Or, we could call this The Great Beauty Redux.

Two very smart men—one I’ve known all of his life and the other only for a few weeks—suggested I reconsider The Great Beauty.

Both of them have watched it multiple times and found it deeply moving. So, I ordered the 2014 Oscar-winner online tonight and watched it just now by candlelight to evoke the right mood.

After seeing it at the cinema (twice, as I recollect), I wrote this about five years ago (edited version here):

A 65-year-old writer–is he a blocked novelist after publishing a wildly successful book in his youth or a working journalist who has more to report than to say?–enjoys a lavish birthday party that is just another in an endless swath of such affairs. Then, he begins to reflect on his life. 

 Is this all there is? For Jep Gambardella (the wonderful Toni Servillo), it seems so.

 If director Paolo Sorrentino’s purpose is to point out the vacuous core beneath the elegant surface of the highest reaches of Italian society cutting across the arts, politics, and religion, then he succeeds brilliantly.

His evocation of this atmosphere is exquisite, but there is something that is not quite reconciled for me in The Great Beauty.    

 Jep wanders the streets of Rome and notices the joy of children and playful nuns. He sees the vibrant colors all around and even pictures indelibly beautiful images of the ocean on his bedroom ceiling. He eats well and drinks well and has the opportunity to engage art of various types whenever he chooses.

But, what does he make of the riches before him? 

 He is silent. 

 He doesn’t write beyond his assignments.  He doesn’t convey much to us beyond his observation that at the age of 65 he no longer wants to spend time on anything he doesn’t want to do and his assertion that what is here is all there is.

You might argue that what is here (in his world) is quite enough. 

Surely, the images are lush, richly saturated, artfully composed.  I was awash in their beauty as one after another they unfolded on the screen. I carry with me the ceiling of sea and the panoramic view of the Coliseum from Jep’s balcony and one particular shot of an uncommonly beautiful staircase spiraling ever upward. I won’t forget wonderful sequences like that of a soon-to-be saint with a flock of migrating birds.  And, there is music…

Despite the beauty, elegant and engaging moments, and the good performances, I think there is more than what is here in the material world even if we restrict ourselves to considering the characters at play in the film.   

Jep’s interior life, the little we know of it in snippets, like his observation early in the film that he came to Rome in his 20s and partied his way through the decades wanting not only to attend but also to have the power to declare which parties are failures, is not rich enough for me to form a deep connection with him as nothing about his exterior life changes.  While there is much to recommend the film, something is missing for me.

Is this a great film?  Possibly. 

Did it move me?  No. 

Reading this again now, it sounds rather harsher than I want it to sound.

Did The Great Beauty move me tonight? Yes, but that could be more because of the conversations I want to have about it with my son and with my new friend than because of the film itself. Or, maybe there is more…

I did continue to ask myself while watching tonight what had imposed the barrier between this film and my heart before (no such barrier kept it from getting inside my head then or now).

Perhaps I identify with Jep in more ways that I have wanted to admit. To be a creator, a storyteller, in an authentic way requires us to be open and to take risks, to erase barriers established because of our fears, to declare that there are no ceilings on our dreams.

Even a few years ago when I first saw this film, I was more like Jep (though minus the ennui and the endless parties) than I am now. Something held me back…at least at times and in some ways.

I have always treasured joys found in everyday life and—like the soon-to-be saint character in the film—believe “…roots are important,” but I am also certain that there is something more “out there” than we understand.

Jep stopped looking or closed himself off or was afraid to try. I can’t quite bring myself to be wistful for him (he’s got that covered for himself), but I can redouble my efforts to avoid the same traps.