Audiences at Cannes laughed at the serious scenes in L'Avventura in 1960—so much so that lead actress Monica Vitta left the screening in tears. Fortunately, critics found it much more to their liking, awarding Michelangelo Antonioni's visually rich treatise on wealthy meaninglessness with the Jury Prize that year. A film before its time?

Although Antonioni's film was a pioneering breakthrough, it would still only play to small arthouse audiences today, a handful of whom would appreciate its visual artistry and relate to its bleakness. The rest would stare blankly at the screen, realizing that they are supposed to like this critically acclaimed film but would remain essentially clueless about its content. You can imagine them emerging from the theater asking whether "we" liked it, uttering non-committal remarks like, "That was interesting," or even courageously asking, "What the hell was that about?"

We live in an age where most viewers expect to be spoon fed cinematic messages, and even foreign film fans don't expect to work much more than read the sub-titles. (From the description of the initial derisive response at Cannes, it's not much different from those days.) Not for everyone, few will appreciate it the first time around. I wasn't blown away by it the first time through—more accurately, I could only describe my initial reaction as intrigued and haunted by some scenes. It's a film that stays with you and begs for revisiting—a film that must be taken in slowly, like a Chardonnay, to appreciate.

Criterion blesses us with a noteworthy presentation that not only allows multiple viewings, but contains Gene Youngblood's excellent explication of Antonioni's landmark film and a supplemental disc of archive footage and biographical information on the director. All of which makes L'Avventura more accessible than before.

It never played in the theaters where I lived, nor was it easily available via video when Blockbuster rentals boomed. It's a film that cinephiles and film students will come across as they seek the arthouse fare to add to their visual literacy because of its high critical standing. Pauline Kael declared it the best film of the year, the 1962 Sight & Sound poll listed it right behind Citizen Kane, and L'Avventura remained in Sight & Sound's top ten list until 1992.

Not much happens as far as the surface plot is concerned, but deep insights into the main characters emerge. At the outset Anna (Lea Massari), daughter of a well-to-do businessman, joins other wealthy friends on a yachting adventure in the volcanic islands off the coast of Sicily. All of them seem bored—in Antonioni's characteristic style, they look off in different directions when in the same frame, each self-absorbed. Her boyfriend Sandro (Gabriele Ferzetti) is only interested in his next fuck, yet Anna only stares off vacantly. Other couples parallel the same ennui. To create some excitement, Anna cries "shark"; the others finally show some sparks of life, but soon after the party lands on a barren rocky island that mirrors their empty lives.

Anna expresses her boredom and desire to be alone; soon she disappears. The whole party begins a search, but there's no Anna on the rocks and no Anna in the sea. Before long, they become bored with the search and move on with their original cruise plans, with only Sandro and Anna's closest friend, Claudia (Vitta), left behind to continue the search. Before long Sandro is lusting and chasing after Claudia under the pretext of looking for his girlfriend, but all this is secondary to the cinematic artistry of the film.

Antonioni uses the camera as a character, communicating far more complications beneath its surface. It's no coincidence that Sandro is framed and associated with architectural structures—he's an architect who once dreamed of creating great works of art but has settled for the functional. His "accidental" ink spilling on a young architect's rendering is purposeful and reveals his character as much as his continual quest for sexual conquest. He's very much like one of the buildings that he's visually associated with in many frames�essentially empty and vacant.

Claudia remains in emotional turmoil through much of the film with the landscape mirroring her emotions, like the wind swept vistas or ocean waves that frame her face at critical junctions. Twice she asks Sandro whether he loves her, suspecting that he doesn't. No matter what the answer, Antonioni's visuals communicate the truth about the relationship.

The silences allow the viewer a chance to use the brain while the dormant Mt. Vesuvius, crashing waves, wind swept trees, or barren volcanic rocks all serve as visual metaphors to dig deeper into the souls of the characters. For people raised on video games, L'Avventura will seem pretentious and will test their tolerance to unprecedented levels—expect them to tune out within the first half-hour. The multiplex crowd will certainly declare the film overrated and incredibly boring, but people who love visual art will find themselves mesmerized with a compelling imagery that lives on far longer than the latest Star Wars saber duel.

We all crave distraction but can find it deceptively empty. A few realize how shallow the current crop of special effects extravaganzas truly are, finding they are utterly bored with the latest B movie with the A budget. For a cure, seek out this old Italian film by one of the true visual masters. Contrasting the lively Fellini (who explored the decadence and boredom of the wealthy in La Dolce Vita the same year), Antonioni addresses essential matters of the soul and spirit in a much quieter manner, with simplicity and economy. Those who pick up on the visual language will come away fulfilled, certain to revisit L'Avventura again and again. Visual seekers will never find out definitively what happened to Anna, but are likely to gain additional insights into their own psyches.