Example 6.1: 1900, excerpt of the main theme
A SILENT NOD TOWARD THE FUTURE
Silence suddenly fills the room. It’s lunchtime, as we’ve noticed. While we head through the door and leave the studio, I realize that we won’t be able to cover all that is left to explore. . . . I voice my regrets to Ennio.
ENNIO MORRICONE: Well, I’ve worked my entire life. . . . There would be so many things left to say. . . .
Ennio closes the door behind us, locks it twice, and puts the key back in his pocket. I pick up my audio recorder and the notes I had left in the living room. We bring the bottle of water back to the kitchen and say goodbye to Maria. We put on our coats and head outside, hoping to find an open restaurant somewhere. I follow Ennio into Via della Tribuna di Campitelli and we enter the Vecchia Roma, a place he often goes for lunch. We sit and order, and as we wait for our food we start talking about conservatories in Italy and abroad. Morricone asks me about my studies in the Netherlands. We reflect about how teaching methods have changed over time, we compare the pros and cons of different approaches. . . . I suddenly realize that something unique and revolutionary has happened to me. Not only have I dreamed of having such an open conversation with him for so long, but most surprisingly, the fluent, seamless dialogue we have been having has bridged our distances, even if we remain at opposite ends of the spectrum on so many levels. And at the core of this dialogue is, of course, music. I decide I want to savor this moment a little longer. Be it because we’ve covered a good part of twentieth-century music history in our talk, or because I am feeling a bit nostalgic as I think about the permanence and fleetingness of my sense of belonging, I realize that I am persistently whistling the main theme of Bertolucci’s 1900.
ALESSANDRO DE ROSA: Would you care telling me something about this theme? I can’t get it out of my head.
I wrote it in one go, spontaneously. Bertolucci took me to the Moviola and it materialized in my mind as I watched those superb images in the dark. So I wrote it down on a piece of paper [Example 6.1].
Example 6.1: 1900, excerpt of the main theme
It ought to be solemn and popular at a time, something like an anthem. I assigned it to the oboe, which is capable of setting itself apart from the orchestral texture, unlike other instruments, thanks to its characteristic timbre.
I thought it fitting that the melody had a distinct character, which nevertheless allowed it to be handled by a choir. The film’s opening credits roll over a shot of the famous painting The Fourth Estate by Giuseppe Pellizza da Volpedo, a perfect synthesis of identities that are united by the same ideal.1 The colors of the images inspired several other thematic ideas, some of which I used in the film, others I didn’t.
Did you visit the set?
Yet again, no. Rather, I will tell you this: although it took Bertolucci almost two years to make 1900, he only came to me after the film was already finished. I was given a mere two months to deliver the soundtrack. . . . That’s not much for a film like that!
What do you think about the movie?
It is one of Bernardo’s best achievements in my opinion, so powerful a work that it managed to gain popularity outside Italy and all over the world despite its markedly Italian subject. Obviously, when a film reaches such a wide public it’s normal to garner both positive and negative feedback, though I had the impression that some misunderstood the film at the time.
What do you mean?
Critics were split, also due to the movie’s political subject matter. To me it was always clear that we were dealing with a realistic tale, not with a historical critique; still, I remember a conference where I passionately argued with a journalist who maintained that 1900 offered a rather false and tendentious historical portrayal, depicting the people as heroes and the fascists as nothing more than ruthless murderers.
I realize as we’re talking that perhaps I should perform the 1900 theme more often in my concerts. . . . I haven’t done it very often. . . .
I wonder how important it is for you to have a relationship with a live audience, conducting an orchestra in front of thousands of people every night . . . especially after you’ve spent most of your life working alone in your studio. But let me rephrase this in a more straightforward question: Ennio, what do you like about conducting?
There are a series of factors. First of all, as you know, music is mute on paper; it needs a performer, musicians, an audience . . . it’s a process.
Painting, for instance, doesn’t need all of these passages. Once an artist is done with painting, the work is ready to be shown to the public, the same goes with sculpture and other arts.
With music, instead, the conductor is at the core of a ritual that continues to be renewed throughout the centuries—the transformation of notated symbols into sound by means of the performers and their instruments.
I am very familiar with this practice, as I have witnessed it so many times in the recording studio; yet, since 2001, when I started conducting my film music around the world on a more regular basis, I’ve discovered that directly facing an audience is very rewarding for me. Today my concerts are still crowded. Being able to experience the audience’s support firsthand, being in control of it to a certain extent, makes me feel good. After all, a composer’s job is otherwise filled with extensive periods of isolation.
By exclusively conducting my own music, I can be part of the transformation of my ideas into sound. Moreover, those moments when I feel that the orchestra is with me for my best pages—there are always some pieces that work better than others—I feel profoundly gratified.
Lately, because of some aches and pains due to my age and especially after the surgery I had in 2014 for my hernia, many friends have asked me, “Ennio, what on earth are you traveling and tiring yourself out for?” My answer is that I enjoy feeling the audience there with me. It gives me strength.
The surgery forced you to take a long break.
For the first time in my life I felt a prisoner to my own body. I was stuck on a chair and in bed for too long. The recovery took a while, but it was a good one considering my age, and this is because I’ve trained my body to constantly move. I have had a few other health issues since the surgery, but I’ve always tried to bounce back and keep on conducting both in the studio and in concerts around the world.
All in all, there’s no doubt that decay is a natural consequence of life’s journey, but the body must be kept active all along, otherwise you end up paying the price sooner than later.
Do you have a specific routine you follow to prepare before a public performance?
Before a concert, and sometimes even before some demanding recording sessions, I rehearse in my studio. I read the score following the set list and I conduct in absolute silence, rehearsing the pieces and gestures with reduced body movements, always seeking to be communicative. I must be very careful with my energy, paying attention to the responses of my muscles. Here too, the older I get, the more I struggle.
Who are your favorite conductors?
Among contemporaries, I like the Italians quite a bit—Pappano, Muti, and Gatti.
Have you ever conducted music by others?
I conducted music by my son Andrea a few times as well as the Italian national anthem, but only on special occasions or when the president of the Republic was present.
Is it true that you offered to compose a new Italian anthem?
No, but Bernardo Bertolucci has asserted many times that plenty of my music would suit this purpose. Once for the TV series Cefalonia (dir. Riccardo Milani, 2005), I wrote a rather majestic arrangement of our national anthem. When I proposed it be performed at the Quirinale, they didn’t allow it.2 I was disappointed, because I thought that my arrangement brought out certain painful and difficult aspects of our history, elements that I had already observed a few years earlier in a performance by Abbado. Our anthem is usually played quickly like a lighthearted, joyful, almost cheerful marcetta. He instead conducted it with such control that he was able to bring out an unexpectedly introverted and murmured character.
Besides Abbado’s, are there any other performances you think worth mentioning?
I remember an outstanding concert by Sergiu Celibidache conducting Stravinsky’s Symphony of Psalms at Santa Cecilia. That work is immense, one of my epiphanies, I know it by heart, but Celibidache did something unprecedented on that evening. Once he reached the finale, he started to gradually slow down. I thought he had nearly lost his mind: the rallentando had become sheer desperation and I was able to appreciate that passage’s transition from diatonic to chromatic like never before. I was impressed by the control and strength with which the conductor was able to hold the orchestra together at such a slow tempo.
Rallentandi are difficult to sustain. For instance, I can’t sustain the adagios in some of my compositions for too long. Even if I feel that I should go slower, I don’t dare to slow down further, in order to save the magic; yet, some professional conductors (who do this as their only job) can manage this without problems. In general, I would say that it is easier to direct fast tempos. Toscanini, for instance, directed allegros much faster, fantastic!
I also clearly recall the day I saw Stravinsky in person conducting the rehearsal of one of his concerts in Rome, one of the last times he came to Italy. I was a young student, and as soon as I discovered that he would be at the conservatory, I rushed there and spied on the whole session from a half-closed door. Thinking about it still gives me goosebumps.
I can imagine. . . . Do you remember any particularly striking concert of yours?
I guess the one at the General Assembly of the United Nations in New York in 2007. The choir initially experienced some issues, but then we managed to be flawless. Maybe the concerts in Perth, Australia, and in South America, or the one in Tiananmen Square, with all the history that place carries with it; or again, when I conducted at the Teatro Alla Scala in Milan.
I experienced an especially emotional moment in Japan, where audiences can be so disciplined and warm at the same time. They gave me a standing ovation, something that I would have never expected in such a faraway and different land from Italy.
Which pieces can you not avoid in your concerts?
Some of them are obligatory, as I am under the impression that leaving them out would greatly upset the audience. Among them are The Mission, Cinema Paradiso, my suite from Sergio Leone’s films. Usually I put Once Upon a Time in America as the second or third piece in the set, then some of Tornatore’s film themes, then the westerns. . . . In any case, I always try to surprise the audience and myself by introducing new pieces and proposing unobvious combinations. For example, in the suite from Love Circle I link the main theme, which is probably the most famous, to “The Cross of Love,” a much more abstract and intimate theme, which underscored the love triangle between the characters in Patroni Griffi’s film.
How do you feel about the audience? You tend to look controlled during your performances. Is there anything you would like to say to the people who attend your concerts?
I am affectionate toward them and very grateful for their appreciation of my work. Maybe, I would suggest people close their eyes, because I believe that seeing doesn’t add much, nor does it help focus on listening. In the event they came to see my conducting gestures, I’d advise them to stay at home . . . because I don’t consider myself a good conductor!
I often contain my arm movements, almost hiding them with my body. I do what in my opinion is enough to make myself understood by the musicians without overacting for the audience. . . .
It must be thrilling to feel so many people behind you. . . .
It truly is. There have been concerts with an impressive turnout, and even if I’ve gotten used to standing up on the podium in recent years, experience is never enough. However, in those circumstances you can’t let your emotions get the best of you, you have to stay focused. While it’s true that the public is behind me, I still have an orchestra and a choir in front of me, and my goal has always been the same: to communicate with them with clear and comprehensible gestures—to be effective.
Sometimes anxiety overwhelms me, because I start thinking about how one might feel in the audience, whether the PA will work ok, if I’ll make a mistake. . . . But those are just instants, then I must go back to the gesture, to the moment’s action. And do my best.
Through all these years of giving concerts, were there any controversial performances or unsuccessful ones?
The strangest episode happened in Piazza del Duomo, Milan, in 2006. The orchestra and I were on a stage facing the cathedral’s facade and we played for about two hours. The crowd was huge, but nobody applauded. Not once.
Not to praise myself, but I am quite used to receiving standing ovations. That time, zero, not even a noise. The audience was as cold as ice.
I can still recall the awkward sensation of conducting in total silence, it was as though all those people were not there. I couldn’t hear anyone applauding between pieces.
How come? Were they not enjoying the concert? I started to get very disappointed, even more, I started getting really upset. At a certain point I told myself, “Now, I’ll end it here with no encores. They don’t deserve it. I’m leaving.”
When I finished—I can’t recall whether I was more depressed or more angry—I went backstage, retreating into my shell.
I ran into Maria and a musician who was next to her. I vented to let off steam, telling them of my disappointment. They smiled and asked, “Ennio, you didn’t notice it’s been raining cats and dogs, did you? Don’t look down, look at the lamplights.”
Only at that point did I realize that the crowd had been standing there in the pouring rain all that time. They had been holding umbrellas, which is why they hadn’t applauded.
I returned to the stage and played three encores with great energy and zeal. It was probably the strangest concert in my career. I reckon it was December.
Yes, it was December 16, 2006. Piazza del Duomo was the most packed I had ever seen it. . . .
How do you know that?
I was one of the organizers of that concert along with Free Consulting. It was my secret and personal way of thanking you for having called me back after listening to my demo the year before, and for advising me to study composition. . . . I’m saying this now because I know that encouraging young people is something you do often and you should get credit for it.
I receive a lot of music, and many people, like you, have asked for my opinion over the years. I try to listen to everything and whenever I particularly enjoy a piece I pick up the phone and call.
At times I even feel embarrassed, because, in a sense, I wouldn’t want to push anybody toward undertaking the composer profession; I must have told you this when I spoke with you on the phone. I recall that when my son Andrea told me that he wanted to become a composer, I replied right away, “Let it go, Andrea. It’s such a difficult job. You’re going to study for so many years, only to learn that you are just at the beginning.” I really think it is extremely hard and only a few manage to find their own voice.
I may call and encourage young musicians, it takes only a few minutes of my time, but it takes a whole life to achieve tangible results through study. Still, some of those people manage to maintain their energy and an interest in music in spite of the adversities along the way, and what they do will remain their passion for the years to come. Some of them even manage to make a living out of it. This is why it feels right to call them.
I believe you have succeeded in becoming part of popular culture in a way that very few others have. The consensus you have obtained has gradually spread, but you are also a go-to figure for several generations of musicians.
Earlier you confessed that you wish to be remembered especially as a “composer.” So I would like to ask you one last question, if I may.
Sure.
Was there a specific moment when you realized that you had become one of the greatest and most influential composers of the century?
I don’t believe that’s the case. It takes years, perhaps centuries before one can claim anything like that. That’d definitely be too soon. It’d be a very difficult claim to make.
We can maintain that a composer is appreciated, that he or she communicates with people, but that’s it. . . . If there are many people who are reached by music, even better.
He smiles.
The greatest of the century? It’s a bit difficult to reply. . . .
Oh dear . . . where did you hear this?
It was just to provoke your vanity. . . .
You don’t say. . . . I figured!
He smiles again.
After lunch, we walk back home.
Our time is up. I keep thinking about the possibilities and dead ends that languages may have in store for us, and about the trust Morricone seems to have always bestowed on music and its power to mediate, trying to build bridges between opposite sides.
All in all, I am also reflecting about myself, about human relationships in general, about my own relationship with the world and about the destiny of these conversations. I do hope that they can be useful and interesting for someone, somewhere.
Back home, Ennio tells me he has a commitment at the Teatro dell’Opera and offers to drive me to Roma Termini. Of course I accept—I am curious to see how he drives.
I wait for him while he goes upstairs to pick up a score. When he comes back we get in the car and leave.
The drive is rather quiet, we take the opportunity to admire the beauty of Rome. We listen to a record on his car radio, Pasolini’s voice declaiming his poem “Meditazione orale” with delicate and profound clarity.3
Ennio parks at the station.
We walk together for a while, he has his score in his hand, I have my backpack.
Once we are in front of the theater, it is time for a silent goodbye. A simple wave.
We gaze at each other for a moment but then quickly look away, toward the new encounters that await us.
This is how we say goodbye, with a silent nod, looking ahead, toward the future.