[The] worst thing about "Amarcord" and its immediate predecessors is that the chief joke is human ugliness. Whether it is obese women displaying their behinds on bicycles, a ridiculous-looking uncle (another one) making himself more obviously repugnant by sporting a hairnet, a female Goliath using her naked bosom as a weapon, a family dinner scene in which almost all the faces, even those of the youngsters, are profoundly unprepossessing,… the joke is always on humanity, and almost always on the easiest, cheapest, and, finally, most witless level.

There is no denying that witty satire thrives on savaging mankind, but where in "Amarcord" is there witty satire? Alternatively, where is compassion? Even the figure of the whore, whom Fellini used to depict with almost excessive, often sentimental, sympathy, has become a ghoulish, nymphomaniacal madwoman, wallowing in a crude parody of autoeroticism…. [The] best Fellini can look forward to is equaling the dismal record of Ken Russell.

And to think that this once great artist is still only 54; an age at which one hasn't even earned the right to the excuse of senility. (pp. 17, 19)