered
a song from my youth,

and I remembered one

that I always heard played
at my aunt's house.

Her daughters danced every Sunday.

The song went like this.

There's a run in my stockings.
They were new.

Come on, let's try. Come on, it's easy.

- Do you often go dancing?
- Never!

- Why are you teaching me?
- Because!

On Sundays, we'd dance
at our place or the neighbor's.

We had to wait until my father went out.

We'd flee once he came back.

We'd hurry out for records.

We liked American records:
Armstrong, Duke Ellington...

A shop in Rome rented out
wind-up gramophones and records.

We'd have these innocent parties.

"Bring that girl
and she'll bring her friend."

I remember my place was small,

just two rooms and a kitchen.

The excuse to grab a kiss was,

"You wanted a drink?
Let's go into the kitchen."

It was a glass of water, nothing else.
And an attempted kiss...

Memory has to be fed.

The memory of anything at all:

a song, an event, food,

because it's linked
to a particular moment,

a rendezvous, a party.

Just like smells and landscapes.

I love science fiction.
Even in science fiction films,

for instance, in Blade Runner,

the replicant suffers in an agonizing way

because a replicant has no past
and therefore has no memory.

This shows how important memory is.

I remember, perhaps I read it
or heard it in a film,

a Navajo Indian song that goes:

"Remember all that you have seen,

because everything you forget,

returns to soar on the wind."

I remember a funny anecdote.

Ponti had decided to make Amanti
with Faye Dunaway.

I read the script and found it terrible.

I couldn't think why he'd make
such a dull film.

I told him,
"I can't do this, it's too stupid."

We had a star in Faye Dunaway,
but why make this film?

I went to see De Sica.

He was staying with Tonino Guerra

who had worked on the screenplay.

On the way, I was saying,
forgive the expression,

"It's a piece of shit.

This film is a piece of shit."

Up in the elevator...
"It's a piece of shit."

Tonino Guerra opened the door.
I said, "Is Mr. De Sica here?"

"Yes, in the living room."

It's a piece of shit.

"Good day, sir.
This film is a piece of shit."

He replied, "Who'll pay our debts?"

I hadn't thought of that.

I spent everything.

De Sica was a crazy gambler
and spent all he earned.

"Who'll pay our debts?"

We signed straightaway.

But it wasn't a good film.

Seven days...

Only seven days. It could have been ten.

Listen, Giulia...

Don't look at me like that!
I hate kind eyes!

I was happy here
because your eyes weren't kind,

they were just!

And now they're like the others'.

I've never had so much to say to you.

I don't want to hear it, Valerio!

I don't! I don't want some nurse

at my bedside out of pity!

What pity? I'm strong.

The two of us are strong enough
to go beyond that.

What pity?

If I talk, you have to listen,
because I love you!

I love you!

De Sica...

A wonderful man, so witty.
So handsome.

He looked like a pope.

I had a great time with him.
Such a witty man. A master!

I'm not leaving this room.

I'll stay in your bed forever.

I'll grow roots and fungus.

- Don't scream!
- Put a record on.

- Okay.
- Get undressed.

Get undressed, I'll watch.

I'll admire you from here.

We can't, Augu. We can't.

I was never on first-name terms
with De Sica.

He was like a fantastic uncle

that you see on big occasions.

Perhaps because I first met him
as a young boy.

I remember he was the one who taught me

to love Naples through his films.

We'll leave things as they are

and each go our own way.

I'll go to see your sons
and tell them the truth.

"I'm rich and so on...

One of you is my son, you choose my heir!"

Dumè...

Stay out of it.

- Don't set them against each other!
- Let go.

Keep away from them!

Let go of me!

If you tell my sons
what I said, I'll kill you.

But it won't take me 20 years!

Shut your mouth. Shut it!

They all must be equal!

Enough! Stop it!

- I'll kill you!
- Be quiet!

I love you...

now more than ever.

De Filippo asked Sophia and I
to do Filumena Marturano on Broadway.

What an opportunity!

Sophia speaks perfect English.

I get by. Men are less intelligent
than women.

My character was rooted in Naples.

The couple moved to New York
after the war,

although the films were set in Naples,

where our sons were born
and we continued to fight...

Eduardo asked me, "Will you tell Sophia?"

"You bet I will!"

I called Sophia.
We were both living in Paris then.

I told her, "It's a wonderful opportunity.

Eduardo wants to do Filumena
on Broadway with us.

We've done Marriage Italian Style,
so it'll be easy.

Eduardo wants you, just think...

What an adventure!

It'll make you young again.
Try the stage."

And she replied, "But I am young.

I don't need to go on stage."

She was afraid of the theater
like many actresses.

I asked Catherine Deneuve
to do a play too...

But film actors fear the stage.

Paris is one of my favorite cities.

Along with Rome, of course.

Paris and Rome are the world's
most beautiful cities, I think.

People talk about New York, India, Bombay,

Buenos Aires.

They're all great cities,

but Paris and Rome have no equal.

I'm fond of foreign things,
but I'm European,

and Paris is a province of Europe.

Just like Rome.

What a sight!

Paris has it all,

everything that anyone
could possibly want.

I don't require much,

but just knowing
I can have everything I need

on a culture level or for my own pleasure,

that's enough for me.

Rome is totally different.

My roots are there.

It's a beautiful city
where things often don't work.

But we have sunshine, a lovely setting,

beautiful things...

Where are you taking that statue?

What?

Where are you taking it?

They're taking it to the pope.

- He wants our phone number.
- No!

Alberto, we have to ask ourselves
this question:

if De Meo had been one of my peers,
would she have left me?

My answer is no.

What is your political view?

Oreste, do you feel okay?

No, I don't feel okay.

Not at all.

I'm out of it, aren't I?

No. Just listen to what Pietro is saying.

We'll talk later, okay?

He's lost for the cause.

Both Rome and Paris are places
where my career developed.

I've made many films in Paris.

It's cold today.

What was I saying?

Thank you for your offer.

Your beauty and your fine country home,

I'd have loved both, believe me.

Of the two of us,
only I will have regrets.

It's not this old man
who took your breath away...

but his name...

his reputation...

his past...

so many things that no longer exist.

And so, dear madam,

I thank you again.

I'm happy I met the great Restif.

And I'll remember
the Knight of Senigallia.

Your horse is dead, Captain.
Its heart gave out.

I can have another saddled.

You there!

I've had my ass pounded to pulp
in the saddle.

You have room. I'll continue with you.

Since you ask so politely...

The new wisdom forces
such traveling companions on me.

Thank you for your help. You're precious.

- I'll remember you.
- So will I, Mr. Casanova.

What a shame we didn't meet
in our younger days.

Indeed. Why not?

Nothing must ever be ruled out.

Scum!

You're not soldiers! You're scum!

It's beautiful! Too bad
there are so many Indians.

When will the battle start?

I don't know. I have to wait. Wait...

Have you seen our prey?

I have to wait for Gibbon.
That's General Terry again.

He's jealous of your fame.

My fame and my leadership.

It's true. They're savage beasts.

Marie-Helene, how do you feel?

I'm a bit ashamed. What will you think
of me after last night?

George Armstrong... Together, forever!

Charge!

I made my first film with Marco Ferreri
more than 30 years ago in Rome.

In Paris, we made
Non toccare la donna bianca, La cagna,

the famous La grande bouffe.

These films are landmarks in cinema.

Important landmarks.

My relationship with Marco
goes beyond this profession.

Marco has one great quality:
he doesn't talk much.

My relationship with him
consists of long silences

that are totally relaxing.

We understand each other in silence.

I like his vision of the world,
things and people

that looks much further ahead

than the end of his own nose.

He is original.

I like him a lot as a friend.
He's affectionate.

As a director, he gives actors room,

he gets off your back.

If he sees the actor has a smart idea,

he'll let him use it, act it out.

There was a wonderful atmosphere
on La grande bouffe.

Not one of us, Michel Piccoli,
Noiret, Tognazzi or myself

tried to hog the limelight.

We got on so well
that we had fun for two months.

We also ate a lot
and that became a game, too.

This goes to show how Marco

can band together a group of people

and guide them in a way
that is ideal for working.

Pardon me.

It looks like Michelangelo's "Pietà."

I bet it's deliberate.
Slightly blasphemous.

Hands off!

Marcello, I'll race you.

Let's go!

Two seconds.

You win.

Lovely little titties...

The image of an era.

You say I'm a sex maniac,

and you're drooling over some bar girl!

We're not drooling.
It's my old collection.

It's sentimental and artistic.

It brightens up life. Look.

May I kiss the "oyster"?

The little oyster.

Such artistic lighting.

Paris also saw my return to the stage
after several years.

It was 12 years ago now.

I performed in French.

It was justified by the character

since he was an immigrant
who had worked in Paris.

The play was Tchin Tchin
by François Billetdoux, a French author.

The director was Peter Brook.

Pamela...

Cesario...

Mademoiselle Paffi.

My friend.

Let's have a drink.

Kiss my hand.

Stop shaking.

I don't have to be brave.

I just mustn't think about later.

Your second glass.

My second already?

Bobby's going to be a delinquent!

Delinquent! You little pest!

Enough!

Shout all you like,
but I can calm him down.

A few slaps and he'll calm down!

Go on, hit it!

I'm hitting!

What have I done to you?

I'm not talking anymore.

It's your problem!

Make love to me instead!

I don't make love to a punching ball.

I'm no punching ball!

Put that bottle down!

It was a big hit.

Paris...

Josephine Baker summed it up:
"I love my country and Paris too."

It's true in a way.

I have a daughter in Paris.

I have a home with my woman.
It's important.

Oreste...

I was thinking of our love days ago.

How it was born despite the opposition.

I know.

It was a thunderbolt, a flash.

The calm sky split open.

- Will it end?
- Never, my beloved.

What if you grow tired of me?

No! You of me!

I never will

Why argue about this?

No, I'll never tire of you

My beloved!

You've suffered so much.

Those days without you...

My love!

Unemployed and poorly loved.

- Oreste...
- Present!

We're together now again

And the problems are all over

Triumphant love

If you ever left me

That's enough now

I want to be the only one!

The man of my life!

I had a satisfying experience
thanks to an architect friend.

He knew of my love for architecture

and invited me one day
to a meeting outside Paris

at a cultural center.

It was an international forum
on architecture.

All the architects there
had worked on La Défense,

the futuristic area
full of New York-like skyscrapers.

At the end of the meeting,
at around 1:30 p.m.,

the chairman said,
"Mr. Mastroianni will now speak."

I was embarrassed. What could I say?

What could I say to all these experts?

The theme was the "dalle."

In French, that's a large slab

of reinforced concrete or also of blocks

that is set down over the natural terrain.

They use these slabs to build motorways

or big buildings
that don't follow the terrain,

since the slab is
the building's foundation.

I started joking: "What can I say?

We've been here since 9:00. It's 1:30 now.

All I can think of
are two slabs of bread with ham."

Thunderous applause.

Everyone was starving.
They all wanted to eat.

Then I went on to say,
"You find other kinds of slabs.

Venice is built on a slab."

I used other examples
that all went over really well.

I said that my sole regret

was that this style of building

cut children off from the earth.

They had no spaces to play in,

nowhere to watch ants
carrying their blades of grass

over to a dark, mysterious hole
in single file...

The applause was crazy.

They published a book
with my speech in it,

as if it was important.

The chief engineer thanked me.

He said, "Our next project,
we'll leave room for the children."

I just thanked him.

Look at this iron bridge.

That grand, audacious span...

It's the Dona Maria Bridge,
designed by Eiffel,

famed for his Eiffel Tower in Paris.

When I see objects in this way,

I regret giving up my wish
of becoming an architect.

Would I have been a good one?

I think it's a job
where fantasy and art blend.

An architect or engineer
leaves solid things.

He builds something that will last.

What will remain of our work?
Just shadows on a screen.

When I first saw the Eiffel Tower,
I had a thought.

I've always dreamed of houses
built with money from my films.

I'd have liked Eiffel
to build my ideal house.

It would be an iron lattice tower
with an elevator inside

and an airship, my ideal home,
moored to the summit.

You change directions as you sleep,

since the airship drifts on the wind.

But Eiffel is dead.

And my ideal home is only a dream.

Years ago in New York,
I told Rauschenberg about it.

He did a painting
with his usual bits of newspaper

in which the tower rose up in the sky

with the airship moored to it
and an apartment in the cabin.

As young men, the countries
we don't know and dream about

seem beautiful and mysterious

compared to the places we live in.

Perhaps the love of travel

is linked to this fantastical vision

that makes more distant places
both more mysterious

and more real than the ones we know.

I've made films in the Congo,

in Argentina, Brazil,

Algeria, Morocco, Hungary.

Budapest is a wonderful city.

The film was terrible, but who cares?

Nobody sees the bad films,
but Budapest was beautiful.

How else could I have spent
two months there?

And in London and Berlin...

In France, of course, a lot.

In Russia...
I've made two films in Russia,

and we suffered from the cold.

I have always experienced
these adventures as tales

in which I was a character
and therefore privileged.

The greatest museum
is where the cinema takes me.

Now let's have a nice, long laugh.

That's lovely.

Enrico IV.

Now you're afraid.

I look mad to you again.

- That's the proof.
- Of what?

Of your alarm! You think I'm mad again.

Know what being with a madman means?

It means being with someone

who shakes your life
and everything you've built to its core.

Logic — It shatters its very logic.

What do you expect?

Madmen build without logic.

Or they have logic
that floats as light as a feather.

They're fickle,

changing from day to day.

You control yourselves, they don't.

What's impossible for you
is possible for them.

You say it's not true. Why?

Because you and others think so.

When I was a child, it was different

and so many things seemed true.

I believed everything I was told.

And I was happy...

because, beware,

if you don't cling

to what seems true today and tomorrow,

even though it contradicts yesterday...

And beware...

if you flounder like me,

in the face of the horrible thing
that really drives me mad:

being next to someone

and looking him in the eye...

the way I looked at some eyes one day,

when you feel like a beggar

at a closed door.

If you go inside, you'll forget the world

that you see and touch.

So you stay outside.

It's already dark.

Majesty, I'll get lamps.

No, what lamps? Don't bring light.

What do you want?

I'm American. I feel lonely.

I wanted to talk,
but if I'm bothering you...

You are bothering me.

- I'm Caroline Meredith.
- So?

Are you busy later?

I'll probably be dead later.

You're brave, showing yourself like this.

I'm not rich enough
to pay for an effective defense.

If you're trying to save your life...

Good luck!

Silly. You thought I'd leave you alone?

The paper is coming out.
We have no time to lose.

Young journalist savagely murdered!

Sostiene Pereira declares that
moving through the crowd,

he felt his age was not weighing him down,

as if he had become young, alert, lithe

and filled with a lust for life.

He thought of the Granja Beach,

of a fragile young woman
who'd given him her best years.

Remembering all this,
he felt like he was having a dream,

a lovely dream with his eyes wide open.

Pereira doesn't want
to talk about his dream,

otherwise he'd have told it

to the one who's telling you this story.

People say to me,

"You make films nonstop.
When do you live?"

That means, "When do you lead
a normal life like other people?"

That's something I ask myself
from time to time.

Although it may seem bombastic,

an actor keeps trying to find himself.

He goes from one character to another,

living out imaginary situations.

But who is he really?

By trying to do this job honestly,
you feel that you're fleeing real life.

You hide behind characters and stories.

But real life?

For example, my brother was a film editor

who worked in the movie industry
in a totally different way.

He was a technician

and wasn't caught up
in the life of this business.

I always envied his family life,

a more normal life
with ups and downs, but in a way,

more honest, since we always flee reality.

It's as if I've lived between brackets,

waiting for real life afterwards.

But I'm not exaggerating when I say

that it perhaps never came along.

This comes into the balance
with the people who count:

family, friends, my woman, my daughters.

I love Naples.

It's the least Americanized city
in Italy, or even in Europe.

Of course, it has been Americanized.

It had American troops
for such a long time.

But once they had gone, apart from
a few colored babies left behind,

everything American was wiped out.

The strength
of the Neapolitans lies therein,

in their character, nature,
and traditions.

In Naples, as a banal example,
in a famous cake shop,

among the babas
and other Neapolitan cakes,

I saw pasta with beans
and pasta with chickpeas.

That shows how strong
Neapolitan roots are.

Their humor and ability
to solve with a joke

their numerous everyday problems
of living from one day to the next.

- Well?
- At last. Come on.

Where are you going?

- In there.
- Let's go.

How? No, you can't go in there!

You two, hold her!

Where is he?

Sir, help us!

- Don't send her to prison.
- Prison?

I've been fined for smuggling cigarettes.

To make 28,000 lire,

I'll have to work for weeks
in the sun and rain.

Do you know how long
my husband has been unemployed?

Since his military service!

What can we do? We have to eat!

And now some idiot turns up
and arrests me.

Just a minute! They can't arrest her.

How come?

She's pregnant.

They can't arrest her. She's pregnant!

They can't send her to jail.

- Why not?
- Because she's pregnant.

I've had enough!

- I've had enough.
- You're right.

You have to watch your health.

You need sleep.
I'll make some chamomile tea.

Mama, I've been in hell for three years.

It's a curse.

It's always the same thing,
"Carmine, get to work.

Carmine, the deadline.

Carmine, get home early.

Carmine, switch the light off."

All that while eating the daily bean soup.

I can't take it anymore.

If it was only occasionally, fine,
but there's no end to it.

- You look awful.
- You said it...

My head's spinning, my legs are weak.

And, if you must know, I've fainted twice.

The more I look like a wreck,
the more radiant she is!

She's become so beautiful, Mama.

A blooming rose.

And you're spitting blood.
She's ruining you.

You've become so ugly.
You look like an ape.

Your pretty rose can find some other guy
to get her pregnant.

I'll kill her...

if she does that to me.

Carmine...

I've made five or six films in Naples,
thanks to De Sica.

Scola made Macaroni there
with Jack Lemmon, who stunned him.

He turned up with a case of medicine.

Who knows what they told him in Hollywood?

That he could catch cholera in Naples?

He realized it wasn't like that.

He found a loving city,
friendly towards foreigners,

not tarty or sly.

Intelligent, since it uses

its mind to solve its problems.

I remember a waiter...

No, a cleaner,
one of those on the night shift,

who vacuum the carpets.

At the bar,

Jack Lemmon, Ettore Scola and I
were drinking vodka.

Finally, we went over to the elevator
to go to our rooms.

This Giovanni was vacuuming
the elevator carpet.

Without hesitating, he said,

"Now you won't dirty your shoes."

Can you invent such a great line?

Yes, for a tip...

Another one would see me
to my room each night.

I'd been going to the same hotel for years

and he always showed me
to the same room, 402.

He insisted.

You can't beat a Neapolitan.

It's best to give in
and appreciate their efforts.

Once we reached my door, he'd say,

"Life is an appearance on a balcony."

"You told me that last night."

He said, "You're right. Life is short.

An appearance on a balcony
and then the shutters close."

Ladies and gentlemen,
Maestro Raffaele Capece

will now play a classical solo.

Do you prefer Bach, Vivaldi, or Da Venosa?

We'd like a little peace. Here.

Ten thousand.

I'll take that to pay back
this morning's loan.

- To me?
- You didn't know?

Your father came for it.

I have two big worries in life:
polio and my father.

You can recover from polio.
As for my father...

Giardini called this morning.

He wants to see you urgently tonight.

That's my third worry.

In Rome, for instance,
on the Via del Corso,

I felt a little awkward.
It's like a bazaar,

full of people in jeans drifting about
with no idea of where they're going.

And I heard someone behind me saying,

"Look at the wrinkles! He's so old!"

He said it loud so I would hear,

possibly to some girl:
"Look at the wrinkles!"

The same thing happened in Naples.

"Marcello, we're getting old.

Want a coffee?"

See the difference?

Such politeness and kindness...

I want to live in a Neapolitan world

because I'd be happy there.

Naples is a unique, intelligent city.

It's so special,
not everyone understands it.

We have a lovely view from here.

But compare it to the Bay of Naples.

They lose.

Fellini would go to Naples
to choose actors for bit parts.

I went with him for Orchestra Rehearsal.

He'd place an ad in the paper:

"Fellini seeks actors. Come at 10:00
tomorrow at such and such hotel."

The first one turned up.
"Come in!" said Fellini.

And the Neapolitan entered.

Fellini wanted musicians and asked,

"What instruments do you play?"

"Nothing. But my brother is a genius!"

I wonder what other director

would have taken into account that reply.

The man had to be a little crazy to say,

"I don't play anything,
but my brother's brilliant."

He hired him.

Fellini had a great quality as a director.

He would always manage

to gather a mass
of people, stars and extras,

and manage to create a rapport
between everyone.

We were like friends at a party.

He remembered everyone's name,

even the tiny extra at the back.
"Maria, move to the right!"

An extra called by her name

would bend over backwards for him.

That was his magic.
It's just a minor detail.

To talk about him on a wider scale,
you'd need a whole book.

And there have been plenty.

- Hey, Snaporaz!
- Hey, guys!

You're in trouble, right?
The usual financial problems?

Run out of money?
Or even worse, sexual issues?

Forget your woes! Mandrake's here!

Just two taps of this stick,
and up stands your dick!

- Daniela, let's go see Marcello!
- Hurrah!

Yeah, let's go!

- Isn't that dangerous?
- Marcello, I have something to tell you!

- Bye!
- Wait a second!

- Later.
- I'll come down.

I'll see you downstairs.

Hey, Marcellino. You look great like this.

Like it? It's for an ad.

- I never get offered any.
- I know.

Do you know Sergio?

The young Fellini?
Excuse me, I can't stand.

- Is this your girlfriend?
- One of them.

She told me she knew you well.

I've had an idea for the finale.

Listen, Marcellino.
It's lucky you're here.

Come with me a second.

You're having a break?

Gino! Gino, I'm going.
Marcello's coming too.

You come along, too.

Where are you taking that tree?

A small floral tribute.

Marcello, please, the cigarette.

I forgot.

It was another way of making films.

When you say,
"What confusion! What a mess!"

"A movie-show!" It's an expression.
And Fellini would say,

"While people are making a mess,
I can think.

If they wait for me to speak,

it makes my life more complicated."

He spoke in paradoxes.

Guido, my husband wrote.

He wants me home for New Year's,
just for a day.

- If you mind, I'll tell him I can't.
- No, that's fine.

Come on, Carlotta.

- Who's that little Black girl?
- A surprise from us. From Hawaii.

Don't you remember her?

You always talked about her.

Thank you, Luisa. You're so kind.

What a sweet thought.

- That tiara is mine.
- I know. I'll give it back.

Oh, darling.

What a thrill to find you here!

- How are you?
- Fine.

But tell me, lovely lady, who are you?

The name doesn't matter.
I'm happy to be here.

- Don't ask me any questions.
- May I stay?

Of course, you pretty thing.

But I'm busy now.

What about later?

Rossella? What are you doing here?

Playing Pinocchio's talking cricket.
You mind?

No. But why are you laughing?

No reason.
I just want to see how you manage.

You finally have your harem, King Solomon.

- Wasn't it about time?
- Sure.

Put me in.

Guido, aren't you a little afraid?

Of what? Everything's going fine.

May I stay too? It's such fun.

I don't want anything.
I'll just watch you.

Do you know the rule? It must be obeyed.

Come help me.

It's a two-piece outfit in busby
with ostrich feathers. Like it?

Ah, hello, Hedy. It's beautiful.

What's this rule?

I don't know.

He promised me a part in his movie

and said there'd be
a lot of costume changes.

His love of actors, his actors,

was expressed in certain ways
that no other director uses.

Perhaps because his stories
were different.

His eagle eye! Every morning,
he'd say to the makeup artist,

"There's more black there today."

I don't know how he saw it.

He was anxious to enhance his actors.

He'd say to Giuseppe Rotunno,

his favorite cameraman,

"Make him handsome. You must!

Come on, swivel a reflector
to bring out the jawline," he'd say.

"You've got the face
of a country bumpkin."

My fingers were too short.

"How can we lengthen them?"
"With plastic tips!"

In 8 1/2, he couldn't make me
look more intelligent —

he'd say I had the hands of a peasant —

nor lengthen my fingers.

"Shave the hair off your chest,

because a hairy chest
makes the character too virile.

I want my intellectual to be more fragile,

more delicate, at least on the surface."

So they depilated me with wax.
They ripped it off!

Because in one scene, the farmhouse scene,

you see me like that, almost bare-chested.

He was right to say,
"Make them beautiful."

Because the actor links a director
to his audience.

If the audience isn't attracted
to a face or a physique,

they won't follow with the same interest.

Remember, this was
a different kind of cinema,

where this was a necessity,
as it was in Hollywood movies of my youth.

When I see these old films
occasionally on TV,

I notice how Joan Crawford
always had shadows here.

Only her eyes were lit.
And she had beautiful eyes.

Rotunno had to work miracles
to make me more handsome.

I'm not saying I was handsome,

but I've certainly been shown
in my best light.

A Golden Lion for his acting career
to Marcello Mastroianni.

The prize is to be awarded
by Federico Fellini.

Hi, Marcello.

I'm your alter-ego.

I've done plenty of bad films.

It's true.

Out of about 170,

20 or so are really rotten,

especially early in my career,
and even later.

This happened because...

you need to appear regularly on screen

and can't always choose
the films you want to do.

At times, you accept,
even though the script stinks.

You always hope for the best.

Haven't you noticed?
Sometimes, the film turns out good.

Or maybe because you need the money.

You're behind with your taxes
or you think you're a big star,

so you want a flashy car,
the status symbol of a star.

It's not so much like that now.

Then, as you become
more and more successful,

you need a villa,

then a swimming pool,

then maybe a yacht.

It's true, I did all that.

After all, all these goals

were steps on the road to fame

and, let's admit it, well-being.

So why regret bad films?

No one forced you to make them.

Besides, in the end,
you gained experience.

An actor needs training too.

The ability to get to a mark
without looking down,

the ability to move comfortably
as the crew watches,

without fear of the camera,

that implacable eye
that captures your soul.

Bad or flawed films are useful too.

I've made a lot of them.
They don't make me blush much now.

I remember one, Tragico ritorno,

where I ended up in the Foreign Legion,

accused of a murder I didn't commit.

I talk of leaving, but I don't go. Why?

There's no reason to stay.

You don't like me?

I like you. I always have.

But you don't love me.

It doesn't matter, because I love you.

I knew right away.

I'm sorry.

I'm going away,
so I can't get involved with you.

But I want to get involved with you.

La principessa delle Canarie
with Silvana Pampanini.

I have fond memories of Silvana
dressed like an Indian

to look like a native
of the Canary Islands.

She'd arrive on set, made-up,
and ask the director,

"Paolo, am I regal?"

I've always had thin legs

and they looked terrible in boots
that ended at mid-thigh.

And the swords...
I was useless with weapons.

It was hell.

As you look back,
those are the funniest times.

How can you make good films all the time?

If I'd only done good films,
I'd be afraid of myself.

That's the privilege of saints.

Only saints and heroes
never make mistakes.

Besides, I dislike saints and heroes.

You need a rising
and falling line like this.

If one film's a mistake,
and the next one isn't,

you get a thrill.

But if you make only good ones,
the level never changes

and it's less fun.

This may seem paradoxical,
but it's the truth.

I'm 72 today. It's a fine age.

When I was 20,
I'd have imagined a senile old man.

But I don't feel that old,
maybe because I work nonstop.

I'm glad my birthday coincides
with this film,

in the middle of the mountains.

I'm unreachable.

I'm well away from everything,
official greetings, articles...

Demonstrations of sympathy and enthusiasm

tend to tire me and bore me a little.

I'm not a grouchy person,
except perhaps for some things.

In general, I'm very patient
and accommodating.

But not "nice," as some people would say.

"Oh, he's so nice."

Then someone will say,
"He's a son of a bitch!"

You tell me where the truth lies.

Start cutting!

On a set, "cut" means stop!

There's a wonderful tale by Kafka,

called "The Next Village."

"My grandfather used to say that life

is amazingly short.

When I look back,

it is all so condensed in my mind.

I can't understand
how a young man can ride

to the next village

without being afraid that the span of time

in which a happy life unfolds

is far too inadequate

for such a ride."

When I was young,

life seemed long and endless to me.

Now though, when I look back,

I sometimes say,
"When did we make that film?

Five years ago?"

"Five years? You mean 15 years ago."

"Fifteen years ago?"

When a young man mounts a horse
for this ride,

he thinks it will be
an endless, eternal journey.

Then, on reaching a certain age,

he realizes that

the next village

wasn't that far away.

That it really was
a very short ride indeed.

Life...

At a certain age,
you realize it has gone by like...

And the village is there, so close.