The first scene of Turné – who was the right age when he came out knows it, and we feel sorry for the others – it is Fabrizio Bentivoglio who is auditioning to play Trofimov. And the monologue that he thinks well to lead to a producer who has to decide if it is good for The Cherry Garden is something that says “There is a red door, I would like it dyed black”, and the producer asks if it is García Lorca, and he replies “Mick Jagger” – which was intended (very successful) to make us less than twenty-year-olds understand that this character was maladjusted, exhausted, nonconformist, in love.
Only then at that point something happens that hasn’t given me peace for thirty-two and a half years, from the spring of my seventeen years when I didn’t even know what a macroscopic cost the songs were in the production of a film, from that same year in which Scorsese unbeknownst to me, he had spent a billion dollars to get Gimme Shelter in Those good guys.
The scene ends with the scornful “Mick Jagger”, and the opening credits start, and the opening credits have a song that the budget of a Salvatores at the beginning of his career could afford, and that song is not Paint It, Black.
My adult life was marred by asking me “yes, but how much did this cost him?” of every right song (a few, fortunately) in every scene of every film. I don’t remember which Frenchman, perhaps Jacques Perrin, said that he could no longer watch films without thinking about the sign on the ground where the actors stop, the guy immediately off stage who looks after the spotlight, the make-up artist who waits for the stop to enter to dab. I couldn’t watch Drought without thinking: how much must Mina have cost him?
Watching Wannathe documentary on Brands and their daughter, on the roaring years of the cheesecloth and Lotto numbers, on the ethical debate on who deserves more to be punished (who cheats or who gets cheated?), on the magician do Nascimiento that I just don’t understand because it is not at least a competitor of Big Brother or other television role, on the Marquis Capra de Carré that I did not know existed but who knows who envies Fruttero & Lucentini for that wonderful name, watching the four episodes on Netflix in which the seller of illusory cuccagne is accused of the maximum contemporary crime, the lack of empathy, I thought: who knows if to put Panama they didn’t think about it or it cost too much or Fossati didn’t give it to them. It seems written for their tiredness, for their dullness, for their not being able to go to cocktails with a gun anymore.
Wanna it is, as now everything, a powerful allegory of the electoral campaign. Says Stefania Nobile – daughter of Marchi, and belonging to the same school as Ivanka Trump: those who will defend the parents beyond all evidence and decency, and for Nobile above all, defending the mother means denying the father – who, when they sold slimming products, they did call back from shoppers every three days to be told how much weight they had lost. “I keep you tied to me, and tomorrow I’ll sell you more.”
What is the difference between the Marchi family and those who cite the Little Prince and “tame me” which means “create bonds”? I was reminded of Rotondi who once tweeted a story of the government DC in a couple of lines: We have led this country to become the seventh power in the world by allowing you to escape north of Florence and false pensions to the south.
Tame me, he pleaded with the electorate willing to do anything but do their part.
What hope can the candidate who expects Italians to comply with the rules ever have of succeeding? The electorate, like Ozzano, is not ready. Ozzano dell’Emilia was the village where Wanna Marchi, in perfumery, attacked customers by giving them disgusting cellulite that had to amend their horrors if they did not want their husbands to leave them. “Ozzano wasn’t ready,” says a witness. Telesales yes (local TVs were in the Eighties as TikTok is in this decade).
“Buscetta repents: I do not repent”, says the Noble Mass peremptorily in front of one of the obvious cases of fraud, in an alternate montage with the mother who, of a poor old woman whose rituals they had sold to remove the evil eye, says ” Today it is, I think, in hell, because when someone does something like that », and the stuff like that is: to call the news Strip, and to make Wanna and Stefania’s family business goofed off.
It is difficult to blame mother and daughter when they rhetorically ask if they are criminals or fool who buys a sachet of salt for millions that should dissolve the evil eye; it is very difficult not to think “yes, but you believe in hell, it is not that you shine for rationality compared to the one who believed in the evil eye”; it is impossible not to understand that Wanna and Stefania did not understand the culture in which they lived, which for one hundred and forty years has believed that the Cat and the Fox should be arrested, not Pinocchio banned. (Will the Toyland fox be related to that of the Little Prince? Who knows if any political scientist has the answer).
They ended up on trial, the cat Wanna and that fox of her daughter, and in the documentary there are images of One day in the district court, with a witness who reports upset that Wanna told her “You must die”, and the very disturbed prosecutor makes him repeat it. I may be obsessed, but as I watched I thought of Rogati who, second Republic of yesterday, he wrote from a sim in the name of another chick “you’re dead” matched to some noisy neighbors (as far as I understand). Repubblica says that the lady is sent to trial for threats; but “you are dead” and “you must die” are not threats: it is magical thought. If we believe that wishing someone’s death does them harm, then we inevitably end up buying promises of slenderness and wealth from radio broadcasters who scream at us. He who knows the faces, if we knew we were shaking on a powder keg.