Loosely based on Ermanno Cavazzoni’s Il Poema Dei Lunatici (1987), The Voice Of The Moon (1990) is Fellini’s final work prior to his death. The film came into existence due to the director’s long time craving of crafting something that had to do with nature, tranquillity, the quiet countryside that reminded him of his upbringing in rural Rimini, as opposed to the chaotic quagmire and the city life that he had embraced when he followed his dreams by moving to Rome in 1940.
The purpose behind the film itself, among other things, is in fact the devotion to portraying the two polar opposites, a perpetual dualism if you will. On one side, we find the bucolic, nocturnal realm, sheer expression of individualism, and mystery drenched in ancestral wisdom. On the other side, there is the urban landscape, crammed with town people, shop owners, and tourists all merging together in an insufferable cacophony amplified by a patchwork of advertisements and the futility of a beauty contest.
The nighttime is the perfect setting that supports the storytelling in perpetuating the constant sense of enigma and interrogation, which emphasizes the melancholic nature of the film. In this instance, the director takes the opportunity of depicting the state of sempiternal liminality, which is one of his most impactful signature styles, and he does so by leaning on the portrayal of mental health and the stigma that comes with it.
The story centers around Ivo Salvini (Roberto Benigni), a recently released mentally ill patient who roams around the undefined Emilia Romagna’s countryside lured by whispering wells, and the prefect Gonnella (Paolo Villaggio) an old quirky character who is psychotically convinced that everyone is conspiring against him, and all that unfolds in front of his eyes is nothing more than a simulated reality. The two find each other, end up joining forces and set off on a Don Quixote-like quest in search of a seemingly unreachable meaning of life. The moon is thought to be holding the answers to the meaning of human existence, therefore as you would expect it to go in any respectable Fellinian universe, the satellite gets kidnapped by the villagers and held hostage.
It is as if the director, who is renowned for building golems made of burlesquely inflated childhood memories, is inferring that people who are merely defined as "mentally ill" have probably a much steadier connection with the actual meaning of the semi-undecipherable actuality.
In his very last work, the director would be remiss if he did not express his captivation with the threshold between physical and metaphysical dimensions. Fortunately, he did so by underlining the strong sense of magical awe and admiration that most people who are deemed clinically insane seem to possess, as well as a more negative spectrum of human emotions that afflicts whoever has a clearer sight of their disappointing reality. This is quite clearly exemplified by the sentiment of loneliness that Salvini and his whimsical nightly walks suggest, chasing an unsolicited love that reminds him of the moon herself and the collective existential doubt: why is it impossible to meet our deceased loved ones once they have left us?
Just like the Saraghina in 8 1/2 (1963), Volpina in Amarcord (1973), or even the mischievous, provincial characters his younger self was terrified of in The Clowns (1970) they are all existing in a transitional space that dwells between what is considered as acceptable by the societal norms and what is seen as alien, so are the characters displayed in Il Maestro’s final work.
During his childhood flashback, Guido asks his grandma "But where does the music go when it stops playing?" echoing the harpist in Orchestra Rehearsal (1978).
Maybe this is the director trying to hint at an ancient Italian rural proverb that goes "Only mad people, drunks and children tell the truth."
Benigni travels back in time to when he was a child, to the waggish time made of folkloristic myths and nonsensical tales. When he finally gets to talk to the moon, in her celestial wisdom she reiterates one of Fellini’s most famous messages: the inexplicable aesthetic experience that exists just to be witnessed and enjoyed, not understood.