He drunkenly slaps, gropes, spanks, and rides another like a horse, thinking he’s being playful while revelers disinterestedly gawk at the display. Marcello tosses a drink into a woman’s face. It’s all so decadently glamorous until it isn’t. Sunglasses, indoors, at night? Of course. One woman casually removes her bra while cha-cha-cha-ing about the room. Women fill out cocktail dresses and fur wraps, high heels and pearls. Marcello (Marcello Mastroianni), the perpetually dapper entertainment journalist who’s on a series of quasi-work-related late-night assignments that make up the film’s meandering plot, rocks a crème suit, dark shirt, and a neckerchief that manages to look more debonair than center square. They break a window to gain entry and proceed to drink and eat and talk and laugh and clap and dance.
Toward the end of Federico Fellini’s “La Dolce Vita,” a plague of partiers race convertibles toward a lavish, gated home.
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