David Lynch
Mulholland Drive

Rita Mora arrived in Cologno Monzese with a rigid Samsonite suitcase, one of those compact ones that were fashionable in the 80s, and a bleached lock of hair that smelled of a hasty and daring audition.

The code to open the suitcase was nine times 9, a hidden symbol of the Biscione.

The Visconti "Biscione" always had its spirals coiled in 9 curves. Since they often couldn’t represent it on coats of arms, the practice of depicting a complete coil (equivalent to 3 turns: two visible and one hidden) became common.

She came from Mortara, or perhaps from Seregno.

But it doesn’t matter: every part beyond the red line of the subway became for Her an Echo of her own Desire.

That is, to break into the frosted world of Showbiz. The aspiration was to one day participate in a show produced by Telelombardia, with the dream of someday becoming a special weather reporter on the morning program Buongiorno Brianza.

In Cologno, she was hosted by the aunt of her friend Betty, Ruth, who worked at the Agrate fish market. Every evening Aunt Ruth would read to her niece in advance the horoscope from the weekly edition of Tele Nova. Rita, on the other hand, slept on a sofa bed that hadn’t been able to fold back into a sofa for some time, in a room with wallpaper adorned with beautiful sepia-toned prints of Giorgio Mastrota.

Life is tough, but hope for success is still alive in her eyes.

The night she arrived, Rita got lost in the deserted corridors of the Palatine Center, the former headquarters of the Shining Radio Brianza, now occupied by start-ups and betting shops. There, in front of a turned-off screen, she fell and hit her head. And she woke up as Camilla.

Who is Camilla? Perhaps an alternative version of Rita. Perhaps the identity she’s always sought to be. Maybe a former assistant from Vivere who never got over the trauma of being canceled after the second episode of the schedule. Camilla knows how to navigate Cologno with a determined step: she knows by heart the stages, the dressing rooms, and the archival rooms with the Betamax cassettes of Barilla ads from the 80s.

Camilla begins to orbit the microcosm of Lombard television. She frequents the café of Studio 4 at Italia Gold & Silver, nicknamed the Shadow Café, where from a seemingly endless mahogany counter reigns the trendy Pasolini-esque bartender, a mustached man with a piercing gaze and a reputation as a heartbreaker. He only serves long coffees and looks at you with disdain if you request a short one.

Here Camilla first meets the Fallen Director: a man wrapped in a large trench coat and fallen from grace after yet another cinematic flop. Incredibly thin, he spends lunch hours editing infomercials for Canale Italia but dreams of one day staging an Othello set at the Bennet in Desio. He looks at her like one watches a trailer for a film that will never come out, not even in the bizarre offerings of VideoPrime. He asks her if she's ever acted in a commercial. She says no, she doesn’t remember.

Then comes the Ex Troublemaker, with a chiseled jaw and shattered dreams. Half an hour on the Isola dei Famosi, the landing the pinnacle of a broken career, due to a sudden tonsillitis on the island. Now he organizes auditions for a drama set in Rozzano, provisional title "Cemento Armato – Subtitle Tears Don’t Dry in Underpasses.”

Infatuated, he absolutely wants Camilla as the lead. In fact, he calls her his "narrative face." He talks about making her viral on TikTok and rebroadcast on TelePavia on Thursday evenings.

But this is where Betty comes in, with an unprecedented confidence; Aunt Ruth finally predicted in her horoscope that her moment has come. She arrives at the audition for "Cemento Armato – Tears Don’t Dry in Underpasses" dressed as though attending a confirmation, but with eyes holding the hunger of great opportunities. She’s convinced that everything is real. That believing is enough. That if she shakes the right hands firmly enough, one day she’ll be the second host of Buongiorno Brianza.

Camilla, on the other hand, is already inside. She has been for years. Or so she says. She wears dark sunglasses even indoors and in unlit places, and a leopard-print scarf that implies a series of voids between one studio and another. She appeared in an episode of Lucignolo in 2003. The videotape of that episode is always with her, even in the bathroom. She claims to have been Valentina Trevisan’s stunt double during a censored intro. She is enigmatic, sharp, always halfway between diva and con artist, with a voice that seems dubbed with lip synchronization off by weeks.

The two meet exactly in the Shadow Café. Betty orders a decaffeinated coffee, sweetening it twice as she read is done in important auditions. Camilla looks at her, smiles, and says, “You know, decaf is for those who don’t really want to wake up.”

Right after, the ex-troubles sets in, greets Betty halfheartedly with a nod, then calls Camilla “my lost muse.” The theater director observes them both as if they are characters written by someone else -and they probably are-.

Betty tries to understand where the script is. Camilla tells her there’s none. “We’re already at the pilot episode,” she whispers, “we’re the falling stars of a prequel without follow-up.”

They navigate postponed auditions, choreographies in open countryside, fleeting appearances backstage in commercials for sofa beds. Camilla takes Betty under her wing, but it’s a wing dripping with venom and nostalgia. She teaches her how to stand in silhouette. How to smile when the line isn’t hers. How to stay visible even when out of focus.

Meanwhile, the three shady figures revolve around Camilla, it’s clear they are starting to make a move. The director promises her a monologue. The ex-troubles dedicates a poster to her Beauty. The bartender offers her dinner at Moro. But no one truly sees her: they see only the Echo of something they’ve lost. Camilla welcomes them, listens to them, but changes. Every day she is more different. Then disappears for days. When she reappears, she has a dull gaze and someone else’s voice, and her lip synchronization is off by months.

Meanwhile, the Entity Silvio begins to appear. Never in the foreground. Never announced. But he’s there. He’s glimpsed in the mirror of the Shadow Café as the finally silent bartender serves an Irish coffee. He appears in camouflage gear in the background of the audition filming. He appears on the turned-off TV screen when no one’s looking, a bit Blog and a bit Videodrome. He’s always there. Doing nothing. But he’s smiling.

Always.

Smiling with calm.

Like someone who has already seen the Ending.

The story wraps around itself.

Möbius in Fabula.

The Director proposes to Camilla, with the intent to entrap her, a role as herself in a TV series to be shot with an external crew in Romania. The Ex-Troubler asks if he can call her "Betty" for an international project with funds from some available community. The bartender serves her an incredibly long espresso drugged with Dionysian spices and dedicates to her, reading from the book hidden under the counter, the Poetry Dream of Ungaretti, something stronger than a team of oxen.

One late evening, the three take her to Club Silencio. It’s hidden under a multi-story parking garage, illuminated by blue neon lights and signs of discontinued car models.

There’s a stage, but no one’s playing.

But a microphone is on. A led flashes for Eternal Minutes.

Silence. But no presenter arrives, but He appears directly.

Silvio has finally materialized on the stage of Club Silencio.

He’s wearing a white suit. He adjusts his tie knot with choreographic gestures. He looks at the audience, looks at Camilla, searches for Betty with his eyes.

But Betty, where the hell has she gone?

Then he speaks.

"Ladies and gentlemen," he says with a measured tone, "this… is not a joke. But I’ll tell you one anyway."

Pause. Eyes down. A restrained smile.

Then he begins.

Parbleu!" - "pàr blö perché l'é sìra, ma dumàn l'é bèla giàlda".

(An old joke about a Lombard countryman in Paris, who, in a pressing need, relieves himself in a not entirely hidden place. A passing Parisian comments on the unwelcome sight exclaiming "parbleu!". The peasant thinks it’s a reference to the color ("pàr blö") of what he "deposited", responding considerately that it seems blue because it’s evening, but tomorrow it will appear in its natural color.)

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