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I'M A BORN LIAR

Don't you know
that Saraghina is the devil?

No, I didn't know. I really didn't.

If I ever see,

because I never see my films again,

if I see a still photo,

or an excerpt from one of my films on TV,

say Casanova or Satyricon,

very often,

I ask quite spontaneously:

"Who did that?"

From the moment I begin to work,

when I become a filmmaker,

someone takes over,

a mysterious invader,

an invader that I don't know,

takes over the whole show.

He directs everything for me.

I just put my voice at his disposal,

and my know-how,

my attempts at being seductive,

or borrowing ideas,
or being authoritarian.

But it's someone else, not me,

with whom I coexist,

but who I don't know,

or know only by hearsay.

Be more indignant!

"My God, how can one be so stupid?

4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9...

25, 26, 27..."

Speak to me!

Cut! To me!

Let's go. From the start.

Camera! Silence!

"You didn't salute like a Roman!"

Look at me, Brembilla.

"So you know nothing about politics?

How come you were heard saying

this sentence:

'If Mussolini keeps this up,
I don't know.'"

"What did you mean by that?

Was it a threat?

A lack of faith in Fascism?"

"Or subversive propaganda?"

"I don't remember saying that."

Give me a mean look. "Maybe I said:

'I don't know about politics.'"

Put down the cigarette.

Put it down right.

"Or about the phonograph?"

"What phonograph?"

"Don't get cute with me!"

"But I know nothing.
They dragged me out of bed.

I didn't even have time to put on a tie."

Since childhood, I was somehow attracted

to characters that,
in the village where I was born,

were considered to be excessive,

and even viewed as a bit suspect.

I mean artists.

I was fascinated by the fact
that they didn't go to the hairdresser,

could have long hair,

hardly ever washed
and had dirty fingernails,

and no one told them off.

They wore flashy clothes

and often were seen out walking

with pretty girls on their arm.

They ate whenever they wanted,

made their own meals in their studios.

And I admired them

because they were thought of
as scoundrels, tramps.

I never thought,

when I was a boy,

that I'd become a film director.

I was very confused.

I knew I'd never be a doctor,

which is what my father wanted,

or a cardinal,
which is what my mother wanted.

I let her down.

I don't want a bath!

Come here. Let me catch you.

I know what this rascal wants.

He wants his sweetheart to carry him,
doesn't he?

Come here!

He never wants to take the wine bath,
the naughty boy.

Don't you know it makes you strong
like a man?

Guido's afraid! Guido's afraid!

When I'm not in the studios,
away from the lights, the set,

where dreams and fantasies come to life,

no longer having actors made up,

when I've quit giving orders...

Once I'm no longer immersed
in the atmosphere

that prevails on a film set,

I feel a bit empty, as if I'd been exiled.

Anything could happen.

I feel quite unable to cope
with what they call a normal existence.

You can't fool me.

I know when you're pretending.

Sleep tight, little ones.

Close your eyes!

Guido, tonight's the night
the eyes in the painting will move.

You're not scared, are you?
You have to be quiet.

Uncle Agostino will look in a corner,
and the treasure will be there.

Don't be scared. We'll be rich.
Remember the spell?

Asa nisi masa. Asa nisi masa.

CONDEMNED BUILDING

What fascinated me
was the feeling of rebellion.

A small boy is naturally rebellious.

He's reacting to the laws, the taboos,

the rules laid down
by his family, his school.

And my generation
was faced with so many taboos,

those of the Catholic Church,

of Fascism...

- That's castor oil!
- So drink it!

No, why should I? What have I done?

Let go of me!

Listen, your partner

has been suffering
for days because of you.

Get it right,
or we'll have to do it again,

and he'll end up by strangling you.

As you pour, you say: "Want another drop?

Go ahead, we've got lots.
It's good for you.

Go on, open your mouth."

Open up!

Cough!

Look at your mother!

Stop right there.

Oh, God, the shame!

The shame and anguish!

The shame!

Memory is a mysterious element,

almost indefinable,

that links us to things
we don't even remember having lived.

But it constantly incites us

to stay in contact with dimensions,

with events, sensations

that we can't define but that we
somehow know actually happened.

I always had a natural tendency

to invent for myself a boyhood,

a relationship to my family,

to women, to life.

I was always inventing.

For me, the things that are most real
are the ones I invented.

For instance, my hometown.

The real town of Rimini

where I grew up and went to school

has almost faded away

to give way to the Rimini,

the town I described in great detail

in my two films, I vitelloni or Amarcord.

I now realize

that those two cinematic reconstructions

of a Rimini that I completely made over

are much more part of my life

than the real town of Rimini,

than the topographically accurate version

of that small town on the Adriatic coast.

Which means that I'm a born liar.

"It thinks," said Nietzsche.

"It talks, it tells stories,

it writes."

To a psychoanalyst,

whether you tell the truth
or whether you lie

isn't very important,

because even lies

are interesting,

eloquent, revealing,

just as much as what is considered truth.

I distrust a writer

who claims to tell the whole truth

about himself, about life, the world.

How do I recognize what belongs
to the most authentic part of myself?

Frankly, I don't know.

I seem to recognize a certain continuity

in the feeling of expectation.

I don't see myself

as having willfully steered my life

in one direction rather than another.

Things happened

in a very natural manner,

and I went along with them,

I lived them, made do with them,

very naturally,

as if everything had been predetermined.

The same can be said of my films.

I never decided

to make one film rather than another.

It was as if...

forgive me for this
rather silly comparison...

as if I was a train

and the stations were films.

It was as if they were ripe
and ready to be plucked.

In a sense,
as if they'd already been made.

I married the right woman
for someone like me.

I met the friends that I needed
at the appropriate moment.

And today, it seems to me

that I was particularly lucky

not to have opposed

or been mistaken about,

to have recognized the person

who at that precise moment
really wanted to help me.

And not to have had too many doubts

about this opportunity for friendship,

and to have put my trust in her.

We were close before La strada.

I couldn't have been in a film like that

and to be known
to a man like Federico Fellini

if we hadn't been close before,

and not just as the wife of Fellini,

but as someone who was more than a woman

who cooks and does other things.

What?

Nothing. If you could only see yourself.

Why are you laughing?

I don't think I could ever cheat on you,

if only because
I couldn't bear the absurdity,

the effort of having to hide and lie.

But it's obviously easy for you.

Listen, Luisa, I'm very happy you're here,

but I'm very tired and sleepy.

Then sleep.

Good night.

This love was born,

in many ways, due to the fact
that Federico had finally found a home.

He found a bed...

and he ate every day.

Before that, he had suffered a lot
and often slept in train stations.

From their union,

a first child was born.

But unfortunately, Pier Francesco
died of encephalitis a month later.

This death must have affected
the quality of their relationship.

It was hard to figure out why he died.

Each of them questioned the other

about the reasons for this death.

Even though a film
is very complex to make,

and requires a lot of time,

it can actually exist in a sensation,

in an intuition,

in a premonition,

it can come from a beam of light, a sound.

That's a well-known debate

about art,

that a work of art can be foretold,

announced to its creator,
even through a perfume.

All of life can be suggested

to a lifeless creature that wants to live.

It can be suggested
by the trembling of a leaf.

We spent days, hours, weeks,
the three of us talking,

sometimes at Flaiano's place, or mine,

sometimes in a car.

Federico drove.
Only he had a car at the time.

Of course we talked about women,
and the story started to take shape.

I re-wrote what Flaiano wrote,

and he re-wrote me, it was a mixture,

and Federico made it all jell.

That's how we worked, and it lasted

for months on end.

Finally we came up with a script

that Federico, as he shot it,
could change as he wanted.

But he always started with a solid script.

In Rashomon I saw a a Japanese filmmaker

who almost managed to photograph air,

and by means of air,
he let us glimpse into...

In the walk in the forest, for example,

a man has an ax on his shoulder,

the sun is reflected
on the blade of the ax,

casting sparkles onto the leaves.

That's an example of how films can narrate

in the most imaginative
and most complex manner,

the reality that surrounds us.

Federico liked to shuffle the cards

so he could hide his real intentions
and be free to change them later.

Only for that reason.

But the script
was firmly lodged in his head,

and he shot it exactly as it was written.

But we had to pretend we hadn't read it,

because he felt he should be
the only one who knew it.

Since it seems to me

that directing films is really

the most natural
and most spontaneous means

of fulfilling myself,

the experience cannot be
in any way unpleasant.

Aside from the pleasure of creating,

of inventing a world,

inventing characters and situations,

solving the many problems

to do with technique, craftsmanship,
and above all of expression,

there's also a satisfaction

that is deeper, more private, more brazen,

that is tied to the Narcissus legend

and to the idea of quasi-divine power.

Which is to say that

a creator always has something...

of Almighty God.

A storyteller only speaks of...

He is compelled to speak only of himself.

I'm interested in
and believe in everything.

I find it more convenient,

and mentally healthier...

On the other hand,

how can I be distrustful,

skeptical, or too cautious

in my profession?

My profession reminds me constantly
that I'm a magician.

I get along with actors,
even the most difficult ones,

capricious actresses, prima donnas.

I never had any problems.

Above all, because I like them.
I'm very fond of them.

I adore...

their childish side, the infantile,

extroverted, peacock side,

their capriciousness.

Psychologically, actors fascinate me.

It's a collaboration.

Puppets are happy to be puppets
if the puppeteer is a good puppeteer.

We were shooting a scene in a coach.

The coach was moving, which was meant
to make the wine spill a bit.

They couldn't get the scene right.

So Fellini tapped the glass

and splashed Casanova with wine.

It was good for the scene.

But as Sutherland got out of the coach,

he said, "That son of a bitch."

More flames!

Send the music!

Sit on the edge of the chair.

Come a bit closer. Spread your legs.

A bit more this way.

You, move forward!

Like that. Now don't move.

Spread your leg more. The other one!

Lean forward.

Put your hands back where they were!

You're fornicating!
You must look exhausted.

Put your face on her nipple.

Together we'll lead a serene
and faithful life. A real life.

We wanted it for so long.

You had no faith,
but you knew you'd find me.

I'm the one you were waiting for.

Now I'm here with you,

forever.

I didn't create a system.
I couldn't teach what I do.

My method of work

consists of being completely available,

of being open.

I believe that...

an artist, in a way, is a medium.

He is only a mind, nerves,

a body, hands.

He's really only a vessel

meant to be filled

by a dream, a fantasy,

an idea, a feeling...

that later become
characters, situations, a story.

Therefore, his role is limited

to making it all come into being

thanks to his experience as a craftsman.

He's a craftsman who's a medium.

You're never really close to him.

At first you think you are,
because he's so nice.

He won't say what his film is about.

He doesn't tell the truth,
so he can surprise his actors.

That works best with Mastroianni.
He's the only one who doesn't give a damn.

He doesn't ask questions,
he shows up tired in the mornings,

sleeps between takes.

He's told, "Walk to that door."

He walks to the door.

The others, the British
and Americans, ask,

"Do I walk to the door to open it?"

"Don't worry about that."

Go on, Marcello, chase it off!

Why do I always work with you?

- Why do I always cast you?
- It was no good?

You're joking! The dog ran away!

It's supposed to stay, leave,
or go that way.

It's a dog that runs off,
not one that checks people out.

"You don't like this look?"

"That okay?"

Ready!

"You don't like this look?
I won't look at you, okay?"

I don't think the word "improvisation"

has any place in the creative process.

It's a totally unsuitable word.

Even an irritating one.

I wouldn't use the word "improvisation."

I'd use another term.

I'd say what matters is being available,

making oneself available

to the thing that is being born

and that is still shapeless,

like molten rock, undefined.

Someone who doesn't constantly lie
while swearing he's telling the truth.

That would be enough.
It's not the actual things that you do.

It's never knowing the truth,

even about the smallest things.

Luisa, I love you.

- Lying is like breathing to you.
- Repeat that.

Lying is like breathing to you.

The nerve!

- All right out of his life.
- Of course.

This is the princess. I know her.

Aren't I alone already?

What do you give me?
What can I look forward to?

Look this way. Put on your glasses.

Repeat the last line.
"Aren't I alone already?"

Say it aggressively,
but also with deep bitterness.

He said, "You want a separation?

What would you do all alone?"

And you answer, "Aren't I alone already?"

Go ahead.

Guido, there's no doubt about this one.
She's perfect.

Everything later can be seen

as pauses, as necessary obstacles

that enable one

to make changes,

to alter and improve things
that one wouldn't have thought of.

At the start, for one or two weeks,

I'm directing the film.

Then the film starts to direct me.

One, two...

In a low voice. Very softly.

First, turn your head.

One, two. Then, keep quiet.

No, wait until you've turned your head.

Let me see...

Wait, laugh! Laugh!

Cut. That's fine.

Films...

are one of the means
of artistic expression

that, more than any other, resembles life.

It requires an accuracy, it has to breathe

in its gestures and attitudes.

To express a dream, a fantasy,

is like advanced mathematics.

It's like sending
a spaceship into outer space.

We need this green, no other,
as in painting.

A shadow must be perfectly outlined.

You have to be as meticulous as life is,

which appears so accidental,

yet is highly precise and balanced.

Look. The nose

from here to there is fake

because Donald's nose stops here.

The chin from here to there is fake,

so it's higher,

because Donald had nothing there.

We also cut three inches off his hairline,

from here to there.

We raised his eyebrows,

because after we cut his hair,

the proportions changed,
and it was too high.

So we put the eyebrows here.

Because Donald's eyebrows are there.

I feel an urge to help the grips.

It's compulsive.

I like to place some pictures
or objects myself,

some drapes.

For example, the drapes

are my business,
because they involve painting,

and a painter can't assign another

to do certain brushstrokes.

Cinema is a form of painting

before it is literature or drama.

It's about objects
and how light falls on them.

He needed people

to suggest his own ideas to him.

Our ideas came to stand beside his.

You had to follow a road
that ran alongside his

and sometimes joined up with it,

say things,
then continue on your own road.

For instance, he loved Fregene.

Going there, we passed
greenhouses covered in plastic.

They looked like a sea of plastic.

Then, we went to the beach
and looked at the real sea.

As we walked on the beach, he said,

"You see the sea?
It mustn't look like that.

It has to be completely fake.
Fake, but believable."

The most complicated thing
was going into a studio

and creating this sea from scratch.

We tried with water,
but it looked too real.

Reality looked fake.

But using plastic,

combined with the lighting,
created moments of pure magic.

It's fine for me now.

I think about the lighting
as I read the script.

Reading the script, I work out in my head
the construction of the lighting.

How the set should be lit,

why it must be lit that way,

and the effect
it should have on audiences.

Light is a big bridge

between the camera and the audience.

So it must introduce
the film to the audience

in the simplest, fastest,
and most efficient manner possible.

Nothing must come
between the audience and the story.

What is the most essential component
of painting?

What would you say? Light!

An image that expresses something,

that expresses an idea, a feeling,

an atmosphere, a memory,

and that is charged with...

that tries to suggest to the spectator

something that concerns
not only the actor,

but the spectator himself,

I'd say that such an image

is charged with meaning

and stands for the soul of cinema.

In the end, he worked less on the scripts,

and created the film on the set.

I had nothing left to do,
as I hated going on the set.

I rarely went to see him
when he was shooting,

because that's not my job.

He came alive on the set.

The filmmaker is better protected
than other artists

from contacts with his unconscious.

He's protected by a ritual
that he follows, maybe unknowingly.

I'm referring to...

the crew, the fact that...

you can turn the lighting on or off,

the rehearsals, measuring the footsteps,

the constant invention that goes on,

in set design or choreography.

Faking things, constantly faking!

Making a fake sea,
a fake meadow, a fake storm.

All this faking,

this representation,

probably unconsciously,

is merely a repetition of a kind of magic,
a protective ritual.

Go, Giulietta.

"Elisabetta, bring the glasses."

Come here.

Come, Giulietta.

Wait, Giulietta. Look over there.

Go out of frame. Now you go.

Now you taste it.

Tell me if it's right.

It's delicious. What is it?

Sangria.

It's a drink made with...

Have some more.

Pasquale, okay for you?

Yes, or I'd have told you.

- Can you see the hand?
- No.

It's Spanish.

Now, pretend to drink.

When I tell you, look over there.
Pisu will come in.

Fine. Let's shoot it.

My films happen
because I sign a contract.

I get an advance
that I don't want to give back,

so I have to make the film.

I'll say it again, you may think...

I'm being facetious,
but it's absolutely true.

I don't believe

in total creative freedom.

A creator,
if he is given total creative freedom,

would tend, I think, to do nothing at all.

The greatest danger for an artist
is total freedom.

To be able to wait for inspiration,

that whole romantic discourse.

Psychologically,
the artist is an offender.

He has a childish need to offend.

And to be able to offend,
you need parents,

a headmaster, a high priest, the police.

You surrender yourself,
bound hand and foot,

to someone who's out to destroy you.

That's how he'll make his film.

You have to try and survive.
Or else not get involved.

I need opposition,

someone who annoys me,

someone who opposes me

to work up the energy that I need

to fight for what I'm doing.

I need an enemy.

What's worse,
he has contempt for that enemy.

Gino, get the gentleman the line.

This is for you.

Good night, sir.

Marcella, that call from Rome, quickly.

Good night, sir.

No, I'm not offended.

There's only one thing that offends me.

Oh, you know me well.

Hello, Commendatore.

If you kneel for me,
what would I have to do for you?

Get up or you'll hurt yourself.

How are you, my little Guido?

Hello, Commendatore.

We took a helicopter.
This one screamed the whole way.

- Where's the swimming pool?
- We just got here. Be quiet.

- Has the treatment helped?
- Yes. What's this?

- Just a token.
- You're always giving me presents.

It never needs winding.

Ladies and gentlemen,
observe the little wristwatch.

- So are your ideas any clearer now?
- Yes, I really think so.

We've got the Americans
in the palm of our hand.

In moments of deep depression,

at the start of a film
that I didn't want to make anymore,

I dreamed that I was invited

to a small hut where Picasso lived.

He welcomed me,

made me an omelet with 12 eggs,

cooked it himself,

then he told me to be seated.

He gave me a napkin
so I wouldn't stain myself.

He said to me, "Never make any stains."

Then we shared this delicious omelet.

I remember that in the dream,
all night long,

he talked to me without stopping,

as if to an old friend.

It happened twice.

The second time, there was no omelet.

He had his back to me.

In the dream, I was in the sea,

and I wanted to turn back

because the sea was rising
and the sky darkening,

it seemed to me

that I'd strayed too far from the shore.

Suddenly, I saw coming out

of the leaden, dark and menacing waters,

Picasso's bald head

with its crown of white hair,

his powerful shoulders, he was swimming...

And I said to him, "I want to turn back!"

He shook his head and said, "No, no."

And urged me to swim on.

I've never felt that I was influenced

or ever tried to insert

a "Picassian" vision in my films.

I don't think so.

But Picasso,

as a source of creativity,

radiating strength,

stimulating, urging me on,
encouraging me...

A crisis of inspiration?

What if it's not temporary,
my dear friend?

What if it's the final downfall
of a big, fat, no-talent impostor?

Doubts as an author, sure he had those.

You have to distinguish
the man from the author.

But the man was involved,
since being the author,

his films revealed certain things
about him to his wife.

That's the big lesson he taught to us,

that by practicing his art,

he revealed himself.

That's very important.

He told us who he really was.

I don't think...

it's possible to define,

to draw a clear dividing line,

between the past,
the present and the future,

between something imaginary

and the memory of something
that really happened.

I don't think that anyone
who chose this profession,

or who has a calling to tell stories,

can distinguish it.

From the moment
he creates his own little universe,

that creation is absolute.

It's a complete universe
which also includes time,

not only territorial space,

or the description of characters.

Even time is invented.

More what?

More slutty.

Come here. Give me your eyeliner.

Nice lamp.

- I'd like one for my place.
- Don't move.

- What's this hotel called?
- The Railway Hotel.

I'll write my husband
to send me an express letter right away.

He writes such nice letters.
I'll let you read them.

Fine, but keep still.

Make a slutty face.

Go out in the hallway.

So I'm playing a part now, huh?
Think I'm one of your actresses?

Don't think I could do what they do?

Anyway, I wouldn't want a life like that.

I like staying home.

Go on. I'm sleeping now.

Tell me, if I did
something like this for real,

would you be jealous?

Why? Would you really?

Who knows?

Marcello is fabulous because he managed

to be Federico Fellini
without looking like him.

By reproducing his gestures,

his manner of talking on the phone,

he did his utmost to become Fellini.

Good day.

Good day.

Not believing is tiring,
locking oneself away,

setting up roadblocks, limiting oneself.

Whereas believing

seems to me to belong
to that vague feeling I mentioned,

which for me is like a fundamental notion

in which I recognize myself: expectation.

Believing is also a form of expectation.

I don't want to lend
a mystical connotation

to these statements.

I mean a state of the soul,

an impression in everyday life

that this feeling of expectation

never leaves me.

But if you ask me what I expect,

you'll just embarrass me.

Guido, let's go see Saraghina!

I'm coming.

Saraghina!

Saraghina, dance the rumba.

Come here.

A woman is really the unknown planet.

The part to which
a man wants to be reunited,

to find complementarity,

to complete the circle,
to find integrity, a wholeness.

That's exactly why

she's also the side of himself
he doesn't know,

the dark side.

So she attracts him and frightens him.

Sex was joy and appearance.

But the big heartbreak
that he had in his life,

he put in La dolce vita.

The crazy woman
who wanted to commit suicide.

When he freed himself from her,

he summed it all up to me in one sentence

that meant he was finally rid of her.

"Rinaldo, I managed to spit on her ass."

That sentence said it all.

Oh, delicious!

Bastard! Liar!

I came all the way from Paris. What's my —

What's my part?

What's my role in the film?

You liked when I danced the conga.

I don't like it anymore.

Luisa, help!

No, my dear.
This is my husband's business.

If that's his decision,
that's how it is. It's the rule.

Guido, hurry up. The soup's getting cold.

Can't you see I'm busy?

What an extraordinary man.

The word "fear" seems to me exaggerated,

though fear is a feeling
you have to cultivate...

as a creator.

Broadly speaking,
I believe that man cannot do

without fear or being afraid.

A fearless man,

is, I think,

a fool or a robot.

Fear seems to me to be a feeling

that is an inexorable part of mankind.

We project onto women, I think,

a feeling of expectation,

the revelation of something,

the arrival of a message.

Like that Kafka character

who waited for a message from the Emperor.

Woman could be the Empress

who, millions of years ago,

sent a message that luckily never arrived.

Because I feel
that what makes life worth living

is waiting for that message,

not the message itself.

The long tale told by a creator

by means of his works...

is a search on different levels,

the search for a style,

for coherence, for what is essential,

an attempt to be more direct,
more spontaneous,

more sincere,

less conceptual,

to try to express oneself more fully,

in the most direct manner.

So it's a quest
for the most authentic part of oneself,

hence for the self.

Could you leave everything behind
and start life all over again...

choose one thing only
and be faithful to it,

make it the reason for your existence,
the one thing that contains everything

because your dedication to it
makes it infinite?

Could you?

If I said to you, "Claudia"...

Which way are we going?
I don't know the way.

What about you? Could you?

The springs must be nearby.
Listen. Turn here.

He was treated for a cancer
he didn't have.

He was allergic
to the treatment he was given,

and he was dying.

The Journey of G. Mastorna

is a project that, for the last 30 years,

at the completion of each of my films,

has come up again, as if to say to me,

"This time, it's my turn.

This time, you're going to make me."

I always postponed the project.

But, though the story

has remained untouched in all its details,

the mood, the most intimate
and secret part of that film,

nourished and found its way

into every film I made later.

There's a bit of Mastorna

in Satyricon, in City of Women,

even in Casanova.

Mastorna is like the wreck
of a sunken ship,

that, from the bottom of the sea,
continues to emit radioactive signals.

Without taking anything away

from the integrity of the project,

its construction and narrative
fed all the films that followed.

That's all I can say about it.

I still entertain the hope
of making it some day.

The aggressiveness

of a certain type of experience,

undertaken without a guide,

but just experienced,

thanks to a natural gift,

or as a result of a series of coincidences

all added up to enabling me

to develop

a certain kind of perception

which, if left uncontrolled,

could lead to greatly stimulating
my imagination,

but also to complications

with regard to my sensitivity.

Suzy is your teacher.
Listen to her, follow her.

I must have drunk too much.

Juliet, what are you doing?

I think that for an artist or a creator,

to be excessively conscious

of how he goes about making his works

isn't beneficial.

An excessive knowledge of this process

seems negative to me,

an obstacle that may interrupt

the fundamental energy,
so vital and indispensable,

that is called spontaneity.

Spontaneity is the secret of life.

In fact...

the only aesthetic criterion
that I think is valid

to judge a work of art

is not to say that it's beautiful or ugly,

according to certain aesthetic parameters
or norms established over the centuries,

or according to different
cultural points of view,

but to know whether it is vital.

It seems to me the definition
that works best for me

and allows me to relate

to the artistic expression

of an artist, of a creator,
be he a painter or...

To be sure...

the psychological profile

of a creator, of an artist...

obviously...

feeds on what are essentially

psychological traumas,

the injuries, the scars,

of its psychic existence.

There's a beneficial aspect to neurosis

in that it enables one

to establish a depository, a warehouse,

a treasure trove,

from which one can draw ample resources.

All fables deal with a treasure
at the bottom of the ocean...

or a cave guarded by monsters or dragons.

You have to defeat
those dragons to reach...

Certainly, this danger

drove important artists
to identify with the aspects

that are not just neurotic but psychotic
of the undertaking,

and they paid a heavy price

for getting too close to certain truths

without the protection of psychoanalysis,

which, at the time,
had not yet become a kind of asbestos

that protects us from flames,

before one comes into contact

with these dimensions
heavily charged with magnetism.

Personally, in this area, too,
I had a lot of luck.

I don't have any stigmata to show.

It's his fault.

What does he expect from other people?

You think I don't know that?

You're a pain like the others.

I see no one can tell you anything!

You're so funny in that big, ugly hat.
You look like an old man.

I don't understand.

He meets a new girl who can give him
new life, and he pushes her away?

Because he no longer believes in it.

Because he doesn't know how to love.

Because it's not true
that a woman can change a man.

Because he doesn't know how to love.

Above all, because I don't feel
like telling another pile of lies.

Because he doesn't know how to love.

I'm sorry for making you
come all the way here.

Forgive me.

You're such a phony.

So there's no part in the film.

You're right. There's no part.

And there's no film.

There's nothing anywhere.

I thought my ideas were so clear.

I wanted to make an honest film.
No lies whatsoever.

I thought I had something
so simple to say.

A film to help bury forever

all the dead things
we carry around inside.

Instead, it's me who lacks the courage
to bury anything at all.

Now I'm utterly confused,

with this tower on my hands.

I wonder why things turned out this way.

Where did I lose my way?

I really have nothing to say...

but I want to say it anyway.

I think it is a necessity,

an interpretation of life

that, probably left unto itself,

would seem devoid of meaning,

totally insignificant, a monstrosity.

Art, on the other hand,

is something that comforts us,

reassures us, tells us about life

in terms that are extremely protective.

It makes us think about life

which otherwise would only amount

to a heart that beats,

a stomach that digests,

lungs that breathe,

eyes that are filled
with senseless images.

I believe that art is...

the most successful attempt

to instill in mankind

the need to have a religious feeling,

that's what any kind of art expresses.

Gentlemen, listen.

You can save yourselves.
Follow our orders!

After a certain age,

the idea of death

becomes more and more present.

But I'm lucky enough to be endowed

with a psychological mechanism

thanks to which all misfortunes,
dreads, fears, debts,

liabilities,

all turn into ideas for stories.

I believe that is the happy cynicism

of a creative mind,

to wit, believing
that you came into this world

for the unique goal
of narrating it to others.

An author's works can testify,

as life goes on, to the different seasons,

of physical decay,

of old age creeping up,

of the possibility of disappearing,

of not being here at all,
not giving any more interviews,

no longer being surrounded
by friends who came from afar

and who waited so long.

And death is something
we always speak of in a literary manner.

In fact, it's not at all...

We can construct thousands of hypotheses.

We can have read hundreds of testimonies,

but I think that death

is something we can never truly possess.

Is that you, Mama?

So many tears, my son.

Papa, wait! Don't go.

We've talked so little.

What is this place?
Why do you like it here?

I haven't figured it out yet.

But it's going better.

Much better.

You know, son, at first...

Guido, I do my best.
What more can I do?

Poor Guido, you must be tired.
Shall we go home?

I'm Luisa, your wife.
Don't you recognize me?

What are you thinking about?

I don't have the feeling of time passing.

I have the feeling that I'm stationary,

on a stage,

and that all the things
around me are ready.

The props for the set,

the paintings, the characters,
the feelings,

the colors...

And it's always been that way.

Ever since I've led the life

of a film director,

it's as if time had stood still.

I feel as if the day never changes.

I've always been in a studio,

with a megaphone in my hand,

shouting, being an impostor,

a clown, a police chief, a general.

And sometimes,

the memories of the last 40 years
come back.

I'm surrounded by darkness and light,

darkness above and light all around,

and there are these moving shadows
that I have to arrange.

That's how I spent my life,

how it went by,

and still goes on

in that image...

CHILDHOOD FRIEND

WRITER

PRODUCTION DESIGNER

PAINTER

SCREENWRITER

CINEMATOGRAPHER

PRODUCER

I'M A BORN LIAR