With La Dolce Vita (1960), director Federico Fellini submitted a singular classic. True, considered strictly as a film—as a three-hour film starring Marcello Mastroianni as a gossip reporter with perfect hair—it is tediously baggy, a movie “about the boredom of boring people” provisionally employed in “the various whoring professions,” to quote David Thomson. But judged as an art installation about a high-gloss demimonde fidgeting on the runway of the jet-set era, it is to die for—a foundational text of the multi-national entertainment state in which we all jumpily dwell.
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