by George Porcari
Cineaction
Characters in Fellini’s films often end up at the beach where they seem to arrive at some sort of self-realization that is intuitive and physical; the relationship between them and the sea seems to act as a catalyst for a certain kind of knowledge. The ocean—after so much art photography and film—has come to symbolize “nature”, the “eternal”, the “origin of life”. The sea is always the same and never the same; it is beautiful and terrifying; it is sublime and banal; ripples that last a few seconds on film suggest a geologic time that stretches back beyond our common human history. Yet paradoxically the sea is always absolutely physically present as a particular place: St Tropez in the 1960s is not the same as Liverpool in the 1930s. Location and seasonal referents are not the only ways we read images of the sea. The photographic emulsion used also figures in the equation of how an image feels and what time period it seems to belong to. It is impossible in that sense to see the sea—once it is represented we must see it through a variety of cultural conventions that have their own baggage and emotional connotations. But what is the nature of this realization, this knowledge that characters in Fellini’s films experience when they see the sea? What happens to Zampano at the end of La Strada? What is going on with Marcello as he shrugs his shoulders and slouches away in La Dolce Vita? What does Leopoldo’s sexual panic in Il Vitelloni mean when it takes place by the sea? What is Saraghina’s wild dance on the sand in 8 1/2 about?
Fellini’s work was, as he said in an interview, very much informed from his reading of Jung that influenced much of his work in the studio from 8 1/2 to The Voice of the Moon, his final feature film. It was at that point that he started to consciously create archetypes on the set, rather than go to a location and film the passing moment. That is, the “ocean” rather than a particular seashore at a particular place and time. This sense of the essentialist, the absolute, which is found in the archetype, is the opposite of a realist tendency in which a temporal material reality in the present tense is all there is. Both tendencies are to be found in Fellini throughout his work and he seems to favor one or the other depending on the material. Yet his body of work does have a trajectory: it moves from his beginnings in Neo-Realism up to La Strada then shifts to favoring archetypal studio creations, from Juliet of the Spirits onwards. La Dolce Vita and 8 1/2 straddle both worlds, and in part for that very reason may be his most interesting films. Yet the sea in The White Sheik, an early work, is totally theatrical despite the fact that it was shot on location, because of the context, while the sea at the end of Satyricon, a middle period work, is very real—in a documentary sense—and gives weight to the fantastic narrative. So in effect there is no clearly systematic approach that one can use to understand Fellini’s use of the ocean in his work—let us then look at individual works.
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Saraghina’s dance on the beach in Fellini’s 8 1/2 is awkward—really full of ridiculous gestures, embarrassing mannerisms—yet also beautiful, erotic and touching. The sea sparkles intensely behind her, refracting light as if we were seeing everything through a prism aimed directly at the sun. We see a woman—who is and is not “Woman”—weighed down by flesh, by matter, playing at being a Goddess. Again we are reminded of the Birth of Venus but now brought into a harsh unforgiving light that mocks the fantasy and reveals both its sordidness and its innocence. Only a child would fall for it—so she performs for children—and for us. The boys in tight constricting uniforms that make them look like little policemen with capes are the perfect foil for the barely dressed Saraghina. The fact that she is comfortable with her body—with her mortality—with the awkwardness of the erotic—that she takes pleasure in being in her own skin—that her attitude exudes (as with the “Umbrian Angel”) psychic and physical well being makes her the enemy of the priests. This is because she has discovered that the creative links between imagination and erotic play lead not only to pleasure but to a communion with fellow humans that is essential. For the priests such an acceptance of fleeting mortal pleasures throws their very teleology into doubt. Saraghina is the Devil—the priest tell the children—and they mean it. They are the ones that pull Marcello down at the beginning of the film as he flies—falling to earth. The whole film might be that “fall” with a redemptive coda at the end of reconciliation and acceptance. In that wild dance on the beach Edra Gale—who plays Saraghina—and Fellini—tell us more about our self-delusions, our hopes, our mortal and moral limits than countless essays and philosophical tracts could ever accomplish. How we look when we dance and are pulled down by gravity (perhaps the defining essence of movement in film) has never been more beautifully expressed. On the soundtrack during the screen tests near the end of 8 1/2 we hear Fellini whispering: “Saraghina...”calling to her as when he was a boy. Fellini in effect returns the favor—sexual pleasure linked to imaginative play—that Saraghina once gave him. That sense of freedom linked to an eroticized imagination is a gift Fellini is able to give back to us—in the film 8 1/2.
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