On that particular Saturday afternoon in 1961 I was confused by my big brother's choice of a movie to see. We were on the balcony of the Riviera movie house on ninety-sixth and Broadway. Before us was this large CinemaScope screen in which we saw black and white images. The spoken words sounded Spanish but I was having trouble keeping up. On the bottom of the screen were what I later came to know as English subtitles. I tried reading them but my eleven year old capabilities were no match. "What language are they speaking?", I whispered in Spanish. "Italian" was his answer.
Well, know I was really confused. Usually our movie going excursions consisted of musicals, comedies, spectacles, melodramas, and crime. We also saw Cantinflas comedies and other Mexican movies of all genres in the Spanish movie houses. The only Italian movies we did see were the sword and sandal epics with Steve Reeves, and those were dubbed in English.
Nothing about this movie made any sense save that it was in CinemaScope, that extremely wide, heavenly rectangle shape. I loved CinemaScope. I loved the way the Riviera's version curved forward at the sides, seeming to embrace us so that one pull forward and we might find ourselves on the other side much like Cocteau's Poet through the looking glass.
It is with defeat that your little friend Victor settled back in his seat and tried to make some sense of this film. There is this reporter named Marcello. He's very handsome but he pouts a lot and makes a fuss over all sorts of women. His profession makes it possible for him to meet rich people, movie stars, prostitutes, and homosexuals ( a polite term for my kind in those days). He goes to a lot of parties and night clubs. Sometimes he's accompanied by his nagging girl friend (they have a great fight scene in his car which woke me up). At other times a cute little blond guy named Paparazzo is by his side. That sounds like a clown's name, but actually Paparazzo's job is to jump on unsuspecting rich people with other photographers and snap their pictures. To be fair there is a murder-suicide, a Nicole Smith look alike movie star, a sighting of the Virgin Mary and a pair of funny homosexuals dressed up as show girls. But at three hours all that subtitled black and white was a long haul. I soon found myself looking up at the chandelier which formed a centerpiece to other smaller light that dotted the intricately patterned ceiling. Soon I began counting the lights; "1, 2, 3...", "77, 78, 79..."
"Victor!...Victor!"
"What?!"
"You missed it!"
I turned my attention to the screen. There was a party going on. In a crowd of revelers a woman with just a fur stole covering her breast was rushed away. It was all a blur. Big brother explained that the woman had done a strip tease and revealed her naked breast for a few seconds. wow! I guess I really missed something. Actually it was something. In those days female tits were a staple of art films (porno) but not art house films. Many red blooded all American boys would withstand the unwieldy three hours length of this foreign language film just to get an all too brief glance at those ample, mammary glands.
On the way home I was relieved to have the mystery solved regarding my brother's sudden interest in foreign films. And as one would expect the fervor was short lived. To my delight the following Saturdays it was back to Jerry Lewis, Elvis Presley and Cantinflas. Just the other day in his suburban home with wife and sons he told me for the millionth time just how much he hates foreign films.
"La Dolce Vita" is now one of my favorite movies of all time.
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