Edoardo Ferrario: Temi Caldi (2019) - full transcript
A NETFLIX ORIGINAL COMEDY SPECIAL
Good evening, ladies and gentlemen!
Keep on clapping.
It'd be a shame to stop here.
Thank you very much.
I'm very happy to be performing again
here in Milan.
I love this city. I work here
and come here very often.
I almost live here,
and I like it... always.
Even on days like this.
Milan.
Guys, on days like this,
Milan shows off its best side.
Doesn't it?
Because the city seems like...
a postcard made by the hatred
of a Southern Italian.
"We'll put the gray sky here.
Here we'll put that damn CityLife
that these bastards like so much.
Mr. Fedez and Miss Ferragni go on top.
And here we'll put the cold,
which gives these damn bastards the runs."
When I left Rome this morning,
it was 20 degrees Celsius.
With 20 degrees, you already start seeing
summer-like scenes
taking place around Rome.
The other day I saw Roman children
shooting parrots in Villa Ada.
People grilling nutrias
along the Tiber's riverbanks.
Just beautiful.
The news this week reported
that Rome has been awarded
a very important title.
It won the title of
"Capital of the Third World, 2018".
It makes me happy.
It's a great signal for the city.
A good thing at last,
after many negative critiques.
If you've been to Rome recently,
you'll know that vegetation
is swallowing the monuments.
It's like Angkor Wat in Cambodia.
Like the temples in Yucatán.
It has that charming, luxurious decadence.
The title is well-deserved,
because outside of Termini station,
you won't find any taxis.
You'll find auto rickshaws.
I took one the other day to get home.
I told the guy,
"Could you take me to Piazza Sempione?"
So I say, "Okay,
I'll take the underground then."
"Well, then I'll get an Uber."
-"What? I'm gonna kill you!'
-"I'll take the auto rickshaw!"
Thank you. That's how things are in Rome.
To any Romans living in Milan,
don't come back!
No need to.
I'll let you know when the time's right.
I hope things in Rome will improve,
because I'm at a stage in my life
where I need stability.
Yes, because I am 30 years old,
I'm about to turn 31.
I'd appreciate some enthusiasm
from you at least, because...
Thank you.
Because I feel none.
Zero enthusiasm.
So far, things have been good,
but I don't know what's next.
Because up until last year,
when I was still 29,
every time an older person,
either my parents' friends
or older friends,
would ask my age, I would say 29,
and every single person
would reply like this:
"Well, then...
you're almost there!"
With a slightly less labored voice
than the one I'd use to ask someone,
"How old are you?"
"I am 94."
"Well, then...
you're almost there."
But the fact is that,
on the one hand, turning 30 is great,
because it's liberating.
There are many things now
I'm no longer ashamed to say.
I used to be, but now, for example,
I'm no longer ashamed to say
that craft beers are shit.
Craft beers suck balls.
I'm also annoyed by the attitude
of those who like them.
You know, when they say,
"I see that you only have Heineken...
Ceres and Corona,
but I can't drink those,
because if I do,
I become an even bigger dickhead.
And I can't..."
If there's one thing I've learned,
and it took me 30 years,
is that in my life, I'm not touching
anything made by Trappist monks.
Nothing. Ever.
Keep those monks away from me.
By the way, let me dare you.
Is there anyone here
who's seen a Trappist monk
and is willing to swear it?
There are a few things
whose existence I refuse to accept.
Sirens,
unicorns,
Trappist monks,
the online University Niccolò Cusano.
What was that?
The region Molise.
That's way more believable
than UniCusano though.
Are you feeling uneasy
because you're enrolled there?
There are people here
who dropped out of drama school.
I know it, so don't worry.
It's nothing to be ashamed of.
If in the '80s you were a kid
who didn't know what to do,
you'd shoot up.
Quietly, without bothering anyone.
But today, if you're a kid
unsure about what to do with your life,
you open a beer shop.
Not only that,
you brew your own craft beer.
A beer shop just opened near my place.
But I'm worried, because people
who start these businesses
don't understand
that it's a saturated market.
It's a phenomenon
seen in other businesses.
But nobody learns from their mistakes.
So I went to this beer shop,
I talked to the owner, tasted the beer,
and told him, "Your beer's pretty nice,
but why does it leave
a slight tobacco aftertaste?"
"Well, the tobacco aftertaste you feel
is because this used to be an e-cig store.
And...
When my partner and I moved in,
we found the old owner hanging there.
We left him there
because doing this is fun.
Can you see that?
He's sort of become our mascot.
We called the place
'The Hanging Man's Brewery'.
The cigarettes were still on the shelves,
so we put them into the beer fermenters
and made this IPA with tobacco aftertaste
and called it 'Vape-IPA'."
But the real question is,
when the market becomes really saturated
with microbreweries, artisan burger bars,
and artisan perfume shops,
what will the next thing be?
Is there anyone here
who majored in economics?
Don't feel ashamed.
You two in the front row?
And what's your name?
Michele? Great.
Here's my tip.
The next frontier for artisan products
after perfume shops and breweries
will be artisan gasoline.
Do you believe me, Michele?
You open an artisan gas station
in a neighborhood like... Isola.
I think people there
would fall for it, right?
It's the right neighborhood
for an artisan gas station.
This is extremely important, Michele.
Because it's all about the name.
You have to name it "orgasoline."
Which is for real.
You name it "orgasoline"
and welcome your customers like this.
As the cars drive in, you go like this:
"Ciao!"
Roman-style customer service.
The nuts and bolts are: "Ciao!
What can I get you?"
"Ten euros of unleaded gas, please."
"So in terms of unleaded fuel,
this week, at pump number four,
we have this one called 'Desert Dune'.
It's a very light unleaded, 16 octanes.
The hydrocarbons are a bit alkaloid.
If you want something else,
here's a super-duper diesel fuel.
It will blow up your car,
but I still recommend it.
This is a great diesel,
called 'Sheikh's Delight'.
It's extracted by hand,
produced by Trappist Sheikhs
in the Persian Gulf."
Just an idea, Michele.
Feel free to do as you please.
And yet, despite all that,
I do have one regret now that I'm 30.
It's that compulsory military service
was abolished.
I regret not serving in the military,
because I won't be able to tell
those typical stories.
I'll never be able to say
that I served in some exotic place like,
I don't know, Ascoli Piceno.
I'll never be able to say,
"We drank a strong cordial once
that made our bowels twist."
I'll never have those kinds of stories.
And I feel sorry, because I often wonder
what I'll tell my grandchild
when I'm old.
I remember how my grandfather
used to tell me these incredible stories.
I mean, Rome was being bombed.
They had curfews,
hung black cloths over windows,
there were sirens.
He once told me that the most incredible
memory from his youth
was an American soldier
giving him some chocolate to try.
I told him, "Grandpa,
go tell Pupi Avati right away.
He'll make 28 movies about it.
Don't waste your time
on this 11-year-old moron.
Go to him now."
I think that our generation
is not very heroic.
What will I tell my grandson
when I'm a grandfather?
If I had to tell him
the most incredible memory of my youth,
it'd be pretty awkward.
Because I'd have to tell him
the following true story.
"Come here, kid.
Come here to Grandpa.
Grandpa is going to tell you
the most incredible memory
of his youth.
Are you ready? Here we go.
The summer after high school graduation,
Grandpa went to Ibiza with four buddies.
Well, you need to know
that Ibiza was a Balearic island.
We had the European Union then,
not the Chinese Union
which abolished
the free movement of people.
Back then,
you could get on a low-cost flight,
and for only 100 euros,
the equivalent of 3,000 yuan today,
you could fly to the Balearic Islands,
you could go to Germany,
or to Brexit Island,
which is still being bombed today.
And one night,
Grandpa and his buddies went to Amnesia,
which is a club in Ibiza.
There was a party called "Manumission".
Mamma mia!
So many Italians at Manumission!
Grandpa sees this dancer
in the back of the room.
This beautiful dancer
who was dancing and dancing,
and then, in her dance, she starts...
fiddling with her pussy.
She fiddles and fiddles,
and pull outs a little Brazilian flag.
She keeps on fiddling
and pulls out a French,
a Canadian, and a Mexican flag.
And Grandpa swears
thatAmnesia was more dumbstruck
than Santeria is right now.
Now they clap, but they were uneasy.
She hands the thread over to a colleague,
then walks to the other side of the room,
and from her pussy came out
258 flags from all the countries
in the world.
And this one is the most enduring memory
of your grandfather's youth.
Do you want to hear something even better?
That dancer became your grandmother."
For as long as we live
in the European Union,
I love traveling.
I really love it
and travel as often as I can.
A few years ago,
I had a great trip with my girlfriend
when we visited Vietnam.
A truly wonderful country.
I really want to point out
that it was a few years prior
to the Pechino Express season
filmed in Vietnam.
I really want to say that,
because after that,
the country became mainstream.
Some friends of mine
who went there recently
told me that
the best-selling souvenir in Hanoi
is a fridge magnet
with Costantino della Gherardesca
vomiting noodles.
This is the most typical souvenir
in Hanoi right now.
We went before that. I recommend it
because Hanoi is beautiful.
It's a very French city.
With palm trees and boulevards,
the Grand Opera House...
It's stunning.
They deep-fry everything in Hanoi.
Really. You go to these stalls,
and they'll deep-fry your veggies,
they'll deep-fry your meat.
They can deep-fry your keys,
your passport, and your Imodium too,
so you're ready.
It's a wonderful place.
Highly recommended.
After a few lovely days in Hanoi,
we decide to visit Sapa.
A small town in the Tonkinese Alps,
about 180 kilometers from Hanoi.
Why do we go there?
Because in the travel guide we have,
it is described
with the exact following words.
"Imagine a mountain lodge
nestled among the rice terraces.
Then imagine the Hmong,
one of the friendliest ethnic groups
in the world, and their delicious cuisine.
Add a little Tolkienesque feel...
Welcome to Sapa."
If you read something like this,
you think the Tolkienesque bit
is bullshit.
It was written by someone
who's never been to Sapa
but who had a Tolkien book on his desk
and wrote down something.
But we decide to go there.
When traveling around these countries,
you need to take night trains.
A night lasts
for a reasonable number of hours,
eight or nine hours.
But on these fucking night trains
in Third World countries,
one night lasts 57 hours!
It's 57 hours of darkness,
sleeping on a hard-berth.
Which means you sleep
on an asbestos slab this thick
and with the air conditioning vent
this close to your face.
My girlfriend has this gift
of being able to fall asleep anywhere.
While after, I swear,
after 28 minutes
with the air conditioner in my face,
I say, "Why the fuck
aren't I in Santa Marinella,
like all normal people?
Why am I doing
this damn 30-year-old guy's trip?
Why?"
To avoid waking up looking like
Jack Nicholson at the end of The Shining,
I decide to take a walk in the train car.
So I get off the berth,
and I bump into a very typical character
you meet on these trips.
The American who's been everywhere.
He's been to every single place on Earth
and makes you feel like shit,
because he's been to places
you'll never ever be able to see.
We get to talk and I ask,
"How long have you been traveling?"
Holy fucking shit, Jeff!
The next morning,
fifty-seven hours later,
we arrive at Sapa.
Or rather at the Vietnamese equivalent
of Orbetello Scalo,
if you know what I mean.
We arrive, then get off,
and there stands Sapa.
Imagine a mountain lodge
nestled among the Tonkinese Alps.
I swear that Sapa
is the closest place to Quarto Oggiaro
I've ever been to in my life.
It's like Ho Chi Minh,
the evil Vietnamese dictator,
had sent one of his city planners
to Quarto Oggiaro in the '60s
and built its replica
in the Tonkinese Alps.
And what to say about the Hmong people?
This lovely ethnic minority group
and their delicious cuisine.
The spirit of the ethnic minority
is long gone.
They're greedy sellers.
As soon as we get off the bus,
they try to sell us their souvenirs.
The only way to get rid of them
is to buy these sharp canes
that they sell themselves
in order to kick them away.
And we leave.
At mid-morning,
something happens.
Something very common
when traveling in Asia.
Perhaps one of the best things
you can experience here.
A memory shared by so many.
At some point, you totally freeze.
Your forehead is beaded with cold sweat.
You start feeling a kind of movement.
I call it the "folding-fan diarrhea".
What's "folding-fan diarrhea"?
The Lonely Planet
would describe it like this:
"Imagine riding a donkey
in the Tonkinese Alps,
when suddenly, your forehead
gets beaded with sweat.
From the pituitary gland,
you start sensing
an evil feeling spreading
to your bowels.
The people around you start melting
like in a Francis Bacon painting.
Brace yourselves!
It's happening to you too!"
But personally,
I prefer to describe it with these words.
Basically, what happens is that
you sit on the john,
and hear this.
You stand up,
and it's as if a great magician
had swiftly opened a deck of cards.
That's it.
Funny that I stay up nights to write jokes
and it's the "folding-fan shits"
that gets the most laughs.
Milan...
The trip ends.
All goes well.
Vietnam is beautiful.
You should go check it out.
But the most scared I've been
while traveling
has been at the end
of a relaxing weekend in Vienna.
Two days of pure
Austro-Hungarian efficiency
ruined by this.
I realized the danger
when I was at the gate
on the way back to Italy.
That's a very emblematic part of the trip.
Because it feels like...
like some pieces of Italy
that you had removed,
no matter how far you've traveled,
violently resurface
right there in front of you.
Like a landing before landing.
I'm talking about...
the couple from Caserta
with fuchsia Hogans.
There they are.
The family from North Rome.
Dad, mom, three blonde daughters,
all wearing Abercrombie & Fitch.
There they are.
The entrepreneur from Brianza
with his Cuban wife.
He's signing her expulsion order
because she's only 15.
There they are.
Right there in front of you.
We arrive at Vienna airport.
It was the last flight of the day.
At 9:00 p.m.
And two stewardesses,
who looked like characters
from a Brothers Grimm's tale,
two young Austrian girls,
tell us the following
with enviable candor.
"Ladies and gentlemen, we're sorry,
but your flight was canceled."
I swear, it only took a second.
"At my signal, unleash hell."
I think the Battle of Valle Giulia in 1968
was less violent.
In no time,
the Caserta fringe jumps up and says,
"We've got to stick and fight together
to show these fucking Austrians
that we're Italians!"
I heard it with my ears.
You may have seen these tracksuit pants
with a crotch this low.
Not everyone can wear them.
There were two Roman guys
both wearing these pants,
and they say this,
"Seen these bastards?
They send a girl to tell us,
instead of a dude."
What would you have done
had it been a dude?
When I hear someone say
such abominable things,
I can't help thinking,
"His parents were cousins."
Two cousins who fucked
at a Christmas party.
I was there.
Sitting.
Enjoying this performance.
The Casertans with spears,
the others in full armor.
And while I enjoy
this compelling performance,
next to me...
Pasolini's ghost appears...
and recites,
"When today,
this morning,
at the airport in Vienna,
you brawled with the stewardesses,
I stood with the Austrian stewardesses.
For they are the true daughters
of the working class.
Nevertheless... fuck you, Vueling!"
I like to think that artists too
had their problems.
Nowadays, people tend to idealize art.
You know?
You hear things like,
"All television sucks."
"Movies are only made for money."
"Only bakers from Brescia sell books."
Stuff like this.
The same people who say this,
also say, "Things used to be different.
Art was made for art's sake.
Artists weren't just after money.
Back then, art used to be authentic."
The problem is,
who said that to us?
How do we know
that in any time in history...
Even when people were doing
rather noncommercial things.
For example,
early 20th century Italian poetry.
How do we know that back then,
somewhere,
two envious producers
weren't talking like this.
"Have you seen what Ungaretti's doing?
Thanks to Hermeticism,
Ungaretti hit the big time.
Hermeticism is paying for his properties!
I didn't want to say this,
but the war did him good.
The bombs did him good.
May I say something?
'M'illumino d'immenso,' and that's it.
The message is clear enough.
Let's not waste time talking.
You put that on iPhone covers,
on t-shirts for teenage girls.
Let me tell you this.
I've been saying this for years
and no one ever gave me credit.
Michele, we're friends now,
so let me tell you this.
Do you know Dalí?
Salvador. A friend of mine.
A nutcase. Total nutcase.
But the biggest genius
I've ever worked with.
In 1934, Salvador Dalí comes to me
with this idea for a painting,
The Persistence of Memory.
You know it?
He shows it to me and I say,
'Can I tell you something? It's beautiful.
Beautiful colors, beautiful landscapes,
beautiful frame.
Can I pitch you something?
Melt the clocks.
I said, melt them.'
And he goes, 'I'm not sure.
What does it mean then?'
I say, 'What do you mean?
We make surrealism, Salvador.
It can mean transience of life,
war coming, passing of time,
but basically,
people shouldn't understand shit!
That's surrealism.
Look at what others are doing.
Do you know what Magritte
was doing for a job?
He used to paint wallpaper,
now he draws apples on faces
and can afford Cayenne tobacco.
Let's learn the lesson. Shall we?'
Come on.
He never gave me credit.
Everyone knows the genius,
but I know the Dalí tight-ass...
I was the first, I made them all.
Euripides and I wrote together Medea.
About the ending...
Euripides was telling me,
'You know what?
I'd like her to eat in the end.
What shall we have Medea eat?'
I tell him, 'Listen Euripides.
You want her to eat
gyros pita with tzatziki?
Have her eat her children!
Trust me!'
He goes, 'I'm not so sure.'
And I say,
'Sorry, Euripides. I don't get it.
That's all you Greeks have.
Let's finally legitimize the incest taboo.
The Greek tragedy
as catharsis of the subconscious.
There aren't therapists
for another 2,000 years.
Take a seat and wait.'
And he says, 'Yeah, but...
I don't know if people will accept it.'
'Because Socrates buggering kids is fine?
I don't get you!
I really don't!'"
Thank you for your response.
Give yourself a round of applause.
You're a very educated audience.
I'll tell you more.
You're clearly recognizable
as Internazionale readers.
Guilty as charged, huh?
How many in here read Internazionale?
How many only read it
for Brezsny's horoscope?
You do, huh? I know.
But you're not alone.
Many people read it like a manga.
They start from the last page.
May I ask your name?
Silvia. So, Silvia,
why do you read Brezsny's horoscope?
What makes it better
than other horoscopes?
It's more creative.
Okay.
I'll ask you one question, Silvia.
Answer it very frankly.
Have you ever seen...
Rob Brezsny...
and Paolo Fox together?
What does it suggest?
That Paolo Fox and Rob Brezsny
are the same person.
Every horoscope is the same lie.
One is sold to housewives
watching Magalli.
The other to girls majoring
in International Relations.
Like you, right?
No? That's not your field.
Basically, you need to think
of a horoscope
as a huge food corporation
with multiple production lines.
"The extra dark chocolate cookies,
4K, full HD,
go on the top shelf in Carrefour
for 4.99 euro.
While these cookies here,
made of scalp and palm oil,
get kicked to the bottom shelf
in the discounter."
"Excuse me, but I saw them
come out of the same oven."
"You're from Altroconsumo?"
Silvia, next time you read--
What's your sign?
Taurus.
Next time you read
your horoscope by Breszny,
read it with Paolo Fox's voice.
It'll open up a new world.
Taurus.
"In 1969,
Bob Dylan writes Blowin' in the Wind.
Perhaps,
for you as well as for Bob Dylan,
that dove will spread its wings
in the sky."
He makes long pauses when reading it
so that his lies sound more valuable.
I, too, read Internazionale,
but not as often as I used to.
Because something happened.
One day, while I was reading it,
one article caught my eye.
"Mongolia.
New troubles for Xing Ying Mang,
Deputy Mayor of Ulaanbaatar.
Who allegedly used regional funds
to purchase four handfuls of rice.
An investigation is still underway."
That made me...
start wondering
when this kind of news
could ever be useful.
At a dinner party?
I don't know. I'm asking.
"Hear about Xing Yang Ming?"
The shit will hit the fan.
It'll all come tumbling down.
The truth is that I read Internazionale
because many friends of mine
majored in political science.
If one of your friends
majored in political science,
it's hard to tell what his job is.
Unless you, too,
majored in political science.
Sometimes I see them.
People who majored in political science
spend a lot of time away.
Your friend is back...
And...
"Hi."
For some reason, they are always pensive.
You say, "Hey! How are you doing?
Where have you been for nine months?"
"Yeah, I spent nine months
in Burkina Faso.
And..."
I say, "Well...
you put on some weight.
That doesn't feel right,
while being in Burkina Faso.
What were you doing there?"
"Well, basically, I was...
working with an NGO,
which took money from an NPO,
then gave it to a refugee camp,
which gave it to another NPO,
financed by an NGO,
financed by another NPO,
with unhooding to the right,
like Antani from Tarapia Tapioco."
"But can you name one actual thing
you did in Burkina Faso?"
"One night I got laid
by a woman I met on Tinder!"
It happens.
We're living in exciting times.
A time which makes it possible
to get laid in Burkina Faso
thanks to an app.
But what's the cost
of this type of technology?
It's pretty simple.
Our personal data.
Big corporations use our personal data
to trade it among themselves
and use us like commodities.
The first time I heard about privacy,
like we do today,
I was in high school.
We're talking about 15 years ago.
And I heard it from Stefano Rodotà,
who wasn't just a random guy.
He was the president
of the Personal Data Protection Authority.
Or, as he was referred to
by the kids in my school,
"The Privacy Boss."
"The Privacy Boss will give a talk today."
I like how at these school events,
regardless of who the speaker was,
the response was always the same.
Always this same attitude.
"Today, during the last two class periods,
Ronald McDonald is giving a talk."
"Wasn't he a fictional character?"
"See? That's what I thought too!"
"But they say he's real.
They sent bodyguards to pick him up.
So, basically, physics class
in the last two periods is canceled."
"All right.
I'm game.
That's fine.
Now let's go smoke a fat bowl."
Stefano Rodotà walks
into my school's auditorium,
welcomed by an audience
of super stoned students.
They were so stoned. "Give him my soul!"
What epic memories!
Incredible. Give it up for my high school.
Stefano Rodotà walks into a room
full of super stoned students.
He was invited to my school
by a group of Italian teachers.
My teacher introduces him
with a shine in her eyes
only comparable to that
of a Lucca Comics organizer
introducing Zerocalcare.
"Well, Stefano...
Stefano, we're super thrilled
to have you here with us.
I'm so excited. I really can't believe it.
I'm just gonna jill-off a sec.
I'll be right back."
Stefano Rodotà takes a deep breath
and launches into a droning speech!
A droning speech on data protection.
But it is data protection 2002-style!
Old-school data protection.
"If I decide to purchase an airline ticket
using my credit card,
the moment I purchase the ticket,
both the airline and the bank will know--"
For fuck's sake, Stefano!
It doesn't matter, Stefano.
It doesn't matter.
You can drink a beer,
or do whatever you want
with the credit card dudes.
After this long-winded talk,
Stefano Rodotà closed this snoozefest
with these words.
"If we keep going down this road,
in ten years' time
we'll have an internet website
where we'll post our photos,
we'll name the music bands we like,
and perhaps we'll upload pictures
of our girlfriend on the beach."
In that very moment,
Stefano Rodotà had invented Facebook,
while a young Mark Zuckerberg,
in his little Harvard dorm room,
was busy with a two-finger wank,
still using a 56k modem.
If that speech took place today,
its take on Facebook would be different.
Call me a romantic,
but I still think it's a wonderful tool.
A tool that allows you
to enter into people's lives
in a way that was unthinkable.
For example, I'm currently studying
old folks on Facebook.
Because it's becoming "a thing".
But listen...
I suggest you try this thing.
Go home,
take the oldest friend you have,
and look for his old friends.
I swear, you'll need to buckle up,
because the deep web in Italy
isn't sites like Silk Road,
it's the seniors on Facebook.
How do you tell
a senior's profile on Facebook?
First, his profile picture
isn't a real profile picture.
His profile picture is a picture
taken with his phone
of a picture on his bed table.
Often, there's a flash reflection.
It's a bit like this.
Second, below the profile picture
there's always a comment,
usually by a Locrisuogolo Salvatore,
who uses these words,
"Heavens to Betsy! You look old."
This comment is always there.
Here's another typical thing seniors post.
It's a random Thursday afternoon.
Locafierolo
Pasqualina
shares this picture.
A really badly pixelated flower bouquet,
resolution 3:2,
with this phrase below it,
"Happy Thursday afternoon to you all."
Locrisantuogolo
Assuntina
replies as follows,
"Gorgeous flowers!
Happy Thursday afternoon to you too."
What exactly happened there?
I mean, this...
this exchange,
what is it hiding?
But the most typical thing
seniors do on Facebook is this.
Any picture
of any woman
under 65 years old
and 95 kilograms
is commented on as follows
by Giacalone Antonio,
"A wonder of nature."
Let's talk about cinema now.
I'll ask you a question. It's a question
I can only ask on good nights,
because it's a bit divisive.
How many of you,
when a new series or movie
from another country comes out,
go watch it in theaters
in original version with subtitles?
I said series too,
but who goes to the movies
to watch a foreign language film
with subtitles?
It's usually only three or four people,
a very small number.
I assume the remaining 97 percent
of the audience
is afflicted by the notorious
"subtitles migraines".
Where people say,
"If I see two subtitles on screen,
I get such headaches...
No, I can't."
And then they go watch
a Fast & Furious marathon
where it feels like cars
are crashing into your face.
I mean...
I personally see dubbing
as an absolutely unprofitable practice.
Outdated and unnecessary.
I realize it's a radical opinion,
but those of you who agree
know very well that
when you say it in public,
someone always flips out.
Someone who's not game
and wants to give you a lecture.
I call him "the smart guy".
"But...
you're totally ignoring
that Italy has a great dubbing tradition.
Think about Ferruccio Amendola,
Oreste Lionello,
Tonino Accolla."
I mean...
Since you're a smart guy,
answer this question.
What associates
Ferruccio Amendola,
Oreste Lionello,
and Tonino Accolla?
They're dead!
They're dead.
And, sadly, no one will ever listen
to their voices again.
We can't live on tradition.
We won't hear their voices ever again.
The only way
to hear Tonino Accolla's voice
is to hold a séance.
Same with Ferruccio Amendola.
Imagine how great
a séance with him would be.
He would dub the medium.
"Are you talking to me?
Are you talking to me?
Yeah, I'm well, but leave me alone now.
Ma'am, have you tried
Vernel's incredible softness?"
Although there still are some good
dubbing actors in movies,
the talented children
of the great actors from the '70s,
on TV you only hear
their lousy grandchildren.
Not only the lousy grandchildren,
but their wives too.
And for some reason,
the grandchild's brother-in-law too.
This guy who ran a restaurant in Fregene.
Then his partner double-crossed him
and they had to shut it down.
So we gave him some dialogues to write,
because he kind of knew how to do it.
He once had a restaurant in the UK.
And that's the problem.
Nobody in real life talks like they do
in dubbed TV series.
The way dialogues are written
makes the series unwatchable.
Let's pretend that in the United States
there's this new super-duper series.
It's so good, it's called,
"A New Series of Mary."
The series is released in the US.
It's an awesome series.
I'm sure it'll become your favorite.
It's about bribes and corruption
in Alabama. Just great.
Four years later, it comes to Italy
and the problems begin.
Because in the very best case scenario,
the title will be,
"Wait, Here Comes Mary!"
It makes you wonder
if they believe we're retarded.
How little do they think of us?
There's this amazing scene
in "A New Series of Mary"
where the main character,
a 180-kilogram African-American,
is standing on the porch
with his buddy, judging
the asses of ladies walking by.
In the Italian version,
he speaks like this.
"Hey, Jeff.
Have you seen that hot chick there?
I'd slap her little ass till she cries,
'Hey, big daddy! I've had enough now.'"
You know...
All great, except for one problem.
An African-American who sounds like that
is a dead man.
He lasts three days.
There's another great scene
when his wife turns up.
And she didn't like his remark.
She's a ghetto diva.
So she talks like American ghetto divas.
Then you hear the Italian version.
"Are you kidding me or what?
Can't you keep it down?
You're dead wrong if you think
that harlot is better than me!"
And then...
then you see that great scene
that earns an Emmy
for the young actor
playing the couple's son.
A 20-year-old African-American kid,
who's very pissed
because his dealer sold him
less crack than he wanted.
The original scene is beautiful,
because the actor is really furious.
Then you see the Italian version.
"Are you kidding me?
You smoked too much weed.
You're off your head, man!
You know what you are?
You're a mudafaka, man!
That's what you are."
We all need to work.
That's fine. I'm not arguing with that.
But dubbing in Italy is in the hands
of about ten families.
Ten tribal groups that carry on
this great folkloristic tradition.
And I love folklore.
But let the government take care of them.
We'll pay for their licenses,
and they'll open
ten "Cash4Gold" businesses.
So they're good for life.
And finally, all movies in Italy
will be with original audio and subtitles.
But the best part is how cool it would be
to go sell your gold in their shops.
"Listen, I've got this gold chain
from my Holy Communion.
I was wondering if you could take a look."
"If we could? Of course we can!
Dad, there's a customer with a chain."
"Just wait a second, young man.
I'll be damned, young man.
This is a really beautiful gold chain.
You could make loads of money
by selling it.
Listen to me, you should really sell it.
Tell me something,
you want cash under the table
or a receipt?"
"Have you lost your mind, Dad?
You want trouble with the flatfoots?
You want to see the coppers walk in?
You want another stupid name
we use for policemen?
You want us to end up
like the beer shop owner?
Look, Dad, he's still hanging here!"
Thank you very much.
Before we say goodbye,
I'd like to tell you a story.
Some nights are good and fun,
like tonight.
Some nights are a bit less good.
And there are nights that...
leave you with something inside
that throbs.
That wakes you up during winter nights,
and makes you realize what you are
and what this job means.
The worst comedy night of my life
took place on August 12, 2012,
at the Pontecosi Lake Festival
in Castelnuovo di Garfagnana,
Lucca, Tuscany.
At the time, I was in law school.
In was in the library
studying administrative law,
when I get a phone call
from an unknown person.
"Hello, Edoardo.
Hi, my name is Amedeo Ciacci,
from Ciacci Management.
You may be familiar with our work.
I'll name you
some recent successful events.
Miss Grosseto, 2004.
No?
The Bread Fair in Fiesole?
No? Doesn't matter.
We're organizing a street festival
to celebrate the lake,
booze, pussy, and rock 'n' roll!
The usual stuff you do
at street festivals."
I say, "Mr. Ciacci,
I am absolutely thrilled by your proposal,
but may I ask why you chose me
for a street festival?"
"Listen, Edoardo,
I'll be very honest with you.
For many years, we had this magician,
his name was Vladimiro.
But he passed away this year."
And I go, "Mr. Ciacci,
how could I refuse
such a flattering invitation?
Send me an e-mail with the details."
I hang up.
I completely forget about Mr. Ciacci.
Months go by. Summer comes.
I fail the administrative law test.
Everything goes as expected.
And soon after, it's August 12, 2012.
I was on holiday at the beach.
I get in the car
and head to Castelnuovo di Garfagnana.
From the highway, I see these clouds
that make up the writing "redrum".
"Redrum,"
spoken by Amedeo Ciacci's voice.
I arrive at Castelnuovo.
I knew there was a lake.
It was the Lake Festival.
So I walk up to this man on the road
and ask him for directions to the lake.
"You have to take the path
that goes behind the church,
then turn right and keep going,
but the lake is gone."
"What do you mean, 'It's gone'?"
"You could have taken the path
that goes behind the church,
turn left and then right,
but the lake is gone.
I may look like a David Lynch character
but I am real."
I turn towards the road
indicated by the man,
and when I turn back to him, he's gone.
I drive down to the lake and see
that the old man was right.
Lake Pontecosi is an artificial lake
with a dam below it.
And one week before the comedian arrives,
the power company drains the lake.
It was the Lake Festival without the lake.
To give you an idea of how...
haunting the view of a drained lake is,
think that whatever lies on the lake bed
can be seen when there's no water.
So you'd see dead branches,
mud, snakes,
old Fiat Duna carcasses,
bodies of local old guys
killed after a Briscola game gone wrong,
adulterers...
That was the view right before my eyes.
I look at the audience
in Castelnuovo di Garfagnana,
who I was supposed to entertain,
and it's made up
of either children under six
or adults over 96.
As if a very selective strain of Ebola
had decimated my audience for the night.
I look at the stage
where I was about to perform.
And I will never forget this.
There was a dance recital
of the Duckling Dance School
from Castelnuovo di Garfagnana.
Children dancing this nice choreography
to the beat of"I Gotta Feeling
That Tonight's Gonna Be a Good Night"
by The Black Eyed Peas.
I glance at the lake,
which was no longer there,
I glance at the audience,
then at the stage,
I got a feeling that tonight
is not gonna be a good night.
Amedeo Ciacci goes on stage
and introduces me
with these words.
"Now give a round of applause
to a great, very great comedian.
He's from Rome.
Please welcome Edoardo Ferraris!"
Edoardo Ferraris walks on stage.
And I start with this joke
I had prepared to break the ice.
"Good evening, Castelnuovo di Garfagnana.
This is the Lake Festival, but...
it looks like someone drained it!"
The microphone hisses.
Then I say another silly thing
I had written as an ice breaker.
A joke about something
that happened two days earlier.
"Castelnuovo di Garfagnana!
Have you heard about the 'suitcase man'?
The tourist who fell asleep
on the baggage belt at Berlin airport?
Luckily, it wasn't Rome Fiumicino,
otherwise, they would have lost him!"
Children are staring at me terrified.
And old man hocks a loogie.
And I hear the clear sound
of someone loading a shotgun.
I talk half an hour into the void.
I was alone, as if I was in my bedroom.
They looked angry
and I wanted to kill myself.
I wanted to jump into the lake,
but there wasn't one.
Half-way through my show, there's a break.
I get off the stage,
and backstage
Mr. Ciacci is coming towards me
now looking pretty mad.
He grabs me and says,
"You haven't got it right!"
He slams me into the wall
and says the meanest thing
I've ever heard someone say about someone.
"Edoardo, no more complicated jokes.
They're shepherds!"
Spoken by the guy
who had organized the event. So...
I have an epiphany and think,
"He's right. Amedeo Ciacci's right.
They're not the problem. I am.
They're shepherds,
no more complicated jokes.
Talk about something
they're interested in.
And show the same confidence
Enrico Brignano has."
I go back on stage.
I look at my audience and think,
"From now on,
you are the Enrico Brignano
of shepherding."
When I was a kid,
my grandpa had this huge book,
so huge that you couldn't use it
as a door holder,
you had to use it as a gate holder.
One day I went to him and asked,
"Why do they call sheep 'ovine'?"
He goes, "Because they make wine."
So I say, "Grandpa, tell me,
do they make milk too?"
He says, "Yeah.
Sicilian sheep make almond milk.
African sheep make coconut milk.
Chinese sheep make soy milk."
I ask, "What do we call young sheep?"
He says, "Lambs."
I say, "And when they're old?"
"They're called arrosticini."
I had them in the palm of my hand!
A star was shining in the Garfagnana sky,
and that star was me.
And just when I thought
I had won over the audience,
they screwed me.
"Now cut this shit out.
We've had enough of this shit.
Play Dario Fo in Mistero buffo."
"Hang on!
Dario Fo?"
"Yes, Dario Fo. Play Mistero buffo."
"Okay."
Enrico Brignano of shepherding is out,
I'm Dario Fo of shepherding now.
"The shepherd of Garfagnana
travels back to Garfagnana.
He milks the Garfagnana's sheep.
Milk from Garfagnana's good."
Ladies and gentlemen, I was once again
surfing the wave of success in Garfagnana
when the audience screws me over
one more time.
"Cut that shit out. Enough with Dario Fo.
Do Matthew McConaughey
in True Detective."
"Hang on!
How come you've already seen
True Detective?
It won't be out here
for another three years."
"We already have Netflix here, asshole.
Don't you read...
You don't know how to do it, huh?
You download a Torrent,
change your IP address,
then you can watch it.
Don't you read Salvatore Aranzulla's blog?
You people in Rome
only read repubblica.it?"
Fine! I'm no longer Dario Fo
of shepherding,
now I'm Matthew McConaughey
in True Detective.
I'm the Rust Cohle of shepherding.
Thank you all. Good night.
Good evening, ladies and gentlemen!
Keep on clapping.
It'd be a shame to stop here.
Thank you very much.
I'm very happy to be performing again
here in Milan.
I love this city. I work here
and come here very often.
I almost live here,
and I like it... always.
Even on days like this.
Milan.
Guys, on days like this,
Milan shows off its best side.
Doesn't it?
Because the city seems like...
a postcard made by the hatred
of a Southern Italian.
"We'll put the gray sky here.
Here we'll put that damn CityLife
that these bastards like so much.
Mr. Fedez and Miss Ferragni go on top.
And here we'll put the cold,
which gives these damn bastards the runs."
When I left Rome this morning,
it was 20 degrees Celsius.
With 20 degrees, you already start seeing
summer-like scenes
taking place around Rome.
The other day I saw Roman children
shooting parrots in Villa Ada.
People grilling nutrias
along the Tiber's riverbanks.
Just beautiful.
The news this week reported
that Rome has been awarded
a very important title.
It won the title of
"Capital of the Third World, 2018".
It makes me happy.
It's a great signal for the city.
A good thing at last,
after many negative critiques.
If you've been to Rome recently,
you'll know that vegetation
is swallowing the monuments.
It's like Angkor Wat in Cambodia.
Like the temples in Yucatán.
It has that charming, luxurious decadence.
The title is well-deserved,
because outside of Termini station,
you won't find any taxis.
You'll find auto rickshaws.
I took one the other day to get home.
I told the guy,
"Could you take me to Piazza Sempione?"
So I say, "Okay,
I'll take the underground then."
"Well, then I'll get an Uber."
-"What? I'm gonna kill you!'
-"I'll take the auto rickshaw!"
Thank you. That's how things are in Rome.
To any Romans living in Milan,
don't come back!
No need to.
I'll let you know when the time's right.
I hope things in Rome will improve,
because I'm at a stage in my life
where I need stability.
Yes, because I am 30 years old,
I'm about to turn 31.
I'd appreciate some enthusiasm
from you at least, because...
Thank you.
Because I feel none.
Zero enthusiasm.
So far, things have been good,
but I don't know what's next.
Because up until last year,
when I was still 29,
every time an older person,
either my parents' friends
or older friends,
would ask my age, I would say 29,
and every single person
would reply like this:
"Well, then...
you're almost there!"
With a slightly less labored voice
than the one I'd use to ask someone,
"How old are you?"
"I am 94."
"Well, then...
you're almost there."
But the fact is that,
on the one hand, turning 30 is great,
because it's liberating.
There are many things now
I'm no longer ashamed to say.
I used to be, but now, for example,
I'm no longer ashamed to say
that craft beers are shit.
Craft beers suck balls.
I'm also annoyed by the attitude
of those who like them.
You know, when they say,
"I see that you only have Heineken...
Ceres and Corona,
but I can't drink those,
because if I do,
I become an even bigger dickhead.
And I can't..."
If there's one thing I've learned,
and it took me 30 years,
is that in my life, I'm not touching
anything made by Trappist monks.
Nothing. Ever.
Keep those monks away from me.
By the way, let me dare you.
Is there anyone here
who's seen a Trappist monk
and is willing to swear it?
There are a few things
whose existence I refuse to accept.
Sirens,
unicorns,
Trappist monks,
the online University Niccolò Cusano.
What was that?
The region Molise.
That's way more believable
than UniCusano though.
Are you feeling uneasy
because you're enrolled there?
There are people here
who dropped out of drama school.
I know it, so don't worry.
It's nothing to be ashamed of.
If in the '80s you were a kid
who didn't know what to do,
you'd shoot up.
Quietly, without bothering anyone.
But today, if you're a kid
unsure about what to do with your life,
you open a beer shop.
Not only that,
you brew your own craft beer.
A beer shop just opened near my place.
But I'm worried, because people
who start these businesses
don't understand
that it's a saturated market.
It's a phenomenon
seen in other businesses.
But nobody learns from their mistakes.
So I went to this beer shop,
I talked to the owner, tasted the beer,
and told him, "Your beer's pretty nice,
but why does it leave
a slight tobacco aftertaste?"
"Well, the tobacco aftertaste you feel
is because this used to be an e-cig store.
And...
When my partner and I moved in,
we found the old owner hanging there.
We left him there
because doing this is fun.
Can you see that?
He's sort of become our mascot.
We called the place
'The Hanging Man's Brewery'.
The cigarettes were still on the shelves,
so we put them into the beer fermenters
and made this IPA with tobacco aftertaste
and called it 'Vape-IPA'."
But the real question is,
when the market becomes really saturated
with microbreweries, artisan burger bars,
and artisan perfume shops,
what will the next thing be?
Is there anyone here
who majored in economics?
Don't feel ashamed.
You two in the front row?
And what's your name?
Michele? Great.
Here's my tip.
The next frontier for artisan products
after perfume shops and breweries
will be artisan gasoline.
Do you believe me, Michele?
You open an artisan gas station
in a neighborhood like... Isola.
I think people there
would fall for it, right?
It's the right neighborhood
for an artisan gas station.
This is extremely important, Michele.
Because it's all about the name.
You have to name it "orgasoline."
Which is for real.
You name it "orgasoline"
and welcome your customers like this.
As the cars drive in, you go like this:
"Ciao!"
Roman-style customer service.
The nuts and bolts are: "Ciao!
What can I get you?"
"Ten euros of unleaded gas, please."
"So in terms of unleaded fuel,
this week, at pump number four,
we have this one called 'Desert Dune'.
It's a very light unleaded, 16 octanes.
The hydrocarbons are a bit alkaloid.
If you want something else,
here's a super-duper diesel fuel.
It will blow up your car,
but I still recommend it.
This is a great diesel,
called 'Sheikh's Delight'.
It's extracted by hand,
produced by Trappist Sheikhs
in the Persian Gulf."
Just an idea, Michele.
Feel free to do as you please.
And yet, despite all that,
I do have one regret now that I'm 30.
It's that compulsory military service
was abolished.
I regret not serving in the military,
because I won't be able to tell
those typical stories.
I'll never be able to say
that I served in some exotic place like,
I don't know, Ascoli Piceno.
I'll never be able to say,
"We drank a strong cordial once
that made our bowels twist."
I'll never have those kinds of stories.
And I feel sorry, because I often wonder
what I'll tell my grandchild
when I'm old.
I remember how my grandfather
used to tell me these incredible stories.
I mean, Rome was being bombed.
They had curfews,
hung black cloths over windows,
there were sirens.
He once told me that the most incredible
memory from his youth
was an American soldier
giving him some chocolate to try.
I told him, "Grandpa,
go tell Pupi Avati right away.
He'll make 28 movies about it.
Don't waste your time
on this 11-year-old moron.
Go to him now."
I think that our generation
is not very heroic.
What will I tell my grandson
when I'm a grandfather?
If I had to tell him
the most incredible memory of my youth,
it'd be pretty awkward.
Because I'd have to tell him
the following true story.
"Come here, kid.
Come here to Grandpa.
Grandpa is going to tell you
the most incredible memory
of his youth.
Are you ready? Here we go.
The summer after high school graduation,
Grandpa went to Ibiza with four buddies.
Well, you need to know
that Ibiza was a Balearic island.
We had the European Union then,
not the Chinese Union
which abolished
the free movement of people.
Back then,
you could get on a low-cost flight,
and for only 100 euros,
the equivalent of 3,000 yuan today,
you could fly to the Balearic Islands,
you could go to Germany,
or to Brexit Island,
which is still being bombed today.
And one night,
Grandpa and his buddies went to Amnesia,
which is a club in Ibiza.
There was a party called "Manumission".
Mamma mia!
So many Italians at Manumission!
Grandpa sees this dancer
in the back of the room.
This beautiful dancer
who was dancing and dancing,
and then, in her dance, she starts...
fiddling with her pussy.
She fiddles and fiddles,
and pull outs a little Brazilian flag.
She keeps on fiddling
and pulls out a French,
a Canadian, and a Mexican flag.
And Grandpa swears
thatAmnesia was more dumbstruck
than Santeria is right now.
Now they clap, but they were uneasy.
She hands the thread over to a colleague,
then walks to the other side of the room,
and from her pussy came out
258 flags from all the countries
in the world.
And this one is the most enduring memory
of your grandfather's youth.
Do you want to hear something even better?
That dancer became your grandmother."
For as long as we live
in the European Union,
I love traveling.
I really love it
and travel as often as I can.
A few years ago,
I had a great trip with my girlfriend
when we visited Vietnam.
A truly wonderful country.
I really want to point out
that it was a few years prior
to the Pechino Express season
filmed in Vietnam.
I really want to say that,
because after that,
the country became mainstream.
Some friends of mine
who went there recently
told me that
the best-selling souvenir in Hanoi
is a fridge magnet
with Costantino della Gherardesca
vomiting noodles.
This is the most typical souvenir
in Hanoi right now.
We went before that. I recommend it
because Hanoi is beautiful.
It's a very French city.
With palm trees and boulevards,
the Grand Opera House...
It's stunning.
They deep-fry everything in Hanoi.
Really. You go to these stalls,
and they'll deep-fry your veggies,
they'll deep-fry your meat.
They can deep-fry your keys,
your passport, and your Imodium too,
so you're ready.
It's a wonderful place.
Highly recommended.
After a few lovely days in Hanoi,
we decide to visit Sapa.
A small town in the Tonkinese Alps,
about 180 kilometers from Hanoi.
Why do we go there?
Because in the travel guide we have,
it is described
with the exact following words.
"Imagine a mountain lodge
nestled among the rice terraces.
Then imagine the Hmong,
one of the friendliest ethnic groups
in the world, and their delicious cuisine.
Add a little Tolkienesque feel...
Welcome to Sapa."
If you read something like this,
you think the Tolkienesque bit
is bullshit.
It was written by someone
who's never been to Sapa
but who had a Tolkien book on his desk
and wrote down something.
But we decide to go there.
When traveling around these countries,
you need to take night trains.
A night lasts
for a reasonable number of hours,
eight or nine hours.
But on these fucking night trains
in Third World countries,
one night lasts 57 hours!
It's 57 hours of darkness,
sleeping on a hard-berth.
Which means you sleep
on an asbestos slab this thick
and with the air conditioning vent
this close to your face.
My girlfriend has this gift
of being able to fall asleep anywhere.
While after, I swear,
after 28 minutes
with the air conditioner in my face,
I say, "Why the fuck
aren't I in Santa Marinella,
like all normal people?
Why am I doing
this damn 30-year-old guy's trip?
Why?"
To avoid waking up looking like
Jack Nicholson at the end of The Shining,
I decide to take a walk in the train car.
So I get off the berth,
and I bump into a very typical character
you meet on these trips.
The American who's been everywhere.
He's been to every single place on Earth
and makes you feel like shit,
because he's been to places
you'll never ever be able to see.
We get to talk and I ask,
"How long have you been traveling?"
Holy fucking shit, Jeff!
The next morning,
fifty-seven hours later,
we arrive at Sapa.
Or rather at the Vietnamese equivalent
of Orbetello Scalo,
if you know what I mean.
We arrive, then get off,
and there stands Sapa.
Imagine a mountain lodge
nestled among the Tonkinese Alps.
I swear that Sapa
is the closest place to Quarto Oggiaro
I've ever been to in my life.
It's like Ho Chi Minh,
the evil Vietnamese dictator,
had sent one of his city planners
to Quarto Oggiaro in the '60s
and built its replica
in the Tonkinese Alps.
And what to say about the Hmong people?
This lovely ethnic minority group
and their delicious cuisine.
The spirit of the ethnic minority
is long gone.
They're greedy sellers.
As soon as we get off the bus,
they try to sell us their souvenirs.
The only way to get rid of them
is to buy these sharp canes
that they sell themselves
in order to kick them away.
And we leave.
At mid-morning,
something happens.
Something very common
when traveling in Asia.
Perhaps one of the best things
you can experience here.
A memory shared by so many.
At some point, you totally freeze.
Your forehead is beaded with cold sweat.
You start feeling a kind of movement.
I call it the "folding-fan diarrhea".
What's "folding-fan diarrhea"?
The Lonely Planet
would describe it like this:
"Imagine riding a donkey
in the Tonkinese Alps,
when suddenly, your forehead
gets beaded with sweat.
From the pituitary gland,
you start sensing
an evil feeling spreading
to your bowels.
The people around you start melting
like in a Francis Bacon painting.
Brace yourselves!
It's happening to you too!"
But personally,
I prefer to describe it with these words.
Basically, what happens is that
you sit on the john,
and hear this.
You stand up,
and it's as if a great magician
had swiftly opened a deck of cards.
That's it.
Funny that I stay up nights to write jokes
and it's the "folding-fan shits"
that gets the most laughs.
Milan...
The trip ends.
All goes well.
Vietnam is beautiful.
You should go check it out.
But the most scared I've been
while traveling
has been at the end
of a relaxing weekend in Vienna.
Two days of pure
Austro-Hungarian efficiency
ruined by this.
I realized the danger
when I was at the gate
on the way back to Italy.
That's a very emblematic part of the trip.
Because it feels like...
like some pieces of Italy
that you had removed,
no matter how far you've traveled,
violently resurface
right there in front of you.
Like a landing before landing.
I'm talking about...
the couple from Caserta
with fuchsia Hogans.
There they are.
The family from North Rome.
Dad, mom, three blonde daughters,
all wearing Abercrombie & Fitch.
There they are.
The entrepreneur from Brianza
with his Cuban wife.
He's signing her expulsion order
because she's only 15.
There they are.
Right there in front of you.
We arrive at Vienna airport.
It was the last flight of the day.
At 9:00 p.m.
And two stewardesses,
who looked like characters
from a Brothers Grimm's tale,
two young Austrian girls,
tell us the following
with enviable candor.
"Ladies and gentlemen, we're sorry,
but your flight was canceled."
I swear, it only took a second.
"At my signal, unleash hell."
I think the Battle of Valle Giulia in 1968
was less violent.
In no time,
the Caserta fringe jumps up and says,
"We've got to stick and fight together
to show these fucking Austrians
that we're Italians!"
I heard it with my ears.
You may have seen these tracksuit pants
with a crotch this low.
Not everyone can wear them.
There were two Roman guys
both wearing these pants,
and they say this,
"Seen these bastards?
They send a girl to tell us,
instead of a dude."
What would you have done
had it been a dude?
When I hear someone say
such abominable things,
I can't help thinking,
"His parents were cousins."
Two cousins who fucked
at a Christmas party.
I was there.
Sitting.
Enjoying this performance.
The Casertans with spears,
the others in full armor.
And while I enjoy
this compelling performance,
next to me...
Pasolini's ghost appears...
and recites,
"When today,
this morning,
at the airport in Vienna,
you brawled with the stewardesses,
I stood with the Austrian stewardesses.
For they are the true daughters
of the working class.
Nevertheless... fuck you, Vueling!"
I like to think that artists too
had their problems.
Nowadays, people tend to idealize art.
You know?
You hear things like,
"All television sucks."
"Movies are only made for money."
"Only bakers from Brescia sell books."
Stuff like this.
The same people who say this,
also say, "Things used to be different.
Art was made for art's sake.
Artists weren't just after money.
Back then, art used to be authentic."
The problem is,
who said that to us?
How do we know
that in any time in history...
Even when people were doing
rather noncommercial things.
For example,
early 20th century Italian poetry.
How do we know that back then,
somewhere,
two envious producers
weren't talking like this.
"Have you seen what Ungaretti's doing?
Thanks to Hermeticism,
Ungaretti hit the big time.
Hermeticism is paying for his properties!
I didn't want to say this,
but the war did him good.
The bombs did him good.
May I say something?
'M'illumino d'immenso,' and that's it.
The message is clear enough.
Let's not waste time talking.
You put that on iPhone covers,
on t-shirts for teenage girls.
Let me tell you this.
I've been saying this for years
and no one ever gave me credit.
Michele, we're friends now,
so let me tell you this.
Do you know Dalí?
Salvador. A friend of mine.
A nutcase. Total nutcase.
But the biggest genius
I've ever worked with.
In 1934, Salvador Dalí comes to me
with this idea for a painting,
The Persistence of Memory.
You know it?
He shows it to me and I say,
'Can I tell you something? It's beautiful.
Beautiful colors, beautiful landscapes,
beautiful frame.
Can I pitch you something?
Melt the clocks.
I said, melt them.'
And he goes, 'I'm not sure.
What does it mean then?'
I say, 'What do you mean?
We make surrealism, Salvador.
It can mean transience of life,
war coming, passing of time,
but basically,
people shouldn't understand shit!
That's surrealism.
Look at what others are doing.
Do you know what Magritte
was doing for a job?
He used to paint wallpaper,
now he draws apples on faces
and can afford Cayenne tobacco.
Let's learn the lesson. Shall we?'
Come on.
He never gave me credit.
Everyone knows the genius,
but I know the Dalí tight-ass...
I was the first, I made them all.
Euripides and I wrote together Medea.
About the ending...
Euripides was telling me,
'You know what?
I'd like her to eat in the end.
What shall we have Medea eat?'
I tell him, 'Listen Euripides.
You want her to eat
gyros pita with tzatziki?
Have her eat her children!
Trust me!'
He goes, 'I'm not so sure.'
And I say,
'Sorry, Euripides. I don't get it.
That's all you Greeks have.
Let's finally legitimize the incest taboo.
The Greek tragedy
as catharsis of the subconscious.
There aren't therapists
for another 2,000 years.
Take a seat and wait.'
And he says, 'Yeah, but...
I don't know if people will accept it.'
'Because Socrates buggering kids is fine?
I don't get you!
I really don't!'"
Thank you for your response.
Give yourself a round of applause.
You're a very educated audience.
I'll tell you more.
You're clearly recognizable
as Internazionale readers.
Guilty as charged, huh?
How many in here read Internazionale?
How many only read it
for Brezsny's horoscope?
You do, huh? I know.
But you're not alone.
Many people read it like a manga.
They start from the last page.
May I ask your name?
Silvia. So, Silvia,
why do you read Brezsny's horoscope?
What makes it better
than other horoscopes?
It's more creative.
Okay.
I'll ask you one question, Silvia.
Answer it very frankly.
Have you ever seen...
Rob Brezsny...
and Paolo Fox together?
What does it suggest?
That Paolo Fox and Rob Brezsny
are the same person.
Every horoscope is the same lie.
One is sold to housewives
watching Magalli.
The other to girls majoring
in International Relations.
Like you, right?
No? That's not your field.
Basically, you need to think
of a horoscope
as a huge food corporation
with multiple production lines.
"The extra dark chocolate cookies,
4K, full HD,
go on the top shelf in Carrefour
for 4.99 euro.
While these cookies here,
made of scalp and palm oil,
get kicked to the bottom shelf
in the discounter."
"Excuse me, but I saw them
come out of the same oven."
"You're from Altroconsumo?"
Silvia, next time you read--
What's your sign?
Taurus.
Next time you read
your horoscope by Breszny,
read it with Paolo Fox's voice.
It'll open up a new world.
Taurus.
"In 1969,
Bob Dylan writes Blowin' in the Wind.
Perhaps,
for you as well as for Bob Dylan,
that dove will spread its wings
in the sky."
He makes long pauses when reading it
so that his lies sound more valuable.
I, too, read Internazionale,
but not as often as I used to.
Because something happened.
One day, while I was reading it,
one article caught my eye.
"Mongolia.
New troubles for Xing Ying Mang,
Deputy Mayor of Ulaanbaatar.
Who allegedly used regional funds
to purchase four handfuls of rice.
An investigation is still underway."
That made me...
start wondering
when this kind of news
could ever be useful.
At a dinner party?
I don't know. I'm asking.
"Hear about Xing Yang Ming?"
The shit will hit the fan.
It'll all come tumbling down.
The truth is that I read Internazionale
because many friends of mine
majored in political science.
If one of your friends
majored in political science,
it's hard to tell what his job is.
Unless you, too,
majored in political science.
Sometimes I see them.
People who majored in political science
spend a lot of time away.
Your friend is back...
And...
"Hi."
For some reason, they are always pensive.
You say, "Hey! How are you doing?
Where have you been for nine months?"
"Yeah, I spent nine months
in Burkina Faso.
And..."
I say, "Well...
you put on some weight.
That doesn't feel right,
while being in Burkina Faso.
What were you doing there?"
"Well, basically, I was...
working with an NGO,
which took money from an NPO,
then gave it to a refugee camp,
which gave it to another NPO,
financed by an NGO,
financed by another NPO,
with unhooding to the right,
like Antani from Tarapia Tapioco."
"But can you name one actual thing
you did in Burkina Faso?"
"One night I got laid
by a woman I met on Tinder!"
It happens.
We're living in exciting times.
A time which makes it possible
to get laid in Burkina Faso
thanks to an app.
But what's the cost
of this type of technology?
It's pretty simple.
Our personal data.
Big corporations use our personal data
to trade it among themselves
and use us like commodities.
The first time I heard about privacy,
like we do today,
I was in high school.
We're talking about 15 years ago.
And I heard it from Stefano Rodotà,
who wasn't just a random guy.
He was the president
of the Personal Data Protection Authority.
Or, as he was referred to
by the kids in my school,
"The Privacy Boss."
"The Privacy Boss will give a talk today."
I like how at these school events,
regardless of who the speaker was,
the response was always the same.
Always this same attitude.
"Today, during the last two class periods,
Ronald McDonald is giving a talk."
"Wasn't he a fictional character?"
"See? That's what I thought too!"
"But they say he's real.
They sent bodyguards to pick him up.
So, basically, physics class
in the last two periods is canceled."
"All right.
I'm game.
That's fine.
Now let's go smoke a fat bowl."
Stefano Rodotà walks
into my school's auditorium,
welcomed by an audience
of super stoned students.
They were so stoned. "Give him my soul!"
What epic memories!
Incredible. Give it up for my high school.
Stefano Rodotà walks into a room
full of super stoned students.
He was invited to my school
by a group of Italian teachers.
My teacher introduces him
with a shine in her eyes
only comparable to that
of a Lucca Comics organizer
introducing Zerocalcare.
"Well, Stefano...
Stefano, we're super thrilled
to have you here with us.
I'm so excited. I really can't believe it.
I'm just gonna jill-off a sec.
I'll be right back."
Stefano Rodotà takes a deep breath
and launches into a droning speech!
A droning speech on data protection.
But it is data protection 2002-style!
Old-school data protection.
"If I decide to purchase an airline ticket
using my credit card,
the moment I purchase the ticket,
both the airline and the bank will know--"
For fuck's sake, Stefano!
It doesn't matter, Stefano.
It doesn't matter.
You can drink a beer,
or do whatever you want
with the credit card dudes.
After this long-winded talk,
Stefano Rodotà closed this snoozefest
with these words.
"If we keep going down this road,
in ten years' time
we'll have an internet website
where we'll post our photos,
we'll name the music bands we like,
and perhaps we'll upload pictures
of our girlfriend on the beach."
In that very moment,
Stefano Rodotà had invented Facebook,
while a young Mark Zuckerberg,
in his little Harvard dorm room,
was busy with a two-finger wank,
still using a 56k modem.
If that speech took place today,
its take on Facebook would be different.
Call me a romantic,
but I still think it's a wonderful tool.
A tool that allows you
to enter into people's lives
in a way that was unthinkable.
For example, I'm currently studying
old folks on Facebook.
Because it's becoming "a thing".
But listen...
I suggest you try this thing.
Go home,
take the oldest friend you have,
and look for his old friends.
I swear, you'll need to buckle up,
because the deep web in Italy
isn't sites like Silk Road,
it's the seniors on Facebook.
How do you tell
a senior's profile on Facebook?
First, his profile picture
isn't a real profile picture.
His profile picture is a picture
taken with his phone
of a picture on his bed table.
Often, there's a flash reflection.
It's a bit like this.
Second, below the profile picture
there's always a comment,
usually by a Locrisuogolo Salvatore,
who uses these words,
"Heavens to Betsy! You look old."
This comment is always there.
Here's another typical thing seniors post.
It's a random Thursday afternoon.
Locafierolo
Pasqualina
shares this picture.
A really badly pixelated flower bouquet,
resolution 3:2,
with this phrase below it,
"Happy Thursday afternoon to you all."
Locrisantuogolo
Assuntina
replies as follows,
"Gorgeous flowers!
Happy Thursday afternoon to you too."
What exactly happened there?
I mean, this...
this exchange,
what is it hiding?
But the most typical thing
seniors do on Facebook is this.
Any picture
of any woman
under 65 years old
and 95 kilograms
is commented on as follows
by Giacalone Antonio,
"A wonder of nature."
Let's talk about cinema now.
I'll ask you a question. It's a question
I can only ask on good nights,
because it's a bit divisive.
How many of you,
when a new series or movie
from another country comes out,
go watch it in theaters
in original version with subtitles?
I said series too,
but who goes to the movies
to watch a foreign language film
with subtitles?
It's usually only three or four people,
a very small number.
I assume the remaining 97 percent
of the audience
is afflicted by the notorious
"subtitles migraines".
Where people say,
"If I see two subtitles on screen,
I get such headaches...
No, I can't."
And then they go watch
a Fast & Furious marathon
where it feels like cars
are crashing into your face.
I mean...
I personally see dubbing
as an absolutely unprofitable practice.
Outdated and unnecessary.
I realize it's a radical opinion,
but those of you who agree
know very well that
when you say it in public,
someone always flips out.
Someone who's not game
and wants to give you a lecture.
I call him "the smart guy".
"But...
you're totally ignoring
that Italy has a great dubbing tradition.
Think about Ferruccio Amendola,
Oreste Lionello,
Tonino Accolla."
I mean...
Since you're a smart guy,
answer this question.
What associates
Ferruccio Amendola,
Oreste Lionello,
and Tonino Accolla?
They're dead!
They're dead.
And, sadly, no one will ever listen
to their voices again.
We can't live on tradition.
We won't hear their voices ever again.
The only way
to hear Tonino Accolla's voice
is to hold a séance.
Same with Ferruccio Amendola.
Imagine how great
a séance with him would be.
He would dub the medium.
"Are you talking to me?
Are you talking to me?
Yeah, I'm well, but leave me alone now.
Ma'am, have you tried
Vernel's incredible softness?"
Although there still are some good
dubbing actors in movies,
the talented children
of the great actors from the '70s,
on TV you only hear
their lousy grandchildren.
Not only the lousy grandchildren,
but their wives too.
And for some reason,
the grandchild's brother-in-law too.
This guy who ran a restaurant in Fregene.
Then his partner double-crossed him
and they had to shut it down.
So we gave him some dialogues to write,
because he kind of knew how to do it.
He once had a restaurant in the UK.
And that's the problem.
Nobody in real life talks like they do
in dubbed TV series.
The way dialogues are written
makes the series unwatchable.
Let's pretend that in the United States
there's this new super-duper series.
It's so good, it's called,
"A New Series of Mary."
The series is released in the US.
It's an awesome series.
I'm sure it'll become your favorite.
It's about bribes and corruption
in Alabama. Just great.
Four years later, it comes to Italy
and the problems begin.
Because in the very best case scenario,
the title will be,
"Wait, Here Comes Mary!"
It makes you wonder
if they believe we're retarded.
How little do they think of us?
There's this amazing scene
in "A New Series of Mary"
where the main character,
a 180-kilogram African-American,
is standing on the porch
with his buddy, judging
the asses of ladies walking by.
In the Italian version,
he speaks like this.
"Hey, Jeff.
Have you seen that hot chick there?
I'd slap her little ass till she cries,
'Hey, big daddy! I've had enough now.'"
You know...
All great, except for one problem.
An African-American who sounds like that
is a dead man.
He lasts three days.
There's another great scene
when his wife turns up.
And she didn't like his remark.
She's a ghetto diva.
So she talks like American ghetto divas.
Then you hear the Italian version.
"Are you kidding me or what?
Can't you keep it down?
You're dead wrong if you think
that harlot is better than me!"
And then...
then you see that great scene
that earns an Emmy
for the young actor
playing the couple's son.
A 20-year-old African-American kid,
who's very pissed
because his dealer sold him
less crack than he wanted.
The original scene is beautiful,
because the actor is really furious.
Then you see the Italian version.
"Are you kidding me?
You smoked too much weed.
You're off your head, man!
You know what you are?
You're a mudafaka, man!
That's what you are."
We all need to work.
That's fine. I'm not arguing with that.
But dubbing in Italy is in the hands
of about ten families.
Ten tribal groups that carry on
this great folkloristic tradition.
And I love folklore.
But let the government take care of them.
We'll pay for their licenses,
and they'll open
ten "Cash4Gold" businesses.
So they're good for life.
And finally, all movies in Italy
will be with original audio and subtitles.
But the best part is how cool it would be
to go sell your gold in their shops.
"Listen, I've got this gold chain
from my Holy Communion.
I was wondering if you could take a look."
"If we could? Of course we can!
Dad, there's a customer with a chain."
"Just wait a second, young man.
I'll be damned, young man.
This is a really beautiful gold chain.
You could make loads of money
by selling it.
Listen to me, you should really sell it.
Tell me something,
you want cash under the table
or a receipt?"
"Have you lost your mind, Dad?
You want trouble with the flatfoots?
You want to see the coppers walk in?
You want another stupid name
we use for policemen?
You want us to end up
like the beer shop owner?
Look, Dad, he's still hanging here!"
Thank you very much.
Before we say goodbye,
I'd like to tell you a story.
Some nights are good and fun,
like tonight.
Some nights are a bit less good.
And there are nights that...
leave you with something inside
that throbs.
That wakes you up during winter nights,
and makes you realize what you are
and what this job means.
The worst comedy night of my life
took place on August 12, 2012,
at the Pontecosi Lake Festival
in Castelnuovo di Garfagnana,
Lucca, Tuscany.
At the time, I was in law school.
In was in the library
studying administrative law,
when I get a phone call
from an unknown person.
"Hello, Edoardo.
Hi, my name is Amedeo Ciacci,
from Ciacci Management.
You may be familiar with our work.
I'll name you
some recent successful events.
Miss Grosseto, 2004.
No?
The Bread Fair in Fiesole?
No? Doesn't matter.
We're organizing a street festival
to celebrate the lake,
booze, pussy, and rock 'n' roll!
The usual stuff you do
at street festivals."
I say, "Mr. Ciacci,
I am absolutely thrilled by your proposal,
but may I ask why you chose me
for a street festival?"
"Listen, Edoardo,
I'll be very honest with you.
For many years, we had this magician,
his name was Vladimiro.
But he passed away this year."
And I go, "Mr. Ciacci,
how could I refuse
such a flattering invitation?
Send me an e-mail with the details."
I hang up.
I completely forget about Mr. Ciacci.
Months go by. Summer comes.
I fail the administrative law test.
Everything goes as expected.
And soon after, it's August 12, 2012.
I was on holiday at the beach.
I get in the car
and head to Castelnuovo di Garfagnana.
From the highway, I see these clouds
that make up the writing "redrum".
"Redrum,"
spoken by Amedeo Ciacci's voice.
I arrive at Castelnuovo.
I knew there was a lake.
It was the Lake Festival.
So I walk up to this man on the road
and ask him for directions to the lake.
"You have to take the path
that goes behind the church,
then turn right and keep going,
but the lake is gone."
"What do you mean, 'It's gone'?"
"You could have taken the path
that goes behind the church,
turn left and then right,
but the lake is gone.
I may look like a David Lynch character
but I am real."
I turn towards the road
indicated by the man,
and when I turn back to him, he's gone.
I drive down to the lake and see
that the old man was right.
Lake Pontecosi is an artificial lake
with a dam below it.
And one week before the comedian arrives,
the power company drains the lake.
It was the Lake Festival without the lake.
To give you an idea of how...
haunting the view of a drained lake is,
think that whatever lies on the lake bed
can be seen when there's no water.
So you'd see dead branches,
mud, snakes,
old Fiat Duna carcasses,
bodies of local old guys
killed after a Briscola game gone wrong,
adulterers...
That was the view right before my eyes.
I look at the audience
in Castelnuovo di Garfagnana,
who I was supposed to entertain,
and it's made up
of either children under six
or adults over 96.
As if a very selective strain of Ebola
had decimated my audience for the night.
I look at the stage
where I was about to perform.
And I will never forget this.
There was a dance recital
of the Duckling Dance School
from Castelnuovo di Garfagnana.
Children dancing this nice choreography
to the beat of"I Gotta Feeling
That Tonight's Gonna Be a Good Night"
by The Black Eyed Peas.
I glance at the lake,
which was no longer there,
I glance at the audience,
then at the stage,
I got a feeling that tonight
is not gonna be a good night.
Amedeo Ciacci goes on stage
and introduces me
with these words.
"Now give a round of applause
to a great, very great comedian.
He's from Rome.
Please welcome Edoardo Ferraris!"
Edoardo Ferraris walks on stage.
And I start with this joke
I had prepared to break the ice.
"Good evening, Castelnuovo di Garfagnana.
This is the Lake Festival, but...
it looks like someone drained it!"
The microphone hisses.
Then I say another silly thing
I had written as an ice breaker.
A joke about something
that happened two days earlier.
"Castelnuovo di Garfagnana!
Have you heard about the 'suitcase man'?
The tourist who fell asleep
on the baggage belt at Berlin airport?
Luckily, it wasn't Rome Fiumicino,
otherwise, they would have lost him!"
Children are staring at me terrified.
And old man hocks a loogie.
And I hear the clear sound
of someone loading a shotgun.
I talk half an hour into the void.
I was alone, as if I was in my bedroom.
They looked angry
and I wanted to kill myself.
I wanted to jump into the lake,
but there wasn't one.
Half-way through my show, there's a break.
I get off the stage,
and backstage
Mr. Ciacci is coming towards me
now looking pretty mad.
He grabs me and says,
"You haven't got it right!"
He slams me into the wall
and says the meanest thing
I've ever heard someone say about someone.
"Edoardo, no more complicated jokes.
They're shepherds!"
Spoken by the guy
who had organized the event. So...
I have an epiphany and think,
"He's right. Amedeo Ciacci's right.
They're not the problem. I am.
They're shepherds,
no more complicated jokes.
Talk about something
they're interested in.
And show the same confidence
Enrico Brignano has."
I go back on stage.
I look at my audience and think,
"From now on,
you are the Enrico Brignano
of shepherding."
When I was a kid,
my grandpa had this huge book,
so huge that you couldn't use it
as a door holder,
you had to use it as a gate holder.
One day I went to him and asked,
"Why do they call sheep 'ovine'?"
He goes, "Because they make wine."
So I say, "Grandpa, tell me,
do they make milk too?"
He says, "Yeah.
Sicilian sheep make almond milk.
African sheep make coconut milk.
Chinese sheep make soy milk."
I ask, "What do we call young sheep?"
He says, "Lambs."
I say, "And when they're old?"
"They're called arrosticini."
I had them in the palm of my hand!
A star was shining in the Garfagnana sky,
and that star was me.
And just when I thought
I had won over the audience,
they screwed me.
"Now cut this shit out.
We've had enough of this shit.
Play Dario Fo in Mistero buffo."
"Hang on!
Dario Fo?"
"Yes, Dario Fo. Play Mistero buffo."
"Okay."
Enrico Brignano of shepherding is out,
I'm Dario Fo of shepherding now.
"The shepherd of Garfagnana
travels back to Garfagnana.
He milks the Garfagnana's sheep.
Milk from Garfagnana's good."
Ladies and gentlemen, I was once again
surfing the wave of success in Garfagnana
when the audience screws me over
one more time.
"Cut that shit out. Enough with Dario Fo.
Do Matthew McConaughey
in True Detective."
"Hang on!
How come you've already seen
True Detective?
It won't be out here
for another three years."
"We already have Netflix here, asshole.
Don't you read...
You don't know how to do it, huh?
You download a Torrent,
change your IP address,
then you can watch it.
Don't you read Salvatore Aranzulla's blog?
You people in Rome
only read repubblica.it?"
Fine! I'm no longer Dario Fo
of shepherding,
now I'm Matthew McConaughey
in True Detective.
I'm the Rust Cohle of shepherding.
Thank you all. Good night.