Sanremo Festival

For what we might call Amadeus's World Cup, what better opener than the National Anthem played by the carabinieri band? For Rai's patriotic soul it's the perfect choice, and for the audience a small clue: the evening ahead promises to be a genuine battlefield right up to the last breath. With a running order as packed as the final roll call of exam season's toughest test, the underdogs take the stage, united by one detail: no one knows what was in the backstage buffet, but everyone showed fresh energy, in some cases overflowing.

Michele Zarrillo, Italian music's perennial aspiring singer-songwriter, tries in vain to pull off a song so forgettable it makes you long for the refrain about the blue rose. Then there's Enrico Nigiotti, so dull that even he seems to realise it on this final night: every song he sings sounds the same. And another sacrificed token woman, Irene Grandi, who despite a strenuous interpretive effort fails to convince, along with Alberto Urso, so out of step with the times he seems to have aged at least ten years in this one week.

At this point, (finally) arrives Diodato, the overwhelming favourite and perhaps the only one with the right mix of song, talent and heart: his "noise" echoes through the Ariston from the start of the night. A brief gasp of fresh air, before we're plunged back into the claustrophobic world of mediocrity: Marco Masini straining his jugular to unbelievable extremes, and the return of the Lion King remake with Sanremo Giovani winner Leo Gasmann. All garnished by an ever-timeless, at times kitsch Sabrina Salerno, and an overexposed Tiziano Ferro who holds nothing back, cramming in medleys, new songs, kisses, covers (plus a thousand plugs for his Amazon documentary etc.) and even attempting a socially conscious monologue. All for the delight of listeners so starved they'd have settled for just two lines of "Rosso relativo".

Back in competition with the definitive explosion of Piero Pelù, who, as if waking from a week-long hibernation, brings his personality and grit back to the stage, even managing to sell a wobbly song like "Gigante". Very catchy is the fake purse-snatching bit with the lady in the audience, and the guitar-driven backing is excellent, injecting just enough adrenaline to get through the marathon.

Then come the two truly stylish and glam artists of this edition, Levante and Achille Lauro: while the former arrives radiant and more assured than on previous nights, Lauro is truly determined to leave his mark on this 70th festival. Elizabeth I is the latest character he chooses to embody, and he does so with elegance and audacity, letting glimpses of eroticism and freedom from convention shine through in every phrase, every movement: fine singing certainly isn't his forte, but credit must go to him for creating a bit of suspense and anticipation in a show that at times feels positively staid. Then comes the moment for this festival's great will-o'-the-wisp, Junior Cally: whether due to pressure or a false media storm, the scandal expected from both the character and the song never materialised. Just another rapper. We then slide into the "next level" phase with Raphael Gualazzi and Tosca, perhaps the only ones who stay true to themselves, knowing that what matters is taking part and doing it well: the day mainstream audiences manage to tune into artists like these, we probably won't have Sanremo anymore.

And so we land in Festivalbar territory with Francesco Gabbani, who, puffed up with confidence, winks at the camera already savouring a prize he'll only catch a glimpse of, and Rita Pavone, this edition's big question mark: why ruin your career for a photo in Sorrisi e Canzoni? Ah well. The Vibrazioni, meanwhile, make you want to hand them a GPS: exploiting sign language somewhat and betting on a song fairly flat by their standards, they fail in their bid to reach the podium. Into this escalation slips special guest Biagio Antonacci, who tries to emulate the success of Gianna Nannini's appearance but only manages to grab 1% of the attention for himself. The general feeling is: "Let's push on with the competition, for pity's sake." Anastasio wakes everyone up with his anger, sadly too fiery for the Ariston, but his is definitely a hit that will please his audience. His delivery, incidentally, is genuinely excellent.

Toward the end of the night (or at least what everyone hoped would be the end) comes the void: the no-shows Elettra Lamborghini and a certain Riki put their inadequacy on full display: why are they at Sanremo? That's the question written in their eyes and ringing in our ears. Respect, too, for Jannacci and what he represents, but he simply wasn't able to hold up under the circus that left him out of place. Closing out the competition is Rancore, deservedly winning the award for best lyrics and, as ever, consistent with his music.

Here begins the evening's most dramatic phase: it's around two in the morning, and Amadeus starts churning out every kind of performance and skeleton in the closet. From Salerno's leap back to the '80s, to Fiorello's cover dedicated to Fred Bongusto (why do it at this hour?), to what might be one of the lowest points in the festival's history: Diletta Leotta's cover, attempting an Eminem-style remix of "Ciuri, ciuri". Somewhere between shock and disgust, the emotions blur together. And from there, a string of guests and plugs the viewer can no longer even focus on: the announcement of the winner keeps getting postponed like some kind of bloodletting. No end in sight.

At the end of the tunnel, though, a light: the verdict arrives (leaked by a drowsy SkyTg24 reporter): Diodato wins, Gabbani comes second, and the Pinguini Tattici Nucleari take third. Karma has paid off once again this year for the masochistic ordeal of a nonsensical week: why? Because Sanremo is Sanremo.

***

THE FOURTH NIGHT

Running a few hours over during the live broadcast of the Sanremo Festival can happen, but doing it every single night becomes something downright diabolical and masochistic: and so it was again for the fourth instalment at the Ariston, which once more dragged on into the small hours. Then again, all the signs were there: an endless running order featuring all the main contestants, the performance and announcement of the winner among the "newcomers", the guests, and the ever-useful comic bits. Amadeus opens the show with the Tecla vs Marco Sentieri showdown: the Neapolitan revelation fails to beat the monastic face of the young singer-songwriter, who nonetheless only comes second. Predictably, and surely not by chance, Leo Gassman triumphs, leaving behind a superb Fasma, the only one who truly deserved the win in that field. Fortunately, there is good news: the Mia Martini "Newcomers" award goes to Eugenio in Via Di Gioia.

Under the illusion that the main contest is about to begin, back come the comic interludes with Fiorello — amusing, but genuinely a kamikaze move given the sheer size of the running order still ahead. Piling it on further is yet another performance from Tiziano Ferro, who by the fourth night has clearly lost freshness and enthusiasm; the classic medley gets everyone singing along, both at home and in the theatre, but ultimately adds nothing to the festival as a whole. And nothing changes either with the arrival of Antonella Clerici, who is rashly entrusted with the comic flair of introducing the now-famous woman of the "step aside", girlfriend of Valentino Rossi, Francesca Sofia Novello. Then the bombshell drops on stage: Dua Lipa, the genuine international star, who earns minutes of glory and adulation with a performance straight out of the Super Bowl. Finally, someone backstage seems to have woken up and gives the signal to start the main competition: first up is Rancore, as charged and convincing as ever, with a song that fully embodies his personality. Next comes Giordana Angi, who despite straining a raspy voice and a Mimì-style delivery, may have wasted this opportunity at the Ariston, barring any last-minute upset in the final vote.

Then, in his shiny near-acetate suit, out he comes — yes, him, the man who already feels like the winner of the 70th Sanremo Festival: Francesco Gabbani. Even though the song doesn't have the punch of "Occidentali's Karma", it still works. He knows exactly how to win over the Italian audience and when to hit the accelerator during his performance. Looking absent and completely at odds with the carioca style he's singing, by contrast, is Raphael Gualazzi: undeniably skilled, but the performance feels disconnected from the attitude of the song; just as predictable are the Pinguini Tattici Nucleari, charming to many but with clear, anachronistic echoes of Lo Stato Sociale, both in the lyrics and in the performance.

Far more convincing, by contrast, is Anastasio: the song is perfect, and he manages to deliver it in the best possible way. In a fair world, he could be aiming for the podium. Riki, as ever, remains a non-event, while Elodie, squeezed into her show-stopping outfits, gives the Ariston a sharper, more convincing performance: the song's lack of coherence needed an extra bit of interpretive effort, the same effort she put into keeping her bodice firmly in place. Meanwhile, amid the competition, the guests keep coming: from a ridiculous Tony Renis, who conducts the orchestra with his back turned, pretending to accompany Fiorello, to a superb Ghali who, fake fall and all, confirms himself as a genius of contemporary record-industry marketing. Bold and full of heart is the performance by Gianna Nannini, who, while a touch chaotic in her duet with Coez, shines brightest in the medley, confirming once again what a great rock star she is.

As the endless contest rolls on, other performances worth noting are certainly that of Diodato, the overwhelming favourite with everything in his favour: skill, a well-chosen song, strong showings. Then there's the showman of this Festival, Achille Lauro, who once again enchants with his looks, paying homage to the Marchioness Luisa Casati Stampa, lover of Gabriele D'Annunzio. His "Me ne frego" is watched more than it's listened to. A stroke of genius. Nonsensical and genuinely sad was the Morgan vs. Bugo curtain-closer, made worse by an Amadeus feigning shock: while Morgan is clearly under the influence of something, Bugo walks off stage for no apparent reason, sparking controversy.

And then there's Piero Pelù, back to himself, or rather freed from his Sanremo awkwardness, exploding on the Ariston stage with the energy we're used to from him: the same goes for Levante, who finally sings her "TikiBomBom" with a clear voice, hitting its target loud and clear. Still outside the race, Tosca delivers yet another flawless, classy performance, reminding us what it means to interpret a song, to know how to sing. These days, that's never a given. With litres of caffeine on intravenous drip, we head straight for the grand finale.

***

THE THIRD NIGHT

Rai 1, twenty-four performances and three superguests: the third night of the Sanremo Festival was shaping up to be a bloodbath. Thanks to the goodwill of the writers and the host, it wasn't quite that, though it could have gone worse. Thanks to a faster, almost hyped-up pace compared to the first two nights, the duets/covers segment came across as more gripping, despite a few entirely skippable moments, like the little skit with the one-night co-host Georgina (Cristiano Ronaldo's wife) or yet another Tiziano Ferro song that, let's be honest, is starting to feel like overkill.

The marathon kicks off with Michele Zarrillo and Fausto Leali performing his "Deborah": an honest but unremarkable performance, with Leali stepping back to let his fellow competitor shine, avoiding his trademark high notes. Then a string of forgettable duets: from Masini and Arisa with "Vacanze romane" (complete with the odd flat note) to Junior Cally and Viito, straining through "Vado al massimo" in an impossible attempt to channel Vasco Rossi. Then Riki (?) and Ana Mena (?) with Nilla Pizzi's "L'edera": flawless karaoke.

Finally, a bit of class and talent comes along, both summed up in Raphael Gualazzi and Simona Molinari's cover of "E se domani": elegant, in sync, and on another level altogether, at ease in a jazz dimension so effortless it reaches everyone. Next comes the energy of Anastasio and PFM with "Spalle al muro": nothing to say except that the two artists simply didn't gel, each locked into their own thing, and it didn't convince.

Time for the women's quota with Levante, Francesca Michielin and Maria Antonietta, who fade into the background with the classic "Si può dare di più": restrained and not fully inhabiting the song, they really could have given more. Parody moment for Alberto Urso and Ornella Vanoni: the usual teleprompter trouble, and one almost expected the national treasure Ornella to let out a curse at any moment. Sadly, it didn't happen, and it would certainly have added some spark. Then it's the turn of favourite Elodie with pianist Aeham Ahmad: a version of "Adesso tu" lacking any personality, which could have given the singer's participation real momentum. A missed opportunity.

An explosive mix, on the other hand, is the trio of Rancore, Dardust and La Rappresentante di lista: "Luce" is carried by the voice of Veronica Lucchesi, who once again proves herself a great performer. Before returning to the competition, it's time for the international guests: the first is British singer-songwriter Lewis Capaldi, rather imprecise and with zero stage presence; the second is the now-celebrated Mika, who humbly delivered a cover of Fabrizio De André that moved and won over the audience.

Less well placed, and seemingly dropped in out of nowhere, was Roberto Benigni's segment, bringing the Bible to the Ariston stage: the Song of Songs as an example of the ultimate song. It's always worth appreciating anyone who brings culture to TV, but a choice clocking in under 40 minutes would have been met with much greater praise.

Amid all this passing time, there's also room for Amadeus's other co-host, Alketa Vejsu, a familiar face on Albanian television. With her chattiness and energy, she managed to hold her own through the long night. Worth noting is the duet with Bobby Solo: "Una lacrima sul viso", a burst of nostalgia for the Sanremos of yesteryear. And on we go, straight for the finish line. Giordana Angi, with the Solis String Quartet, dusts off her cover of "La nevicata del '56" from her Amici days: a solid performance and a safe choice. The super-medley "70 volte Sanremo" by Pinguini Tattici Nucleari plunges us straight into the karaoke atmosphere of "Domenica In": over-the-top and excellent entertainers alongside Mara Venier. Jury's still out.

The level picks back up with the duet between Enrico Nigiotti and Simone Cristicchi: "Ti regalerò una rosa" is an emotionally flawless song. Yet oddly, Nigiotti never quite gets absorbed by Cristicchi. More applause for the performance of Achille Lauro, finally transformed into Bowie (for the less attentive) alongside Annalisa: the pairing between the two works perfectly. Lauro brings to the stage a character teetering on the edge, thrown into crisis by his own identity and by society; Annalisa accompanies him with a flawless, understated voice. Pass with flying colours. And another standing ovation for Tosca, winner of the night, who with Silvia Pérez Cruz brings a gypsy-flavoured version of "Piazza Grande" to the stage: the sheer joy of great singing. It was sorely needed.

Le Vibrazioni and Canova did their homework, winning over the audience with "Un'emozione da poco" without overdoing it, though with a few too many guitar flourishes. A fitting adaptation came from Diodato and Nina Zilli with "24mila baci": fun, with a performance that showed off both their talents. After the hardcore trial of the new song, Rita Pavone returns, relaxed at the piano with Amedeo Minghi, for a pleasantly by-the-book "1950". Chapeau.

Bugo and Morgan's "Canzone per te" sadly only just scrapes a pass: the former shows off his conservatory training, the latter tries to interpret it his own way. The result? Nothing earth-shattering. Far more successful was the cover by Irene Grandi and the great (and underrated) Bobo Rondelli: their "La musica è finita" is genuinely moving.

Guitars (too many of them) and lightning bolts for Piero Pelù's "Cuore matto": a duet with Little Tony would have really sparked something. The forgettable performance of Paolo Jannacci feat. Francesco Mandelli with "Se me lo dicevi prima" is offset by the artistic absence of Elettra Lamborghini, who, despite channelling Myss Keta's persona, has everyone genuinely hoping that "Non succederà più" will apply to seeing her at Sanremo.

The Italians' "L'italiano", Francesco Gabbani, delivers his cover of Toto Cutugno dressed as an astronaut, already thinking ahead to the Eurovision Song Contest. Someone bring him back down to Earth. For those still standing: tonight will see the winner among the Newcomers crowned: good luck!

***

THE SECOND NIGHT

And so came the second night of the Sanremo Festival 2020. With ratings as sky-high as those of the debut, who could they turn to for a promising opening? No fear, Fiorello had it covered. Having already invoked the celestial heights of TV with Don Matteo, he went even higher, calling in Maria, the nation's own De Filippi. With a fairly spot-on impression and a phone cameo from the lady herself, the opening of the second night did a fine job of masking the bloodbath that was about to await the Italian public just hours later!

Too much show and too little room for music, which finally gets going with the Newcomers' competition, who this year, as often happens, turned out to be the real stars with something interesting to bring to the Ariston stage. The duo Gabriella Martinelli–Lula fails to outdo Fasma's well-judged use of autotune: the pair's performance was (sadly and oddly) unconvincing, up against a product as polished and launch-ready as the Roman rapper's. The second face-off pits Marco Sentieri against Matteo Faustini: the former, buoyed by a well-crafted song about bullying, easily beats Faustini, still raw and decidedly predictable.

Having wrapped up the Newcomers, Amadeus takes a moment to commemorate Fabrizio Frizzi, whose birthday fell the day before. Joining him on stage is the late host's wife, Carlotta Mantovan, and there's great emotion in the room as those present remember Frizzi with a long round of applause, and perhaps a pang of regret at not having given enough to such a mild-mannered, professional figure.

An hour has gone by and the Sanremo Festival still hasn't properly started: just as the preambles seem to be over, Fiorello returns with his sketches and none-too-subtle jabs at the accusations levelled at Amadeus in recent days — chiefly those from women, or "nazi-feminists" as they've been dubbed. His back is covered, the ratings allow it, so he lets loose. But that's fine, the important thing is that certain points got hammered home. And just as hope was starting to fade, the competition finally begins. The "giant" Piero Pelù opens proceedings with a song that thoroughly disappoints: no point pushing the persona when the song simply isn't there. No dynamics, zero lyrical substance. Is this really Pelù? In memory of Litfiba: RIP.

One song later come the two new co-hosts, Tg1 journalists Laura Chimenti and Emma D'Aquino. Composed, elegant and professional — good corporate soldiers, in short. Breaking up all that restraint is a visibly nervous, almost awkward Elettra Lamborghini: the very notion of singing and songwriting becomes rather subjective from the first vaguely Spanish-tinged, nonsensical notes. As for the voice? Nowhere to be found. Things don't go any better with Enrico Nigiotti: the Livorno-born singer, who counts collaborations with Nannini among his many credits, seems to have learned nothing, least of all how to have personality.

There's barely time to get to the third contestant before the sacred pop-revival moment descends on the Ariston in the shape of the statuesque, evergreen Sabrina Salerno: it perks up the studio audience and piques the curiosity of those at home, but to no avail — there's no added value here beyond a third co-host announcing the singers' entrances.

The pink-quota mood continues with the arrival of freshly minted Big Artist Levante, gorgeous and glamorous as ever, but with her voice too clouded by emotion: it's hard to make out the words of a song presented as a piece of social commentary. A shame — better luck next time. The talent is there. Next comes a big question mark: Pinguini Tattici Nucleari among the Big Artists — since when? What do they have that Eugenio in Via di Gioia don't? Nothing, except a more adolescent, more anonymous song. Much ado about nothing.

The evening drags on at a cosmic pace, until along comes the most anticipated duet in the history of Italian music (according to the hosts): Tiziano Ferro (again?) and the ever-enduring Massimo Ranieri, who with a single note utterly outshines his "heir", triggering a standing ovation at the Ariston. But the artistic and musical high point of the night comes with Tosca: a class and a voice above all her colleagues. The song seems tailor-made for her, letting her range freely both in interpretation and vocal range. Superb.

The emotion continues with an appearance that's arguably questionable but undeniably powerful: Paolo Palumbo, a young man living with ALS who chose to bring his story, and that of a ferocious disease, to Italy's most famous stage. Tears held back with difficulty, and a great lesson in humanity and love of life.

The Big Artists carry on with nothing exceptional happening until the moment Italians (Who? When?) had supposedly been waiting 40 years for: the reunion of Ricchi e Poveri — embarrassing. There aren't many words to describe a forced performance, delivered to boot in playback: a slap in the face to the intelligence of anyone paying the license fee. The ones having the most fun seem to be Amadeus and Fiorello, while one is almost left missing the previous night's skit with Al Bano and Romina, who at least had the decency to earn the fee mother Rai was paying them.

On a night as slow as few others, full of pointless moments enough to make you miss Claudio Baglioni's pro-SIAE karaoke, Zucchero arrives like a bolt from the blue: one last burst of energy before hitting the off button on the remote. Hallelujah. In the third night we trust.

***

THE FIRST NIGHT

First months, then weeks, then days: the media drumbeat that in recent years precedes the Sanremo Festival has grown so relentless that, almost anesthetized by that point, we find ourselves switching the remote to channel one without a second thought. This year, amid controversy and accusations of revisionism, the scepter — or burden, depending on your point of view — fell to yes-man Amadeus, an "unknown" face by now firmly established as the ferryman of souls on New Year's Eve. On stage with him, like a human eggnog, is his close friend Fiorello, who once again managed to lend some dignity to his fellow host by invoking the Holy Grail of Rai1, "the only successful Matteo in Italy", Don Matteo. Dressed in a cassock and with his usual overflowing energy, the Sicilian showman accompanied Amadeus onto the Ariston stage, putting the average viewer's — and Rai executives' — minds at ease. A near-miraculous feat that nonetheless failed at the biggest task of all: dressing Amadeus in jackets humanly tolerable to the eye. But miracles aren't of this earth, so back to the "competition".

Straight away it's time for the "newcomers", who paradoxically sometimes boast numbers already worthy of "Big Artist" status, like Eugenio in Via Di Gioia, incredibly eliminated in the very first round despite a great performance and a song that wins you over from the first listen. The trite, well-worn banality of Tecla's pop, sadly, won over the polling jury: nothing new there. Then it's the turn of the Fadi vs. Leo Gassman duel: once again originality loses out to a rather sloppy song and the dubious personality of the famous scion of showbiz royalty. End of round one for the Newcomers, and after the first two gorgeous and convincing (one more than the other) hosts of the Festival, Diletta Leotta and Rula Jebreal, are introduced, it's on to the Big Artists — big in name only, since the songs are utterly forgettable.

Irene Grandi isn't enough on her own with Vasco Rossi: for the whole song you can already picture Emma Marrone instead. It's the era of new generations, and for those who don't reinvent themselves the climb is steep. Marco Masini sings a Marco Masini song, in the manner of Marco Masini, sparing us none of his excess high notes (which didn't land). Then there's the man who's always swung between good and bad, Achille Lauro, who once again managed to get everyone talking and set both the Ariston crowd and social media ablaze. (Un)dressed as a modern-day St. Francis, he sang his "Me ne frego", literally stripping off his own clothes and treating us to his usual camera-ready poses. Thrilling, not exactly game-changing, but it at least had the merit of making people remember the song's title, notwithstanding the all-too-obvious echo of his own "Rolls Royce".

Then there's Diodato, currently among the favourites for voice, song and stage presence: a "good boy" with a track that doesn't really bite but goes down well at the Ariston. And then Le Vibrazioni, by now Sanremo's evergreen act still waiting to scrape onto the podium, with a song that's far too Sanremo-esque in its chorus and takes you straight back to Modà.

While everyone was wondering when the inevitable trash moment would arrive, here it is served up on a silver platter: the return, after ages, of Al Bano and Romina with a lethal mix of greatest hits, tied together by the presentation of a new song penned by Cristiano Malgioglio. This was an epic moment, if only for the shot of the composer's smug face in his shimmering fuchsia jacket. A village-fair-style excursion that brought the festival down to a populist level - a bit too much so, in fact.

Other noteworthy moments included Anastasio's competition performance, even though his "rage" was immediately smothered by the special guest, the ever-present Tiziano Ferro, whose tributes to the great voices of the past were, truth be told, a bit disappointing overall. His final stumble on the Mia Martini song, put down to emotion, was the cherry on top crowning a set of covers that were, for now at least, well-chosen but ultimately mediocre.

The last big-name performance to truly leave a mark was Elodie's, with a song penned by 2019 winner Mahmood together with that genius Dardust: not a successful operation, an electronic backing track with an R&B twist, complete with functional stop&go effects, for a performance that was nonetheless muddled and stylistically all over the place. Outsiders in every sense were Morgan and Bugo: plenty of tenderness and one big "why?"

With the competition over, setting aside the ad-break-like moment devoted to Gabriele Muccino's new film or Emma Marrone's guest appearance, the evening had two peaks: one low, one high. The "total embarrassment" award goes to the monologue handed to sports journalist Diletta Leotta, who for endless minutes bored the audience - and the composed face of the grandmother in the front row - with talk of how "hard" it is to be beautiful in this tough, difficult society. The result? Ratings flatlined. The extra-musical light at the end of the tunnel, with moments of genuine emotion and engagement, came instead from Rula Jebreal's speech against violence against women. The Palestinian journalist spoke of her mother's suicide, a victim of abuse, and from there of her lifelong fight for women, their freedom and their dignity. Eyes glistening but voice strong, just like the message she managed to send out from the Ariston, leaving everyone moved and with one more thing to reflect on.

Between highs and lows, an opening night that neither wins you over nor disappoints: few truly striking musical moments and plenty of show to try and keep up the pace and stay on schedule. Over to round two.

Ride the wave of great music

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