But Jep is too insightful an observer of humanity’s flaws, and too attuned to flashes of beauty in lives unlike the one he has chosen, to confine himself to ephemeral indulgences. And through his deeply humane yearning the film ascends to greater heights.

At times it resembles The Great Gatsby, where F. Scott Fitzgerald renders irresistible party scenes in gorgeous language to underscore their emptiness in relief. Yet Jep’s lot in life is unconstrained by the social hierarchies that kept Jay from Daisy for so many years; and his fate never turns on any car wreck or vengeful gunshot.

Jep is a man who makes nearly all of his consequential choices freely.

With ennui as his only real antagonist, he is confronted all the more powerfully by burgeoning doubts about whether his days have been misspent––all set against the backdrop of a life that many would envy. By artfully exploring this dissonance, The Great Beauty transcends the social milieu it so brilliantly satirizes. As in the novel Cloud Atlas, where highly particular character studies address themselves to a larger, universal question, Jep’s story ultimately probes a matter that humans can neglect for decades, but that few escape: What is the meaning of life, and how ought we to live it?

Insights are offered, or so I would argue. But they are rendered with enough subtlety and complexity, across so many scenes packed with information and open to interpretation, that contested conclusions are as inevitable as repeat viewings are profitable—whether or not The Great Beauty makes it onto your top 25 films of the century. For me, watching closely again and again has been a master course in learning how to see more deeply, and an impetus to reflect on whether I have spent my days well.

That would be a feat in any flick. That The Great Beauty achieves it with visual splendor, infectious party scenes, sparkling wit, poignant asides, and laugh-out-loud satire puts it in a special class of films that aim for excellence in every aspect and deliver.

Your concurrences and dissents are welcome at conor@theatlantic.com