In 1996, Marcello Mastroianni talks about life as an actor. It’s an anecdotal and philosophical memoir, moving from topic to topic, fully conscious of a man of a certain age looking back. He tells stories about Fellini and De Sica’s direction, of using irony in performances, of constantly working (an actor tries to find himself in characters). He’s diffident about prizes, celebrates Rome and Paris, salutes Naples and its people. He answers the question, why make bad films; recalls his father and grandfather, carpenters, his mother, deaf in her old age, and his brother, a film editor; he’s modest about his looks. In repose, time’s swift passage holds Mastroianni inward gaze.