Era Già Tutto Previsto

Nothing is created, nothing is destroyed, but everything transforms—and the power of a song lived, thought, written, and released almost fifty years ago, thanks to the Neapolitan genius behind Parthenope, is reborn.

A song has the power to awaken buried emotions in the listener, sometimes thoughts that are still unknown, unconscious. Maybe after many years, almost fifty, and not even "thanks to itself" (if that's what you can say), but rather to a moving image. A film. A name. A story. A life. A song stitching it all together, the fil rouge of our souls capable of a whole that, I voluntarily delude myself into believing, perhaps out of cowardice or perhaps out of arrogance, "era già tutto previsto" ("was already all planned").

Parthenope, directed by Paolo Sorrentino. Shot by Gianni Fiorito, picture via Il Cinematografo. © All rights belong to their respective owners. No copyright infringement intended.

"A year ago, would you have imagined all this?"
"No. And you?"
"No, but I'm happy."
"Happiness is fleeting. You should always keep a bit of sadness."
"Era già tutto previsto?" ("Was it all already planned?")
"What do you think?"
"I don’t know, we’ve known each other for twenty-one years and now we're going to bed together."
"We make love, don’t belittle yourself."
"I'm serious."
"So am I."
"How will it end?"
"As it must. There’s no way out, we're destined for eternal return."
"I'm talking about us, asshole."
"So am I."

"We’re doing so well together though. Do you love me?"
"What a vulgar question, never ask me that again, please."
"How did it all start? I can’t understand. From one day to the next, you find yourself sleeping for the rest of your days in someone's bed, someone who could have been a complete stranger for an infinite number of reasons. Do you ever think about that?"
"Yes and no. Not particularly. Not in this way."
"Then how?"
"I always think about that story from grandmother, remember? You heard it too this summer. The story of her mother and father, those random letters sent to the front during the war. I think I might not be here, and neither might you, for a billion reasons, and yet here we are, for just as many."
"Is that enough for you?"
"Yes."

"I don’t understand you. To sum up an entire life. Yours, your parents', your brother’s, even mine, the children we could have, and those they’ll have, and so on, endlessly, for as long as time lasts. To sum it all up in a letter, as if nothing existed before this—doesn’t that seem a bit too much?"
"Maybe, but I don’t ask for anything else."
"Are you afraid?"
"Maybe, what’s wrong with that? And aren’t you afraid?"
"What would I be afraid of?"
"That life has no meaning. That it’s all useless, all random, completely out of our control, that we have no power, that we’re hopeless, destined to drift, with no reason to exist."
"Do you think it’s like that?"
"I don’t know. But I don’t rule it out."
"So you choose a meaning for yourself."
"Maybe, what’s wrong with that?"
"Nothing, I’m just saying. You know the saying: 'in faith dwell cowards, and liars feast'?"
"I don’t know much about clichés."
"Don’t be so touchy. And anyway, I’m not afraid, I know life doesn’t have meaning. I learned that many years ago now. Do you know when?"
"You’re wrong."
"No, YOU’re wrong."

"If it had no meaning, we wouldn’t be here."
"Are you sure?"
"Don’t you get it yet? We’ve been chasing each other all our lives."
"So what? It means nothing. It’s not enough to chase each other, it takes more."
"A letter is enough. Remember? You told me that too."
"What if it’s not like that? What if it’s all wrong, if we’re not meant for each other, if I’m just wasting time, if I’ll be alone for the rest of my days. What if all of this is just another stupid mistake."
"It doesn’t need to have meaning, just a destiny."
"And ours?"
"Era già tutto previsto." ("It was already all planned.")

QUOTATION MARKS CLOSED.

Sincerely yours,
Andrea.