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The other day I worked until a certain hour; then I finished, took an hour-long train ride to reach a sweltering city; I got off, crossed the station square, glanced at the terribly ugly church with brick facing intended to celebrate I don't know which weddings; I crossed a four-lane ring road, arrived at a square where an underage child kindly handed me a leaflet; I absentmindedly accepted it, noticing, with extreme astonishment and a touch of dismay, that it was a leaflet from a well-known far-right political party ready to make its voice heard in the electoral skirmish of the following Sunday (the day before yesterday, mind you); I arrived at a square where my girlfriend Crystal Feather was waiting for me.
I got into Crystal's car, got pissed because she was too tired and not clear-headed enough to drive to the place that awaited us; so I took her place and drove her Citroën to the aforementioned place, which was a private clinic located on the outskirts of a historic lakeside town, where the lake dies in a small river that flows, through bastions, towards the great plain, ending in the great river (too bad there's no Aguirre to travel it). At the clinic, I visited a relative, recovering from a (fortunately not serious) surgery, spending time with the family talking about this and that; in the bed beside her, an elderly woman complained about not eating for several weeks, being fed via tube, wondering when she would be able to eat a pizza again: the family lied, telling her that, in a few weeks, she would go back to her life. A little further away, a lone woman pondered her future surgery.
After the visit, we drove several kilometers across the plain to Crystal's house, relieved by the good outcome of the surgery, and by the fact that we had left behind the sufferings of those remaining in the clinic - selfish and forgetful of them - and full of plans for our evening: essentially a quick pizza in a box, and a distracted glance at the Champions League final, along with some equally distracted relatives. However, I had to endure, capping off a not-so-easy day, the victory of the Rossoneri team and the awarding of an elderly masked man with a head painted brown.
In short, I had enough to go to bed, exhausted and ready to take another train trip the next morning, to return to work. Except.
"The Fantastic 4" is on Sky. Maybe it was curiosity, the desire to relax and not think about the day just lived and the one to come, a general desire to forget, but I was hypnotized by the film. To be clear, inferior to the various Burton Batmans, Raimi's Spider-Man, and perhaps even Singer's Superman, not to mention Lee's Hulk. But. It's a consumer film, conceived and developed without too many pretensions, without famous actors, perhaps seeking savings, or a balance for the higher costs due to the massive use of special effects. But. It's a film that talks about supernatural powers that come with super problems, in the usual Stan Lee optic, and partly about accepting events that change your life and the responsibilities that grow increasingly. But. It's a genuine entertainment film with some philosophical reflection, which comes to mind a few days later - while doing the review - not while watching it: which isn't a downfall. But. There's also the usual villain - properly evil - dedicated to evil in rather Manichean terms, with a super cool name like dr. Doom. In short: someone destined to be in the wrong, someone who asked for it. Someone who doesn't shy away from fulfilling the responsibilities of being a villain.
In the end, I watched it all: when it was over, I didn't feel any better or worse than before, nor any smarter or cultured. But more relaxed, yes. I went to sleep.
In the morning I got up. It was late, and I risked missing the train. Hoping to get there sooner, I tried to “flame on” like the Human Torch but failed. We drove to the station square. I was on time.
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