Bagaglino is one of the infinite reasons for pining for nostalgia, thinking back to the nineties. It absorbed all the demi-monde that now has to spread around reality and talent (ie: for programs that replace those in which the professionals performed), and acted as a social safety net.
On the Bagaglino (and on the week of Sanremo) were poured the double shares that a healthy society can bear. Andreotti’s double at Bagaglino, Liz Taylor’s double in Sanremo. We were a happy country, and we didn’t know it.
They were also the years when the most incomprehensible entertainment was football. We sensible people looked at those who were passionate about football and thought: poor things. We thought that there would never be anything more foolish inside the television screen.
And we did not know that we would arrive in this century, the one in which politics has become an avant-garde (but not with doubles: with the real ones) and perpetual live television, and football has been replaced by television series with doubles. What are we watching tonight? Isn’t there one directed by some government oath? So a Diana Spencer lookalike? A Francis Ford Coppola impersonator? What remake of reality with actors who reproduce the posture seen in the old newscasts do we choose to entertain ourselves?
The fifth season of The Crown incomprehensibly does not air on Rai 1, and magically is taken seriously: if you have a more didactic script than Don Matteo’s, but you are on Netflix, critics firmly believe you are quality TV. Yes, you have the Bagaglino doubles and at least one actor per episode who summarizes the news so that the average uninformed viewer can follow you, but, hey, you are prestige TV.
On the other hand, in an era in which no one dares to give the public what they do not yet know they want, it is not clear why we should expect courage and altruism and imagination from Netflix. His audience is what he discovered two years ago, with the previous season of The Crown, how Diana Spencer’s marriage story had begun, and he poured out on Carlo and Camilla’s Instagram to say shame on you, what have you done to poor Diana, we have been distracted for the last twenty-five years but now you will have to deal with our indignation.
His audience is the one that does not inquire, does not accultura, at most it educates itself, always through Netflix, a platform from whose double or archive materials he learns that in the Eighties in Italy there was a lot of heroin, or that a certain Emanuela Orlandi has disappeared: with an audience like this, would you take the historical facts of the ruling house of England for granted?
For those who were there, and you know the facts, this is the most boring season of The Crown: we have seen the originals, what do we do with cheap copies? We were in front of the news when Diana said there were three of them in that marriage – in the tone a village maid who thought a royal wedding was all about falling in love and loyalty – what do we do with the poor actress who trying to make that look the same from below up?
It becomes interesting only when it seems to be a gigantic pizzino, a metaphor for other themes and characters, an allegory of a bit of everything, even of Italian politics.
Andrea who, to tell the spectators what they don’t know, reproaches her mother for her enthusiasm for his marriage to Sarah Ferguson, saying something like: we always think of revitalizing ourselves by bringing into the family people who have nothing to do with us , we think they will give us new life, and then we shred them – yes, that is undoubtedly an editorial on Meghan Markle, but perhaps also on Elly Schlein, but perhaps also on the cyclical figure of the outsider who is deluded into becoming an insider.
A recurring theme in left-wing parties: there was still the Olive Tree, no less, it was 1997, a few months later Diana Spencer would die, and at a PDS congress a girl stood up to explain to D’Alema what she should have do the party, I don’t even know if it was the first but it is the first I remember, then all the Serracchiani and Civati would come as children screaming that the king is naked to young senile leaders integrated into the system more than ever succeeded to Sarah Ferguson.
And a recurring theme this season of The Crown (in the half I watched before deciding I couldn’t sacrifice too much for you). The outsider who very strongly wants to become an insider is Mohamed Al-Fayed: willing to do anything to be accredited at court, he hires the former waiter of Edward and Wallis Simpson, who obviously is much more than a waiter, is the secret to looking like a sir and not a climber, he is the key to reaching the royal family, he is a councilor (is it Bettini?).
And Charles who summons John Major and tells him that in short, the complex of Queen Victoria, who did not leave the throne to her son by clipping his wings, cannot produce new distortions, it is clear that he is ready to reign, it is clear that it is up to him , it is clear that – if you close your eyes, you see thirty years of debates on generational change on the left. The purest that purges you has become the freshest that you scrape – but not at Buckingham Palace.
It is a bit tender to look at the Carlo of the time, who to us other spectators of his marriage already seemed very old, and instead he was not even 33 years old when he married Diana, and 43 when he summoned Major hoping to be able to plot to make his mother abdicate. It is a little tender to know that the pig will have to do another thirty years of anteroom, always convinced that he would be a better sovereign, that it is unfair that the mother does not benefit from a hundred quota, and that that is not a monarchy for young people .
You can see, Carlo, who at Di Maio’s age was preparing for forty years of apprenticeship, who after decades of environmental militancy has not spun a tenth of Greta Thurnberg, you can see that at a certain point he stops thinking is a question of age, and the great Italianness is imported into England. No, not Bagaglino’s doubles: the excuse of “there is no meritocracy”.