All the stars at the Plaza Hotel of Rome

Admittedly, it is not as famous as its very different twin, the more famous – indeed, iconic – Plaza in New York, the one where Truman Capote’s famous black-and-white ball was held 60 years ago, the one that was owned by Trump for a few years, and where he plays himself in a brief cameo in "Mamma ho riperso l’aereo… Mi sono smarrito a New York".

But the Plaza in Rome is now rather tempting to a close associate of Trump’s, the legendary Paolo Zampolli of the Dolceforno family, his ‘special representative for global partnerships’, who is negotiating with ‘Giuseppi’ to take it over. The story – involving property, people, and perhaps even a touch of politics – is a gripping one and perhaps warrants a summary. It is well known that the Plaza in Rome, the grand hotel on Via del Corso, belongs to the Paladino family, namely the family of the partner of former Prime Minister Giuseppe Conte, with whom Zampolli enjoys a friendly rapport. It is also known that the hotel – a five-star establishment, just like its son-in-law – is not in the best of shape: the company is in debt; Paladino, the father-in-law, got into trouble for failing to pay tourist tax (an offence subsequently decriminalised under the Conte II government – ‘graduidamende’). The hotel is now up for sale. The Paladinos are asking for 325 million euros, and Zampolli, acting as an intermediary for a mysterious client of his, is only offering 299 – “because at least 100 is needed to renovate it”, he said, speaking with the expertise of a property developer (perhaps a nice superbonus will come along!).

Compared to the original Plaza, the Roman Plaza has always had a somewhat secondary reputation; in fact, it’s to the American one as lumpfish roe is to caviar, or Kimbo coffee is to Illy (the former being what we all put into the latter’s metal container); Mind you, we’re not talking about trashy imitations, like the ‘Cala di Volpe’ hotel recently spotted in a Calabrian suburb, which clearly gives a nod to the original on the Costa Smeralda. The Italian Plaza is rather like Rome’s Harry’s Bar, which bears no resemblance to its Venetian counterpart; yet it has never risen to the legendary status or allure of the grand hotels on Via Veneto, nor does it possess the decadent charm of those linked not to their function but to the national events that took place there: the nearby Raphaël, with its ‘little coins’ scandal involving Craxi, or the distant Ergife, with its grand socialist congresses…

And yet even the ‘Succedaneo’ has a glorious, indeed most glorious, history, just like all these outposts of humanity that are hotels, whether luxury or otherwise. A few years ago, I managed to speak to the long-serving concierge, Mr Luigi Esposito, who had worked there, at the ‘Succedaneo’, since 1943 – for a lifetime. He told me he’d served none other than Pietro Mascagni, the composer of "Cavalleria rusticana". He lived permanently in room 114, on the first floor. “His hair was very white, and his wife used to apply powder to her scalp, perhaps as a result of an operation that had left her disabled.” The maestro used to conduct in a black shirt – a far cry from Beatrice Venezi. So, upon his death in 1945, after the fall of Fascism, and in a country that had suddenly become entirely anti-Fascist, a sober – indeed, extremely sober – ceremony was held in the church of San Carlo opposite. The Prime Minister, Ferruccio Parri, denied him a state funeral. Beniamino Gigli, another musical star who also lived at the Plaza, moved by compassion, promptly organised a performance of "Cavalleria" in no time at all, rounding up young musicians. In short, here too, we are not talking about the splendour of Verdi’s funeral at the Hôtel et de Milan – with 300,000 people in attendance, ‘Va’ Pensiero’ conducted by Toscanini, and, beforehand, straw laid on the Milanese cobblestones to muffle the traffic noise for the dying maestro. No grand funeral for Mascagni. Just ‘He dwelt, lived and worked, and passed into immortality’, reads a plaque on the façade, featuring his large head.

However, a very different sort of funeral was held for another of the hotel’s distinguished guests. John Pierpont Morgan, better known as J. P., the most famous banker of all time, who had died here on 31 March 1913 (after all, the Plaza’s genius loci has its roots in banking: the building was originally constructed in 1837 as the residence of a certain Count Antonio Lozano, but soon became a bank branch. It was not until 1860 that it was transformed into the Grande Albergo Roma, before becoming the Plaza for good).

But back to Morgan: he often visited the Italian capital to treat bouts of depression (he was quite neurotic, as I think is also evident in the series “The Gilded Age” about the nouveau riche in late nineteenth-century America), and on this occasion he was also suffering from stomach ache. He arrived in the spring of ’13, having cut short a trip to Egypt where who knows what he’d eaten. As usual, he took the royal suite, at $500 a day, and as was customary, the lobby was soon thronged with antique dealers and touts (Morgan, like all the wealthy Americans of the time, was a maniacal collector of European artefacts: it is estimated that in twenty years he had bought 20,000 antiquities, as well as having established the famous library in New York that still bears his name today). This billionaire, a sort of Elon Musk of his day – if Musk were interested in collecting anything at all – was also, like Musk, blessed with a fortunate disposition to look after him: he had, in fact, survived the sinking of the Titanic (which he owned) a year earlier, having decided at the last minute not to board, thus giving rise to one of the first juicy conspiracy theories – much like the Jews who didn’t go to the office on 11 September.

But he will meet his end in the Italian capital all the same, as will happen to other illustrious travellers, perhaps after a hearty meal, such as James Gandolfini – alias Tony Soprano – who perished in Rome a hundred years later in the summer of 2013, or as in Peter Greenaway’s film "The Belly of an Architect" (1987), featuring yet another American with intestinal problems in Rome.

At the Plaza, J. P. Morgan is attended to by Professor Giuseppe Bastianelli, a distinguished local gastroenterologist, and Dr Allen Starr, a New York-based neurologist. When his condition worsened, the doctors planned to organise a private train to take him to Paris or London, but the Freccia service did not yet exist; delays were perhaps even worse than they are today under Salvini, and in any case the patient was unfit for transport. He thus died on 31 March: following this illustrious death, 4,000 letters of condolence arrived at the Plaza; the New York Stock Exchange closed for two hours in mourning. A military guard of honour was posted in front of Via del Corso; then the body was finally transported by train to Paris, and on to Le Havre, from where it was embarked onto the transatlantic liner France, also part of the family’s fleet. In New York, in front of the newly built Morgan Library, five thousand scarlet roses were laid. Le Figaro declared: “No American has ever received such signs of respect from Europe; no one would have deserved such a tribute.”

Today, there is no trace left in the hotel of this whole affair, in the enormous, musty, gloomy hall with its ornate lunettes, which was designed by the star architect Armando Brasini, the inventor of the 1930s ‘barocchetto’ style; once again, a mere substitute: the man who wanted to be the Duce’s favourite, yet the Duce always preferred Piacentini instead. Designer of the Flaminio Bridge, the zoo entrance (and immediately ‘Marisol’ springs to mind), and the church in Piazza Euclide, truncated in the Parioli district. Then came the decorator to the wealthy classes, Lorenzo Mongiardino – or ‘Renzo’, as everyone called him. The result is the grand hall, always with that ‘family chapel’ feel characteristic of his work, along with heavy brocades, polished wood and creaking parquet flooring, station clocks, chandeliers, and a pure white marble lion welcoming visitors at the foot of the grand staircase – a work attributed to none other than Canova. There is no shortage of the counterpoint provided by the layers of restoration work accumulated over the years, the vintage trinkets, and the occasional Teuco shower with its limescale deposits in the rooms. Reviews are poor, averaging 3.3 out of five stars on TripAdvisor, with comments that are at times indignant, complaining about the dilapidated state of the facilities. There is an air of decadence, reminiscent of those once-glorious hotels at the end of their days, such as the Miramonti in Cortina.

In short, Zampolli would never go there to sleep, that much is clear: instead, he always ‘heads down’ to the glittering Bulgari nearby, in Piazza Augusto Imperatore, all marble and bustling amongst the underwear and limoncello shops of the restricted traffic zone (but the ‘underwearisation’ of the city – of cities – is inexorable: the restaurant on the Plaza’s ‘roof’ overlooks the dome of the Unione Militare, transformed into a futuristic, prestigious H&M building. Meanwhile, in the nearby Palazzo Verospi, formerly the headquarters of the Hunting Club, there is now a luxurious Zara Man store).

Mutatis mutandis (and mutande), clinging desperately to this five-star status (how hotel stars are awarded is an Italian mystery even greater than Ustica, or whether to say ‘arancini’ or ‘arancine’), and in its somewhat mysterious nature – particularly to Romans – the Roman Plaza was for years also a strategic secret outpost for many discerning travellers or those simply mindful of their money. Particularly Milanese guests, who could make a great impression on the occasional acquaintance at little cost; there was, in fact, a special rate of less than 100 euros for a twin room for single use. I believe that rate has now vanished, amid the massive surge in hotel prices and the resulting upheaval in market segments that took place in Italy following the Covid pandemic, which saw hotels closed for more than two years, only to reopen to a new clientele now consisting entirely of Chinese, Arabs and Americans.

But first, the Plaza Romano also attracted a specific category of travellers – literary agents – who benefited from the discount. Just like at the Locarno, another epicentre of Rome’s intellectual hotel scene, with a touch of the literary world (Alain Elkann set a novel there; literary get-togethers are even held on the terrace on the evening of the Strega Prize): but prices have risen so much that almost no locals can afford to stay there any more. On the other hand – typical Italian ingenuity – in the immediate vicinity of these outposts, Locarno foremost among them, B&Bs have sprung up that allow their guests, literary or otherwise, to sneak over there in the morning for breakfast and pretend they’ve spent the night there in grand style, with any unsuspecting guests (before sneaking back to the B&B).

In other eras, in some respects more glorious, people did indeed sneak about, of course, but with entirely different problems and budgets: other memories of the Plaza Hotel are linked to Gianni De Michelis, who lived, worked and loved here (without dying there, unlike Mascagni). The Italian politician who inspired the most imitations and had the most nicknames (“Il Doge”, “Falstaff”, “Big Gianni”, “Ciccio Ballerino”, “L’Onto”) stayed in room 409-10, “two adjoining rooms, one with a sitting area and one single”, as Esposito always put it. Two rooms, twice the socialist chaos, just like Craxi at the neighbouring, more famous – or infamous – Raphaël.

Different scenes, different dances. Whilst New York had the "Black and White Ball", organised by the author of "A sangue fredddo", here we had the disco-loving author of "Dove andiamo a ballare questa sera". Whilst Babe Paley and Marella Agnelli were there, here were De Michelis’s secretary Barbara Ceolin and the secretary Giorgio Casadei (“Who, the ballroom dancer?”, Andreotti once asked), along with various hangers-on and young ladies in their prime. Lory Del Santo was also staying at the Plaza. Meanwhile, Cossiga was a regular, as a patron of the San Carlo theatre and its masses. At one point, he appointed Gigino Esposito a Commander of the Order of the Republic (“And when are you coming to collect this honour?”, he would say on the private line connected to the hotel).

But Esposito had, above all, become De Michelis’s personal valet and jack-of-all-trades, like those assistants in British films who may have served as a lord’s aides-de-camp during the war, and then continued to follow their lord even in peacetime. Gigino was seen at congresses, parties and PSI meetings, always at Lord De Michelis’s side. So he sorted out visits, dealt with correspondence, ran errands, arranged barber appointments and fittings at Caraceni. He was so close to and inseparable from his client that at one point he too was arrested, by transitive association, during that ‘joyful’ era of handcuffs, in that ‘Pride’ of the notice of investigation that was Tangentopoli. The charge: having kept ‘De Michelis’s diaries’, predating the ‘red diaries’ of Borsellino & co. ‘Yes, I had them, those diaries, but there was nothing written in them. Just rubbish,’ he told me. But, rubbish or not, he still ended up spending three months under house arrest, and he got off lightly, ‘thanks to a prostate problem’.

But the most tragic and well-known manifestation of the Plaza’s ‘handcuff karma’ occurred on 17 June 1983, when Enzo Tortora was taken from his room at 4 o’clock in the morning. “Room 224, a small single room. Sometimes he’d even take a room without an en-suite bathroom.” Tortora was then taken from the Plaza – in full view of the cameras, and in handcuffs – to the police station on Via in Selci, in the Monti district, accused of being a drug dealer and a member of the Camorra by the three ‘tenors’ of the turncoats: Giovanni Pandico, Pasquale Barra, known as ‘’o animale’, and Gianni Melluso, ‘il bello’. We all know how it ended. It was not until 2024 that a plaque was affixed to the hotel, commemorating the TV presenter’s wrongful arrest. And recently, the Chamber of Deputies approved a “National Enzo Tortora Day in memory of the victims of miscarriages of justice” to be held on 17 June. The Five Star Movement, the PD and the AVS abstained. Meanwhile, if you wanted to find real Camorra members or mafiosi, they were right there in the hotel, on the doorstep. Don Vito Ciancimino “was under house arrest in room 401 on the fourth floor and was forbidden from going down to the lobby, but sometimes he would sneak out via a corridor”. There were also mafia figures from the world of cinema, with Francesco Rosi filming some scenes from "Dimenticare Palermo" there. More recently, however, the Netflix adaptation of "The Leopard" was presented there.

But above all, the history and chronicles of the ‘substitute’ Plaza would be incomplete without book launches. These may be either ‘top-tier’ events or, once again, ‘substitute’ ones – that sub-category of books which do not exist on the real market, but which are nevertheless printed, bought by relatives and friends, and, above all, launched (the real market is that of book launches, certainly not that of reading). And so, at the Plaza, the events surrounding Bruno Vespa’s best-selling books coexisted with other publications and events, particularly award ceremonies. In 2019, the newspapers spoke of a ‘Plaza pact’ intended to secure the appointments of the directors of Rai’s news programmes ahead of the European elections. This pact, whether real or legendary, was reportedly signed during the launch of the book "Sua maestà il Tg1. 10 direttori svelano 30 anni di segreti", written by the journalist Ida Peritore, with a foreword by Vincenzo Mollica. Almost 10 years on, I checked Amazon: not a single review. Zero. Not even one for the author, or the writer of the foreword, or Sigfrido Ranucci under a pseudonym. Who knows whether another Conte – who has nothing to do with Giuseppi – will ever have presented, or intends to present, her books at the Plaza: the legendary Claudia, a shrewd young woman connected to the world of book launches, of those Roman awards unknown to the rest of the peninsula, or even to the rest of the neighbourhood, such as the ‘Margutta La via delle Arti’, which is held right at the Plaza; and rumoured at one time to have been linked to the Minister of the Interior, Piantedosi, and who now has her own programme on Rai (Her Majesty Rai).

Meanwhile, at the original Plaza – the one in New York – the landmark “Plaza Accord” was signed on 22 September 1985, under which the United States agreed to devalue the dollar, which had become too expensive in international trade, particularly for its Asian partners. Here in Italy, we have to make do with the Rai news programme’s “Plaza Accord”. And whilst the “Plaza Accord” is accompanied by photos of the then Treasury Secretary James Baker in a room full of Japanese envoys, the Roman Plaza agreement is marked by a snapshot of Senator Antonio Razzi, surrounded by Asians. Razzi, the one with the thick head of hair, like De Michelis. The one who used to dance, just like De Michelis. But he didn’t actually live at the Plaza; he was just passing through, for the book. Once again, no Black & White Ball. And the Asians around him looked more like tourists – specifically, the sort who attend conferences. At the Roman Plaza, the makeshift Plaza – oh well.