•
Rating: The purchase and exhausting reading of Enrico Brizzi's latest novel is yet another Μαλακίες vel bullshit vel swindle I receive from the esteemed Bolognese author.
I repeat my mistake because each time I delude myself into finding at least some shards of the genius capable of producing a masterpiece like Bastogne, in the distant 1996. But nothing, abandon all hope…
The editorial blurbs explain to me how this work is indispensable as a fantastic ride through the memories of the '80s and early '90s, complete with zaininvicta, cassettetidikappa, Vespas and festini and similar nostalgic crap.
The hired reviewers present it as a coming-of-age novel, narrating the struggle of becoming an adult (sic!), but I wonder how much effort it costs these people to be writing whores (maybe zero effort, if you're born a harlot). They even write about things like the tenderness of discovering first love, with our young protagonist (Tommy Bandiera) experiencing the ecstasy of being involved in …guess what…a triaaangle, how novel, she, him, and the other who of course would be more or less the protagonist’s best friend.
However, I do not dare to question the originality or lack thereof of the plot; I may be a little foolish, but even I have learned that it’s not about what you write about but how you write it.
But.
It takes courage to claim (as the sellout reviewers in national press do) that the young man experiences prodigious adventures and murky initiation trials when the plot for five hundred pages bounces like a deflated ball between park joints, brawls with mindless ultras from rival teams of Bologna FC, and fooling around with the female component of the aforementioned triangle, named Ester. Joints, brawls, fooling around, and little else, I swear. Considering that, incidentally, Ester could perhaps be the most believable character of the trio, given that many of us have encountered young women with career ambitions and a Beatrice-like mask, manners like I’m a bitch, and I have it made; I can’t help it if you're shit in comparison in their youth.
But, I repeat, I do not question the originality of the events, but rather the basic tiredness with which they are narrated.
As one proceeds with reading the pseudo-events in the book, at least one hopes that the protagonist changes, develops some kind of internal conflict, leading to a bit of movement, some tension. Instead, nothing, our Tommy Bandiera remains as flat as a cutlet under the butcher’s meat tenderizer.
I do not love creative writing tutors, but I agree with what someone said (probably Carver, but I'm not sure, and it doesn't matter here) about the effectiveness of storytelling, which is like making the protagonist climb a tree, shaking him well, and then describing what changes have occurred in the guy. I am simplifying, I know, but it's kind of the essence of every coming-of-age story. The protagonist grows, things happen to him, and these things change him permanently. Too bad that in this novel few interesting things happen, unless you're a fan of stadium brawls. And they pass through the protagonist without leaving a trace.
Concluding that a true story doesn’t exist in the novel in question, in my modest opinion, the best part is the “First Book,” dedicated to the protagonist's childhood years, from 1982 to 1987. A part where precisely our esteemed writer is exempted from staging a story, needing just the Cuore-like memories (which I consider a masterpiece) in Bolognese ragout. Very Proustian in this part, he goes heavy on the madeleine, though with the flair of a great writer. An example?
Here’s the trigger for the initiation to pussy, promoted by none other than the nostalgic fascist grandfather.
Magalì, the new African bonne, wore a yellow dress covered with geometric prints and long to the feet, made of the same fabric as the headscarf that hid her hair tied in braids. Grandpa spoke to her in French, the girl widened her eyes, and I felt a shiver down my spine. The young woman argued with melancholy in her voice, Grandpa replied in a tone that contained both persuasion and command, and Magalì lowered her gaze.
“Let’s go upstairs,” he told me, and I climbed the stairs with trembling knees.
Unfortunately, our esteemed author in the following two books of the novel, dedicated to adolescence, seems to totally lose the verve of the great writer, in addition to not having a story.
An example? Like the protagonist, transformed from Grandpa's little boy to a twig dealer for high school students, has to sell an exorbitant amount of ganja that has fallen into his lap by chance, and not knowing what to do, he goes to Rimini in search of a random buyer, a situation already realistic in itself, and here he even finds a shady guy who would be interested in buying. Here’s a snippet of the dialogue between the two:
“Everyone has their own shit,” granted Morgan (the buyer) to Tommy “but I have to tell you the truth. You look like someone who’s running away, you know?”
Was he having second thoughts?
“In a way, it’s true,” I admitted. “I want to travel the world with my girlfriend.”
He nodded gravely….
And this would be a dialogue between two people dealing a large batch of drugs? Meh…
Consider, rather, how a dialogue between dealers was handled by our great writer in Bastogne, 23 years ago.
Raimundo brings half a kilo of Lebanese to a certain Youri, an old acquaintance from the stadium. He arrives in a great hurry at the Chess bar, as he wants to deliver quickly and quickly head elsewhere.
“I don’t think we can do shit, old man,” nevertheless, this Youri tells him. He is very absorbed in drinking a coffee with Pernod; he doesn’t have the courage to talk to Raimundo while looking him in the eye.
“What do you mean you don’t think we can do shit?”
“In the sense that the guys couldn’t scrape the money together.”
That's why I have so much nostalgia for the writer of Bastogne, who I fear, might never return. Goodbye Brizzi.
Loading comments slowly
