In March 1959, on the edge of the Trevi Fountain, a photograph was shot on the set of Federico Fellini’s La Dolce Vita. It captures Fellini, the director, kissing Swedish actress Anita Ekberg, who plays Sylvia, a glamorous star visiting Rome, as Marcello Mastroianni, portraying the character Marcello, a Roman journalist mirroring Fellini’s own persona, leads her towards the set. The scene that follows, where Marcello pursues Sylvia in the fountain, has since become one of cinema’s most iconic (almost) kisses. Though the scene itself invites layers of interpretation, it’s this photograph, taken before the cameras rolled, that has stuck with me.

Fellini, known for his charismatic and sometimes erratic nature, was married at the time. His kiss to Ekberg, perhaps a playful gesture of good luck, serves as a prelude to the onscreen tension between Marcello and Sylvia. La Dolce Vita is often seen as a reflection of Fellini himself, with Marcello wandering through Rome’s Via Veneto, caught between critique and indulgence in the city’s seductive café society. As Fellini directs Marcello in a flirtation with Sylvia, the parallel between real-life Federico and fictional Marcello playing out in the photograph is hard to ignore. Both men - one real, one a cinematic creation - exist in a space between onscreen and offscreen romance, blurring the lines of truth and fiction. The photograph captures the fleeting moment where reality and artifice entwine, leaving behind neither fully, but instead traces of both.

In the film's following scene, Marcello is enthralled by Sylvia. He finds her charm real, not merely a product of media construction, unlike her reception by Rome’s elite. Marcello wades into the waters of the Trevi Fountain to join her in what feels like a transcendent communion, but as he reaches for her, the fountain’s waters are abruptly shut off, snapping him, and us, back to reality. The night’s dreamlike romance is replaced in an instant by the cold light of morning. The once-flowing fountain, a symbol of vitality and renewal, becomes a still, cold pond, trapped in the waking city. This cut, occurring just as Marcello leans in for the kiss, is a reminder of the boundary between fantasy and reality. It recalls images of the bathing goddess Diana, glimpsed by a voyeur, before sharply breaking that fantasy. Fellini, aware of his role as both creator and observer, uses this cut to explore his own internal conflict, his struggle to control fantasy while knowing its fleeting nature.

This image and its resonance became a recurring thought while we were writing Theatre Fortuna. There’s something deeply self-reflective about a director, or an artist, contemplating their ability to shape reality through fantasy. It raises a question of how far one can push fiction, bend it to their will, before they lose sight of where reality begins and fantasy ends. This disillusionment, while tragic, also opens up the possibility of exploring twisted, sentimental attachments to memories and ideas. Musically and lyrically, the five songs we created for this record embody the tension between constructed action and raw emotion, so intertwined that it becomes impossible to separate them. The songs meditate on the power, and danger, of trying to mould emotions to fit a narrative, to live in a fantasy that, instead of bringing you closer to it, pulls you further away.

Opening Night (Showgirl) introduces the emotions of a director grappling with control and vulnerability as he is increasingly distanced from the action and actors. In Mr. Flight, this struggle continues backstage, consumed by a growing sense of isolation and estrangement from a reality he once knew. Maybe Someday reflects on the bittersweet memories of a past he shared with the show’s lead, as he watches her rise to success on Broadway, leaving him behind. The second side of the EP takes on a more introspective tone. With distance from the heat of the stage lights, there is space to reflect. The emotional storm has passed, and what remains are echoes of past actions, with every moment now lined with sentimentality. The title track allows thoughts to freely drift, as feelings continue to reverberate through life. The title itself hints at the unpredictable fate of staged emotions, how they take on a life of their own, shaped by those who bring them into being. In this sense, it’s about the tension between a manipulated reality and the authentic emotions infused into it.

The line between reality and fiction is one that, once crossed, can bring passion and possibility, as well as isolation and distance. This blurred line is more commonplace than I first thought. In this EP, it’s explored through songwriting, in Fellini’s work through cinema, but it echoes through everyday life, from the smallest daydream to the grandest artistic vision. Initially, fantasy and reality seem distinct, but like in John Cassavetes’ Opening Night (1977), these layers begin to fold into one another. What starts as a clear division between the backstage and the performance in this film eventually overlaps, creating a hall of mirrors. Actors, characters, and real people all blend into one. This deconstruction of reality and fiction raises questions about theatricality itself; what’s performed and paid for, and what’s simply part of life?

The backstage in this film becomes the grounds for manipulation, with the consequences of these offstage tensions spilling over onto the stage itself. Myrtle, played by Gena Rowlands, resists criticism of her ability to embody an older woman by asserting, “Once you're convincing in a part, the audience accepts you as that.” In this statement, she acknowledges the influence that the constructed reality of the stage exerts on her off-stage life, yet she refuses to let it control her. Similarly, in Prima’s Opening Night (Showgirl), this power dynamic unfolds over three verses. The first verse portrays the power dynamics off-stage, the second shifts that power onto the stage, and the third reveals the collapse of that control, exposing the fragile and ultimately unsustainable nature of using fiction as a tool for realising fantasy. The theatrical illusion shatters when Myrtle addresses her co-star by his real name during a performance, breaking character to state, “We must never forget this is only a play.” With this simple line, she dismantles the entire construct, refocusing the blurred boundary between acting and being. It is a rejection of the roles imposed on her, both on-stage and off, a woman asserting her right to exist beyond the constraints of fiction.

It seems fitting to conclude this reflection by returning to Rome, December 19, 1997, the day Marcello Mastroianni passed away. The Trevi Fountain, once immortalised by his and Ekberg’s (almost) kiss, was turned off in tribute. The symbolic connection is fascinating, as once again, the moment of touch, where reality meets fantasy, gives way to stillness. A life spent walking the tightrope between truth and illusion, fiction and fantasy, has come to a close. The flowing waters, once bearing life and possibility, now lie still. The great affair is over, and all that remains are the echoes of the fountain and memories of the romance it once held.