It's commonly known as Marriage Italian Style (1964), but I have to resist to internationalism. Especially these days, when my heart still beats in Italian. Even though my physical entity is surrounded by all these Germanic tribes; they look calm and detached; their mouths slightly open; barbaric sounds fly towards me; menacing sounds, no single gesture, no body language to accompany the exactitude of whatever is being stated. No fanfares needed here; nowhere the written word is closer to the spoken, except for the "oder" in the end of each sentence. Out of respect to the opposition, naturally.
Words keep flying around, dry flakes over blonde, shiny hair and I know, this is the place to be, I know. Why does my body resist to the touch of below zero temperatures, though; only now it seems to suffer from the absence of the scent of modern latin verbalism; the stature of those credulous fools that worship voyages and adventure and beautiful women; only now I miss the pose; big doses of self-centerism -too much confidence never killed anyone; little men that know a lot, but ignore the most important, that they know nothing, big men in their little world; be what you do and be it well; O thou omnivore Don Giovanni wearing your wi(l)dest smile, dressed Italian style, loving yourself so much it hurts, I'm looking forward to hearing from you.
* Filumena Marturano by Eduardo de Filippo is the first (adult) play I saw in my adolescence, staged in Greek, featuring Thespian Lydia Koniordou. Partially because of the nerve of the statement "I figli sono figli e sono tutti uguali", partially because of the pathos, it stuck. Lately I was lucky enough to read it in its original language, -Italian, or should I say Napolitan- brought to me by the sea of Civitavecchia. It was only after that Sophia Loren - Filumena in Vittorio de Sica's screen adaptation reminded me that it is girls themselves who give the right to all the world's Marcello Mastroiannis - Domenicos to live and breathe. The awe they feel in front of those beautiful fools feeds them; they are, indeed, mesmerizing under the light of their omnipotent allure; we love them, like we all love the Emperor's New Clothes; Father give us this day our daily bread.
Words keep flying around, dry flakes over blonde, shiny hair and I know, this is the place to be, I know. Why does my body resist to the touch of below zero temperatures, though; only now it seems to suffer from the absence of the scent of modern latin verbalism; the stature of those credulous fools that worship voyages and adventure and beautiful women; only now I miss the pose; big doses of self-centerism -too much confidence never killed anyone; little men that know a lot, but ignore the most important, that they know nothing, big men in their little world; be what you do and be it well; O thou omnivore Don Giovanni wearing your wi(l)dest smile, dressed Italian style, loving yourself so much it hurts, I'm looking forward to hearing from you.
* Filumena Marturano by Eduardo de Filippo is the first (adult) play I saw in my adolescence, staged in Greek, featuring Thespian Lydia Koniordou. Partially because of the nerve of the statement "I figli sono figli e sono tutti uguali", partially because of the pathos, it stuck. Lately I was lucky enough to read it in its original language, -Italian, or should I say Napolitan- brought to me by the sea of Civitavecchia. It was only after that Sophia Loren - Filumena in Vittorio de Sica's screen adaptation reminded me that it is girls themselves who give the right to all the world's Marcello Mastroiannis - Domenicos to live and breathe. The awe they feel in front of those beautiful fools feeds them; they are, indeed, mesmerizing under the light of their omnipotent allure; we love them, like we all love the Emperor's New Clothes; Father give us this day our daily bread.
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