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Remembering Federico Fellini: "I wanted to be a stationmaster"

Abstract

Recollections of my three-years friendship with Fellini.

Remembering Federico Fellini: “I wanted to be a stationmaster”. Andrea Perruccio Time is a child playing draughts, the kingly power is a child’s. Heraclitus of Ephesus After his death on October 31, 1993, how bold and reckless was my commitment to recollect a ‘celebrity’, so affectionately interviewed until the beginning of the same year! … In those days the room for pain and dismay, as he was admitted to hospital after the heart attack that would prove fatal, seemed almost swallowed up by shameless clamouring and chasing scoops … Inevitably embittered by this whirlpool of frustrated projections of all shades on the celebrity’s helpless agony, I could do nothing but recall my private friend, and try to protect my gentle memory of him. And it is still so, twenty-eight years later. Even to this day, I wonder whether it is possible to grab the meaning of a three-year friendship, tested through rendezvous at his “ufficetto” (tiny office) at Corso d’Italia in Rome or at Cinecittà, delicious lunches at restaurants (where meat strips were cooked “like by my grandmother at Gambettola”), and intense conversations about the cinema of the past. Quite often, whether in person or on the phone, he used to be taken by surprise in moments of gloom and distrust, interrupted by sudden flashes which brought up his acrobatic clown instinct, as well as the laziness of an actually reborn “vitellone”. Some sort of childlike artistry was in his blood. On one occasion the phone rang in his “ufficetto”. In order not to be found at home, he warned me of a forthcoming sideshow act of his: he answered the phone with a falsetto voice, pretending that a very thorough secretary should screen unwelcome calls … Another day, at lunch time, a quite formal maître d’hôtel would tease Federico’s imaginative irony. He told me, as if he were on the set, shooting a dynamic frame: “Figure him out with white lead and sequins, upturned butt, and dignified flatteries… how ridiculous and touching!”: the augustoclown was mocking a disciplinarian white-clown ... His interest in paranormal and mediumistic phenomena was tied to his openness to the inexplicable complexity of human life, to his sense of wonder, in the words of Frank Burke, “at the mystery and uncontainability of experience”. It was obvious that some scholars have attributed it to the excess normally linked to his authorial mytho-biography. But he did not expect I was somehow fascinated by this issue. Our very first date was born from a funny coincidence: let me take a step backwards. In July 1975 I was bedridden after a football accident, with a 40-days plaster cast. One night I saw in a dream Fellini coming to visit me, with black hat and cape: wishing me a speedy recovery, he gave me as a gift a full-colour comic book. I’ve been trying to remember what I knew then about him and his filmography: perhaps La Strada, certainly La Dolce Vita, but above all 8½ had impressed me (I must have missed the very recent Amarcord). Years go by. In January 1989 the director of the Florentine Review “Nuova Antologia” asked me to publish a correspondence between Fellini and Ennio Flaiano (dead in 1972), his outstanding scriptwriter from Variety Lights to Juliet of the Spirits. A meeting-interview was arranged in Rome and I met Fellini in March 1990. After some reluctance, he accepted the publishing proposal, giving me total freedom (with neither proofreading nor checking …), and warmly inviting me to keep in touch. After the publication he called me in Rome: he felt so grateful that he didn’t know how to “reciprocate the favour”. Then he took out a book from the shelf and gave it to me as a present. It was Milo Manara, Viaggio a Tulum, from a Fellini’s subject: a full-colour comic book … Since then, I have never mistrusted ominous experiences. The point is that Federico, thrilled by my story, took me in a taxi to the nearest bookstore and gifted me some half a dozen books on esotericism and extrasensory involvement: in subsequent months he didn’t fail to be informed of my further premonitory exploits … On other occasions, his wonder in the face of everyday, harmless events of reality reached the peak. Welcoming me once at Bar Canova in Piazza del Popolo, he was bouncing off the walls: he was proud of rescuing some American tourists from the attack of a swarm of pigeons to their precious canapés on outdoor tables. Someday in the winter of 1991, while preparing his third commercial for Banca di Roma, in the grip of irrepressible joy he called me by phone: “Andrea, come quickly to Cinecittà: I have eventually found something very impressive! A pass will be ready for you at the entrance”. I took the first train and arrived in a flash. Glowing like a child, Federico let me in his legendary studio: it was wallpapered with blown-up pictures of … old-fashioned locomotives, from which he was to choose the most suitable for his commercial with Paolo Villaggio and Fernando Rey, “The Dream of Luncheon on the grass” … Every deep affection, involving a sort of unfathomable, enigmatic dimension, feeds its mystery with a cautious empathy, almost jealous of itself. Every word of mine about Federico sounded then to me, and does sound in these days, as an excessive interference and at the same time as an unfaithful act: what’s at stake is my incapability of accounting for the elusive and intimate truth of a human being. So, whenever the concreteness of a private affection was (is) forced to deal with the easy recourse to rigid and trendy labels (the definition of the auteur as a living monument, or as an embalmed artist), I keep trying to guard against this slide by tracing back to our last conversation about Federico’s “cocooning into an amniotic sac”: his favourite metaphor for the otherness of artistic creation. “It almost seems that a creator must necessarily be seized in a trance. Why doesn’t anyone ask me to explain the only thing that matters, that is my awareness of being a craftsman who creates? When I was a child, a cutler in Rimini had a habit of modelling each knife with the utmost care: no two were alike. As for me, I wanted to be a stationmaster, a journalist, a painter, a sculptor, a sea captain. And I am doing a job that encompasses all of them” ... Florence, 31st October 2021