For a fiction produced by Rai, all things considered, it struck me positively, for some aspects that weren't so obvious to tell in these terms. In fact, the figure that emerges is full of imperfections and idiosyncrasies, aspects that Faber, among other things, never did anything to deny.
The women, the alcohol, the cigarettes, the infidelities, the absences. A good summary of the human dimensions of a songwriter who, in his poetic inspiration, could certainly be seen as a spirit with an alien, superhuman sensitivity. It can be useful to understand how much the existence of such a man was essentially sacrificed for art. Immense in writing as much as fragile in life, anxious, clinging to yet another cigarette.
"I write songs for friends," "I'm not ready for concerts," "That verse of Marinella is so trivial...," "Maybe I have nothing more to say." How many masterpieces born from a spirit so terribly critical of itself. Those anxieties drowned in whiskey, those sleepless nights, those father and husband harshness... the life pains of one who lives for poetry and finds his ideal dimension only in the words that make up a perfect song. The rest is all suffering, a longing for eternity that gasps in the tremendously flawed and painful dimension of being in the world until it is fulfilled.
For those well acquainted with Faber's work, it is somehow consoling and moving to rediscover some precise details like the "specie di troia" censored in La Città Vecchia, the Preghiera in Gennaio for Tenco, the youth with Paolo Villaggio, the songs about cruises, the stubbornness and the soft ease of a well-to-do family boy.
In the second part, the interest wanes because the fiction focuses mainly on the story with Dori Ghezzi and the kidnapping in Sardinia. A piece like "Creuza de ma" is summed up in a scene with mandolins. Not that I expected a documentary on De André's music, but portraying such an artist without saying almost anything about his art is like depicting him in absentia, because the real Faber is always elsewhere, but that elsewhere is never truly shown on stage.
Moreover, even the capable Marinelli, almost devoid of makeup, does not accurately represent the withering of the man, smoked by cigarettes and corroded by alcohol. The damnation of sensitivity convinces less on such a clean face, it seems like a pose. A pretty face that never touches the grave existential posture of the real Faber. Even the repeatedly shown dependencies become almost caricaturistic if not explained or deepened. In any case, it is a directorial error to keep showing him lighting cigarettes or drinking glasses, because it is unnecessary. He could have better investigated the reasons for that sense of emptiness, that vertigo, but it wouldn't have been a Rai fiction. Looking at it, I wished for an auteur film about Fabrizio. But frankly, reducing such a figure to two hours of cinema would be an almost impossible test for anyone.
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