Veni, Vitti, Vice-y

I’m not good with vices. Not that I’m prudishly anti-vice, but I have a low physical tolerance for just about everything except candy and now that I am an adult (in the most minor sense of the word – if stages of life were employees at a corporation I would be a junior associate adult or perhaps an intern working for adult credits), I am what is known affectionately on college campuses as a two-beer queer, someone who gets the stumbly-mumblies after a Solo cup or two of beer that doesn’t even have color to it. But, probably to my parent’s relief (and their surprise, I imagine) I am neither bad, nor am I even drawn that way. I feel guilty when I stay up late, as if the success gods are frowning on me and taking away any health, wealth or wisdom I might have gained from an extra 2 hours of sleep. And in typical “fear of God and death” fashion, I assume that I would be that girl, the one who decided to take a drug and then die the first time she tries it. Unfortunately it is my physical and mental inability to enjoy the seedy side of life that makes it hard for me to understand most classic Italian films of the 1960’s.

To me, La Dolce Vita was beautiful but it reminded me of one of those uncomfortable nights you spend with an acquaintance you don’t know that well but with whom you decide to leave the Halloween party, go to their dorm, drink boxed Southern Comfort-based shots, wonder why you are there and then find out later that their roomate went to the hospital to get his stomach pumped and you go with him to pick the roomate up even though you don’t know him and are dressed like one of Charlie’s Angels. Basically, it leaves you with a hangover and memories of things you aren’t sure really happened. (But again, in the new running theme of this blog, I apologize for having ruined this landmark film with my unnecessary comparisons to the American college experience.) But that is my Dolce Vita…there are no prostitutes, famous actresses or dead friends but there’s totally no safe ride to the Medical Center either.

Last weekend, dear Cinema Companion wanted to go to BAM to see L’Avventura because he has much less of a problem with the vices presented in Italian film than I do. And I obviously acknowledge that he is not the weird one in this situation, it is I, the girl that gets a knot in her stomach when fictional characters cheat on each other, who has the hang-up. I did enjoy L’Avventura despite all the debauching and such, and Monica Vitti is my new fashion icon.

Despite the film breaking my number one rule (don’t date your friend’s fiance less than a week after said friend goes missing on a remote Italian island), Vitti puts me at ease.
The Hair!

sexhair

The Clothes!

clothes!

The Nose!

I wish I had that nose. Its the kind of nose I thought only Gisele Bundchen was capable of having, the broad nose that looks tan and glowing even in non-tan-and-glowing situations.

nose
(Unfortunately, that horse is gonna need a-washin’!)

Apparently I do not have a problem with such frivolity as wearing designer Italian fashions and having perma-sex-hair. But those aren’t vices so much as personal up-keep that just costs a lot to maintain and is well worth it. Ahhh DOI.

I can see why Monica was Antonioni’s muse, and they don’t make ’em like her anymore. I mean, despite the Gisele-nose similarity, I can’t really picture her on top of that horse, you know? And I’m sure the whole audience at BAM would shudder if they even knew I was making comparisons between the two women. They would brutalize me with their “Develop Don’t Destroy Brooklyn” signs and beat me senseless with their Food Co-op membership cards. But that’s because the woman is all class and style. Somehow she could pull off a life of leisure and sin and excitement and make it look glamourous. I guess my problem lies in the fact that when I was in living my version of leisure and sin and excitement, it included Dave Matthews CDs and a 1970’s detective costume that included a potato gun.

And since no mention a film is complete without a haiku review…

Where did Anna go?
Whatever. Let’s not look for
her and say we did.

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  • Comments (1)
    • Reece
    • June 27th, 2006

    “an acquaintance you don’t know that well but with whom you decide to leave the Halloween party, go to their dorm, drink boxed Southern Comfort-based shots, wonder why you are there and then find out later that their roomate went to the hospital to get his stomach pumped and you go with him to pick the roomate up even though you don’t know him and are dressed like one of Charlie’s Angels.”

    Wha? Who? where was I?? and fyi, i thought we decided that we were rockin’ more of a Russian Mafia than the Charlies Angels…

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