Amadeus or: Andrei Tarkovsky Ruined My Life
Summer 2025
Jamie Mendonça

Are you a Salieri, or a Mozart? 

This question is of course potentially offensive to the memory of Antonio Salieri, but I can’t help but be obsessed with the wider idea of it. Creative souls may secretly believe they’re blessed with the supreme title of ‘genius’ (no-one dreams to be average, do they?) but the harsh reality for the overwhelming majority is quite different. 

Amadeus (1984) is a film I’ve avoided all my life for two reasons: I was strangely intimidated by it, and as a Mozart fan I wrongly assumed a grand biopic would be a monumental disappointment. But then came the opportunity for us as a distributor to release the 4K restoration of the film in cinemas and I had the distinct pleasure and privilege to witness the film, finally, in the best possible setting: the (inexplicably-soon-to-close) Curzon Mayfair.

Perhaps it took a ‘genius’ to oversee and indeed bring this film to life; certainly someone with a genuine artistic sensibility and indeed a deep respect and understanding for classical music. Miloš Forman was clearly a magnificent and inspired choice; a choice he placed upon himself after watching Peter Shaffer’s play of the same name in late 70’s London, and forging an inspired partnership to create the screenplay.

Amadeus may appear a Hollywood blockbuster production from the outside but this seems more an extremely elaborate European arthouse film that took off and won an almost embarrassing amount of major awards. Shot on the streets of Prague – not Vienna – it was also something of a pilgrimage for the filmmaker, who never thought he’d return to the country of his birth after emigrating to the USA.

Is it acceptable to label the film a ‘masterpiece’ in this era of excessive labelling? I’m honestly not sure, but it’s my cinematic highlight of the year thus far. How could I have predicted what a riot it was going to be; utterly outrageous and all the more irresistible for it. I mean, the mere cheek of presenting an imagined rivalry that may very well have been a sort of reality, but with artistic liberty flourishing to a frankly insane degree. Or to put it another way: a film based on a rumour.

I often quip that Andrei Tarkovsky ruined my life in that once you encounter his films, there’s simply no going back. Almost everything seems distinctly unremarkable upon reflection; for example: how dare I – little old me – even contemplate making a film unless it’s even approaching such high artistic level? But this is a deadly trap, for how many Mozarts are out there in the world right now, who will not only live and die without an ounce of recognition, but may never even write a single note, or pick up a camera, or a paintbrush?

I now ask myself the question I posed at the beginning of this text. Deep, deep down I’m afraid I think I might know the answer.