Perhaps the definitive “neorealist” film, shot in the rubble of Occupied Rome just after the Nazis had left.
Federico Fellini couldn’t figure out how to make a movie and made a movie about not being able to make a movie. I’m still trying to figure it out.
The plot may make no sense, but this gory, psychedelic fever dream still retains its power after all these years.
I was floored by this Italian epic about the fall of the aristocracy, written by a prince and directed by a Marxist, starring, of all people, Burt Lancaster.