Friday Night Flicks: 8 1/2
I’ve noticed something interesting about my dreaming habits lately. I’ve noticed that - despite the Californian midsummer color palette being in full effect - I’ve been dreaming in black and white for the last few months.
The sun is out every day, the hills around my home are glowing orange with various species of invasive wildflower, and the ocean looks damn near mediterranean. But that hasn’t prevented my dreams from looking and feeling like a Frederico Fellini movie.
For starters, I can always fly. None of the conversations I have make any sense whatsoever. There isn’t much discernible plot action - other than that I’m always being chased by a priest - and everyone speaks Italian. In other words, I think I’m doomed to relive the diegesis of Fellini’s 8 ½ each night.
Think of 8 1/2 as the The Velvet Underground and Nico of the cinema world. And I don’t just say this because the leading man in both seem to base their entire personality around a single, iconic pair of Italian wraparound shades; it’s more in consideration of the fact that both come from the same era, and both similarly nail the whole “artsy but accessible” thing. Even in 8 1/2’s strangest moments, you can’t really be peeled away. —Jackson Todd
