Paolo Sorrentino’s new film, ‘La Grande Belleza (The Great Beauty),’ follows the long faced Jep Gambardella (Toni Servillo), an aging Italian writer and languidly energetic socialite.

Four decades ago, Jep wrote a highly acclaimed novel called ‘The Human Apparatus,’ but has not written a book since, instead working occasionally as a journalism while spending his nights submersed an elite socialite lifestyle of decadent parties, dinners, drinks and drugs. His voiceovers are self-aware, lonely. When he first arrived on Rome’s social scene, he says he wanted to be “the king of the high life,” with the power not only to attend parties but also the power to “make them a failure.” Now, four decades later, Jep owns Roman social life, but still finds himself deeply unfulfilled. He bounces back and forth between the sorrow prompted by memories of an old love that has just died, and his new, not quite fulfilling, romance with a stripper named Ramona.

We meet Gambardella in the midst of his 65^th birthday party, at a debaucherous rooftop celebration in Rome where electronic music pulses, a lecherous old man hisses at spray-tanned and spandex clad young women, an aging moviestar bursts out of a cake, and a midget woman slowly drinks herself to sleep in the corner. In a series of immersive visuals, the crowd parts for a line dance, and through a tunnel of outstretched, flexing hands and arms, we see Jep standing alone in the middle, a cigarette clenched in his teeth. Servillo emotes heavily – he dances, but with his eyes closed to an inner world that we can tell is painfully self-aware. When he opens them, his eyebrows slouch parenthetically upwards and his mouth sets into a look of almost casual dismay. Jep may drift in the present, vibrant moments of his social scene, but Servillo’s sad eyes and long, lined face emit a pathos that is almost wise, almost ancient. Jep, we come to understand, is vitally aware of his own tender insecurities, his disillusionment, and his disorientation in time and space. He bemoans his sleep schedule and lifestyle to his grounded housekeeper, but shrugs his shoulders to the external refrain from his friends and acquaintances – “Why didn’t you ever write another book?”

Although he spends his time with young actresses, aging poets, and the generally rich and famous, Jep consistently cuts down or dismisses any pretentions that the participants in his shallow lifestyle may make to youth, sincerity, or legitimacy. When one of his friends speaks with pride about her writing, political work and family, Jep criticizes her brutally, pitilessly exposing the tender insecurities at the center of her arrogance – implying that to lie to one’s self may be necessary, but to make such pretenses loudly is just embarrassing. Yet in his dismissal of his friends’ claims, Jep betrays his awareness of his own decline, and his lack of fulfillment and his fears.

Jep seems desensitized to the spaces he occupies, even as Sorrentino follows him around a city full of buildings, monuments and statues with deep artistic and religious significance. In one of the film’s most ethereal sequences, Jep speaks to a mysterious man at an outdoor, nighttime party – an old acquaintance, we assume – who produces a hefty metal box of keys that open the doors to ‘the most beautiful buildings in Rome.’ Jep and his girlfriend Ramona embark on a nighttime odyssey (detached, as far as I could tell, from spatial logic) through these buildings, and peruse famous statues, paintings and monuments by the light of their guide’s candles.

When on this midnight journey they encounter a trio of princesses playing poker around a table, it’s only characteristic of the surreal imagery that interspersed in Sorrentino’s style. Jep works for a midget woman with blue hair, a CGI giraffe makes a brief appearance, and the movie’s last act involves an aging, saintly nun with two crooked teeth. Also surreal, and sometimes even perverse, are the entertainers that Jep encounters – a knifethrower marks the outline of his shivering assistant; a young girl forced by her parents to ‘perform’ at a gathering screams as she hurls buckets of paint towards an enormous canvas; Jep meets and romances an aging stripper who still performs in her father’s strip club. Here, the comparisons to Fellini are inevitable and mostly accurate, but Sorrentino retains a unique voice and a distinct, modern vision.

Sorrentino’s use of Rome’s religious imagery is particularly immersive, and pointed. That the people, statues and buildings that surround Jep are all imbued with a deep religious significance, stands in stark contrast to his inability to find meaning in his life – he is looking for a ‘great beauty’ to appear, unable to turn around or start over for anything lesser. When he says early on that tourists are the only good people in the city, he seems to cut towards that truth – the tourists see what the native Romans are numbed to. The great beauty, Jep monologues, exists somewhere beneath and within humanity’s miserable smallness, somewhere not above or behind but within the great “embarrassment of being in the world.” Sorrentino’s extravagant, entrancing odyssey finally illustrates that what Jep has been waiting for can’t be waited for. Great beauty has been there all along.

What makes a great photograph? Well, to be honest, I don’t know. However, I’ve decided to dedicate some serious time to figuring it out. I don’t have the painter’s touch, but I do know that the eye can be trained to see and capture beauty in ways that will astound the viewer. Something I learned recently is that photography is not a documented fact. One scene contains infinite possibilities from behind the lens and beauty comes in many different angles, apertures, subject matters, and visions.

As I walked this morning from the Engineering Campus to the Music School, the snow was falling so thickly that I could barely see the people slipping and sliding five feet in front of me. One hour later, the thundersnow had subsided, but was replaced with sleet wetting the pathways preparing to freeze overnight. Yesterday, the sun was shining, it was a heavenly 40 degrees and I didn’t feel compelled to zip up my coat as I walked to my car.

Anyone who has lived in Michigan longer than a few years has become accustomed to the volatile weather, and immune to the emotional whiplash which it can bring upon out-of-staters whose previous winters consisted of lows of 58 degrees. In the turbulence of this weather, I have found a sense of calm and normalcy.

On January 23 I wrote a blog post titled: Undeniably a Type A. After I had posted the blog I received a message asking me two questions which up until this point I have neglected to answer because I wanted to write a thoughtful response. The questions were as follows:

“1) When is it appropriate to draw the line: Not in the sense of when to call off the maneuver when handed an exceptionally challenging task (I think that one is obvious), but rather when does one accept ‘I am truly successful.’ I don’t think it is a trivial thing to simply be proud of your accomplishments without desire for more.

2) Are type A personalities born or grown?”

I will not pretend to have the answers to either question but will do my best to answer them in regard to my personal experience as best as I am able.

On the wall above my bed I have posters of famous opera singers, old ticket stubs and a few quotes which I have collected over the years. One of these quotes is from Martha Graham, an American modern dancer and choreographer who defined the genre. She said “No artist is pleased. There is no satisfaction whatever at any time. There is only a queer, divine dissatisfaction; a blessed unrest that keeps us marching and makes us more alive than the others”. In a rather serious conversation which I had in December, I was told by a friend that he feared that I will never be happy because the intense drive to success which I harbor will never allow me to be content. I partially agree with his concern, I agree that I will never be content instead I will to strive to accomplish more success than realistically is possible. This is primarily because I derive pleasure and happiness from the fight for success, and have found with contentment comes complacency. So to answer the first question, I personally will never accept “I am truly successful” because for me, the level of success which I seek is not humanly possible and I enjoy working toward this impossible goal.

I am a firm believer in nurture over nature, and so believe that Type As are grown rather than born. I believe that the Type A-ness which my siblings and I display comes from not the genes which we all share but the fact that in our household a new normal was set.

Just as I have become accustomed to Michigan weather changing every 10 minutes, I became accustomed to a standard of “normal” which is different from society’s collective normal. My brother played piano so naturally I played piano. My brother got good grades while playing football so I got good grades while playing softball. In high school I danced professionally, sang in the school musical, and played in the band so my sister did as well. In order to get everything done, we became type As because it was normal to be incredibly busy and expected that we succeed in all activities which we pursued.

In no way am I arguing that by being a Type A I will be happier or more successful than anyone else. For me, it is and always will be my normal. Just as 40 degree temperature swings are Michigan’s normal. Perhaps one day I will find a new normal, but until then I will continue in my Type A ways.

He had told me one time about his travels in some sort of ephemeral place that seemed to shift in form and magnitude each time he spilled forth his stories.

Paddling along a river that was so highly elevated that you could see the peaks of mountains and the goats that sprang from rock to rock along the side of its facade; the very clouds danced around the summit as sharks do around a shipwreck at the bottom of a shallow sea. But no, actually, it was more like he could see the outreaching hand of man streaking across the sky in the hopes of reaching the edge of heaven, a blasphemous form and idea. Or rather…perhaps, no, it couldn’t be; am I that close to heaven? It certainly felt that way. A fleeting moment that leaves a white gash streaking across your very psyche; or perhaps something far more divine than such a human attempt at understanding; the attempt at defining the ephemeral existence of non-existence. How I long to make what I see, what I see. This moment of serene resignation. This particular moment, he was I; for since, then I have changed. Yet I was you, but can I really say that? Can my own experiences be shared with you? I seemed to be able to share it with myself quite comfortably. Yet to say that I shared the incident and its relative insights with myself would be quite a leap for I do not believe that the person who experienced that event was the same person who existed one second before the occurrence nor do I believe that he is the same person that is writing this story right now. Truth be told, he existed only for a brief moment, the creature was as cursory as the moment.

Yet, that doesn’t make my hindsight any less credible. Sure, had I written about it at that exact moment maybe I could have gotten down my thoughts far more lucidly. But then I would have never felt it as I had felt it. I would not now have the same memory of the feeling; since, the very enigmatic impression would have been altered by my foolish decision to scribble away at something that could have been absorbed naturally. To call me selfish would be fair, I am selfish. But let it be known that I am attempting to share it with you. Just as my self that existed then shared it with the self that exists now, I will now share it with you. Or rather, I have already shared it with you haven’t I? Scratch that, no I haven’t.

The calm water caressed my paddle as it dipped into the motherly liquid once again, only to emerge. Pushed out by its own mother in a solemn manner; over and over again. Beneath the serene surface were hundreds of jellyfish, lingering and soothing their bodies within the warm embrace of their homes. The breeze gently swayed the branches of the trees back and forth, making them wave at me and my company. As we paddled forward, the clouds seemed to move aside as a ray of light came reaching down to touch the water to turn it into ichor. The gleaming golden hue blinded me and forced my eyes upwards. There I saw the double gates of color that led me further into a domain where I had not been before. Arching fixtures of light that brought my mind to elementary levels while at the same time, befuddling me with inexplicable awe. I never knew such formations could exist. Yet there they were before my eyes, two rainbows, designed with such care, control, and calculation; the hand of a great artist had painted the sky for me that day. As we passed under the portal, I could no longer see it as I looked up at it from beneath, just as quickly as it had appeared, it had disappeared. Yet, as I looked back after gliding under its belly, I saw that it had once again materialized. It still looked the same; a facade on both sides. Oh! Had I entered or left? Not long did I dwindle upon this query when the chill of my inaptitude knocked invasively upon my physical experience. I quickly asked my companions as to why it had gotten so cold. We had been underneath the thirsty golden tongue not so long ago yet, we were now struck by a bitter and sudden cold. Then a shadow slowly began to creep towards me along the surface of the once golden gore. A point slashed the pleasant cerulean sky, making the azure bleed white globules that formed into beings that drifted off to form new families and communities. I had stopped paddling. How had we gotten so close to the peak of this giant? To have been going on a flat surface this entire time, to meet this epitome of height and grandeur. Truly the world is not flat, nor is it round; it twists, turns, zigs and zags. Without any real communication between any of us, we had all stopped paddling and floated in our plastic containers. Some took pictures, I did not. How can the limited capture the infinite? I simply sat there in my confined plastic mould, my plastic tomb, that was where my old mind died and a new one was born. For, my reluctance to take a picture of the scene was not because I believed my mind to be capable of taking a snapshot. Rather, I trusted that my mind would remember the feeling, the painful peace. Just as we finish documenting one thing, the horizon expands again.

Such a sad thing, you are still not there. Well, neither am I. Perhaps, if we go to the islands off the coast of British Columbia one day, we can experience the ephemeral.