The roman holidays of Wanna Marchi

Once upon a time, this place was all about Strega. The controversy surrounding the ‘International Culture Prize’ – hereafter referred to as PIC – awarded to Wanna Marchi and her daughter Stefania Nobile at the Campidoglio in Rome has yet to subside. Outrage, questions, upheaval. Former mayor Virginia Raggi, now a councillor for the Five Star Movement, described the situation as ‘surreal’. Fratelli d’Italia Senator Susanna Donatella Campione expressed “astonishment and indignation”. The council has announced “a review of the vetting procedures” for requests to use the halls, in order to safeguard their “institutional and symbolic value”. Marchi and Nobile defend themselves: “Culture isn’t just Michelangelo and Pirandello,” says the daughter.

Meanwhile, Dario Nanni, chair of the Jubilee committee and a Rome City Council member for the mixed group – who was present at the ceremony and had requested the use of the hall – has found himself in hot water, now claiming he did not know the names of the award winners. “Put us face to face if you want the scoop! You’re a truly awful person, Nanni,” shouts Stefania Nobile in her Stories. Of course, the idea that someone in charge of the Jubilee would find the time to attend the award ceremony for Wanna Marchi – to arrange a venue for her or simply be present, without making a run for it – paints a fairly accurate picture of the city. In any case, the ceremony took place in the Sala della Protomoteca, so named because it houses a collection of marble busts – the ‘protomi’ – and is also infamous for its funeral parlours and famous farewells, from Moravia to Carrà to Bonino on 15 September.

Stefania was present to receive an award for her book "Vendere... ‘Vendere... cara la pelle’ – a striking black cover featuring her, the author, with frizzy hair and a tan that made Valentino Garavani look like an albino by comparison; the publication, the award, the book, the venue: all organised by the publisher himself, Alessandro Gian Maria Ferri (Alessandro Gian Maria!), not to be confused with the Ferri family of the prestigious publishing house e/o or with Elena Ferrante.

All this right here at the Campidoglio, where, in addition to funerals and city council meetings, this year also saw the Strega Prize take place – in the capital of the most incredible and bogus awards that exist. Rome, in fact, as well as being home to the Vatican, the Order of Malta and a thousand UN organisations, is also the seat of an anonymous international awards circuit; it is a no-man’s-land where obscure associations bestow awards upon one another, invite guests to institutional and semi-institutional buildings, buy advertising space in daily newspapers, and finally bestow these trophies upon figures who are often completely unknown to the general public. At these special ceremonies—which are substitutes for genuine awards but are held with even greater pomp—there is always an undersecretary or a monsignor present, perhaps even prominent figures; there are buffets with fried food; the word ‘woman’ almost always features in the title; and there is sometimes a Milanese who is unaware of the goings-on and ends up getting caught up in it. Sometimes he enjoys it; sometimes he is shocked by it.

These events—the dregs of that world which the late Umberto Pizzi so skilfully immortalised—know no rest. They are a machine that nothing can stop. Here is the ‘Tracce e Visioni’ award, presented, once again at the Campidoglio, and the following day, on 24 September, the award to the legendary Claudia Conte. Reason for the award: “for having transformed words, culture and communication into concrete actions, leaving a legacy of civic engagement and building visions founded on the rule of law, solidarity, women’s dignity and the future of the younger generations”. Sponsored by the chair of the Italia Viva group on the Rome City Council; there is always a Roman city councillor who lends a hand – perhaps they are simply drawn into it. Perhaps he has too much free time; perhaps we should establish an award for Rome’s city councillors. But last year, Conte herself had won the “Donna d’Autore” (sic), whilst in 2024 she was the one presenting the awards at the tenth edition of the “Women in Cinema Award” – of which she is the creator and organiser – at the Rome Film Festival.  

However, who are we to judge—and, by extension, to refrain from conferring awards? It is likely that I, too, know someone who has received, awarded, or presented a spurious prize; I may even have accepted one myself without realising it. In fact, everyone in Rome is just one degree of separation away from a bogus award, and ‘Claudiacontism’ – that is to say, (among other things) the practice of awarding prizes serially and reciprocally – should not be dismissed: it boosts GDP, creates jobs – with all the venues and catering businesses in the capital having to keep busy – and then, of course, there’s the publicity; it’s also an antidote to overtourism. The ‘tarocco’ award is another uniquely Roman phenomenon; perhaps it isn’t the norm in Milan, and perhaps there aren’t so many of these ‘tarocco’ awards up north, but one need only look at certain happenings, certain symposia, certain events – such as the programme at the Pinacoteca di Brera, with its yoga sessions and the unlikely exhibitions featuring attractive young women and budding artists…

However, the arrival of Wanna Marchi and her daughter in the capital, amid the “Claudiacontismo” and the Roman reward system, has created a remarkable short circuit. It is even more striking than the arrival of Flaiano’s “Marziano,” Carrère in Parioli, or the Saint from “The Great Beauty.” Here, in fact, comes the great forger who has found someone who forges even more than she does. They were already faking it here whilst she was still up in the trees in Bologna. Meanwhile, they – the faked-out fakers, ever so active on social media – have extolled the significance of the PIC: we’re thrilled, we’re honoured, etc., etc., to receive the PIC. ‘Thank you, life, you always manage to surprise me,’ writes Wanna. 

But then, immediately and ruthlessly, comes the ‘trash’ – as defined by Tommaso Labranca, that is, the failed imitation of a highbrow model – and so the daughter says on Instagram: “We arrived accompanied by the police because we couldn’t find the Promototeca room.” Then: off she goes with a barrage of “Good morning, haters”, directed at those who criticised their Roman escapade. The pair are already promising to cause a stir. “I’ve got an appointment with my solicitor on Monday,” assures Stefania, who refuses to accept the accusations of those outraged that the prestigious Pic prize went to—who? Two women with criminal records? But the prize didn’t exclude those with criminal records – and here we return to another great Italian classic: the prize surrounded by controversy, generally at more ‘highbrow’ events, the Strega Prize, always held in Rome, with its #MeToo controversy and the ‘Bisceglie minibus’, and then the book fairs with the ever-present and ever-changing ‘Unpresentable Fascist Publisher’ (EFI), whom no one has ever heard of except during the annual controversy, and who finally manages to sell a few copies (unlike the others).

But here the controversy is fresh, and we have ‘the Marchi’ family, and finally a bit of liveliness: the prize itself is another story, in every sense. Here’s Wanna, not sipping from the large bottle as if it were Strega liqueur, but showing off on Instagram the wooden shield, which measures 70 by 40 centimetres, apparently heavy, carved, a massive police badge, the sort you find hanging in police stations and town clerk’s offices, but with a coquette engraved inside, her eyes wide and wings spread wide – who knows who the craftsmen might be (a prize for the craftsmen straight away).

“You’re part of culture too,” says Stefania to David Parenzo on La Zanzara, all spiced up with the superstitions and magical realism we’ve come to expect, ever since the days of the magician do Nascimento, with that jinxed baroque blend of the Via Emilia and Brazilian macumba. When Jimmy Ghione criticises her—and notes that he is competing on “Ballando”—Stefania retorts, “You’ll break a leg in the first few episodes!”; soon afterward she appears with a swollen face and a black eye, explaining, “I put on a filter so as not to scare you.” She had fallen herself. In the days following the award ceremony, before the controversy began, Wanna posted stories from Rome—though from rather incongruous locations—twilight stories from around Termini Station and Piazza dei Cinquecento… they were complaining about something… they hadn’t eaten properly… perhaps the dirt… they looked abandoned, they were rather endearing, lost and sad, amidst the tourists and seagulls.

Meanwhile, their adventure continues – not a Roman one, but a human one – in this umpteenth event, or ‘manifesting’ as they say these days, by Marchi & daughter. I must confess, I’ve always been a fan. I’ve been following her since the glorious era of teleshopping, since that joyful festival of private TV channels that was the 1980s. Back then, every city had its own ramshackle independent TV station, complete with celebrity endorsers, slogans and catchphrases, tailored to the local context and circumstances: in Rome, the legendary starchitect Bruno Zevi, in his villa-studio on the Nomentana, hosted TeleRoma56 with a touch of mischief; in Pavia, there was a furrier’s, Annabella, with Alain Delon as its spokesperson; on Lake Garda there was ‘la Boutique dell’Arte’ and then all the ‘protagonists of the twentieth century’, who, as we shall discover, brightened up Berlusconi’s sleepless nights and fuelled his collections.

Take Giorgio Aiazzone, for instance – the furniture dealer from Biella who had effectively invented Ikea in Italy before Ikea itself existed, by hiring a salesman from a spa town, Guido Angeli, and, thanks to a catchphrase – ‘Provare per credere’ – attracted coachloads of shoppers ‘isole comprese’. When Aiazzone died, crashing in his plane 40 years ago in 1986, Wanna Marchi and her daughter held a televised wake – an unprecedented event – on Rete A, taking turns with Guido Angeli: they addressed the deceased directly, asking him for the strength to carry on. Throughout the broadcast, the camera remained fixed on the deceased’s desk, a beam of light shining upwards.

After all, Marchi and Nobile were the undisputed stars and absolute high priestesses of that era, with their ‘war on lard’, the belly-flattening diet, the insults we’d now call fatphobic – ‘hey you, fatso!’ – and then the battle cry “d’accordooo” in a daily vaudeville show that I used to watch in secret on televisions that were still rounded, not like the Dolby Surround home cinema systems we all have in our homes today.

Meanwhile, Wanna has weathered the ages: resounding commercial success, followed by a criminal downfall, the Netflix documentary – these days, a Netflix documentary is a given for anyone – and finally an Instagram-based ‘third act’, where she and her daughter have embraced this new ‘format’ – no less ‘entertaining’ than the original – better than any artist. Today they are back in that new social-media landscape of individuals who invent a job, a profession, or an area of expertise on makeshift, private screens—a pocket-sized Wild West. Among personal trainers, home renovators, finance experts and estate agents – all of whom have become entertainers – the estate agents are among the most notable, from the most famous in Milan to the least well-known, following the one from Palermo who jumps off a ‘Lapa’; I am now following the Indian ones in the Latina and Agro Pontino areas, but there are also second-generation Chinese in Rome. And then, well, everyone, with a brilliant idea in their head, armed with their mobile phone, just like the old teleshoppers of the early 1980s.

Amidst this new Wild West, they’re still there. Wanna, aged 84, I believe, does paid home cooking; Stefania works in social services for the Civil Protection Agency. Stefania has just come through yet another round of court proceedings, this time over the ‘Gintoneria’ affair, alongside Davide Lacerenza, her ex-partner, who got into trouble over drugs and prostitution, but was once the king of the ‘Gintoneria’ – a tacky little bar near Milan’s Central Station where various types of gin were sampled (gin is the new whisky of ‘Michele the connoisseur’: another 1980s phenomenon that nobody under 50 gets), and, according to the charges, other substances were also consumed there. Lacerenza and Stefania Nobile were placed under house arrest and subsequently reached a plea bargain.

These days, she is recounting his story on Instagram. “We’re on the eleventh instalment”, “here we’re getting right into the most painful part of the story”, “the war on cocaine”, “a part of our life was destroyed that night”, she states, using a filter – I don’t know what it’s called – where you have an image in the background that flickers and warps, in this case of Lacerenza, and her in the foreground, all in poor quality, unappealing, and therefore appropriate. We’re back in the 1980s.

But back then you needed a studio, or at least a garage; here you can do it from anywhere, and Stefania Nobile and Wanna Marchi’s live broadcasts take place in a car, from Milan; the vehicle functions both as a set and as a prop: a few years ago it was a Lamborghini – a symbol of ostentatious desire stretching from Dubai to Cinisello Balsamo, right up to the sweet ‘Baby Maranza’ music videos (“I won’t fall in love/but I’m starting to like him/I want a Lambo, I’ll get one”). Now, however, the make of car is unclear, though it appears to be a small runabout – perhaps a Twingo. They pull over, park, and proceed with their work: they narrate their stories and address the camera before moving on. I am now deeply engaged by Davide Lacerenza’s soap opera—motivational podcasts pale in comparison. Forget Turkish series or Korean micro-dramas. Stefania, amid a barrage of expletives and curses, double-parks and launches into her tale, like "Le Mille e una notte", the very essence of storytelling: her hazard lights like a crackling fire. Once upon a time, there was Lacerenza. 

Meanwhile, Lacerenza works at a venue called Renaissance, a restaurant; I see it in the stories of another notable figure from these private TV-Instagram circles, Andrea Liconti: a man who buys and sells second-hand goods, specifically handbags. When it comes to handbags as objects of consumption and speculation, entire essays would be required on the subject; we would need to bring Umberto Eco back to life: from those hidden in Ilary Blasi’s false ceilings to the fake ones given to Francesca Pascale, a world in which the handbag has replaced gold bars as a safe-haven asset. In this new scenario, Liconti gives customers who bring him counterfeit handbags a hard time, and the customers get angry; there’s the lady from Milan’s high society, there is the maid who claims to have received hers as a gift from her employer, and a whole world of human comedy unfolds, complete with negotiations and witty remarks; in the meantime, more reality passes in a single minute than in an entire programme schedule of any traditional TV channel.

These ‘new internet monsters’ (monsters in the best sense of the word, à la Dino Risi) know one another and collaborate; for example, Liconti goes for a meal at Lacerenza’s new Renaissance and makes a video review of it (the oyster scene is priceless, with Lacerenza explaining the difference between ‘good water’ and ‘bad water’ in an oyster, the positive comment is always ‘spectacular!’); all of this is a parody of other programmes, such as ‘4 Ristoranti’ and ‘MasterChef’ (‘how much did we pay?’), but with a freshness and freedom that traditional television today simply cannot even begin to match.

It is also worth noting when Liconti visits flea markets with another character, Mattia Berveglieri—famous for his fashion reviews—as they wander around famous shops, to the rhythm of “this is rubbish”, “this is 100 per cent acrylic, it’s rubbish”, even when it comes to products from famous brands – in short, the polar opposite of all those journalistic puff pieces on fashion and the ever-so-called “visionary” and “iconoclastic” designer. Another segment features a Roman tailor who boasts about three generations of his family’s tailoring tradition: he demonstrates how to tie the ‘pàpion’, that is, the bow tie. To those in the comments—ah, the comments!—who point out his absurd pronunciation of something he ought to know well, he replies: “It’s true, we still need to work on our French”, with that modern-day candour, like millennials who tell you, “I don’t know who Napoleon was, but I was born in the ’90s”.

In this fascinating world, the only figures to have completed the entire cycle—the only ones who were present at the medium’s inception and remain so today—are Wanna and Stefania, spanning from the dawn of television to its current decline. Yesterday, Stefania expressed irritation toward an unidentified critic, describing the individual as ‘someone who now appears on TV for the INPS minimum wage’. Meanwhile, the ongoing narrative surrounding Lacerenza reaches its eleventh chapter: “And now we come to the most painful part of the story – I even went so far as to beg someone to take him to Dubai…”. The sequence was shot entirely from a car, without recourse to tax credits or film commission funding. Forget the Venice Film Festival. The screen may have grown smaller, yet their enduring presence remains undiminished—an observation that seems self-evident. Would you agree?