The scratch phobia and other crusades we deserve

The scratch phobia and other crusades we deserve
The scratch phobia and other crusades we deserve

Who knows why they don’t project “Fifth Estate” in schools. I ask myself this every day, witnessing the varied art show of the tenants of the social networks who are astonished because their gate has not become a law, a norm, a collective education. Because their good feelings don’t rule the world. Because their inner beauty is not appreciated.

“He gets up inside his little twenty-one-inch screen and howls of America and democracy. There is no America, there is no democracy. There’s just IBM, and ITT, and AT&T, and Dupont, Dow, Union Carbide, and Exxon. These are the nations of the world today. What do you think the Russians are talking about in their councils of state: about Karl Marx? ‘

In ten days “Fifth Estate” turns forty-five, it’s forty-five that Howard Beale from the TV urges Americans to look out the window and scream that they can’t take it anymore (think about it, when you get the odd idea that populism in the age of media of mass communication invented by Gian Antonio Stella or Beppe Grillo or Donald Trump), and it is forty-five years since what had become a format that multiplied the audience turned into a damage, too many anti-capitalist sermons and the Arabs had withdrawn the investments and the head of the multinational called him and gave him a stupendous tirade (Paddy Chayefsky, the screenwriter, was unbeatable on tirades).

It has been forty-five years that it is not necessary to have studied: it is enough to have gone to the cinema to understand that only the economy counts. And instead.

And instead you wander around the social networks – which perhaps are even a mirror of reality, even if the idea terrifies me: I want to believe there are, hidden in cabled Unabomber huts, sane citizens – and the adults seem to be in their fifties whining because Mom doesn’t love him enough.

That the mother is Rai, who writes for Sanremo the most formidable Italian entertainer (stuff that the second, whoever he is, is three laps behind the track) and does so without leaving the constituency of Twitter that disapproves of his profession. The job of making all the jokes he wants and not apologizing when someone invariably takes offense. With what courage does Rai call Fiorello, when Paperina72’s cousin always makes everyone laugh without ever offending anyone at Christmas dinners?

That the mother is Ivan Scalfarotto, guilty of having emphasized the distinction between Stalinism and belonging to a Western left: “I would like to clarify now and forever that the fact that I am gay, in short, does not prevent me from thinking differently from Palermo Pride or from other LGBT associations and to claim with full conviction the validity of my opinions ». Scalfarotto – I summarize in case you were serious people and didn’t waste energy following the silly controversy of the last quarter of an hour – dared to be invited to present Francesco Lepore’s book on the Giarre crime.

A book that obviously the gay associations that have invited to boycott the meeting have not read, just as they have not read the subsidiary in elementary school, otherwise the fundamentals of how politics and the art of compromise should not be explained to them by Scalfarotto.

Moreover, he also explains to them that, with a similar intolerance and monsterrification of dissent, they agree with those who feared that Zan was a danger to freedom of opinion: “Of course, I cannot fail to notice that those who, on the basis of of this contestation of LGBT associations against a “non-aligned” homosexual person, they will probably affirm that the purpose of that part of the Italian LGBT world was not to arrive at a law that inspired our system to principles of inclusion and respect but to limit the freedom of opinion of those who think differently. Another political masterpiece, no doubt about it ».

Since I was there, at the dawn of social networks, and I remember well when we talked about Scalfarotto as if he were an idiot, I must tell you that it makes me a certain impression to find myself here to see his clarity and to be ashamed of having underestimated him. The orbi in the land of the blind will have to do with it, of course, but in short, a reflection on this time that forces us to consider Berlusconi a statesman and to have nostalgia for Forlani will have to be done. Having been twenty when it was considered the lowest point in human history that a party with Lucio Colletti in it had won the elections can be a source of some retrospective embarrassment, if you stay long enough to see win the elections a party with Alessandro Di Battista inside.

(Di Battista, the Howard Beale that this century can afford, says he goes on tour to see if there is the “collective demand” of a new political force that he would eventually found, if he kindly requested. makes the big hits and not the new pieces, at least).

But let’s go back to the list of anaffective mothers, the ones who make the five-year-old adult of the internet cry. A role that even manages to touch me, with all the devotion I have for my sterility.

A few days ago some adults whimpered because I wrote that the boys took over the pink. I mentioned a Prada sweater with which Jake Gyllenhaal had himself photographed on the cover of the glossy insert of the Sunday Times. Since adults in their fifties not only did not browse the subsidiary when they were small or Karl Marx when they grew up, but they didn’t even see the Devil wears Prada, they think that pink sweater speaks of their freedom of expression and their gender identification; not the fact that, if they manage to sell pink to men, the fashion multinationals will invoice many more sweaters.

Aaron Sorkin, screenwriter and heir to Chayefsky’s passion for invectives, says that no one, “not even Orwell, has seen the future with the precision of ‘Fifth Estate'”.

Of course, the everyman who doesn’t understand the prevalence of the economy is no longer a television host, and social networks and their inhabitants are like the Spanish Monty Python inquisition: no one expected them. But they are details.

Yesterday I was leafing through a 1998 New Yorker. There was a cartoon in which a father pointed out to his son the view outside the window: “Someday this will all be Bill Gates’s.” The fact that it says Gates and not Zuckerberg makes it dated. Dated, not out of date. Not if in the invective of “Fifth Power” there are multinationals of fifty years ago then it is less illuminating. We are not yet so foolish as to think that the sign of our personal affirmation is a pink sweater, or screaming at the window. Oh yeah?

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