“Hello, ChatGpt. Work like an artistic director and make me a Sanremo festival that respects all the parameters of a winning festival. Take inspiration from the liturgies of the past, planning a complete edition that can maximize ratings by satisfying all segments of the public, in an effective balance between tradition and novelty. The style must be national-popular but institutional, not taking strange initiatives. Now generate 5 ideas for 5 evenings. But, above all, make sure you respect the schedule and close by 1.30 am night.”

And so the Sanremo 2026 festival was born. A festival that lives in paradox: every element is exactly in the right place, it fully respects the sacred liturgy of the “Sanremo Holy Week”, yet it seems to lack soul. Mathematically perfect, emotionally cold: just like artificial intelligence. The event is missing, the “eventization” of the thing (forgive us the neologism): something that was felt, in part, only with Achille Lauro and his homage to Crans Montana, the day before last, the only monumental and memorable thing seen so far.

Of course, there are still nine million people in front of the screen, but otherwise the perception of the public and professionals is that all this is a somewhat tired replica of the success that was: everything is very scripted, no off-schedule adrenaline; even the controversies seem a bit like a parody of themselves. And, after all, it may also be physiological that, after all, we have reached the beginning of the downward curve of the event after twelve years of the golden age. They are the historical courses and recurrences. And, perhaps, the first to be tired, after years of collective drunkenness, are us.

Every pawn in its place, but none of them checkmate

A scientifically impeccable festival, in short, but without infamy and without praise. As our columnist Massimo Falcioni writes: “This Sanremo is, in fact, a straight line without peaks. There is no moment that aspires to end up in the display cases, there is no scene that aspires to become an eternal meme”. To Conti, host and artistic director, “you indicate the goal and he, somehow, reaches it”, continues Falcioni, “if you have to get out of the quicksand, you know that with him you will save your feathers and you will be able to breathe again”. And in fact, this was the case, at least until the last edition. After the golden years of Amadeus, those that everyone considered unsurpassable, Conti succeeded in the titanic feat: raising the bar of success. Then this year arrived, with the presenter who never misses an opportunity to reiterate that it is his last edition. And with his fast pace, the same one that was once popular and which today is instead criticized because it is perceived as hasty.

That “exaggerated classicism” which last year caused some criticism – a real “restoration” after being used to the baroque editions of Amadeus – today seems to have deteriorated a bit into “safe used”. Maybe it’s because journalists look for news for work, hunting for novelties, but this year every pawn seems to be in its place, yet none manages to checkmate. Just think of the so-called super guests, who often lazily follow the traditions of the past.

Guests are “safely used”

In Carlo Conti’s textbook lineup, the certainties are all there, yet they are not enough. There is the Piccolo Coro dell’Antoniano, a tribute from Teche Rai as affectionate as it has been seen and reviewed. There are Tiziano Ferro and Eros Ramazzotti, perfect guests to pay homage to “the greats of Italian music” (cit): if only it wasn’t for the fact that they had already been here in past years. Directly from the nineties, then, even the super model returns, the beauty who doesn’t dance that we could easily do without, Irina Shayk: the usual foreigner who doesn’t speak Italian well and who therefore makes us endear ourselves with her feminine vulnerability etc. etc. “One of the most beautiful women in the world who is an honor to have here on stage and who is even more beautiful live” etc. etc.

There are, again, the essential tributes to the great protagonists who passed away in the last year, from Beppe Vessicchio to Pippo Baudo, who however end up losing emotion in the general flattening of a lineup that moves in a hurry, too quickly. For example, with Camilla Ardenzi, granddaughter of Ornella Vanoni, we didn’t have time to get emotional before the tribute in memory of her grandmother was already over. In short, there is formality but there is a lack of identity.

Let’s imagine the prompt: “I would like a mix of singers who satisfy different generations”

And what about the competing singers? Well, the Big cast is perfectly “optimized”, to use a word that ChatGpt likes so much. We can imagine the prompt: “I would like a mix of singers who satisfy different generations”. No sooner said than done, easy as pie. Here on stage, for the benefit of the kids, are all those who have done a roar of numbers on TikTok in recent months: Eddie Brock, Samurai Jay. Then here’s Patty Pravo, because you still need someone you can call an “icon”. And again, there is another important segment of television that needs to be satisfied, Generation Finally, Max Pezzali needs to be confined to the Costa Crociere ship: wouldn’t we want to displease the “elder millennials”, the older millennials? They made the fortune of the latest Amadeus festivals.

Thirty artists competing, yet few songs leave you speechless (one certainly does, but we’ll get to that later). So much so that, for a month now, music critics have been arguing about a less experimental musical level than in the past. But perhaps it is not just a question of selection, it is also – and above all – saturation of dynamics that the scene itself brings with it. In short, we can’t stand singers who launch dances on TikTok. Elettra Lamborghini attempts yet another coup as a fake icon of trash cult, but she succeeds up to a certain point: in recent years we have had too many and she too is a copy of herself. Elsewhere, again, the feeling of dejavù: Maria Antonetta and Colombre remind us of the glories of Coma Cose, who have broken up in the meantime; the Rag Dolls and their pop-rock-feminist manifesto remind us of Marcella Bella: their “I’m a woman who doesn’t look anything in the face / They looked at me badly but it’s people’s judgement“what can it be, compared to “Strong independent badass“? Nothing.

Even controversies are parodies of themselves

And, speaking of feminism, even the controversies this year seem faded, already felt. Parodies of themselves. How many times have we told ourselves that there are too few women at the festival? There was a lot of talk about it in the last press conference. But it’s no longer news, unfortunately. No outcry, then, for that “golden mother” that Conti said to Francesca Lollobrigida, Olympic champion who arrived on stage yesterday: in 2023, when Ferragni said “Think free”, we would never have let Conti pass this thing of having identified the woman with motherhood before with her professional goals. But we are tired.

So let Sal Da Vinci win, the only real novelty

You know what’s the one thing that wasn’t there before? Well, Sal Da Vinci. The neomelodic. That was missing for a while. And it is no coincidence that, we assure you, here on the Riviera he is the only real star this year: yesterday he made a real splash with the crowd during an incursion into the public. So let him win with his “Forever yes”. True to the core, truthful, a copy of nothing and no one.