Fellinis vibrant, vivid and exuberant tale about the chaos in a mans mind, and much more a film about a mans failing omnipotence concerning the female objects than a film about filmmaking.

it balances on one foot between self-aggrandizing navel-gazing and an intellectual journey into depression, always being narcissistic and self-degrading at the same time. Fellinis alter ego is a permanently passive resigner, everything happens to him, especially the 178 women dancing through the frames. the oddly positive ending makes absolutely no sense, but can be forgiven as a footnote in this otherwise shambolic assassination on the spectators senses.

not sure how this made the top 10 of all times, it feels like this could aswell have been a curious outcome of a production massacre in the mans oevre. somehow good to see though, that such a messy imperfection can be a #1 stargazer in hitlists.

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