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"Psychedelic products have three side effects. The first is an increase in long-term memory, the second is a decrease in short-term memory, the third... the third I've forgotten it." (Timothy Leary)
"The Italian version is better than the original." I believe that never in the history of cinema has a director (even if nominally the direction here is entrusted to Henry Selick) preferred the dubbed film (over which he effectively cannot exert control) to "his" creation. Never until 1994, when Tim Burton uttered these exact words at the Venice Film Festival. A fawning homage to our country? No, the simple acknowledgment of a fact. This is the album that testifies to the genius of Renato Zero (and that sparked his friendship with the Burbank director). And this pseudo-review is the apology that wants to reaffirm it.
"Zero is, by far, the greatest living Italian artist." I would have considered it an absurd statement until a few years ago (also because Carmelo Bene was still alive), when I stumbled upon this soundtrack, now out of print. It led me to distance myself, at least for a while, from the various Backhaus, Schnabel, Fisher to deepen my knowledge of this strange character, generally judged (or rather, pre-judged) as a freak show. It was a fortunate encounter.
In '94, Renato had regained the full following of "sorcini" lost in the mid-80s crisis. The repositioning as a national-popular icon was complete and definitive. He could afford, once in a while, to experiment, to test himself in areas other than the usual ones. The challenge he set for himself was daunting: to credibly render a character, that of Jack Skellington, extremely multifaceted, always on the edge between innocence and malice, exaltation and depression, drama and farce, voluntary isolation and the desire for sharing. It is indeed true that Zero was favored by his approach to music, to the spectacle, of a predominantly theatrical nature; but what resulted is not mere dubbing: it is a formidable manual of acting and interpretation. The best around.
I had always wondered why in a 2000 interview the maestro Riccardo Muti, who I don't believe is a newcomer, declared that he listened to, among "light" singers, precisely Zero. This CD, (which I listened to for the first time after eating some excellent mushrooms recommended by the well-known gastronome Castaneda, and perhaps it is this very circumstance that makes it so dear to me) is the answer.
Renatino climbs the Elfman score with impressive confidence. He transmits all the degradation of the protagonist in the introductory "Re del blu re del mai", the surprise that spills over into joy in "Cos'è", the doubts and hopes in "L'ossessione di Jack", up to the painful disillusionment of "Povero Jack". The voice is the one that from that day I learned to love: deep, dark, powerful. With spleen in the DNA, a nostalgic and melancholic aftertaste that emerges even in the most ironic or boisterous episodes. But here nothing is excessive. Or rather, it's an excess of skill that unfolds in order. Technique and talent. It's a perfect machine, but with a soul.
I admit it, this CD gives me chills, and it hardly matters that many of you might think: "But how the hell can you get chills for Renato Zero." The options are two:
a) At four in the morning on any day in February, leave the house in your underwear and take a nice ride on a scooter without a windshield, of course listening to Renato Zero.
b) Download this CD and listen to it today. In my opinion, the most sublime interpreter trial ever produced by a singer/actor in the history of Italian entertainment. It's from here that I fell in love with it. And then, isn't it true that the most beautiful passions are also the craziest?
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