“Popular” is an crucial word,” Umberto Broccoli said, one of the few who truly understand, during the Tg1 segment preceding the live broadcast of Pippo Baudo‘s funeral. And I’m struck by a pang of envy for his concise phrasing.
Perhaps, for Militello, “television” remains a capital-T institution, as it was in the twentieth century-an ambition, as described in a village interview, when Pippo Baudo was a “young man.” It was a time when attending mass was commonplace for all of us, unlike the current strangeness where we know the prayers by heart, like verses from familiar poems, but only truly feel them when someone dies (especially someone over seventy-we first experienced them at weddings during the transition from childhood too adulthood).
Is the real Italy still that of Baudo? Perhaps not, because nothing remains unchanged from the twentieth century.Outside the church, in the square, with the giant screen broadcasting the funeral, those who define what’s popular today are present-they wear hats, sunglasses, and applaud the homily as if it were a summer hit.
Remnants of the twentieth century linger in the modest acknowledgment of Pietro Germi’s film, for which television commentators quote “his Dina,” Baudo’s longtime assistant. But no one mentions that they were married a few years ago, as any respectable gentleman would have done, if only to settle inheritance matters with someone he trusted. but these are just fragments.
earlier, in the Tg1 studio, they said that the Baudo we saw was a public persona, and that in private, he never struggled with a loosened tie. I suspect those present today are looking at the church in t-shirts and with disheveled, sweaty hair. It’s not just a different century; it’s a different world.
Watching the Mass-a ritual that feels meaningless if it isn’t popular, if no one knows when to stand or sit, if the prayers aren’t memorized-I think of Baudo, who, after the first Fabio Fazio festival, expressed his bewilderment to Gualtiero Peirce: “It almost seems like they’re apologizing for putting on the festival. But that’s not how a show is done. Sinatra didn’t sing while apologizing, and circus acrobats aren’t ashamed.”
It was 1999, and I was twenty-six. Baudo could only have seemed like an outdated instrument who didn’t understand Fazio, a thirty-four-year-old who, as a rising star, was radically changing Sanremo. But twenty-six years have passed. The other day, a friend, commenting on that old interview, told me, “It’s like reading Cassandra’s prophecies after the Trojan War.”
Twenty-six years later,we remember the Nobel laureate presenters,Pavarotti,Gorbachev,the spectacle,the extravagance-all the elements that always define the festival,even during Baudo’s tenure. It’s right that it is, because the festival is watched for its mishaps and the outfits of the performers (or whatever they’re called). However, it’s striking to realize that, even if you overlook the coup d’état of the quality jury that allowed Avion Travel to win in its second year, no one remembers a single song from those two subversive Sanremos.
Go and check how many songs you remember by heart,like prayers,from any Sanremo hosted by Baudo. I don’t know, the one from 1995, where you might recall Falchi and Koll, the suicide attempt, and Fiorello’s loss. I don’t know, I find myself humming “In love,” which even won: “mercilessly,” I can’t recall how it went.
There’s one thing Baudo says in that interview, regarding Fazio’s self-deprecating gimmick of presenting the songs to ordinary people. He mentions Ivano Fossati, who was a guest at the time (it was the years in…