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From our recording studio in Brooklyn, we make audio that celebrates human creativity, history and the spaces we live to learn about.

Leaning on the Eternal City as a sort of "crash course" in cinema, this walk will explore the invaluable real life set pieces used by some of the most legendary filmmakers in history, from Antonioni to Fellini.  Let Rome teach you a bit about the cinema as the cinema teaches you a whole lot about Rome.

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CineCity | Rome at the Movies

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Rome

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"I thought I knew everything when I came to Rome, but I soon found I had everything to learn."
- Edmonia Lewis

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Hi, this is Eric Millman, Italian scholar and noted American human.  If you’ve done some of our other walks in Italy, you may be familiar with my velvety vocals by now, but if not: I’m glad you’re here.

Now, this walk is probably my most self-indulgent, and one I’ve been developing gradually since 2006.  As someone who has studied Italian film history for much of my adult life, focusing largely on postwar, grotesque stuff, much of my understanding of Italian history originally came through watching a type of cinema which, at its best, expressed a direct link to contemporary issues impacting Romans and Italians.  As a result, from the “golden age” onward, the glories of Rome have been expressed directly, by using the city herself as a film set.

Not unlike Italian cinema, Rome’s history is not just sprawing, it’s overwhelming, so I tried to focus on key movies set within a very limited range of Rome’s historic city center.  Notably absent here, then, is Cinecittà, the famed studios found in Rome’s southeast suburbs.  Originally built to churn out propaganda for the Fascists, in the post-war period Cinecittà truly gave Hollywood a run for its money both in film quantity and quality, and surely film freaks will want to pay it a visit in addition to this walk. 

As for the rest of you: ideally you’ll have a degree of interest as to some of the classic filmmakers we’ll discuss, from De Sica to Antonioni to Fellinii, but I think there’s enough historical context here that even the film-averse should be able to find ample value.  I’ve also baked in a few coffee breaks just in case you tire of my praise for Fellini.
Having said all of that, navigating Rome’s center is never not an adventure, so keep your eyes open for scooters and get ready to experience what’s kept me coming back, year after year.

Termini Station: though all roads may lead to Rome, the name of this station doesn’t indicate their “terminus”, as I had long presumed, but rather it’s derived from the terme, or thermal baths, at which it was built.  We’ll visit those in a moment.

Now, even if most roads -- and, inevitably, many films -- lead through Rome’s main station, few compelling scenes have taken place here.  Sure, Woody Allen shot a scene of To Rome With Love here, but then he shot everywhere in the city; the legendary Vittorio de Sica, whom we’ll discuss soon, did set much of his first American film here, appropriately entitling it Stazione Termini, but even with a screenplay by Truman Capote and Montgomery Clift as its star, it’s of of De Sica’s most forgettable efforts.  

I’ll confess, then, that we’re starting here not for cinematic reasons, but for a strange feature found in the McDonald’s on the ground level.  To be clear, I’m not advocating for you to eat at McDonald’s.   But if you head down the stairs and follow the Golden Arches, you’ll find a great visual metaphor for modern Rome: a section of ancient Roman wall contained within an American burger chain.

The Servian Wall is attributed to its namesake, Servius Tullius, who served from 579-534 B.C. as the 6th and penultimate monarch of the Roman Kingdom (though much of this piece is believed to have been completed later in the 4th century, under the Roman Republic). 

Of course, before the Roman Kingdom was overthrown, its first king and founder was Romulus.  According to myth, Romulus was one of a pair of twins born to Rhea Silvia, the princess of the nearby town of Alba Longa.  Though she was raped by Mars, the mythical god of war, Rhea Silvia was also a Vestal Virgin and forced to give up the twins, who were then, supposedly, suckled to health by a she-wolf.  

Long story short, though Romulus and his brother, Remus, grew up unaware of their true identity, through innate social merit they managed to crawl their way up the political ladder and, upon discovering their true identity, even staked a claim at the throne of Alba Longa, but were rejected again by their grandfather, and forced to found their own town.  

Romulus wanted to build the town on the Palatine Hill, where we’re headed today.  Remus disagreed, and thought the Aventine Hill -- part of our walk through Testaccio -- was superior.  This led to a quarrel, and Romulus decided that he was better off ruling alone, ultimately having his twin assassinated, a story which is actually told in Matteo Rovere’s 2019 film, The First King.

Though it reads as unspeakably tragic today, Romulus’ willingness to stop at nothing in order to get what he wants projected not only a model of the ideal leader for Ancient Romans, but also a foundational example of the Hero’s journey, or monomyth.  Popularized by Joseph Campbell, the monomyth formula has been used in the construction of most of Hollywood’s modern protagonists, from Luke Skywalker to, by way of inversion, The Founder’s Roy Kroc.  

Which brings us back, full circle, to the fact that we’re still at a McDonald’s.  In Rome.  Let’s get the heck out of here, and travel further through time to another repurposed monument nearby.  Head up the stairs, walking to your right, toward the complex of red brick ruins.  Follow those until you reach a huge piazza with a great fountain at its center.


25 Via Marsala \|||// Hi, this is Eric Millman, Italian scholar and noted American human.  If you’ve done some of our other walks in Italy, you may be familiar with my velvety vocals by now, but if not: I’m glad you’re here.

Now, this walk is probably my most self-indulgent, and one I’ve been developing gradually since 2006.  As someone who has studied Italian film history for much of my adult life, focusing largely on postwar, grotesque stuff, much of my understanding of Italian history originally came through watching a type of cinema which, at its best, expressed a direct link to contemporary issues impacting Romans and Italians.  As a result, from the “golden age” onward, the glories of Rome have been expressed directly, by using the city herself as a film set.

Not unlike Italian cinema, Rome’s history is not just sprawing, it’s overwhelming, so I tried to focus on key movies set within a very limited range of Rome’s historic city center.  Notably absent here, then, is Cinecittà, the famed studios found in Rome’s southeast suburbs.  Originally built to churn out propaganda for the Fascists, in the post-war period Cinecittà truly gave Hollywood a run for its money both in film quantity and quality, and surely film freaks will want to pay it a visit in addition to this walk. 

As for the rest of you: ideally you’ll have a degree of interest as to some of the classic filmmakers we’ll discuss, from De Sica to Antonioni to Fellinii, but I think there’s enough historical context here that even the film-averse should be able to find ample value.  I’ve also baked in a few coffee breaks just in case you tire of my praise for Fellini.
Having said all of that, navigating Rome’s center is never not an adventure, so keep your eyes open for scooters and get ready to experience what’s kept me coming back, year after year.

Termini Station: though all roads may lead to Rome, the name of this station doesn’t indicate their “terminus”, as I had long presumed, but rather it’s derived from the terme, or thermal baths, at which it was built.  We’ll visit those in a moment.

Now, even if most roads -- and, inevitably, many films -- lead through Rome’s main station, few compelling scenes have taken place here.  Sure, Woody Allen shot a scene of To Rome With Love here, but then he shot everywhere in the city; the legendary Vittorio de Sica, whom we’ll discuss soon, did set much of his first American film here, appropriately entitling it Stazione Termini, but even with a screenplay by Truman Capote and Montgomery Clift as its star, it’s of of De Sica’s most forgettable efforts.  

I’ll confess, then, that we’re starting here not for cinematic reasons, but for a strange feature found in the McDonald’s on the ground level.  To be clear, I’m not advocating for you to eat at McDonald’s.   But if you head down the stairs and follow the Golden Arches, you’ll find a great visual metaphor for modern Rome: a section of ancient Roman wall contained within an American burger chain.

The Servian Wall is attributed to its namesake, Servius Tullius, who served from 579-534 B.C. as the 6th and penultimate monarch of the Roman Kingdom (though much of this piece is believed to have been completed later in the 4th century, under the Roman Republic). 

Of course, before the Roman Kingdom was overthrown, its first king and founder was Romulus.  According to myth, Romulus was one of a pair of twins born to Rhea Silvia, the princess of the nearby town of Alba Longa.  Though she was raped by Mars, the mythical god of war, Rhea Silvia was also a Vestal Virgin and forced to give up the twins, who were then, supposedly, suckled to health by a she-wolf.  

Long story short, though Romulus and his brother, Remus, grew up unaware of their true identity, through innate social merit they managed to crawl their way up the political ladder and, upon discovering their true identity, even staked a claim at the throne of Alba Longa, but were rejected again by their grandfather, and forced to found their own town.  

Romulus wanted to build the town on the Palatine Hill, where we’re headed today.  Remus disagreed, and thought the Aventine Hill -- part of our walk through Testaccio -- was superior.  This led to a quarrel, and Romulus decided that he was better off ruling alone, ultimately having his twin assassinated, a story which is actually told in Matteo Rovere’s 2019 film, The First King.

Though it reads as unspeakably tragic today, Romulus’ willingness to stop at nothing in order to get what he wants projected not only a model of the ideal leader for Ancient Romans, but also a foundational example of the Hero’s journey, or monomyth.  Popularized by Joseph Campbell, the monomyth formula has been used in the construction of most of Hollywood’s modern protagonists, from Luke Skywalker to, by way of inversion, The Founder’s Roy Kroc.  

Which brings us back, full circle, to the fact that we’re still at a McDonald’s.  In Rome.  Let’s get the heck out of here, and travel further through time to another repurposed monument nearby.  Head up the stairs, walking to your right, toward the complex of red brick ruins.  Follow those until you reach a huge piazza with a great fountain at its center.


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Ancient McDonald's

Tour Item

01IntroMoviesScored.mp3

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On your left, with the ornate, Art Nouveau Fountain of the Naiadi, is the Piazza della Repubblica, yet another one of the locations used in Woody Allen’s To Rome With Love, where Roberto Benigni’s character arrives at a film screening, finding himself an instant celebrity for reasons beyond his comprehension.

Hidden in the distant background of the scene, though, is the concave brick structure on your right: the Basilica of Santa Maria degli Angeli e Martiri.  It’s one of the weirder places of worship, I think, in all of Italy.  At first glance you might think, “oh, it’s just old and ruinous,” but even then: how common is it to find a concave facade?

The truth is that this church is actually built into the Baths of Diocletian, the largest terme to exist during the Roman Empire.  Opened in 306 A.D. and capable of holding as many as 3,000 Romans, the Baths featured a caldarium (for hot soaks), a tepidarium (tepid, obviously), and this, the frigidarium, which helped close up those pores after the initial two dunks.

With the sacking of Rome in 537, the conquering Ostrogoths cut off the water supply to the baths, which then lay in disuse for nearly a thousand years before being bought by a French cardinal who turned the ruins into his own villa.  Later, a Sicilian priest proposed converting the space into a church in homage to seven martyred slaves who had died while building the baths.  With the Frenchman’s death in 1560, an elderly Michelangelo was hired to make this space churchly, even while working on St. Peter's.  What is more literal an interpretation of Renaissance values than to build a church on top of an Ancient Roman structure?

If you have the time, it’s free to pop your head in for a quick walkthrough.  While you might notice that it’s certainly more gaudy than other churches built in the same era, it isn’t ugly, either, and has one particularly notable feature.  After passing through the entrance, to your right, you’ll find on the floor a meridian line which was installed in 1702 to help Rome accurately transition from the previous Julian calendar to the Gregorian calendar we use today.  Look for the golden fleur-de-lis just above the pink column to the right of the line to track the sun’s movement!  

All told, this church remains extremely important, and served as the official state church of the Kingdom of Italy from the time that Rome was restored as capital -- to the dismay of the Vatican, no doubt -- until the monarchy ended just after World War II.

But enough about politics.  Let’s head back into the light, turning right at the fountain as we continue our way toward a more modern Rome.

8 Piazza della Repubblica \|||// On your left, with the ornate, Art Nouveau Fountain of the Naiadi, is the Piazza della Repubblica, yet another one of the locations used in Woody Allen’s To Rome With Love, where Roberto Benigni’s character arrives at a film screening, finding himself an instant celebrity for reasons beyond his comprehension.

Hidden in the distant background of the scene, though, is the concave brick structure on your right: the Basilica of Santa Maria degli Angeli e Martiri.  It’s one of the weirder places of worship, I think, in all of Italy.  At first glance you might think, “oh, it’s just old and ruinous,” but even then: how common is it to find a concave facade?

The truth is that this church is actually built into the Baths of Diocletian, the largest terme to exist during the Roman Empire.  Opened in 306 A.D. and capable of holding as many as 3,000 Romans, the Baths featured a caldarium (for hot soaks), a tepidarium (tepid, obviously), and this, the frigidarium, which helped close up those pores after the initial two dunks.

With the sacking of Rome in 537, the conquering Ostrogoths cut off the water supply to the baths, which then lay in disuse for nearly a thousand years before being bought by a French cardinal who turned the ruins into his own villa.  Later, a Sicilian priest proposed converting the space into a church in homage to seven martyred slaves who had died while building the baths.  With the Frenchman’s death in 1560, an elderly Michelangelo was hired to make this space churchly, even while working on St. Peter's.  What is more literal an interpretation of Renaissance values than to build a church on top of an Ancient Roman structure?

If you have the time, it’s free to pop your head in for a quick walkthrough.  While you might notice that it’s certainly more gaudy than other churches built in the same era, it isn’t ugly, either, and has one particularly notable feature.  After passing through the entrance, to your right, you’ll find on the floor a meridian line which was installed in 1702 to help Rome accurately transition from the previous Julian calendar to the Gregorian calendar we use today.  Look for the golden fleur-de-lis just above the pink column to the right of the line to track the sun’s movement!  

All told, this church remains extremely important, and served as the official state church of the Kingdom of Italy from the time that Rome was restored as capital -- to the dismay of the Vatican, no doubt -- until the monarchy ended just after World War II.

But enough about politics.  Let’s head back into the light, turning right at the fountain as we continue our way toward a more modern Rome.

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Michelangelo's Baths

2BathsScored.mp3

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We’re now in a little pocket of Americana, marked most obviously by the obvious: the United States Embassy, that colonial-looking brick building on your right, behind the palm trees.  

Now, it wasn’t always my Embassy, but in a sense it’s always had the stink of hubris on it.  The building dates to 1890, originally built by a prince belonging to the Boncompagni family, who was trying to extend his family’s prestige into Rome.  What I’d assumed were American eagles covering the edifice are actually dragons, part of his family’s crest.

After a few bad investments, the prince was looking to offload the property, and in 1900, he had a buyer.  The same year, the King of Italy, Umberto I, was assassinated for siding with a general who had murdered eighty and injured 450 workers for protesting the cost of bread.  Now a widow, Queen Margherita -- for whom the pizza is believed to be named upon her visit to Naples ten years prior -- moved here on Christmas Day, and here she remained until her death.

I’ll turn your attention to the building with the spiked dome on your left: you should be able to make out the name, Excelsior, in blue lettering.  The Excelsior is known for hosting the American General Mark Clark, after we had claimed Rome in World War II.  I’d be neglecting my millennial duties if I didn’t mention that it’s also the hotel where on March 3rd, 1994, just two days after Nirvana played their last show, and barely over a month before his death, Kurt Cobain unsuccessfully overdosed on champagne and pain pills.  And before you think me ghastly for exploiting such a musical icon, oh look, there’s a Hard Rock Cafe right behind you.  

Let’s head up the street to #90 on the famed Via Veneto.

70A Via Vittorio Veneto \|||// We’re now in a little pocket of Americana, marked most obviously by the obvious: the United States Embassy, that colonial-looking brick building on your right, behind the palm trees.  

Now, it wasn’t always my Embassy, but in a sense it’s always had the stink of hubris on it.  The building dates to 1890, originally built by a prince belonging to the Boncompagni family, who was trying to extend his family’s prestige into Rome.  What I’d assumed were American eagles covering the edifice are actually dragons, part of his family’s crest.

After a few bad investments, the prince was looking to offload the property, and in 1900, he had a buyer.  The same year, the King of Italy, Umberto I, was assassinated for siding with a general who had murdered eighty and injured 450 workers for protesting the cost of bread.  Now a widow, Queen Margherita -- for whom the pizza is believed to be named upon her visit to Naples ten years prior -- moved here on Christmas Day, and here she remained until her death.

I’ll turn your attention to the building with the spiked dome on your left: you should be able to make out the name, Excelsior, in blue lettering.  The Excelsior is known for hosting the American General Mark Clark, after we had claimed Rome in World War II.  I’d be neglecting my millennial duties if I didn’t mention that it’s also the hotel where on March 3rd, 1994, just two days after Nirvana played their last show, and barely over a month before his death, Kurt Cobain unsuccessfully overdosed on champagne and pain pills.  And before you think me ghastly for exploiting such a musical icon, oh look, there’s a Hard Rock Cafe right behind you.  

Let’s head up the street to #90 on the famed Via Veneto.

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An American in Rome

3EmbassyScored.mp3

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When I first studied abroad in Italy, like so many film students I was forced to watch Fellini’s 8 ½, which is the greatest film ever made.  The dreamlike beauty, bitter self-loathing, and cutting humor was nothing like I’d ever seen before, a combination that I hold directly responsible for my fifteen-year love affair with this country.  Where 8 ½ filled me with joy, though, La dolce vita, in spite of its name, filled me with a deep, existential dread.  From introducing the word “paparazzi” to our vernacular to being the breakthrough “arthouse” film to achieve international success, La dolce vita has changed the world forever.  Moreover, it’s never not made me weep like a fool while watching it.

And so, upon my third visit to Rome, I pumped my iPod full of the music of Nino Rota, walked an hour out of my way, and finally landed here at the Cafe de Paris, the symbolic epicenter of the film.   This was the spot where the world’s most famous and fabulous partied their lives away, ironically on the same street, as the crypt of the mummified Capuchin monks -- which I would recommend visiting if you have time and a strong stomach.  The so-called “sweet life” of the Via Veneto came amidst Italy’s economic boom of the 50s and 60s, a time when the Italian film industry briefly rivaled Hollywood; even Frank Sinatra was the house pianist here for a spell.

The thing is, Fellini never filmed his movie here.  Apart from a brief scene shot in front of the Excelsior, he constructed his own Via Veneto, and his own Cafe de Paris, on a soundstage at Cinecitta, driving home his theme of just how hollow this so-called “sweet life” really was.  

Meanwhile, as Italy’s economy fell back to earth, so did the Via Veneto, and particularly the Cafe de Paris.  It would, in turn, be bought for peanuts by a poor hairdresser who many assumed was working as a front for the ‘ndrangheta, a secretive and powerful mafia-like organization from Calabria who used such places to launder drug money.  It was a dark period.

For a moment, though, there was a glimmer of hope.  In 2009, anti-mafia police raided the place while seizing some €200 million in ‘ndrangheta assets.  The cafe was subsequently taken over by Libera, an anti-mafia organization that runs initiatives to help Italians break free from the stranglehold of organized crime.  For a few years, this was a great success story. 

Then, in 2014, a fire was started within the cafe, and on the same day, the owners were evicted.  After a decade of court battles, it was decided in 2019 that the property was improperly seized, and that any association between the rightful owner and the ‘ndrangheta was unfounded.  Ownership of the cafe was restored to the poor hairdresser, and yet as of this moment, it remains rusted and hollowed out, with tacky, sun-bleached photos hanging in shattered lightboxes outside to serve as the lone reminder of its former glories.  It’s all bittersweet, lies built on falsehoods built on superficial glories, and yet in being here, I still can’t help but dream of Fellini and his star, Marcello Mastroianni, coming here after a long day of shooting, as they did, to make sarcastic comments about the actors in their midst.

Let’s keep heading north, toward greener pastures.


90 Via Vittorio Veneto \|||// When I first studied abroad in Italy, like so many film students I was forced to watch Fellini’s 8 ½, which is the greatest film ever made.  The dreamlike beauty, bitter self-loathing, and cutting humor was nothing like I’d ever seen before, a combination that I hold directly responsible for my fifteen-year love affair with this country.  Where 8 ½ filled me with joy, though, La dolce vita, in spite of its name, filled me with a deep, existential dread.  From introducing the word “paparazzi” to our vernacular to being the breakthrough “arthouse” film to achieve international success, La dolce vita has changed the world forever.  Moreover, it’s never not made me weep like a fool while watching it.

And so, upon my third visit to Rome, I pumped my iPod full of the music of Nino Rota, walked an hour out of my way, and finally landed here at the Cafe de Paris, the symbolic epicenter of the film.   This was the spot where the world’s most famous and fabulous partied their lives away, ironically on the same street, as the crypt of the mummified Capuchin monks -- which I would recommend visiting if you have time and a strong stomach.  The so-called “sweet life” of the Via Veneto came amidst Italy’s economic boom of the 50s and 60s, a time when the Italian film industry briefly rivaled Hollywood; even Frank Sinatra was the house pianist here for a spell.

The thing is, Fellini never filmed his movie here.  Apart from a brief scene shot in front of the Excelsior, he constructed his own Via Veneto, and his own Cafe de Paris, on a soundstage at Cinecitta, driving home his theme of just how hollow this so-called “sweet life” really was.  

Meanwhile, as Italy’s economy fell back to earth, so did the Via Veneto, and particularly the Cafe de Paris.  It would, in turn, be bought for peanuts by a poor hairdresser who many assumed was working as a front for the ‘ndrangheta, a secretive and powerful mafia-like organization from Calabria who used such places to launder drug money.  It was a dark period.

For a moment, though, there was a glimmer of hope.  In 2009, anti-mafia police raided the place while seizing some €200 million in ‘ndrangheta assets.  The cafe was subsequently taken over by Libera, an anti-mafia organization that runs initiatives to help Italians break free from the stranglehold of organized crime.  For a few years, this was a great success story. 

Then, in 2014, a fire was started within the cafe, and on the same day, the owners were evicted.  After a decade of court battles, it was decided in 2019 that the property was improperly seized, and that any association between the rightful owner and the ‘ndrangheta was unfounded.  Ownership of the cafe was restored to the poor hairdresser, and yet as of this moment, it remains rusted and hollowed out, with tacky, sun-bleached photos hanging in shattered lightboxes outside to serve as the lone reminder of its former glories.  It’s all bittersweet, lies built on falsehoods built on superficial glories, and yet in being here, I still can’t help but dream of Fellini and his star, Marcello Mastroianni, coming here after a long day of shooting, as they did, to make sarcastic comments about the actors in their midst.

Let’s keep heading north, toward greener pastures.


4excelsior.jpg

Gone with the Via Veneto

4ParisScored.mp3

4excelsior2.jpg

We’ve just passed through the 5th century Porta Pinciana, heading up the Pincian hill, along Marcello Mastroianni Avenue, and now stand at the Casa del Cinema, where film freaks can catch free screenings year ‘round.  

The cinema isn’t the main attraction up here, of course: you could spend an entire day wandering around the Borghese Gardens, visiting a replica of the Shakespearean Globe Theater or the endless supply of ancient statues and structures strewn throughout, always free of change and always a refreshing respite from Rome’s madness.

Of note, if you have a day to burn, is the Borghese Gallery, first opened in 1613 as the former summer home of Cardinal Scipione Borghese.  Borghese is remembered most, not for his piety and wisdom, but as the patron to Bernini, the inventor of Baroque sculpture, and Caravaggio, the rogue painter whose stark, hyperrealistic “chiaroscuro” style made himone of the most in-demand artists of his time, in part because, at the end of his life, he was on the lam for murder.

If you don’t have time to explore the Villa Borghese or its gardens, don't worry: as we make our way toward the next destination, you’ll have the chance to enjoy my favorite part of this hill.  Just before you reach the staircase that will take you back down to earth, make sure to take a moment to soak in one of the best views in the city at the Pincian Terrace.  From there, you’ll be able to take in a great many delights, including Michelangelo’s cupola from St. Peter’s Basilica, and our next destination: the Piazza del Popolo.

1 Largo Marcello Mastroianni \|||// We’ve just passed through the 5th century Porta Pinciana, heading up the Pincian hill, along Marcello Mastroianni Avenue, and now stand at the Casa del Cinema, where film freaks can catch free screenings year ‘round.  

The cinema isn’t the main attraction up here, of course: you could spend an entire day wandering around the Borghese Gardens, visiting a replica of the Shakespearean Globe Theater or the endless supply of ancient statues and structures strewn throughout, always free of change and always a refreshing respite from Rome’s madness.

Of note, if you have a day to burn, is the Borghese Gallery, first opened in 1613 as the former summer home of Cardinal Scipione Borghese.  Borghese is remembered most, not for his piety and wisdom, but as the patron to Bernini, the inventor of Baroque sculpture, and Caravaggio, the rogue painter whose stark, hyperrealistic “chiaroscuro” style made himone of the most in-demand artists of his time, in part because, at the end of his life, he was on the lam for murder.

If you don’t have time to explore the Villa Borghese or its gardens, don't worry: as we make our way toward the next destination, you’ll have the chance to enjoy my favorite part of this hill.  Just before you reach the staircase that will take you back down to earth, make sure to take a moment to soak in one of the best views in the city at the Pincian Terrace.  From there, you’ll be able to take in a great many delights, including Michelangelo’s cupola from St. Peter’s Basilica, and our next destination: the Piazza del Popolo.

5pincian2.jpg

Casa del Cinema and the Borghese Gardens

5PincianScored.mp3

5pincian.jpg

We’re now in the Piazza del Popolo, or “People’s Square” (even if it was originally named for the poplar trees found in the area).

You should be in front of the Porta del Popolo, originally known as the Flaminia Gate.  This was built in 1475 atop the ancient gate, which remains buried until five feet of silt, and is so-named as the portal to the ancient road of Via Flaminia, which stretched from here all the way to the coastal city of Rimini.  

If you face south, away from the gate, you’ll find the third tallest of thirteen Egyptian obelisks in Rome, originally built in the 1270s B.C.: over 3,300 years ago!  It was stolen by Roman Emperor Augustus in the 2nd century B.C, and subsequently placed in the Circus Maximus, then lost.  After being rediscovered in 1587 A.D., it was installed here, where it bore witness to public executions which took place in the square until 1826.

From this perspective, in combination with the two rotund churches behind it, I can’t help but think that it looks like a [bleep] and [bleep].  It’s my theory that this is why Marco Ferreri chose to open his 1963 film, The Conjugal Bed, in this piazza, with cars zooming by, threatening to kill the lead character played by Ugo Tognazzi.  Or perhaps why Ettore Scola shot the epilogue of his 1974 film We All Loved Each Other So Much in the same location, where two of his leads run into one another for the first time in twenty-five years and one, played by Vittorio Gassman, must pretend he’s poor out of shame for how he acquired his wealth.

But of all the Italian directors obsessed with the frailty of the male ego, I think Federico Fellini portrayed it best and most consistently.  As a native of Rimini, it seems almost too appropriate given the Via Flaminia connection, but Fellini would visit this piazza with great regularity, taking his coffee at the Bar Canova.   You’ll find it ahead, at the edge of the piazza and just in front of the left testicle; the bar even sports a tiny Fellini Museum in the back.  

If you’re a Fellini fanatic like I am, you might get an espresso at the bar and take a quick gander, but I wouldn’t spend too much time there.  Otherwise, keep on going down the road, take the second left, and then continue along the Via Margutta, following the footsteps of Il Maestro himself for plenty more opportunities to get caffeinated.

6 Via di Ripetta \|||// We’re now in the Piazza del Popolo, or “People’s Square” (even if it was originally named for the poplar trees found in the area).

You should be in front of the Porta del Popolo, originally known as the Flaminia Gate.  This was built in 1475 atop the ancient gate, which remains buried until five feet of silt, and is so-named as the portal to the ancient road of Via Flaminia, which stretched from here all the way to the coastal city of Rimini.  

If you face south, away from the gate, you’ll find the third tallest of thirteen Egyptian obelisks in Rome, originally built in the 1270s B.C.: over 3,300 years ago!  It was stolen by Roman Emperor Augustus in the 2nd century B.C, and subsequently placed in the Circus Maximus, then lost.  After being rediscovered in 1587 A.D., it was installed here, where it bore witness to public executions which took place in the square until 1826.

From this perspective, in combination with the two rotund churches behind it, I can’t help but think that it looks like a [bleep] and [bleep].  It’s my theory that this is why Marco Ferreri chose to open his 1963 film, The Conjugal Bed, in this piazza, with cars zooming by, threatening to kill the lead character played by Ugo Tognazzi.  Or perhaps why Ettore Scola shot the epilogue of his 1974 film We All Loved Each Other So Much in the same location, where two of his leads run into one another for the first time in twenty-five years and one, played by Vittorio Gassman, must pretend he’s poor out of shame for how he acquired his wealth.

But of all the Italian directors obsessed with the frailty of the male ego, I think Federico Fellini portrayed it best and most consistently.  As a native of Rimini, it seems almost too appropriate given the Via Flaminia connection, but Fellini would visit this piazza with great regularity, taking his coffee at the Bar Canova.   You’ll find it ahead, at the edge of the piazza and just in front of the left testicle; the bar even sports a tiny Fellini Museum in the back.  

If you’re a Fellini fanatic like I am, you might get an espresso at the bar and take a quick gander, but I wouldn’t spend too much time there.  Otherwise, keep on going down the road, take the second left, and then continue along the Via Margutta, following the footsteps of Il Maestro himself for plenty more opportunities to get caffeinated.

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The Piazza of the People

6PopoloScored.mp3

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We’re now going to take a stroll down what I believe to be the most beautiful street in all of Rome, the Via Margutta.

The street was originally known as one for prostitutes.  Its name means “drop of the sea” -- mar for “mare” and gutta meaning “drop” in Latin -- though this refers, ironically, to a stream of sewage water that used to trickle down the Pincian Hill. 

I first came here in homage to my favorite director, who at #110 used to live with his wife, the marvelous actress Giulietta Masina.  Not much to see there, other than a marble plaque featuring Giulietta looking bright-eyed and elegant, and her husband slouched and grumpy, but there’s just something so cute about imagining them, after fifty years together, having lunch on that little terrace above.  Am I a creeper?  

Keep on walking a bit; we’re looking for #53B, where you should see a sign that reads “Studi di Pittura e Scultura” (Studios of Painting and Sculpture).  Long before Fellini, many legendary artists lived on this street, including Peter Paul Reubens and Giorgio de Chirico, but it was here specifically that Pablo Picasso worked in 1917 while living in the hotel next to the Canova.

Evading the impact of World War I in Paris, Picasso came here with his friend, the great avant-gardist Jean Cocteau, to create a ballet called Parade with the minimalist composer Erik Satie who, oh man, is definitely one of the best “Erics” in history.  As an interesting side note, it was when offering a review of this ballet that the poet Appollinaire invented the word “surrealism” several years before the movement would take off in Paris.

Of course, most who come here do so in homage to the 1953 film Roman Holiday, given that Gregory Peck’s character lived here at #51.  There’s also the Osteria Margutta across the street, where Woody Allen shot To Rome With Love, and where a workshop for disabled children was founded, in turn helping pass legislation to ensure “the respect of human dignity and the rights of freedom and autonomy of disabled individuals.”  Further down there’s the strange “Fountain of the Artists”, designed in 1927 by Pietro Lombardi.    
 
I’ve made this pilgrimage, what, probably six times, each one in homage to Fellini, but there’s always some new little detail to appreciate.  Let’s head to the Via Babuino, where we’ll pass by the Canova-Tadolini bar where you can get a snack while sitting amongst the work of the Neoclassical sculptor Antonio Canova.  Look for one of Rome’s six “talking sculptures” lunging just outside, covered in moss.  From there, we’ll  continue down the same street, on our way to a far more famous site for expatriates.

109a Via Margutta \|||// We’re now going to take a stroll down what I believe to be the most beautiful street in all of Rome, the Via Margutta.

The street was originally known as one for prostitutes.  Its name means “drop of the sea” -- mar for “mare” and gutta meaning “drop” in Latin -- though this refers, ironically, to a stream of sewage water that used to trickle down the Pincian Hill. 

I first came here in homage to my favorite director, who at #110 used to live with his wife, the marvelous actress Giulietta Masina.  Not much to see there, other than a marble plaque featuring Giulietta looking bright-eyed and elegant, and her husband slouched and grumpy, but there’s just something so cute about imagining them, after fifty years together, having lunch on that little terrace above.  Am I a creeper?  

Keep on walking a bit; we’re looking for #53B, where you should see a sign that reads “Studi di Pittura e Scultura” (Studios of Painting and Sculpture).  Long before Fellini, many legendary artists lived on this street, including Peter Paul Reubens and Giorgio de Chirico, but it was here specifically that Pablo Picasso worked in 1917 while living in the hotel next to the Canova.

Evading the impact of World War I in Paris, Picasso came here with his friend, the great avant-gardist Jean Cocteau, to create a ballet called Parade with the minimalist composer Erik Satie who, oh man, is definitely one of the best “Erics” in history.  As an interesting side note, it was when offering a review of this ballet that the poet Appollinaire invented the word “surrealism” several years before the movement would take off in Paris.

Of course, most who come here do so in homage to the 1953 film Roman Holiday, given that Gregory Peck’s character lived here at #51.  There’s also the Osteria Margutta across the street, where Woody Allen shot To Rome With Love, and where a workshop for disabled children was founded, in turn helping pass legislation to ensure “the respect of human dignity and the rights of freedom and autonomy of disabled individuals.”  Further down there’s the strange “Fountain of the Artists”, designed in 1927 by Pietro Lombardi.    
 
I’ve made this pilgrimage, what, probably six times, each one in homage to Fellini, but there’s always some new little detail to appreciate.  Let’s head to the Via Babuino, where we’ll pass by the Canova-Tadolini bar where you can get a snack while sitting amongst the work of the Neoclassical sculptor Antonio Canova.  Look for one of Rome’s six “talking sculptures” lunging just outside, covered in moss.  From there, we’ll  continue down the same street, on our way to a far more famous site for expatriates.

7margutta.jpg

Fellini on the Via Margutta

7MarguttaScored.mp3

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If it wasn’t clear before, the deluge of zillion-dollar fashion boutiques should now remind you that we’re in the rich part of town, as it has been for quite some time.  We’ll hang a left on Via dei Condotti and, ignoring that breathtaking background view for a moment, we’ll pause here at the Old Caffè Greco.  Feel free to poke your head inside, though as with the Canova I wouldn’t recommend sitting down for a coffee given that rent here ain’t cheap, and neither is the menu.

The Caffè Greco first opened in 1760.  After the Florian, which we visit during one of our walks in Venice, that makes it the second oldest continuously-operating bar in Italy, attracting actors and authors and popes and pianists and effectively everyone else who came through Rome during the Grand Tour, as attested by the photos hung throughout.  This includes even Buffalo Bill Cody and two Native Americans performers with whom he toured Europe, putting on their Wild West shows.

Ridley Scott also appears to have shot House of Gucci at the cafe, showing Lady Gaga exiting the Greco with a sign at her back commemorating its 250 years in operation.  Given that the film is set in the late 1980s, either the cafe is 30 years older than reported, or someone forgot to remove a sign.  Oops.  

That this Gaga Lady plays an Italian woman while speaking with a vaguely soviet accent seems appropriate for the cafe, too, as the Greco is a true Russian mecca: it was here where Nikolai Gogol wrote Dead Souls, one of the most beloved novels of the 19th century.  Beyond Gogol, many other Russian artists were living in the area including Igor Stravinsky, who would introduce Picasso to his first wife, the ballerina Olga Khokhlova.  I have included the ballerina’s name here to ensure that Ms. Gaga is not alone in the realm of poor pronunciations.

Let’s head toward that grand staircase to learn more about the history of the Grand Tour.

86 Via dei Condotti \|||// If it wasn’t clear before, the deluge of zillion-dollar fashion boutiques should now remind you that we’re in the rich part of town, as it has been for quite some time.  We’ll hang a left on Via dei Condotti and, ignoring that breathtaking background view for a moment, we’ll pause here at the Old Caffè Greco.  Feel free to poke your head inside, though as with the Canova I wouldn’t recommend sitting down for a coffee given that rent here ain’t cheap, and neither is the menu.

The Caffè Greco first opened in 1760.  After the Florian, which we visit during one of our walks in Venice, that makes it the second oldest continuously-operating bar in Italy, attracting actors and authors and popes and pianists and effectively everyone else who came through Rome during the Grand Tour, as attested by the photos hung throughout.  This includes even Buffalo Bill Cody and two Native Americans performers with whom he toured Europe, putting on their Wild West shows.

Ridley Scott also appears to have shot House of Gucci at the cafe, showing Lady Gaga exiting the Greco with a sign at her back commemorating its 250 years in operation.  Given that the film is set in the late 1980s, either the cafe is 30 years older than reported, or someone forgot to remove a sign.  Oops.  

That this Gaga Lady plays an Italian woman while speaking with a vaguely soviet accent seems appropriate for the cafe, too, as the Greco is a true Russian mecca: it was here where Nikolai Gogol wrote Dead Souls, one of the most beloved novels of the 19th century.  Beyond Gogol, many other Russian artists were living in the area including Igor Stravinsky, who would introduce Picasso to his first wife, the ballerina Olga Khokhlova.  I have included the ballerina’s name here to ensure that Ms. Gaga is not alone in the realm of poor pronunciations.

Let’s head toward that grand staircase to learn more about the history of the Grand Tour.

9greco.jpg

Outside the Caffè Greco

8GrecoScored.mp3

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With apologies to Caffè Greco, its British cousin on your left, Babington’s Tea Room, is probably the ultimate expression of the Grand Tour, or at least its last gasp.  Upon its opening in 1893, Babington’s was basically the first place in Italy to serve tea outside of a pharmacy, and attracted a great many wealthy young Britons as a result.  

So what was the Grand tour, you ask? Wealthy families, typically British, would send their kids on a sort of proto-Gap Year, particularly between the 17th and 19th centuries.  With an educated tour guide in tow, the young men would typically travel across the Strait of Dover, through France, into the Alps, and to the most famous cities of what would become Italy. It was an education that no university could provide.  

Many Brits came to Italy believing that its temperate weather would help heal their tuberculosis, or whatever self-inflicted ailment they might’ve had.  Probably around the same number, then, ended up dying here, and that included the poet John Keats, whose deathbed you’ll find in his house on the right, just opposite Babington’s.  If you have an extra five euros and a bit of time, I will say that the museum provides a fascinating insight into the Grand Tour, 19th century expatriate life in Rome, and above all, the lives of the Romantics.  Or, if you prefer pre-surrealist painting set in a pristine, mid-century modern home, check out Giorgio De Chirico’s House just to the right of the pharmacy: between both, you can immerse yourself in several generations of bourgeoisie living.

Certainly the aristocracy found themselves attracted by the spectacle of these, the so-called Spanish Steps.  First opened in 1725, they were designed to link the church at the top of the hill, actually belonging to the French, to the Palazzo Monaldeschi at the bottom, which is the Spanish Embassy to the Vatican and the oldest embassy in the world.  It’s a great place to congregate with friends, and has been immortalized on film countless times, from Roman Holiday to The Talented Mr. Ripley, to a 1952 film appropriately-titled Girls of the Spanish Steps.

Before we leave, just a quick word on the McDonald’s down the street, just past the 19th century column of the Immaculate Conception on your right.   For those keeping track, this is officially the second McDonald’s of the walk.

This one in particular is supremely important, though, as Italy’s first when it opened in 1986, much to the ire of thousands of protestors who crowded in the square.  Strangely, the New York Times recalls congregants waving banners in praise of Clint Eastwood, already a Italian folk hero from starring in the first “spaghetti” westerns.  It seems he had just banned fast food chains in Carmel, the California town where he was mayor.  Meanwhile, here in the piazza, a man named Carlo Petrini doled out plates of pasta to folks outside of the McDonald’s, and ultimately founded the Slow Food Movement in 1989 in response.

Walking past the McDonald’s and taking the next left, we’ll now head to Via Francesco Crispi to talk about more film stuff.

 \|||// With apologies to Caffè Greco, its British cousin on your left, Babington’s Tea Room, is probably the ultimate expression of the Grand Tour, or at least its last gasp.  Upon its opening in 1893, Babington’s was basically the first place in Italy to serve tea outside of a pharmacy, and attracted a great many wealthy young Britons as a result.  

So what was the Grand tour, you ask? Wealthy families, typically British, would send their kids on a sort of proto-Gap Year, particularly between the 17th and 19th centuries.  With an educated tour guide in tow, the young men would typically travel across the Strait of Dover, through France, into the Alps, and to the most famous cities of what would become Italy. It was an education that no university could provide.  

Many Brits came to Italy believing that its temperate weather would help heal their tuberculosis, or whatever self-inflicted ailment they might’ve had.  Probably around the same number, then, ended up dying here, and that included the poet John Keats, whose deathbed you’ll find in his house on the right, just opposite Babington’s.  If you have an extra five euros and a bit of time, I will say that the museum provides a fascinating insight into the Grand Tour, 19th century expatriate life in Rome, and above all, the lives of the Romantics.  Or, if you prefer pre-surrealist painting set in a pristine, mid-century modern home, check out Giorgio De Chirico’s House just to the right of the pharmacy: between both, you can immerse yourself in several generations of bourgeoisie living.

Certainly the aristocracy found themselves attracted by the spectacle of these, the so-called Spanish Steps.  First opened in 1725, they were designed to link the church at the top of the hill, actually belonging to the French, to the Palazzo Monaldeschi at the bottom, which is the Spanish Embassy to the Vatican and the oldest embassy in the world.  It’s a great place to congregate with friends, and has been immortalized on film countless times, from Roman Holiday to The Talented Mr. Ripley, to a 1952 film appropriately-titled Girls of the Spanish Steps.

Before we leave, just a quick word on the McDonald’s down the street, just past the 19th century column of the Immaculate Conception on your right.   For those keeping track, this is officially the second McDonald’s of the walk.

This one in particular is supremely important, though, as Italy’s first when it opened in 1986, much to the ire of thousands of protestors who crowded in the square.  Strangely, the New York Times recalls congregants waving banners in praise of Clint Eastwood, already a Italian folk hero from starring in the first “spaghetti” westerns.  It seems he had just banned fast food chains in Carmel, the California town where he was mayor.  Meanwhile, here in the piazza, a man named Carlo Petrini doled out plates of pasta to folks outside of the McDonald’s, and ultimately founded the Slow Food Movement in 1989 in response.

Walking past the McDonald’s and taking the next left, we’ll now head to Via Francesco Crispi to talk about more film stuff.

10steps.jpg

The Grand Tour Up the Spanish Steps

9SpanishStepsScored.mp3

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This, the Municipal Gallery of Modern Art -- or more specifically, its wall out front -- had a role in one of the most heartbreaking moments in film history.  Originally a monastery, it was converted to an art museum, eventually named “Galleria Mussolini” in 1931 before being closed thanks to its namesake’s war.  

Prior to the museum’s reopening in 1949, it was on this wall that a poor, simple man named Antonio -- famously played by the non-actor Lamberto Maggiorani -- was doing his job, pasting a movie poster of Rita Hayworth.  In doing so, however, Antonio fails to keep an eye out for his bike, allowing a thief to snatch it away and sending his life in freefall thereafter.  The movie I’m talking about, of course, is Vittorio de Sica’s Bicycle Thieves, one that is, or should be, found on every film history syllabus.  In a way, it almost suffers from too much praise, but I trust that those who watch it with an open mind today tend to be shocked by how bare, how brutal, how tragic is its portrayal of humanity, or lack thereof, during postwar Italy.  

It may be a bit more weepy than Rossellini, a bit less flashy than Visconti, but Bicycle Thieves is a centerpiece of the brief era of so-called “neorealism” which totally reconstructed all cinematic convention amidst the ruins of the country, as non-actors such as Maggiorani reflected the real emotional and economic struggle that Italians were facing after the war.

As we work our way down the hill, past the Gagosian Gallery on your left, we trace the footsteps of Antonio as he chases his down the thief, and his last bit of self-respect, as both disappear into the tunnel in the distance.  

Let’s leave neorealism behind where, after a brief flirtation with the ancients, we’ll move boldly toward the future, working our way back to good old Fred Fellini.

24 Via Francesco Crispi \|||// This, the Municipal Gallery of Modern Art -- or more specifically, its wall out front -- had a role in one of the most heartbreaking moments in film history.  Originally a monastery, it was converted to an art museum, eventually named “Galleria Mussolini” in 1931 before being closed thanks to its namesake’s war.  

Prior to the museum’s reopening in 1949, it was on this wall that a poor, simple man named Antonio -- famously played by the non-actor Lamberto Maggiorani -- was doing his job, pasting a movie poster of Rita Hayworth.  In doing so, however, Antonio fails to keep an eye out for his bike, allowing a thief to snatch it away and sending his life in freefall thereafter.  The movie I’m talking about, of course, is Vittorio de Sica’s Bicycle Thieves, one that is, or should be, found on every film history syllabus.  In a way, it almost suffers from too much praise, but I trust that those who watch it with an open mind today tend to be shocked by how bare, how brutal, how tragic is its portrayal of humanity, or lack thereof, during postwar Italy.  

It may be a bit more weepy than Rossellini, a bit less flashy than Visconti, but Bicycle Thieves is a centerpiece of the brief era of so-called “neorealism” which totally reconstructed all cinematic convention amidst the ruins of the country, as non-actors such as Maggiorani reflected the real emotional and economic struggle that Italians were facing after the war.

As we work our way down the hill, past the Gagosian Gallery on your left, we trace the footsteps of Antonio as he chases his down the thief, and his last bit of self-respect, as both disappear into the tunnel in the distance.  

Let’s leave neorealism behind where, after a brief flirtation with the ancients, we’ll move boldly toward the future, working our way back to good old Fred Fellini.

11thieves1.jpg

Bicycle Thieves

10BicycleScored.mp3

11thieves.jpg

As the sign attests before you, we’re now at the Vicus Caprarius, part of the National Cinematheque that serves as an invaluable archive of film posters and stills. Before COVID, you could catch free film screenings with regularity just downstairs.  In fact, I myself caught a showing of the very stupid 1988 film Fantozzi Retires on this very site just a few years ago! 

Of greater interest, though, is what they discovered here during an expansion of the facilities at the end of the 1990s: an apartment from the 1st century A.D., which was later converted to an upper-class home featuring some 800 coins and a pool that is still fed by the Aqua Virgo aqueduct.  This ancient aqueduct, meaning “virgin waters,” was supposedly discovered in 19 B.C. with the help of a young virgin who pointed some Roman soldiers to a spring that seemingly manifested from nothing.  Though the font itself had been here since ancient times, the Goths had cut off access to the aqueducts at the fall of the Empire, and obviously this home and its pool had long since been forgotten, until the cinema came around and saved the day. 

Recently, it seems the space h\above has been bought out by Harry’s Bar and is now a boutique hotel, oddly enough, meaning that perhaps the days of free films amidst Roman ruins are now long gone.  Still, you should still be able to visit the home for about five euros, a decent price for a rare glimpse into domestic life in ancient times.

If not, you can still bear witness to the story of the virgin waters by following your ear to our next site, just around the corner. 

25 Vicolo del Puttarello \|||// As the sign attests before you, we’re now at the Vicus Caprarius, part of the National Cinematheque that serves as an invaluable archive of film posters and stills. Before COVID, you could catch free film screenings with regularity just downstairs.  In fact, I myself caught a showing of the very stupid 1988 film Fantozzi Retires on this very site just a few years ago! 

Of greater interest, though, is what they discovered here during an expansion of the facilities at the end of the 1990s: an apartment from the 1st century A.D., which was later converted to an upper-class home featuring some 800 coins and a pool that is still fed by the Aqua Virgo aqueduct.  This ancient aqueduct, meaning “virgin waters,” was supposedly discovered in 19 B.C. with the help of a young virgin who pointed some Roman soldiers to a spring that seemingly manifested from nothing.  Though the font itself had been here since ancient times, the Goths had cut off access to the aqueducts at the fall of the Empire, and obviously this home and its pool had long since been forgotten, until the cinema came around and saved the day. 

Recently, it seems the space h\above has been bought out by Harry’s Bar and is now a boutique hotel, oddly enough, meaning that perhaps the days of free films amidst Roman ruins are now long gone.  Still, you should still be able to visit the home for about five euros, a decent price for a rare glimpse into domestic life in ancient times.

If not, you can still bear witness to the story of the virgin waters by following your ear to our next site, just around the corner. 

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The City of Water

11TreviCinemaScored.mp3

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OK, the Trevi Fountain:  It is not ugly, and certainly this fact is in large part responsible for its fame. Amongst the Baroque, oceanic ornamentation, you can see the story of the virgin portrayed in the panels that flank the sea god Oceanus, above the figures representing abundance and health.  

It wasn’t until 1629 that this immense project was conceived, and not until 1732 did work begin on Nicola Salvi’s design at the behest of Pope Clement XII, and not until 1765, when all involved were already dead, was the work finally completed. 

The Trevi, so named for its location at the intersection of three streets (tre vie in italian, or trivium in Latin), was built over half of a palace it still butts up against, and its beauty certainly merits such destruction.  But, like so many sites in Rome, it was made particularly famous thanks to, you guessed it: movies!

Of course, we all know that Mary-Kate and Ashley shot their landmark film When in Rome onsite in 2002, while in 2003’s The Lizzie McGuire Movie, hunky Roman pop star Paolo mistakes Lizzie for some other floozy after she tosses a Euro in the fountain.  The problem here, though, is that the girls only toss one.  They say one coin ensures your return to Rome, and two will find you love.  But if you want to lock that down, Lizzie, you toss three coins with your right hand over your left shoulder.  That’s why Paolo turned out to be a cheater, because you only tossed one coin.

The tradition of sacrificing to the wishing well goes way back to ancient times, and the connection between money and romance seems to date back to Three Coins in the Fountain, a 1954 film starring Dorothy -- not Lizzie -- McGuire.  But its most famous, and best, cameo had a different message.

After ambling around these alleyways blissfully ignorant, impossibly beautiful, with a confused Marcello Mastroianni chasing her around, blindly in love, Anita Ekberg’s Silvia gasps.  “Oh my goodness…”  Out of nowhere, the fountain appears, and, unconcerned by convention or perception, she wades in, beckoning Marcello to follow as Nino Rota’s soundtrack strums harps as if played by the angels.  Muttering to himself, knowing how foolish this all is, Marcello goes in after her.  The harps fade and Marcello can do nothing but bask in the glow of her beauty, perhaps afraid or unwilling to move past his ignorant, objectifying brand of human connection.  The sound drops out, Silvia playfully drips water on his head as if to Baptize him, and then poof, the dream is over.   

Those who try to reenact this famous scene from La Dolce Vita today will face a fine of at least 500 euros, but the truth is that even Marcello Mastroianni was not so eager to get in the filthy, freezing water, only doing so after wearing a wetsuit beneath his clothes, then downing a bottle of vodka.  Like it or not, it was an iconic moment, and upon his death in 1996, the city draped the fountain in black ribbon in homage to the great actor.

Let’s head to the left of the fountain to visit our final two ancient film sets, and then you’ll be free to explore on your own,whether full of vodka or not.

Piazza di Trevi \|||// OK, the Trevi Fountain:  It is not ugly, and certainly this fact is in large part responsible for its fame. Amongst the Baroque, oceanic ornamentation, you can see the story of the virgin portrayed in the panels that flank the sea god Oceanus, above the figures representing abundance and health.  

It wasn’t until 1629 that this immense project was conceived, and not until 1732 did work begin on Nicola Salvi’s design at the behest of Pope Clement XII, and not until 1765, when all involved were already dead, was the work finally completed. 

The Trevi, so named for its location at the intersection of three streets (tre vie in italian, or trivium in Latin), was built over half of a palace it still butts up against, and its beauty certainly merits such destruction.  But, like so many sites in Rome, it was made particularly famous thanks to, you guessed it: movies!

Of course, we all know that Mary-Kate and Ashley shot their landmark film When in Rome onsite in 2002, while in 2003’s The Lizzie McGuire Movie, hunky Roman pop star Paolo mistakes Lizzie for some other floozy after she tosses a Euro in the fountain.  The problem here, though, is that the girls only toss one.  They say one coin ensures your return to Rome, and two will find you love.  But if you want to lock that down, Lizzie, you toss three coins with your right hand over your left shoulder.  That’s why Paolo turned out to be a cheater, because you only tossed one coin.

The tradition of sacrificing to the wishing well goes way back to ancient times, and the connection between money and romance seems to date back to Three Coins in the Fountain, a 1954 film starring Dorothy -- not Lizzie -- McGuire.  But its most famous, and best, cameo had a different message.

After ambling around these alleyways blissfully ignorant, impossibly beautiful, with a confused Marcello Mastroianni chasing her around, blindly in love, Anita Ekberg’s Silvia gasps.  “Oh my goodness…”  Out of nowhere, the fountain appears, and, unconcerned by convention or perception, she wades in, beckoning Marcello to follow as Nino Rota’s soundtrack strums harps as if played by the angels.  Muttering to himself, knowing how foolish this all is, Marcello goes in after her.  The harps fade and Marcello can do nothing but bask in the glow of her beauty, perhaps afraid or unwilling to move past his ignorant, objectifying brand of human connection.  The sound drops out, Silvia playfully drips water on his head as if to Baptize him, and then poof, the dream is over.   

Those who try to reenact this famous scene from La Dolce Vita today will face a fine of at least 500 euros, but the truth is that even Marcello Mastroianni was not so eager to get in the filthy, freezing water, only doing so after wearing a wetsuit beneath his clothes, then downing a bottle of vodka.  Like it or not, it was an iconic moment, and upon his death in 1996, the city draped the fountain in black ribbon in homage to the great actor.

Let’s head to the left of the fountain to visit our final two ancient film sets, and then you’ll be free to explore on your own,whether full of vodka or not.

13trevi.jpg

Love at the Trevi Fountain

12TreviFountainScored.mp3

We’re now in the Piazza della Pietra, in front of the monumentally columnal Temple of Hadrian, located in the former space known as the Campus Martius, or “Field of Mars.”  Built in 145 A.D. to honor Emperor Hadrian, the eleven fluted columns and wall were in ruins by the 17th century.  Thankfully, they were then salvaged by incorporating them into a papal palace from the same era, one that now serves as the Roman Stock Exchange.

This weird juxtaposition between the ancient and modern worlds was not lost on Michelangelo Antonioni, who in 1962 chose this as a key location in The Eclipse, the final film of his “trilogy of contemporary malaise.”  

It is here that Vittoria, played by the incomparable Roman, Monica Vitti, meets the dreamy, emotionally void stock broker, Paolo.  Amidst the thrilling pace of the stock exchange, Vittoria falls for Paolo, and dumps her lowly writer boyfriend (loser!).  What follows is yet another pessimistic story of modern love as a proxy for the impossibility that one might find any kind of humanity in such a cold, selfish world.

Many have noted Antonioni’s use of architecture as an expression of this general feeling of ennui, something I think he takes to the next level a year later in his masterpiece, Red Desert.  Against the hyper-modern, sterile setting of the EUR, a sort of epic business park built by Mussolini in the southern suburbs of Rome, the stock exchange maintains some semblance of romance, of spirit, of hope that mankind will, somehow, keep on trucking into the next phase, not unlike the Temple of Hadrian evolved into this new form.

Now, for our final stop, we’ll continue on the same street heading west toward the city’s most striking set of all.

147 Via de' Burrò \|||// We’re now in the Piazza della Pietra, in front of the monumentally columnal Temple of Hadrian, located in the former space known as the Campus Martius, or “Field of Mars.”  Built in 145 A.D. to honor Emperor Hadrian, the eleven fluted columns and wall were in ruins by the 17th century.  Thankfully, they were then salvaged by incorporating them into a papal palace from the same era, one that now serves as the Roman Stock Exchange.

This weird juxtaposition between the ancient and modern worlds was not lost on Michelangelo Antonioni, who in 1962 chose this as a key location in The Eclipse, the final film of his “trilogy of contemporary malaise.”  

It is here that Vittoria, played by the incomparable Roman, Monica Vitti, meets the dreamy, emotionally void stock broker, Paolo.  Amidst the thrilling pace of the stock exchange, Vittoria falls for Paolo, and dumps her lowly writer boyfriend (loser!).  What follows is yet another pessimistic story of modern love as a proxy for the impossibility that one might find any kind of humanity in such a cold, selfish world.

Many have noted Antonioni’s use of architecture as an expression of this general feeling of ennui, something I think he takes to the next level a year later in his masterpiece, Red Desert.  Against the hyper-modern, sterile setting of the EUR, a sort of epic business park built by Mussolini in the southern suburbs of Rome, the stock exchange maintains some semblance of romance, of spirit, of hope that mankind will, somehow, keep on trucking into the next phase, not unlike the Temple of Hadrian evolved into this new form.

Now, for our final stop, we’ll continue on the same street heading west toward the city’s most striking set of all.

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