Nel 1983 ci fu un weekend al cinema nel quale uscirono due film che trattavano entrambi di show business, più esattamente del “sogno” di questo mondo pazzo dello spettacolo: il primo narrava un modo per entrarci da professional school or doing something that looks like "Friends" without even knowing what it was, the other narrated the method of mythomania to bring the star of the show believing that they can sustain their own lives, but by parasites. One was "Flashdance" signed by Adrian Lyne, the future director of "Fatal Attraction" and "9 weeks and 1 / 2", the other was "The King of Comedy," directed by Martin Scorsese, the director of the masterpieces of American cinema. Everyone wanted to deceive themselves, for an hour and a half at least, on whether their future life style american dream, impossible to us in Italy: study hard maybe one day someone in order to become dance. One Friday in September in 20 years with dreams to chase. Even damage to the output with known people with just a film for a few connoisseurs (bloodbath in the world) is just what happened preferred, or rather impose, "The King of Comedy" which was still in a that Robert De Niro. This film, really loved all the children as wretched by its director, had the characteristic to take a picture not only to real mythomaniac living with anxiety their possible contact with the object of their attention, but to portray all of us who willy-nilly down the street if we meet someone we recognize that we act always as a visitor to the city zoo. Have you ever that? It does not seem real and we approach this as a holy grail asking for a picture "for the boy," as an excuse, in reality we are ashamed to show what a world of emotions unleashed in our subconscious: He does not know, but we seem obvious, no? I cried! YOU ARE A LEGEND! I laughed! YOU ARE GREAT! No, he does not know and did not even want to know, he's just doing the shopping, like all of us that we are revealing in his eyes: the poor souls who are lost in a swoon ...
In Rome these days, there was Martha Argerich, the greatest living pianist that plays the third concert of Prokofiev with the same peace of mind that we use to throw the pasta. There is a disk questo III e del Concerto in sol di Ravel dove lei e un giovanissimo Claudio Abbado appaiono in copertina sul pianoforte a parlarne: lui a braccia conserte, lei con una sigaretta in mano. Sono andato in mezzo a dei pazzi che le urlavano tutto il loro amore, mentre lei appena uscita dall’ennesimo trionfo, dopo averlo suonato davanti a 3000 persone chiedeva solo un bicchiere d’acqua e di fumarsi una sigaretta in terrazza. Li ho odiati, ma ero come loro: un pazzo mitomane. Con una sola differenza: loro avevano visto “Flashdance”, io “Re per una notte”. Basta?
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