Paolo il caldo

Paolo il caldoⁱ rather tells the exact story of Malena, except from the converse perspective.

Paolo is not working class Renato. He is the grandson of a Sicilian Baron, not the son of some nameless mortodifame ; and his Malena (here named Giovanna) is not free to come and go as she pleases.

Giovanna is a serva, which in context means a slave. Consequently Giovanna is not free to wasteⁱⁱ her life through the unholy union of a nonsensical rush to not waste it and a thoroughly hallucinated conceit of self-ownership.

Yes Malena needs a man, and she needs him now, and the boy is not a man even if he one day will be. Woe unto her. Giovanna meanwhile puts out for the twelve year old and his friend, and the result is a proper man, such as no Renato, no Renato's father, no nato&renato over and over grand and great-father, no socialist twerp will ever be. In the end, that's all that matters.

The decidedly treasonable Vicario & crew attempt then, after having created a luminous icon of perfection, to use it to forward their inept agenda. Supposedly Paolo "isn't happy", Deus Ex Machina dixit. Supposedly he "comes to realise" that only socialism offers the solutions to life on Earth -- as if somehow he fucking needed any solutions ; as if somehow socialism can ever score above pissing yourself to keep warm as far as solutions are concerned.

This artless attempt falls duly flat, exactly in the manner the handiwork of the stupid poor always has and always will. What's left behind is a credible story of nobility recounted from the noble perspective. Incomprehensible for the lower class, due to commoners lacking a soulⁱⁱⁱ, but without them and their unwelcome "understanding" just as whole as it'd have been with.

Because this is the fundamental meaning of commoner : irrelevancy. With, or without, no sign no significance and no fucking difference.

And soon enough, good fucking riddance.

1. 1973, by Marco Vicario, with Giancarlo Giannini, Ornella Muti [↩]
2. The English equivalent of the necessary word here, the Romanian ratare, is piddly indeed. Failure stands with it in approximately the same relation fresh prunes stand with pickled jalapenos. There's just no way to express the utter ruin brought about by the incompetent arrogance of the common man. As Ballas would say, "interestingly, and on purpose". [↩]
3. You think the "we're all equal" scum nevertheless have souls ? Whence ? And, more explosively acute : what for ? You don't need souls to be equals, ye dorks. [↩]