Mud, to be worn with pride

Last Friday, Dino Boffo, the editor of the Catholic newspaper, Avvenire, decided to resign after having been attacked and accused of hypocrisy by one of Berlusconi’s house rags (Il Giornale, owned by his brother). The Vatican accused Il Giornale of an aggression it considered disgusting, vile, indefensible, etc. As did the opposition, the opposition press, and pretty much everyone not on the Grand Buffoon’s payroll. Great fun, and it’s hard not to be happy to see the blood flowing from Berlusconi’s foot while the gun’s still smoking in his hand. But hypocrisy is hardly a hanging issue in Italy. The dreadful stigma that’s destroyed Boffo’s career, family life, mental health, public probity, and so on, and merrily reduced him to the state of Dreyfus on his way to Devil’s Island, the mud that’s stuck to his face and hands and keyboard, the sin that is so beyond the pale that it can definitively shit on the man and his professional future, is not that he’s a hypocrite. Good god, he worked for the Vatican! Of course, he’s a hypocrite.The problem is that he’s been accused of being gay. Because in liberal, 21st century Italy, being gay is THAT bad. Get used to it, boys and girls. And get used to the fact that practically no one, in all the outrage this spat produced, and with all the anathema discharged left, right and centre, had the – what shall I say? – political sensitivity to remark on this. It’s no surprise that some deranged heroin addict who calls himself Svastichella (hiding behind a sheet of paper, above) should be stabbing gay men in the country’s capital because he finds them upsetting, or offensive, or potentially damaging to the morals of a twelve-year-old who wasn’t there.

Balconies

One of the best things about power is that the rest of us can watch people fall from it. Ceausescu, for example. Who can forget the two-bit tyrant’s face as the crowd beneath his balcony told him, in worm-turning chorus, to fuck off? Incredulity, affront, rage, more incredulity, as though he’d been cheeked by his footman. Some days later he was strapped to a chair in a drably painted office in one of his own palaces, his wife beside him, waiting for the footman to shoot them both through the head.

That’s the short route. There’s a slower, less dramatic one but it’s just as riveting seen from the square below. As I write, we’re being treated to the sight of Silvio Berlusconi stumbling through the gilded corridors of Palazzo Chigi, elevated heels clicking on the marble, towards his own fatal balcony. He prides himself on being democratically elected, which is true in the academic sense that acknowledges Bush and Mugabe and Karzai to have been democratically elected. But that means nothing, because at this point his pride means nothing, or begins to, dio volendo. He’s as driven as Ceausescu was by hubris and contempt for those who don’t see things his way and, until very recently, apparently under the illusion that he no more needed to respond to his critics – other than to stigmatise them as communists and subversives – than did his Romanian predecessor. He’d jail them if he could. In the meantime, he’ll sue them into the ground.

So it’s wonderful to watch him reeling from misjudgement to misjudgement like some late Rocky, the vaudeville smile increasingly manic beneath the make-up, the off-screen scowl increasingly dark. For someone who rates his grip of the situation so highly, his feeling for the consumer and their needs so unfailingly and instinctively right, he must be wondering how so much could have gone wrong so fast. He must be wondering, drifting punch-drunk from door to door, how a flirt with an attention-greedy teenager, under the conniving eye of her pandering family, could have led to this inexplicable meltdown, where nobody understands him, nobody loves him any longer, whatever the polls might say. And even the polls. From 68% to 53% in a matter of months. Et tu, Piepoli.

Of all his friends – the Vatican, the National Alliance, the Northern League – only one has turned out not to be fair-weather, and that’s the Northern League, which has less market value abroad than the Festival di Sanremo, whose patron saints are Bernard Manning and David Irving. Propped up by a gaggle of lowbrow populists who think they live in the magical land of Padania, sustained by cut-throat journalists on his family payroll and toadies on RAI tv, raging against the communist press and the lies the world, the world, THE WORLD, is telling about him, criticised by his scheming wife and ungrateful daughter, in the echoing silence of his air-brushed son, he’s moving, step by step, towards the final light.

Ignorance

You can buy this fridge magnet from Mormons Exposed.

And that’s not all. They also do a great calendar. You must have wondered what those Mormon boys look like with those cute little suits stripped off them. Well, here’s your chance to find out.

Go to jail. Or not.

As a sop to the thirsty for blood electorate of the Northern League, who seem to regard anyone born south of Florence as, in the words of their noble leader Umberto Bossi, bingo bongo, the Italian government recently voted in a law that severely restricts immigration into Italy and establishes that anyone who manages nonetheless to enter the country will not simply be sent home, as was the case before the new law, but will be treated as a criminal and imprisoned. Italy’s prisons were lightened of a small part of their human load by a much-criticised amnesty during the previous government, but have recently been identified – by the minister of the interior, no less – as among the most overcrowded in Europe. Still, joined-up thinking isn’t necessarily integral to government, particularly when one of its components is run by a rabble-rousing zenophobe (pictured above with his intellectually challenged son, or dauphin, Renzo, as they audition for a deodorant commercial).

The problem, though, was that an awful lot of the illegal immigrants already in Italy weren’t hanging around street corners selling hard drugs to children. They weren’t, hard though this may be to believe, involved in prostitution or organ trafficking. I know, I know, I read the papers too, but you’ll have to take my word on this. Many of them were picking tomatoes in inhuman temperatures, or making designer handbags in sweatshops, or building second houses on stretches of protected coastline. They were actually quite useful. But no, despite Italy’s need for tomatoes and homes, and, er, handbags, the government stood firm. Do not pass Go, it said. Do not collect £200. Go to jail.

Unfortunately, and it didn’t take people long to realise this, an even larger number of illegal immigrants weren’t working in factories, or cellars, or acres of improvised greenhouses. They were living in Italy’s cities, in residential areas, in some cases surrounded by Italian families. They were known as colf (short for collaboratori familiari) and badanti (carers). They were cleaning floors and toilets, and looking after babies, and wiping the chins and arses of grandparents whose children didn’t have the time or energy to do it themselves; who could afford to employ someone else to do it for them. They were doing – in other words – all the dirty stuff that Italian people – including their representatives in government, on both sides of the spectrum – didn’t want to do. Suddenly, the need to rid Italy of these parasitical delinquents didn’t feel quite so urgent.

Hey presto! Amnesty for colf and badanti. Out of all the illegal workers in Italy, these two categories have been saved from the law. Out of all the illegal workplaces, the ‘family’ home has been singled out as having the only legitimate need for foreign labour. What’s extrordinary about this is that the decision to operate such an amnesty has created an ulterior racism within an already profoundly racist piece of legislation. It’s extracted one category from the mass of people affected by the law and decided that their work has, not more value than the others, but less; that their work is just so degrading no Italian could be expected to do it. With one stroke of the pen, it’s institutionalised a domestic servant class in the country. What it says is that if you’re an African and want to work in a factory or a field, you can fuck off because, officially at least, we don’t need you. But if you want to mop shit from a floor, step right up, because no way am I, a white European (naturally, from Florence up), going to stoop to do it. That’s quite a message. I wonder if Berlusconi made it clear to Gheddafi during his recent visit to Libya to discuss ‘immigration issues’ that the only welcome Libyans, apart from those bearing oil, are the ones who are prepared to nurse the old and infirm to death. Or were they too busy exchanging camels for skirt?

Favourite things

One of my favourite artists (and, I admit it, a very good friend) Paola Casalino will be showing some of her work at Taunton Public Library, Taunton, Somerset, from the 1st to the 12th of September. The show’s entitled My Favourite Things. One of my favourite things is a painting I have of Paola’s, which hangs to my right as I work (or don’t work at the moment, with temperatures still in the mid-30s). I don’t know if the painting on the left will be in the show or not, but I do know that whatever Paola’s chosen to exhibit will be worth seeing.

If you’re in or near Somerset in the next two weeks, pop in and take a look. All the details can be found here.

Shut yo’ mouth, Part Two

Silvio Berlusconi has just taken the extraordinary step of suing Repubblica on the grounds that the ten questions the newspaper has been asking him (click to embiggen above or see here) since the Papi-and-Noemi shit hit the fan last February are ‘diffamatory’. His argument, or that of his weasel-faced legal adviser, Ghedini, is that the questions are ‘rhetorical’ and designed ‘not to obtain a response’ from Berlusconi but to ‘insinuate in the reader the idea that the person “interrogated” refuses to respond’.

This is the kind of casuistical horseshit lawyers are paid to produce – it ought to be clear to anyone that Berlusconi’s refusal to respond is not an ‘idea’ but a fact – so we shouldn’t be surprised. What is surprising is that Berlusconi should have chosen to kick up a legal fuss now, with Repubblica beginning to feel more and more like a voice in the wildnerness here, the RAI increasingly weakened by external and self-censorship and personnel changes, and his own house rags ever more virulently on the attack, slavering and snarling like cornered rats.

The last straw appears to have been a recent piece in which a number of articles from highly-regarded foreign newspapers are quoted, describing the man as a sex-dependent tin-pot dictator in the claws of the Russian mafia. SB, who continues to insist that he has brought nothing but lustre to the image of Italy abroad, a claim that would be laughable if it weren’t so readily believed and repeated here in Italy, seems to have decided to try and clamp down on the right of Italian journalists to refer to the work of their colleagues in other countries, isolating the country even more.

In the meantime, the Viagra-riddled geriatric’s plans to get a little Vatican cred by dining with some cardinal or other amid the rubble of L’Aquila have been blown away, possibly by Bossi’s recent attacks on the Church, guilty of taking a soft line on immigration (!) and attacks on the Vatican-controlled publication Avvenire by the Berlusconi-controlled rag magazine Il Giornale. Let them fight it out among themselves, say I.

Shut yo’ mouth

Earlier this year Freedom House placed Italy 73rd in its liberty of the press league table, classifying the country as ‘partly free’, a status it shares with Turkey, Burkina Faso and Haiti. This is hardly surprising, given that 80% of the population receives its information exclusively through television, almost entirely controlled, either institutionally (RAI) or personally (Mediaset), by the prime minister, Silvio ‘Papi’ Berlusconi.

It will be interesting to see what effect the refusal by the RAI to show the trailer of a new film, Videocracy, will have on next year’s Freedom House tables. Made by Erik Gandini and distributed by Fandango, one of Italy’s most courageous and culturally alert film distribution companies, the film looks at the the past thirty years of television in Italy and the sidereal shift produced in its cultural role by the growth and eventual dominance of Mediaset.

The RAI has refused to broadcast the trailer on the grounds that Videocracy is not really a film at all, but a political message, transmitting an unequivocable criticism of the government, a line of reasoning that would also exclude from the definition of ‘film’ the work of Michael Moore and Morgan Spurlock, not to speak of Rossellini, Godard, Nanni Moretti, Ken Loach and a hundred others. The RAI, given its well-known ‘pluralism’ (as in blind subservience to power), has decided that showing the trailer would require a second trailer to be shown, of a film that presented the opposite political viewpoint. It’s clear that such a film not only doesn’t, but couldn’t, exist without the retroactive cancellation of Mediaset and, oh joy, of Berlusconi himself.

What’s more, recognising that most people know what they know from their TVs, it claims that, by linking the prime minister to the country’s most important commercial television company, the film not only brings up the thorny, and unresolved, issue of conflict of interest – already a cardinal sin in post-free Italy -but also suggests that “by means of the television the government could orientate citizens’ beliefs, influencing them in favour of the government and ensuring their consent”. Well, duh, as Homer might say.

Mediaset, needless to say, has also refused to show the trailer.

Sometimes you can judge a book by its cover

A fascinating interview with a great cover designer, and more, on Caustic Cover Critic, one of my favourite blogs: informative, thorughly well-researched and frequently side-splittingly funny. In this case, it’s the former. The artist’s name’s Roxanna Bikadoroff and this wonderful cover for Flannery O’Connor’s wonderful book Wise Blood is a good example of her work.

Lucky Flannery O’Connor (not words you often see together, I know).

You can read the complete interview here.

Oh my Lord!

Thinking about death and contrast in Waltham