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Rating: I imagined myself, my teenage self, spending summer nights on that endless amphitheater that is the Pedemontana Veneta. Jumping the fence in a dark spot, drinking two beers and smoking two joints on a mild summer night watching the trails of shooting stars and racing cars, blending and welding them into a false memory; if only because everything is fake.
Thinking back to my summer nights, besides some epic events, (someone knows why) they are a constant search for the perfection of laziness: outings to the tavern, barbecues at Enrico's house, long sultry nights between damp sheets. The age that never returns. That freedom from constraints, more or less social, that you will never feel again, in a future that rolls on very fast.
Thus, Mediterraneo is that stasis, almost dreamlike, of the dream of a perfect summer. Far from reality, far from the problems of the world. A journey away from the poor copy of ourselves.
Mangling a phrase from the film: in the end, there comes that moment when you know it's all about to end, you know summer is ending, but I tell you that, without that moment, memories cannot imprint themselves in your mind.
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