The Tenth Victim

Marcello Mastroianni and Ursula Andress

The Tenth Victim is a textbook case of a cult film that’s actually no good. Released in 1965 and billed as sci-fi (it barely is), it’s a camp Italian spectacle combining the unique talents of Ursula Andress and Marcello Mastroianni, and just that cocktail – 1965, Italy, sci-fi (ish), Andress and Mastroianni – is plenty of reason for seeing the film.

It’s set in the 21st century, where violence has been outlawed and is now limited to carefully controlled contests between designated Hunters and Victims. These contests, adjudicated by the Ministry of the Big Hunt, are broadcast on TV, where advertisers line up with sponsorship deals – Ming Tea being the product successful Hunters (or Victims) are currently asked to endorse while still fresh from a kill.

As the action opens, Marcello (Mastroianni) and Caroline (Andress) are two successful competitors, who, for their final appearance – win ten times and you’re rich beyond your wildest – will be pitted against each other. But he, being devastatingly world weary and suavely Italian, and she, being a lava-hot American barely dressed in anything, won’t quite play it the way the game is meant to be played. Instead they’ll cat-and-mouse about for the duration of the contest (film) in a potentially lethal form of heavy petting before a grand finale at the Coliseum in Rome, an appropriate venue for modern gladiators.

It’s better seen as satire than sci-fi. For starters it never looks like any other time than 1965, unless the future is also littered with cars like the Citröen DS or the E Type Jaguar. And it’s a very 1960s satirical focus too – the crassness of commodified commercial (ie American) culture, which knows the price of everything and the value of nothing. On the one hand Ming Tea; on the other the Coliseum. Murder as entertainment. TV as the opium of the masses.

Ah, but the style, that’s really what’s on offer here. The sunglasses, the modernist settings, the pop-art furniture, the comic-book backdrops, the cars, the clothes (most people, Andress apart, wear either black or white, or black and white). Trimphones. They have trimphones.

The leads are perfect in their roles and perfectly cast against each other. Mastroianni is playing a variant on the bored playboy that was his forte, his bleach-blond hair knocking years off – he looks much younger here than in 1961’s La Dolce Vita. That he plays it to the hilt rather than phoning it in is a testimony to his professionalism. Andress is a variant on the creature who emerged from the sea in Dr No, at one point in a bikini, at others in garments which might as well have been fashioned from sea mist they are so barely-there. A mannequin come to life, she’s worth looking at from every angle but is also credible as an ice-cool killer who’s got this far in the Big Hunt on her wits rather than her tits.

Ursula Andress and crew with guns
Staring down the barrel of Ursula Andress

The influence of this film. How long have you got? The Killer TV Show plot has been repurposed repeatedly, but this is the first outing for an idea that will later resurface in everything from Series 7: The Contenders, to The Running Man, to Battle Royale, to The Hunger Games. And elements of the story are also very familiar too – Andress’s bullet-dispensing silver bikini later turned up in an Austin Powers movie (and a Britney Spears video), and the idea of the Big Hunt Club, where Hunt competitors mingle in relaxed fashion in a strictly off-duty setting, has been borrowed by John Wick.

Directed by Elio Petri, clearly atoning for having dabbled in Italian neo-realis, it takes its garish cues from Sean Connery-era Bond movies, as so many of the spy-fi spoofs of the 1960s did – see the Matt Helm (Dean Martin) and Derek Flint (James Coburn) films for further details – kitsch, camp throwaways made by producers out to exploit a moment and with little regard for posterity.

Frustratingly, and as already said, it’s just no good. There is no plot. Once the characters of Marcello and Caroline have been introduced to each other, there’s the sound of a Tibetan prayer wheel spinning quietly on its axle as nothing at all happens until the big finish. People meet, they talk, their conversations have no consequence. New characters are introduced now and again but they have no impact on anything. Blind plot alleys are driven into and reversed out of. At one point a crocodile is manhandled into a swimming pool. And is never seen again. Emblematic of the entire film, its mouth is tied shut. It’s all meant to be just too cute, I’m guessing, but it isn’t enough. And the post-dubbed dialogue is shocking, even by the awful standards of a lot of 1960s Italian movies.

Still, Ming Tea – Mike Myers fronted a faux band of that name for a while with the Bangles’ Susanna Hoffs and rocker Matthew Sweet. Hang on to The Tenth Victim at that level, as an inspiring mood board for future camp artistic excursions, and it’s perfect. Otherwise…

The Tenth Victim – Watch it/buy it at Amazon

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© Steve Morrissey 2021

Divorce Italian Style

The count imagines burying his wife in sand

Who remembers 1961’s Divorce Italian Style (Divorzio all’Italiana) today? An Oscar winner for its screenplay, with nominations for both its star (Marcello Mastroianni) and its director (Pietro Germi), it now for some reason languishes in the dusty zone where forgotten movies slumber. Perhaps it’s time to wake it up.

It’s a brilliant example of the “sex comedy”, that strangely chaste beast most typified by all those Doris Day and Rock Hudson/James Garner films about bullish males trying to get their leg over and virginal ladies saying no. Sex was never really the issue, it was marriage, an institution that was beginning to chafe in a much more liberal post-War world.

Germi wastes no time in getting thing going, sketching in the who, what and where at speed – Marcello Mastroianni plays the impoverished Sicilian noble stuck with a wife (Daniela Rocca) he can’t stand and with the hots for his young cousin Angela (Stefania Sandrelli, who was 14/15-years-old at the time). Realising divorce is an impossibility, the count decides that he needs to engineer it so he can catch his wife in flagrante delicto with another man. This will allow him to murder her and, using the “crime of passion” defence, escape with a relatively lenient sentence.

But first he has to catch his wife in the act, and since she’s a big woman with a moustache and a monobrow and no male admirers, that seems unlikely. However, that doesn’t stop him fantasising about her death, and in the film’s funniest sequences he runs through a series of scenarios – pushing wife Rosalia into a cauldron, luring her into quicksand, firing her into space in a rocket and so on. Poor Daniela Rocca, a former beauty queen in real life, suffers for her art.

The count and his neice on a yacht
And his post-murder fantasy

There are more plot side alleys, involving the realisation by Ferdinando (Mastroianni) that Angela reciprocates his feelings, and that his wife might, in fact, once have had an admirer, a painter who can be encouraged to woo her again, perhaps.

The tone is French farce meets British Carry On meets the Hollywood sex comedy. In fact the Jack Lemmon/Virna Lisi/Terry-Thomas comedy How to Murder Your Wife of a couple of years later had clearly taken notice of Divorce Italian Style (an Oscar win will do that). What they all have in common is superb performers who understand that lightness of touch is everything, especially when, as here, your plot is based on murder most foul.

Mastroianni is born to play people who are sick of the sight of something and here he gives us a comedy version of the world-weary persona on display in La Dolce Vita or Fellini’s 81/2. As a little in-joke, at one point the entire town turns out to see a film that’s been causing a scandal wherever it’s been shown – it’s La Dolce Vita. As the audience look on, we see Anita Ekberg gambolling in the Trevi Fountain; we do not see Mastroianni.

Shot in the very finest monochrome by DPs Leonida Barboni and Carlo Di Palma (I suspect one of them did the fabulously sun-baked high-contrast exteriors and the other the carefully graded interiors), it’s a carriage-clock of a film, beautifully made in every respect. Notice how well all the side characters are drawn, even passers-by in the street have a character, and Carlo Rustichelli’s score is of the trembling-strings variety that now springs to mind whenever Sicily is mentioned, courtesy of The Godfather.

In its tale of a noble coming to terms with the modern world, it could be seen as The Leopard done as a comedy, though it’s a couple of years ahead of Visconti’s magisterial opus. And at another level it’s a delineation of the problems faced by women in patriarchal societies, and how women overcame them. Women have agency in this film, or more, at least, than you might imagine.

Divorce Italian Style – watch it/buy it at Amazon

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© Steve Morrissey 2021

La Dolce Vita

Marcello Mastroianni and Anita Ekberg in La Dolce Vita


A movie for every day of the year – a good one



29 September



Anita Ekberg born, 1931

On this day in 1931, Kerstin Anita Marianne Ekberg was born, in Malmö, Sweden. A model in her teens, Ekberg was Miss Sweden by the age of 19 and had a contract with Universal studios shortly afterwards. Howard Hughes, a keen student of the female form (or lecher, according to your viewpoint), and then owner of the RKO studio, was also keen on exploiting her talents, but Ekberg preferred to go horse-riding and take part in the sort of stunts that starlets in the 1950s got up to. More often seen in a bikini, or falling out of one, in a publicity shot than in an actual film studio, Ekberg was linked to a string of big showbiz names (Errol Flynn, Gary Cooper, Tyrone Power), but only managed to star in a series of lacklustre films, including Jerry Lewis and Dean Martin’s last film together, Hollywood or Bust, in which she played the Bust. She was the latest, and in some ways purest, of the blonde bombshells, who gained the appellation not because of their explosive figures – though that helps – but because bomb casings have a distinctive bustlike shape (in the minds of comicbook artists at least). Reductive though it is, it is entirely appropriate for Ekberg’s appearance in her most famous film, La Dolce Vita, a last hurrah made when her career was already on the slide. After which… The Alphabet Murders, If It’s Tuesday, This Must Be Belgium, and a string of even less memorable films.



La Dolce Vita (1960, dir: Federico Fellini)

Though you’d never have guessed it listening to the likes of Jean-Luc Godard, the 1960s belonged, in terms of cool and cultural impact, to music. Even so, there is some claim to be made that it was La Dolce Vita that ushered the decade in. Fellini’s film about the move from high to low culture, the arrival of the attention-deficit mindset, the abandonment of the avant-garde in favour of genre, it’s all here in La Dolce Vita, which tracks a week in the life of an intellectual who has forsworn the writing of his novel to grub an existence as a partying showbiz reporter. Marcello Mastroianni plays the man to a T and Anita Ekberg is there as everything that’s wrong with his world of sex, booze and wanton behaviour – the scene where she frolics in the 17th-century baroque Trevi fountain clad in a dress that emphasises her va-va-voom is essentially the film reduced to an image. If it were being remade now, you’d want someone like Lindsay Lohan in the role. The Catholic Church took a dim view of Fellini’s film, though it’s a deeply moral work at its core – Mastroianni hardly looks like a man who is buoyed up by his decisions – and the critics at Cannes gave it a standing ovation at its famous opening shot (a statue of Jesus Christ being airlifted out of the city) and again at the end.



Why Watch?


  • Anita Ekberg’s most famous performance
  • The film that gave the language the word “paparazzo”, after an intrusive showbiz photographer
  • The non-linear narrative – common now, unusual then
  • One of the most widely referenced films –


© Steve Morrissey 2013



La Dolce Vita – at Amazon





La Dolce Vita



More than 50 years old yet curiously contemporary, Federico Fellini’s 1960 masterpiece isn’t just a cynical critique by a conflicted Catholic of “the sweet life”, it’s the film that announces the arrival of the world we now inhabit. It starts with one of cinema’s most famous shots, a lingering view of a huge statue of Christ being airlifted, possibly rescued, from a Rome gone to the bad. God, Fellini appears to be saying, has left us, and in his place we have placed the pursuit of carnal pleasure, the joys of the night, drink and the worship of our new deity – the celebrity. This, after all, is the film that introduced the word paparazzi to the language – after one of its characters, the celebrity snapper Paparazzo. And it gave Marcello Mastroianni his defining role, as the serious writer who has negelected his art to chase film stars through the night and write them up in his tawdry newspaper column, a kind of Perez Hilton in embryo. This sweet life is fun, it’s exciting, it’s narcotic – and when you’re watching the pneumatic Anita Ekberg gambolling in the Trevi fountain how could it not be – but there’s more to life than fun and the expression on Mastroianni’s face shows the cost.

© Steve Morrissey 2011


La Dolce Vita – at Amazon





Isn’t It Iconic?

the original poster

La Dolce Vita might not be the best Italian film ever made. Or the cleverest, steamiest or most gripping. But it is the most iconic. Here’s why…

Just a touch over 50 years ago the assembled critics at the Cannes film festival gave Federico Fellini’s La Dolce Vita a standing ovation. Not at the end of the film, or even at the moment when Anita Ekberg gets into the Trevi fountain, its most remembered scene. No, what got them to their feet was the film’s opening shot.

It’s of a huge statue of Jesus Christ being airlifted out of Rome, the Eternal City. It doesn’t look like much now but back then this shot came across as a supernatural endorsement, a masterstroke of directorial bravado and a manifesto all rolled into one. What followed was Fellini’s gloriously languid, profoundly seedy exploration of la dolce vita, in English the good or sweet life, an examination of the godless hedonistic lifestyle of late nights, throbbing music and wham-bam relationships.

The critics cheered at the end of the film too, but by then they were less sure of the film’s moral message, particularly in relation to their own occupation. What they had watched was the story of a playboy (Marcello Mastroianni), who instead of pursuing the high calling of being a writer worked as a journalist churning out pieces on film stars, late-night society and what we now call celebrity culture. Over the seven giddy nights and weary dawns that the film follows him Marcello (also the name of his character) stoutly refuses the appeals of his fiancée to stay home with her, instead preferring to spend time in night clubs, prostitutes’ bedrooms and in the company of a visiting actress (Anita Ekberg).

Anita Ekberg in the defining moment of her career

The iconic scene, in which the pneumatic film star has a Lindsay Lohan moment in the fountain, says it all. Here it is, big boy, she seems to be saying, come and get it. Marcello doesn’t get it, in any sense. In fact all he’s got by the end of the film is a terrible sense of self-disgust, an emotion Mastroianni could express better than almost anyone.

At the beginning of the 1960s, with the Beatles and free love just around the corner, this sentiment – that the sweet life perhaps wasn’t all it was cracked up to be – was a real challenge to the zeitgeist. Sure, the film contains the sort of anti-materialist idea that progressive and left-leaning critics of the day wanted to hear. The worrying bit was the moral message that went along with it – don’t be fooled, the film seemed to be saying, this life of ease and luxury, it’s tinsel, not gold. The Catholic Church, meanwhile, saw only the tinsel, the depraved values and the glorious figure of Ms Ekberg and missed the whole point of the film. Immoral, it thundered. As did the Italian government which thought the film “shameful”.

Fellini was a communist (of sorts) and a catholic (also, of sorts) so there was some political and religious underpinning to his anti-materialism. But even so, at that time his film was about as bold a statement as could be made. Italy was ruined by the Second World War and in its aftermath Italians starved to death. To make a film about the perils of excess in a country where people had only recently been reduced to eating grass, the idea that the sweet life was bad when any sort of life was in short supply, it wasn’t just inappropriate it seemed a sick joke.

Fellini was also an Italian, of course. A fact which possibly influenced him more than his religious and political affiliations. Differing from their neighbours the French, whose films return constantly to the theme of personal bourgeois obsession, Italian films love to take an axe to cultural certainties. Whether this is down to the unsettled nature of Italy’s politics, the country’s relative youth (Italy only became a nation in 1861) or because of a butterfly love of changing fashion, who can say? Whatever the reason, the films of Fellini and his peers (Pasolini, Visconti, Antonioni) all challenge the status quo. In La Dolce Vita‘s case this was the let-it-all-hang-out tolerance of 1960s Italy, so new it had barely even solidified.

Did Fellini know at the time that the consensus he was questioning was the one which was to hold sway for so long? La Dolce Vita has aged, for sure, but its story of trash journalism and celebrity culture, the lure of easy sex and busty women, the rejection of high culture in favour of low, that hasn’t dated at all. In fact his film seems more relevant now than it did at the time.

In this context it seems almost too good to be true that La Dolce Vita also gave the English language a word with which we’re all familiar and which sums up the narcissism, superficiality and voyeurism the film is so concerned with. Paparazzi. Fellini bestowed the name Paparazzo on a photographer friend of Marcello who flaps through the film snapping celebrities.

Marcello Mastroianni smoking
Smoking: Marcello Mastroianni

La Dolce Vita is a film with a message but also a film with characters we only need to see for a second to comprehend. Mastroianni, in black shades, passive, a man in crisis, without a centre, searching for meaning in his life. Ekberg, not so much a woman as the embodiment of the desirable female, clad in a black sheath of dress but she might just as well have been standing, Venus-like, on a shell.

Ekberg never played another role to match it. Nor did Mastroianni. Because they weren’t playing mere humans but archetypes representing all of us, or that part of us that’s come home at dawn, all partied out and wondering just what the hell we’re doing with our lives. In short, this is the film for the full-on, siren-wailing existential crisis. And if that doesn’t count as iconic…

La Dolce Vita – Watch it/buy it at Amazon

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© Steve Morrissey 2011