I’ve seen that many people are talking about the series, and it seemed only right to make a post about it. I’ll start right away by saying what almost everyone I’ve spoken to has thought: this series is terrible. There’s no need to compare it to the stage version (which, incidentally, for a whole series of reasons I find far less interesting than the film) or to the cinematic version in order to criticize the directorial choices or the writing of this series. Setting aside the first episode, which is literally a stitched-together sequence of TikToks that I don’t even want to dwell on, the remaining episodes are extremely redundant, and this is reflected heavily in the structure: a party at the beginning, an episode that follows stereotypical (aesthetic and narrative) conventions of a different genre each time, which fail to guarantee any linear coherence of the plot, and Salieri at the end swearing hatred and revenge, without ever deeply developing a psychology or providing any context for his motivations.
The inclusion of his elderly figure is entirely negligible, and the authors know this very well too, since they keep forgetting about it. Beyond the evident technical and writing problems that many people have complained about, I would like to point out that the very soul of the story has not been understood at all. The declared intention behind the form of this series is to expand areas left in shadow by the film, perhaps in order not to step on toes or to avoid repeating what has already been written, which can be commendable—except that it must be done with a methodological criterion that takes into account the meaning of the scenes and the psychology of the characters within them.
It seems to me that the "original directions" in which the series has developed in this sense are mainly two: Salieri’s schemes and Mozart’s three-dimensionality. While in the first branch everything is accessory (it essentially provides more screen time and a slight whodunit flavor, but adds nothing to what we already know about the character), the second issue is far more complex. First of all, there is an important premise to be made: the protagonist of Amadeus is not Mozart, but Salieri. This has always been clear from 1830 onward. I’ve heard many people complain about the lack of three-dimensionality in Mozart’s character. It is necessary that Mozart is not developed for a very simple reason, namely that the narrator (Salieri) has no interest whatsoever in portraying him in any other way. Quite the opposite, I daresay. It works entirely in favor of his argument that Mozart is indeed presented to the interlocutor as an underdeveloped being. Moreover, he himself has never been interested in the man behind his own projection.
What makes the Requiem scene so memorable in the film stems precisely from this: the idea he had formed is inconsistent, but by then it is too late to fix it. For this reason, attributing a more complex psychology to Mozart in the series, in my view, completely shifts the focus: this was never an equal story, and it should not be. As a review published in 1985 wrote, Salieri’s true work of genius lies in his story, because it is told, and through words he is composing the music of his own posterity (David Thomson. Salieri, Psycho in Film Comment, January-February 1985, Vol. 21, No. 1 (January-February 1985), pp. 70-75: "If you can stand a minute of his floating disdain, it could go on forever. Talk is his music, and he knows he has no equal. It is like listening to the hilarious accounts by some old theatrical queen of all his disasters and humiliations. The longer he goes on about his own bitter pills, the more celebrated he becomes."). One could then discuss the fairly predictable and banal reasons why Mozart feels “uneasy” with his own talent (paternal trauma, how clever), but I’ll perhaps leave that to a more technical comment I’ll make later.
A Mozart who renounces music and places himself in the position of the tormented genius is nothing more than a character who accepts Salieri’s conditions of existence, namely the dichotomy between genius and mediocrity. The lesson that Forman’s Amadeus sought to give us was precisely not to trust Salieri’s idea, to free ourselves from this romantic-taste vision that sees torment in the genius and banality in the mediocre, because Salieri is not, quite simply, mediocre. He is never depicted as such, and his words are entirely inconsistent with what the camera shows us. If this imbalance in the psychological depth of the two characters—which is what makes the story compelling—is removed, then what remains is no longer Amadeus.
I understand—though I do not share—the rush to expand fictional worlds, because we are all curious to know what Mozart thinks, what his take on these issues is. Does he know about Salieri? What is his relationship with Leopold? What does he really think about his creative process? But since we are introduced to the story through Salieri, we must unfortunately abandon these speculations and simply enjoy the work as it is presented to us. Doing the opposite is, as this series has shown, an experiment doomed to fail.