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But assuming that the explorer succeeds in his titanic task of bringing the chieftains to an agreement, the gain for the indigenous people is not understood: what we are talking about, in fact, even implied and accepted by all, is a kind of eternal continuity that discredits the needs (but also the hopes, in many cases the illusions) of the country. A government of all would ultimately be perfect exploration, squaring the circle, a squad on horseback, with shining helmets and armor and a large flag in the wind with the words “We joked”.
There is no need to go back to Ovid’s Metamorphoses, the good old mythology where someone, especially a god, sooner or later became someone else by messing up the plot. And not even to wake up as big as Kafka’s Gregor Samsa. There is no need to go that far, just see Mrs. Isoardi ironing Salvini’s shirts: in a few weeks we have gone from the man-sweatshirt to the man-ironed shirt, every era has the metamorphosis it deserves.
As for occasional mimicry and transvestism, however, the show is interesting, more anthropologically than politically, but in short. Salvini struggles to get out of the bulldozer-driver ghetto to look institutional, with all the hilarious details of someone trying to put themselves in his shoes. But be careful not to laugh too much, because the message says a lot (apart from the conception of the steamer woman, of course): it is true that you go from the peasant look to the shirt, but it is also true that the girlfriend iron it, not like Silvio who probably if he had them ironed from a topless samba school. Ms. Isoardi ironing Salvini’s shirts is the equivalent of Bossi’s undershirt, an ostentation of popular normality: I live like you, I have no servants (apart from my girlfriend, of course).
Salvini’s metamorphosis is therefore unfinished, or in the process of being clarified, but in the meantime it can solidly rest on a metamorphosis of the narrative that led him to success (his success, that is, beating Berlusconi in the center right). While the political scene grinds above all indiscretions and background (I translate: nobody understands a shit yet), the chronicles languish. The emergency cry for uncontrolled immigration has subsided, even the crime news seems to have pulled the handbrake a little. Suddenly, the para-angry screams of the multitudes (nine-eleven people) behind a barrier that say “He was the black man”, “He was the gypsy” disappear. Suddenly the lady who reaches out to yell into the correspondent’s microphone that her cousin has suffered two home burglaries is put to sleep, perhaps anesthetized and placed in a warehouse, waiting for the next opportunity.
The tam-tam of the media on the media (it is like cinema about cinema, a genre apart) says that the two most xenophobic and alarmist voices of Mediaset TV (Belpietro and Del Debbio) will lose their platform, partly because Silvio li he holds responsible for having brought water to Salvini, partly because the mission is accomplished: the widespread fear can be called back like a dog.
That of the right is not the only metamorphosis underway, of course. Slow and painful appears that of the Democratic Party: the idea that a new butterfly is born from the now shriveled cocoon of Renzism is suggestive, but decidedly naive. And then there would be his metamorphosis, by Renzi Matteo, who thinks, according to many, to do it on his own in a process of macronization that he still fails, will be the climate.
As for the Five Stars, their metamorphosis seems to be the most successful so far: they say things after the elections still vaguely similar to what they said before the elections and it is already a record, but their mutation had started in time, well in advance, in the passage from fuck off to the statesman’s outfit, in a tie and a smile printed even in the bathtub. It is probably not thanks to them, but the demerit and blunder of those who have spent years describing them as aborigines with a ring on their nose and an alarm clock around their neck, all microchips and chemtrails, while now they can boast an absolute, even dull and monotone, normality, just rippled by some character who gives color to the scene.