Biggest Trailer DataBase's video: BOCCACCIO 70 1962 Theatrical Trailer - Anita Ekberg Sophia Loren Romy Schneider

In Act I, Renzo e Luciana, director Mario Monicelli introduces us to an errand boy (Germano Gilioli) and a bookkeeper (the gorgeous Marisa Solinas) who are deeply, secretly in love. Luciana's been feeling nauseated, and suspects she may be pregnant, so the two get wedded in a makeshift, spur-of-the-moment ceremony that's met with disapproval by her stern parents. Since they don't make enough on their meager salaries to buy a place of their own, Renzo and Luciana have to move into her family's cramped apartment, which leaves them no privacy on their wedding night—or any other night, for that matter. The sexual tension is palpable. All they want to do is do it, but the walls are thin, dad is playing poker in the next room with his buds, and someone is blaring a boxing match on television. The mood ain't exactly right. Making matters worse, they have to keep their nuptials a secret from their boss, a lecher who forbids his female employees from getting hitched and making babies, partially because there was no maternity leave in those days, but mostly because the guy wants to seduce his workers himself. At its core, the film is about pressure—the pressure to have (or not have) premarital sex, the pressure to get hitched if you get knocked up, and the financial pressure of being young and immaturely married—and the sexually stymied couple is portrayed beautifully by Gilioli and Salinas as horny, frustrated, and not quite in control of their own lives. In Act II, Fellini's Le tentazioni del dottor Antonio, the false virtue under fire is prudery—specifically the fiery, religious brand of indignation towards sex that's typically the result of repression and guilt. Peppino de Filippo stars as Antonio Mazzuolo, a self-righteous citizen who takes it upon himself to crusade for public decency. He's a pious tyrant, basically, the kind of guy who goes down to Lover's Lane to shine bright lights on the couples making out in their cars. What really gets his goat, though, is when an advertising agency erects a billboard in the vacant lot across from his home, with the image of a sultry, large-chested sex-bomb blond—Anita Ekberg, looking like a precursor to Anna-Nicole Smith—reclining bare-legged on a couch and holding a frosty glass of milk. Antonio calls it "an offense to the most sacred aspect of maternity"—breastfeeding—and makes it his mission to get the sign taken down. His quixotically sanctimonious obsession leads gradually to all-out insanity, as Antonio imagines the woman coming down out of the billboard and stomping around town, a curvy giantess intent on exposing her lewdness to the innocent and pure of mind. It's Fellini's take on Attack of the 50 Foot Woman, and it's every bit as bizarre as you'd imagine, with double entendre imagery galore —see the fire hose spraying the breasts on the billboard—and a great deal of comedy at the intersection of the supposedly sacred and so-called profane. Luchino Visconti's contribution, Il lavoro, is the film's weakest and strongest entry. Weakest because it doesn't fit as well with the others—it's a rather serious, dialogue-heavy parlor drama, while the others are essentially sex farces—and strongest because it's the film that best stands alone if viewed separately. Like several of Visconti's films, it's about the unsatisfied lives of the rich and fabulously bored. In this case, it follows the crumbling relationship of an aristocratic couple who married for convenience and mutual wealth. The husband, Ottavio (Tomas Milian), a count, has just become embroiled in a Silvio Berlusconi-esque sex scandal—he was caught frolicking with high-class prostitutes—and he's being lambasted daily in the press. This has obviously upset his wife—played by the supremely elegant Romy Schneider—who has retreated to her room, comforted by a litter of kittens. (Really.) The contessa is convinced she's going to find some kind of job and prove to her husband and father that she's worth more than her good looks, but this proves difficult. Ennui-afflicted, she spends most of the story getting dressed, undressed, and dressed again, putting on a series of fancy outfits as if these superficial changes could somehow give her meaning. Schneider's performance aches with sad beauty, and as always, Visconti is a master of control and perception, finding the chips in the gilded veneer of a moneyed life. In the context of the other parts, Il lavoro does slow down Boccaccio '70 considerably, but the ending—which I wouldn't dare spoil—is the most poignant moment in the entire film.