Consciousness is a breeding ground without dialogue. I foresee your dreams, but I have no way of knowing your thoughts.
The color of consciousness explained throughout the film is cold and pitiful, like sweating profusely in a dream. The floating personality and ethics stared at by the stripped-out objects, the isolated men and women entertaining themselves, the monochromatic picture formed by crumpling the elements, is like an inner pantomime of silent trial by everyone.
The flowing breath of black and white can indeed give a more simplified and sharper expression of the stream of consciousness, similar to the love of Hiroshima. But the level of inspiration and representation is much deeper, and there are traces of the subtle wildness and wit in Fellini's audiovisual approach.
There is no dialogue at the end of the film. After the person leaves, the landing grid is completely black, and only the hidden disease is quietly making trouble.
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