Would you entrust Italy to someone who preaches globalization by traveling on the state roads at 50 kilometers per hour, constantly looking for a column to recharge his electric van in full energy shock? More than an election campaign, Enrico Letta’s resembles a parody of himself or a television commercial for the unhappy degrowth aimed at elderly tenants.
The bleak news reached us through Repubblica, in an embarrassed low-cut interior and without a signature which in jargon would be defined as “editorial” but in the lexicon of reality it is called a sense of modesty. We have therefore learned that a mini bus approved for 20 people has become a four-wheeled bicycle on which every day the secretary of the Democratic Party climbs gently between hills and slopes, disdaining the phosphorescent highway speed, in the clumsy attempt to appear smart. incomprehensibly obsolete. And, we add, perpetually late on the roadmap in view of the rallies; since these blessed columns do not exist in Italy except in homeopathic and metropolitan quantities.
But he decided this way: on 25 September, with the polls closed, he certainly cannot blame himself for having vilified the ecosystem, and it is almost touching to imagine him deciding to sacrifice his leadership in the Democratic Party for the good of our children. As if to tell us, in short, that winning the climatically correct trophy with a green outing is well worth the reverse of politics.
Encouraged by the nostalgic thrill escaped from the anonymous columnist of Repubblica, the common chronological memory immediately runs to the mid-nineties and to 2006, when Romano Prodi traveled the homeland highways over the imposing olive bus to conquer Palazzo Chigi, puffing gas everywhere. from hydrocarbons to the rhythm of Ivano Fossati’s folk song. Smiling and predatory, rounded but solid as befits: the perfect phenotype of the industrious Emilian, confident in power and the good life. In one word: rock. And that is the exact opposite of our angular and greenish Letta who does not hurry slowly but slowly struggles, trudges through the dead end labyrinth of an electoral appointment born under a bad star.
Prodi, too, was then engaged in an extreme polarization of the political message propagated in the open: either me or Silvio Berlusconi, not yet Caimano but already experimented in 1994-1995 and 2001-2006 as a destabilizing factor for the public quiet of the left. It was the bipolarity that wandered, in the first round, then declaimed its dominant rise on the public scene, with the Andreattian of Bologna as a foreign pope and federator of hardly compatible worlds (and we have seen this from the short duration of his governments) but at least capable of landing the center-right. Read no, even though he too is a Reactian and no less loved by European technoburocracies, he finds himself symbolizing a fragmented and multipolar non-coalition, with a Democratic Party badly divorced from the Five Stars, very badly unbalanced on the left and worse still vampirized in the center by the third pole of Carlo Calenda and Matteo Renzi. Moreover forced (but also badly recommended!) To invent autarchic and Orwellian slogans stuck on reddish-brown backdrops: “Choose!”.
If only, on the eve of the race, instead of Joe Condor’s old youth the grandson of art had practiced the timeless rigor of the so-called “phase analysis” from an ancient communist school, an accurate examination of the real forces in the field and of the conditions environmentalists rather than environmentalists, he would have found the need to whiz around Italy in an armored convoy with loud sirens, wearing a helmet and bulletproof vest. Other than tiger eyes on the erratic bus on a trip outside the city, sad postmodern stunt double of the glorious three-wheeled Ape with village flag-wavers on the back, what at least would have tinged the Latian company with vintage topicality. But nothing, it went like this.