Four decades into a legendary filmmaking career, and with his name indicating a genre unto itself, Fellini continued making films that amused him, challenged his cinematic chops and largely eschewed narrative coherence except in the way that dreams make sense until the spell breaks. Released in 1983, And the Ship Sails On continued his trend, post-Amarcord, of exploring loosely connected vignettes within a self-contained world, in this case aboard a passenger ship steaming across the Mediterranean Sea. Hinting at grand themes, the film shies from anything beyond superficial engagement with big ideas, opting instead for light satire, verging into slapstick, all of it buoyed by twinkly-eyed charm that generates many laugh-out-loud moments and some dazzling imagery. It makes for a fizzy cocktail that might not contain much nutritional value but boosts your mood as long as you’re sipping it.
Set in the summer of 1914 just weeks after Archduke Ferdinand was assassinated, the currents of history tug at the storyline without altering its course very much. The premise, written by Fellini with Tonino Guerra, finds a cross-section of opera performers and aficionados embarking on a journey to memorialize a recently deceased singer, whose ashes will be scattered at sea. Along the way, the camera visits various mini-dramas in the dining room, on the decks and in the cabins of the eccentric passengers whose dialogue offers glimpses of personality and conflict without any of them taking center stage as a principal character. A journalist named Orlando (Freddie Jones) fills the role of narrator, speaking directly to the audience in comical and winking asides, although he doesn’t appear to be particularly knowledgeable or well-connected as he bumbles his way amiably through fragmented conversations and aborted interviews, occasionally shrugging and grinning for the camera. In nearly every scene, the set can be seen to subtly tip and sway as if with the motion of the waves, creating a sense of verisimilitude that’s counteracted by charmingly ersatz cut-outs of the ship’s hull and rippling sheets of plastic meant to evoke moonlight on the sea.
The film’s most notable flourish lies in the remarkably inventive depiction of the passage of time, expressed through pastiches of the various ages of cinema. The opening scenes unfold in silence and black-and-white, accompanied only by the whirr of an old movie camera, while the abrupt editing and film speed mimic the herky-jerky movements of early 20th century filmmaking. These scenes depict the gathering of the travelers and sailors on the dock as the ship prepares to disembark, and a steam whistle pierces the silence. The assembled passengers break into song as the great singer’s ashes are carried aboard. The imagery takes on a sepia tone which then blooms into full color as the camera glides onto the ship.
This ingenious framing device creates the suggestion that each of the dozens of vignettes which make up the rest of the film could represent their own movie within the span of cinematic history. There’s plenty of fertile material here, although Fellini seems content to skim over these scenarios without belaboring any deeper meaning or exploration of character. We observe the eccentricities of opera singers who compete to regale the coal-shoveling laborers of the boiler room, and a man who hypnotizes a chicken, and a group of musicians who spontaneously perform a resonant melody by rubbing the rims of water glasses, only to erupt into bickering about flubbed notes even as their audience applauds. A lovesick rhinoceros is hoisted to the deck for fresh air, and a seance for the dead singer devolves into a silly prank. When a boatload of Serbian refugees are rescued and allowed to assemble on the top deck, the political backdrop threatens to darken the lighthearted tone of the voyage. Some aristocratic passengers bemoan the presence of savages and assassins, determined to bully the Captain into abandoning them, but some of the singers and artists find common ground with the refugees, mingling and dancing and singing in a joyful melee. This is as close as the film comes to a thematic statement—something about the power of art and expression to unite people whose lives and values are diverse or even incompatible—but Fellini doesn’t insist upon it, and, like the ship itself, the story moves on.
While Italy put forth And the Ship Sails On to represent the country in the Best Foreign Language Film category, it wasn’t recognized by the Academy and received no nomination. Fellini’s masterpieces were behind him, but his joy and skill in filmmaking remain palpable in this sprawling, messy and enchanting voyage. Bookending the film, the ages-of-cinema conceit returns as the camera pulls away from scenes depicting the ship’s fate to reveal the artifice of the whole production. We glimpse the camera crews huddled on scaffolds as the set tips and shudders on a massive hydraulic gimbal within a sound stage the size of an airplane hangar. It’s filmmaking in the modern age, industrial and cutting-edge, and Fellini seems to relish the last chance to wink at the audience, demystifying his own spectacle.
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