If ever there was a movie made entirely out of nostalgia and joy, by a filmmaker at the heedless height of his powers, that movie is Federico Fellini’s “Amarcord.” The title means “I remember” in the dialect of Rimini, the seaside town of his youth, but these are memories of memories, transformed by affection and fantasy and much improved in the telling. Here he gathers the legends of his youth, where all of the characters are at once larger and smaller than life flamboyant players on their own stages.
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At the center is an overgrown young adolescent, the son of a large, loud family, who is dizzied by the life churning all around him the girls he idealizes, the tarts he lusts for, the rituals of the village year, the practical jokes he likes to play, the meals that always end in drama, the church’s thrilling opportunities for sin and redemption, and the vaudeville of Italy itself the transient glories of grand hotels and great ocean liners, the play-ac
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