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Rating: Guys, it's just a divertissement, right? If you need to send me packing (see GF review from at least a lustrum ago), don't bother; I'll take care of it myself, okay?
Thank heavens I watch little television, but all it took was a good pharyngitis to force me, against my otherwise iron will, to see how we're shaping up. Bad, bad, bad. Really. I could have buried myself in DVDs, but honestly, in critical health (and thus mental) conditions (I don't rule it out), I couldn't have overdosed, starting from Eisenstein and reaching Marcello Fondato. So, I began a bored channel surfing that, bypassing equally the junk labeled Mediaset and RAI, ended up dispersing among the emerging "real" channels. Nowadays, I've discovered everyone is a chef, a uebdesainer or wedding planner, a stylist, a pastry chef, a hairdresser, a boss, and above all, sorry for the excessive use of "t," all the trotting to Trento, all judges. Yikes! Risking a jaw dislocation from the laughter they can provoke.
Everyone with folded arms, the same monotonous, monochrome, monotone stare with the left hand and with a pretentiousness as false as a 3-euro coin. If there was even one, I mean just one, humble person. I'm Tizio, and I have more stars than anyone! (...well, then read the horoscope!) I'm Caio, and I'm the best! (...but are you sure, really, really sure?) I'm Ostilio (Sempronio isn't here today), and you have a lot, I mean a lot to learn! Oh yeah! Perhaps Chef Rubio, who, besides being liked by my wife, is very likable to me, someone who never seems to have flaunted a personal everlasting glory gratuitously sewn onto himself. It's true he might even eat a granite block as long as it's fried and strictly with his hands. But he amuses me. Delightfully ignorant ignorant. Bravo!
Lately, there's been a surge on various free narcissism outlets, of a program for head ornaments, where, if the stories and characters are true, one sees a parade of husbands, wives, partners, or companions (niet sovietsky tovarish da!), betrayed by their respective partners, recounting their cheating-horned experience. Great! Now, to get that already tormented, abused, reckless, inappropriate fifteen minutes that Andy Warhol had differently intended, people tend to expose themselves (it’s really the case to say) recounting horns so tall they capture Sky without a dish, or how one can be promiscuous et/aut sluts.
Exemplary, an episode that talks about a woman (?) with frisky underwear who fell for a Sicilian pastry chef, having various rodeo sessions in his backroom, not omitting certain rubbing details between a baba, a cassatina, trot, and gallop. So much so that in the end, when the wife, who was already feeling a strange itch on her head, discovers everything, she takes revenge on her husband in a general mess, and she, the lover, makes up for lost time between a flirtatious little smile and displayed satisfaction in the end credits, this time having fun with a pizza maker-rotisserie cook. Does this mean, Televised Italians? I'm a slut! Boasting about it too. Ridiculous whore ca nun sei autro! But is it possible that to earn a minimum of fleeting notoriety one has to dive into the most exhibitionist slutdom? Are we scraping beyond the bottom of the barrel? When you return home skimming the walls, watch out for someone who might have set a trap with cheese in front of the door eh?
And what about the ceremonies? Mammamà! A chilling all-Neapolitan reality where the peak of the grandeur of concentrated tackiness is reached in its solid state. We are talking about a "location" (now they're all called like this: location, nomination, fanculation…) that overflows with the tackiest kitsch scuzziness in perfect mafia style. The good Matteo Garrone in his beautiful "Reality" shot some sequences here that tell how a ceremony on the Naples-Caserta axis, rich with the greasiest tackiness, is still conducted today.
In the foreground, the boss, in every sense, a greasy puppet who doesn't get a subjunctive right even if you invoke the barefoot Madonnas with the mounted police escort. Subjunctive? What is it? Something to eat? A flourishing jackass who boasts an Olympic average value of eighteen mistakes every three words. Someone who, when writing his own name, misspells it. He presents himself as the Good Samaritan, but in notes, solver of all the customers' conundrums who compete to see who can produce the tackiest ceremony. Moreover, always exhibits, aaaargh! an open shirt showcasing a massive gold chain worthy of the most ridiculous mafioso, on a horrific rustic, hairy chest. And he was even made a knight of some order I don't know. What? What? What? But isn't this a slap to culture and to those who sweat blood studying at universities with an uncertain future? It's a real reprimand! A millionaire ignoramus who has not saliva but clods of earth in his mouth! Meh!
I see an episode where a man (?) in place of the brain has a sodium particle seeking similar ones (Is there anyone?), husband of a cougar made up with two ounces of Venetian putty, a gram more or less, and father of a child, highlighting child, who says he rented the trashy structure to celebrate his daughter's first communion. Here the flamboyance (for Campanians) and boasting (for the rest of Italy) is plentiful in truckloads. Like "chella che abbita (with two b’s) affianco a mme addà schiattà!". A competition that practically decrees the biggest show-off, where the winner will rise on a podium made of garbage cans. The father, half-mafia himself, slyly expresses joy: “Chella mia figlia è nà principessa e deve essere trattata comm 'a nà principessa e per essere principessa ci vuole il castello delle principesse! È vero principessa? Oggi non ammetto ignorantità (wasn't it ignorantitudine?) for this party that prepared everything for you and I dressed in my good clothes for you, princess!”.
And while Giambattista Vico, Luca Giordano, Matilde Serao, and Eduardo De Filippo pirouette in their respective crypts almost better than Nuryev and the Bolshoi ballet corps, after this revelation, for those who didn't understand, flaunts a 2000 euro dress (for a communion), the five-star tacky mausoleum with a menu costing at least 200 euros per person for at least 200 guests, and listen, listen to the big surprise for the princess… Come here beautiful girl from daddy, look how beautiful you are on television! Uanema rà maronn’ e quant’è bella sta figlia mia!... here comes him, an amorphous hybrid, a why, the terrifying neomelodic Neapolitan singer. And we’re always talking about a communion.
And when she gets married, what the heck do you do? Rent the Mole Antonelliana with the banner from the Altar of the Fatherland, a 12000 euro dress, carriage, horses, pumpkin, and mice, pageboys, bridesmaids, vassals, liege lords, suzerains, a menu for 600 euros for half the province invited to also eat the Crusades of Jerusalem and to conclude? What do you do for the grown princess? Exhume John Lennon, Jimi Hendrix, and Janis Joplin? On drums Keith Moon, though. Screw it!
Sings the theme of this monument of crap, a neomelodic (not Mozart eh?) who says in the verses of a litany same as another six hundred thousand copied from the copy of the copy of a lousy copy of a more or less famous song, that a Neapolitan wedding cannot be understood in Milan. I believe it! And who wants to understand it? I can't comprehend it myself living barely a few fists of kilometers away, much less people up North or abroad who laugh behind our backs with four laughs?
This anthem to trash also airs in England but with an incorrect title: "My crazy wedding in Italy," Eh no! In Italy we don't get married like this. Neither in Naples nor Caserta. Even if some flashy enriched people make us appear so, unworthily.
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