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Rating:
Easy, at least on the surface, to extract the essence of Italian commercial television with its countless stereotypes: sizzling behinds and derrières, hot outfits, news reports on winking celebrities that overshadow their crime news counterparts, endless gossip and scandalous gossip as far as the eye can see... The colorful world of private TV would have been conceived, forged, and developed by a pantheistic "President" seriously intent on transposing his lifestyle onto the screen, a kitschy blend of revelries, extravagance, and pseudo libertinism (labeled as conservative) dialectically opposed to the then moralizing bigotry of mamma RAI (which would later closely follow the mischievous cathodic philosophy of its fierce opponent).
"Videocracy", the (almost) perfect sum of such ideals and values, exported and assimilated without difficulty by the average Italian, a dull half-empty vessel lacking great goals beyond the temporary breakdown of the wall between viewer and entertainer. The goal is as abstractly simple as it is complex in its realization: success, fame, standing in front of a camera and "becoming someone," no matter how, just do it. The end justifies the means: the erroneous, classic Machiavellian doctrine of the (almost) self-made man. Only television can provide the longed-for personal "publicity" to hordes of self-proclaimed screen "breakers" vying for initiation into the media business. Observe the endless lines of individuals waiting for the audition that could change their existence, the moment when the status of perfect stranger will be erased from the "record".
The documentary, directed by Erik Gandini, illustrates, with purposefully segmented - fragmented shots, the most composite and eloquent facets of commercial television, starting from its protagonists and patrons. It begins with Ricky, a metalworker, black belt in karate, and amateur Ricky Martin impersonator, firmly intent on moving from the mediocre backdrop of anti-notoriety to the triumphant limelight of the cathodic ether. With a strong Bergamasco accent, the young man complains about the difficulties encountered in implementing his projects and how TV is even sexist in reverse, as it hires too many buxom women and too few male counterparts.
The reportage shifts from Ricky's naïve village-like good nature to TV studios dominated by the omnipresent machinations of the President, focusing attention on the voluptuousness-success guarantee nexus, a theme soon justified by the impressive number of aspiring showgirls & co. dressed to the nines (so to speak) ready to present their decisive "routine" to the jury. From the field of action, one emigrates to the headquarters, the locus amenus of the Directors and the President himself: Costa Smeralda, a "site of pilgrimage" where visitors hope to meet their idols, take photographs, and timidly approach, the most they can achieve from an on-site visit.
It is here that the "seminal" spirit, the basic ethics of the broadcaster (and its Head) establish the eternal stronghold and draw precious pre-production lifeblood: super-agent Lele Mora, nostalgic Mussolini admirer, lover of fascist songs reduced to polyphonic ringtones, immortalized in his all-white mansion alongside new and old followers (male leads, models...) lying by the pool; the lanky Flavio Briatore, patron of the Billionaire assisted by Mediterranean beauties; the photographer (and President's villa neighbor) Marella who "scrapes by" taking pictures at the exclusive private parties of the Coast and choosing them with admirable accuracy before publishing them online. Finally arrive El Presidente and followers, housewives all in merry company performing the official anthem, on the street, in the hospital, at the market. The honeymoon of the political-media couple, damned trendy in Italy.
Could it lack the (second) magnum opus of brazen commercial-capitalist Italian brashness? Certainly not. Here comes Mr. Fabrizio Corona, the post-medieval Robin Hood who takes from the rich to give to himself (his words), eternal groom of easy money, cynical and ruthless godfather of Italian gossip ready to unleash loyal street urchins at night in the feverish search for gossip or some famous handshake in the metropolitan nightlife. Not even the prison doors, following an extortion accusation, affect the Corona effect, which indeed transforms into the entrepreneur of his cause, scheming behind bars a majestic commercial-media campaign of books, records, branded clothing, catwalks, nightclub evenings for 25,000 Euro just to appear to hordes of teenagers and capture, cold and unflappable, souvenir photos on the golden throne of success. The "bitter dicks" invoked by the newly released paparazzo against his enemies have worked great, the power of the little Christian and very human God Money. Ricky finally makes it to the screen as "the tarantula". He made it. Another checkmate to the crowd of unknowns.
Television. A vast universe, a devouring abyss that nevertheless seems in a slow stage of disintegration: social networks, active participation, grassroots social - political involvement and "self-democracy" ferociously knocking on the President's door, guilty of too many concrete and abstract bunga bungas. A brand new and unprecedented Italian lesson?
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