"I can't help but wonder what the plots to Bach to the Future, movements 1-6 were (because who in good conscience would number these movies in "parts").
Like, is he sitting there in Lüneburg in nothing but his underwear one day, practicing his sick air organ (the air guitar hadn't been invented yet), when out of nowhere a batty, old inventor with wild hair and even wilder eyes (da Vinci, obviously) appears in a silver, gleaming airship to whisk the teenage composer forward in time to 18th century Austria, where a young boy named Mozart is dangerously close to giving up on music forever! Because if that's the case we HAVE to get Bach to the future!
I'm just spitballing here. Jump in at any time."
When Leonardo first asked Bach to accompany him to the future, his pitch fell flat, causing the German teen to decline out of fear he did not have the right temperament for the mission. In later years, the generally held belief among scholars was that this had been a major setback for da Vinci, whose movements during that time were thought to be largely undocumented. This theory struck a chord with a small band of academics, however, who over the years would scale up efforts to substantiate their claims.
But what began at first as a small act of dissonance quickly crescendoed into something much more fractious when a gentleman siding with the pro-orthodox group assaulted one of the agnostics with a pair of Zildjian Hi-hat cymbals in the heart of central London. The disagreement (though this fact remains undetermined to this day) is said to have been cacophonous, and, while the victim would later testify in court that the erroneously labeled "gentleman" had apologized, the damage was done. A decades-long schism formed within what had once been the harmonious field of musical history arts.
After an interval of nearly 40 years, the doubts those few scholars had once clung to were shown to be more than well held. A key piece of evidence had been discovered: a complete set of Leonardo da Vinci's own journals. Within weeks, bolstered by their well-scored victory, the now majority agnostic camp released a thorough recounting of events—one which to this day is held by academics as canon: though it does appear that da Vinci had initially been discouraged, it did not take him long to compose himself—the boy's "no" answer little more than a minor half-step back in the older man's plan to save Mozart’s burgeoning career.
In the days that followed, Leonardo da Vinci dispatched a series of upbeat notes to young Johann Sebastian Bach. When the tenor of those notes proved unpersuasive, and the German teen became agitated, da Vinci took a more modulated tone instead, offering a measured counterpoint to each of Bach's individual doubts.
But, as it always does, the truth eventually bore out: Bach had been playing up his fears all along. Like all teenagers, all he'd really wanted to do was stay home and riff on his organ with his friends—a progression which was decidedly unsurprising to da Vinci in hindsight. With everything out in the open, Bach gave in and accepted the inventor’s overture, and, with arrangements made, accompanied him to Salzburg for a brief interlude.