Armacord - This true story took place in Bologna, Italy, year 1972

The Moon Traveller Head site is honored to feature this remembrance of the maestro! Our great friend Mike Brusha headed off to Italy many years ago and found the truest home of his heart.  He was an American sandlot youth baseball pitcher, late in the kitchen Hegel and Marx debater, and Friday night adventure compatriot. A key event, a big part of the magic that drew him to the old country: An encounter with great director Federico Fellini. It is described here. Brusha meets the maestro as he prepares for filming of Armacord. - Jack Vaughan

 This true story took place in Bologna, Italy, year 1972

 

By Michael Brusha

This true story took place in Bologna, Italy, year 1972. At that time I was completing my senior year of college. Participating in the Student Abroad program through the University of Wisconsin, Madison. I still live in Bologna, married to a beautiful Bolognese woman, Maria. We have one son, Daniele. Age 36. Allow me to provide useful background information. 

The beautiful Lake Michigan surroundings, a flourishing economy and the Midwestern sociability made Racine WI a great place to grow up during the late 50s and 60s. Upon my mother's request I began to study the organ at an early age. However, like the majority of them, I was an outdoor kid. Preferring baseball to Bach. To my delight, I have maintained ironclad contact with many of my high school friends. We frequently chat online. Topics ranging from globalization to ribs on the grill. 

During our undergraduate years at the University music was a constant medicine. We would ramble on discussing about our future plans. I majored in sociology and sustained and intense program in Italian studies. After all, I'm one of the FBI. Full Blooded Italians. 

A renewed interest in music resurfaced. The saxophone and jazz were my rediscovered craze. 

My friends, the writers, had their hearts set on migrating to New York City and place their mark in the literary world. One sure goal was to meet the Master, our folk hero, Bob Dylan. 

But who was my Master? Out of the blue, almost the rhetorical response to my friends, I declared “Fellini!” “You fellows will meet Bob Dylan and I, Federico Fellini.” 

Finally, in late August I was leaving for Europe. So exciting “first time out of the country, first time in an airplane!” 

Our group flew from Chicago to Paris, France, where we spent a five-day orientation layover before taking the train South to Bologna.

Paris was overwhelming. I was entering a new world! My academic program was packed; an advanced sociology class. Italian literature and the Conservatory of Music G.B. Martini where I enrolled in classical saxophone. Many personal readjustments had to be managed as well; learning a new language, socializing, and forming new friendships. A new diet! Baked lasagna and tortellini replaced burgers and fries. 

The city of Bologna certainly lived up to my expectations. It is beautifully medieval in architectural structure, yet perfectly modern regarding urban organization and mentality. 

By now comfortable in my boarding house accommodation, one Friday evening while casually flipping pages of the daily Bologna journal, my eyes landed on an article. It stated that the Federico Fellini would be in Bologna the following morning, casting for the role of the Gradisca (the sexy hair dresser) in his upcoming film are “Armacord” (“I Remember”).

Astonished, I thought out loud;  “Are you telling me that this is my chance to meet Fellini? 

“Tomorrow, I'll be there.”

The Press Club Building

The following morning I got an early start. I parked my horn at the Conservatory, then walked to the nearby Press Club building where the event would take place. I started poking around for clues. Peering into a bar I notice as small group of very elegantly dressed women.

The following morning I got an early start. I parked my horn at the Conservatory, then walked to the nearby Press Club building where the event would take place. I started poking around for clues. Peering into a bar I noticed a small group of very elegantly dressed women. “Too early in the morning for this formal attire,” I speculated, “something’s going on.”

As I crossed the street and entered into the courtyard of the Press Club building I observed three black Mercedes Benz automobiles branding license plates from the city of Rome. “Bing!” – I walked up the two flights of stairs that led to the first floor, completely unaware of what I was getting myself into.

I knocked on the door and was received by a gentleman who’s facial expression showed no interest to my presence.

“Hello, I would like to meet Mr. Fellini.” “He’s busy,” the man replies as he promptly shuts the door in my face. Neither surprised nor distressed I began retracing my steps back to the street concluding, “Oh well, I gave it a shot.” Half-way down the stairs appeared a heavy-set woman seated on a concrete bench. She seemed in need of assistance. I stopped to ask her, “Ma’am, is there a problem?”

“Grandisca’s role belongs to a woman with an appealing shape. Look at me, I’m fat. Fellini will never choose me.” Then adding, “I’m so sick and tired of being an ordinary housewife.”

Perplexed and moved by her statements I tried my best to console her. “Ma’am you know, there may be a different role for you. Don’t give up!”

She smiled, looked at me and sighed, “No, no, but remember this, you are a fine young man.”

Her words rekindled my enthusiasm. I thanked the woman and returned upstairs. This time I walked through the door without knocking, and entered a large empty room.

At the far end of this room sat an old man. Behind the man, a closed door, I pulled up a chair, keeping a fair distance from the man, and paused. 

Suddenly at my side arrives this young fellow. He sits down, takes a few seconds to give me his visual radar check, and remarks; “You’re American, aren’t you. Are you here to meet Fellini?” I quietly nodded in approval.

After a minute or two the door behind the old man opens. Fellini, walks out, greets the man, and they embrace. The young fellow nudge me; “Go meet him!”

I refused. “No, they are probably relatives. It’s not right to disturb them.”

Fellini returned inside and the odd man left the room. My “new found friend” snarled, “Bravo Americano, you blew your chance.” I ignored that comment.

The “Holy” Room

 

Moments of wavering indecision elapsed, until I simply rose to my feet and entered the “holy” room alone. The scenario was chaotic. A walking platform had been erected in the center of the room, and three beautiful women were strolling to and fro. The paparazzi flashing away, crouched along the sides of the promenade.

The commotion suddenly died downs as they eyed me! Here I stood, long black hair to my shoulders, wearing a military trench coat which I had purchased secondhand from a Salvation Army supply store in Milwaukee.

A voice merges, “Who are you!?”

“I would like to meet the director,” I answered with a trembling voice.

One of the assistants then says, “Federico, this boy wants to meet you.” As Fellini approached me, my head dropped, and I mechanically protruded my right arm to shake hands.

“I murmured, “I’m American, and I enjoy your films very much.”

“My pleasure,” he responds and continues, “What brings you to Bologna?”

Mr. Fellini’s smooth, soft voice created quite a contrast to his big build.

“I attend the University and the Conservatory.”

“Ah, Conservatory, so, you’re a musician!”

“Not yet, but I will become one.”

A thought crossed my mind, “An autograph!” I pulled a Bologna travel agency business card from my coat pocket and asked for his autograph. He wrote, “To Mike, Federico Fellini.” This card still hangs on my office wall.

Then, like a magician pulling a rabbit of his top-hat, I extracted from my left coat pocket a fluffy red-white and blue Uncle Sam statuette that I had obtained by way of Kellogg’s Corn Flakes coupons.

“This is for you, Mr. Fellini.”

Fellini was thrilled. “This is Uncle Sam!”

“Yes, yes it is.”

“You must know that I adore Uncle Sam,” then with clasped hands he articulated in his regional dialect “che bel regalein” (“What a beautiful little gift.”)

One of the paparazzi flashed a photo of me handing the Uncle Sam to Fellini. Unfortunately, I never retrieved that photo, as my time was up.

I bid farewell, flew out of there, down the stairs and made my return to the Conservatory. 

As I ran through scales and arpeggios my thoughts often drifted back to this, call it, event.

I reflected, “Amazing. Here the Oscar award winning director of “La Dolce Vita” takes time to speak to a nobody like me!”

Precisely. Here defines a true artist, someone who is gifted, curious, always searching, even in the apparently little things.

Is there a moral to this story? If the reader may find one, so be it.

For my part, it simply feels good to share this with you.  

[Bologna, 21 December 2020]

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