At the end of Silvio (and the others), in that we have-to-talk that precedes all divorce, Veronica Lario spits at an immutable Silvio Berlusconi who has never done anything in his life, who is a sloppy entrepreneur and a gañán as a politician. And on TV, he says, oh what about TV: you have not invented anything. There, Silvio does make a face touch. How could he have invented nothing if he had invented everything?
I was very curious to know how Sorrentino treated the most popular and exported Berlusconi product, especially in Spain, TV. How he would package all that vulgarity in his aesthetic and hyper-intellectual cinema. The easiest thing would have been to resort to the ellipsis, to let the spectator fill in the gaps with the mammaceuticals and the bellowing of the heart that he knows so well, but the director has to be recognized with great courage: Sorrentino not only recreates a contest of the old Canale Cinque (or the old Telecinco, he does so much), but he does it without sound. We see the contestants in some ridiculous booths, the presenter with his cartoncitos of questions and a velina It points and sways crookedly, but we hear nothing but the noise of an air conditioner. With this simple resource, Sorrentino gives a triple mortal: parody what was already parodied in the factory.
Downloading the volume to TV is a very healthy exercise. Every week, when I go to the radio, there are a lot of screens without sound, each with a chain. In the breaks, I stare at them and marvel at how ridiculous the gestures and labels are. You can guess what they are screaming at each other even though we do not know what they are talking about. All the power and tragedy of the TV, all its influence and Mephistopheleic dominion over society are gone as Berlusconi's manhood vanished when his wife told him he had not invented anything. TV, without sound, are poor mimes who demand attention.