I have long been a devoted fan of the wild, wonderful, and wacky world of the Italian writer-director Federico Fellini. I've seen all of his entertaining films from his earliest "Lights of Variety" (1950) through his last in 1990, and I do try to re-watch them from time to time. I have certainly seen the above short feature made for Italian television previously, but had forgotten how bizarre and poignant it is.
Like it says on the box, the movie concerns a small orchestra, gathering for their morning rehearsal, in an ancient chapel, now a recital hall with perfect acoustics. We watch as the room is set up and the musicians gradually appear, awaiting the arrival of their conductor, a somewhat Teutonic type in the mould of von Karajan. They quibble, joke, feud, flirt, and even snog amongst themselves, while possessively claiming their own space. Today is a little different since a television crew has arrived to document the proceedings and to interview the various musicians. Also present are various union officials, since this is a mini-portrait of Italy in the 70s (and beyond?); their role is to 'protect' their occasionally reluctant members and to ensure that 'the workers' rights' come first, even if this involves lumbering the orchestra with some superfluous union members who can't even play an instrument but who are due work.
However the orchestra members themselves from the straight-laced old-timers through the young hipsters seem to be in love with their various instruments. As each is interviewed in turn they make wild claims for the importance and contribution of their particular instrument -- the violin, the cello, the trombone, the bassoon, the harp, and so on -- to the harmony and success of any performance. They each express an almost mystical relationship with their own instrument to the detriment of all the other less significant ones. Even the tuba player boasts that he didn't chance upon the instrument, but that the lugubrious sounding creature found him.
When the actual rehearsal begins, the conductor carps and criticises the players, until the union busybody calls a twenty-minute break. The maestro retreats to his room to freshen up and bemoans how the god-like role of the conductor has been undermined. Long gone are the days when his word was law and he could physically punish any musician who dared to play a duff note. When he returns to the hall he finds chaos. The musicians have become hysterical children, fighting amongst themselves, denigrating the role of the conductor, and defacing the walls with scurrilous graffiti. They decide that the conductor can easily be replaced with a giant metronome, but even that is soon kicked aside in their hatred. The next thing that happens is that a giant wrecking ball begins to knock down the ancient walls, resulting in at least one death. Duly chastened, the musicians resume their seats and begin to play the sweetest of sounds; music does indeed calm the savage beast. But even as the film fades to black, we begin to hear the maestro registering his nit-picking complaints.
One can't help but note and be moved by the simple beauty of the music, composed especially for this film, by Fellini's distinguished collaborator Nino Rota. Rota scored many of the director's movies, dating back to "I Vitelloni" in 1953, and this was their last collaboration before the composer's death the following year. The beauty of the sound contrasts with the parable of how simple it is to spread dissent and anarchy, a sentiment that fits neatly into the Fellini canon.