The Fourth Estate in the front row

A journalist always has a front-row seat. Newspapers and journalists are, in fact, increasingly taking centre stage in cinema: on Thursday, ‘Primetime’ was released in cinemas, starring Robert Pattinson as a cynical television producer hunting down paedophiles to boost ratings, presented at the Venice Film Festival alongside ‘Ink’, which explores the origins of Murdoch’s ‘The Sun’ and the modern tabloid, followed by Alex Gibney’s documentary “Musk”, which traces the billionaire entrepreneur and his enormous influence on contemporary politics – and whose adverts have been rejected by YouTube, Meta, TikTok and even X (the famous ‘free speech’ platform). Also in cinemas is the quasi-sequel to “The Social Network”, “The Social: The Price of Truth”, a film that does indeed focus on Mark Zuckerberg, the Facebook boss (played by Jeremy Strong, who previously portrayed Murdoch’s fictional son in “Succession”), but also – and above all – on newspapers. In short, for the umpteenth time we are faced with the great paradox: how is it that newspapers – these radioactive artefacts that no one is interested in anymore, whether in print or digital form – continue to obsess everyone?

“Primetime” originated from a (newspaper) article that recounted the darkest episode of “To Catch a Predator”, an American TV programme from the early 2000s in which Chris Hansen – a former serious journalist turned tabloid TV star – lured burly men, eager to meet 13-year-olds, into Garlasco-style detached houses.

In November 2006, near Dallas, one of the targets failed to turn up for the appointment: he was the 56-year-old deputy district attorney, and when police officers and camera crews arrived outside his home, he shot himself. NBC had to pay the family a huge sum in millions; a federal judge wrote that the network had behaved in a manner that no civilised society should tolerate, and the programme was taken off air. The real Hansen, who continues to hunt down paedophiles to this day, naturally no longer does so on TV, but on a podcast, like everyone else.

“Primetime” is an updated and revised version of Billy Wilder’s “The Seven Year Itch” (in which Kirk Douglas, a failed journalist, prolonged the agony of a man trapped in a cave to keep the story alive; here, Robert Pattinson tries to persuade even the most recalcitrant paedophiles to finally take action so they can make it onto prime-time television) combined with “Citizen Kane”.

After all, America has a whole genre of films about journalists, from "Quinto" but above all "Citizen Kane", then "All the President’s Men", "Good Night, and Good Luck.", and so on. Alongside the cynics, the American film journalist often embodies the print version of the spotless, fearless Western hero, who is not afraid to dismantle ‘the system’ in order to ensure that the truth prevails.

And what about here? It is well known that Italian journalism differs from its English-speaking counterpart, and this has also been the case in fiction. On the big screen, the Italian journalist is typically either a society reporter (Marcello in La Dolce Vita, later reworked and revised in the character of Jep Gambardella, who works as a journalist but is never seen writing—if anything, he interviews contemporary artists who are, in fact, a growing part of our declining profession) or a martyr (Siani in Fortapàsc, Ilaria Alpi in the film dedicated to her). If he carries out an investigation, it is covered up (Il muro di gomma) and, in any case, the American-style investigation is rare here; we have hardly ever filmed it and have rarely carried it out even in reality: there was no budget, there was no time, the sources were at the seaside.

Nor is there a genuine Italian television series set in the world of newspapers, which may not have produced major investigative reports but has nevertheless held its own significance, if only for its aesthetic appeal, such as its larger-than-life characters. Apart from Fallaci, Montanelli, Scalfari, Cederne and Aspesi, it is incredible that they have never been seen in a country that turns Acutis into a saint – even on television; they could be the stars of a fine Mad Men-style series, set against the backdrop of Rome at its most decadent and Milan at its most modernist, at least as much as priests solving crimes in Umbria, or police inspectors in Sicily, or the inhabitants of a colourful Neapolitan palace. Yet, as is well known, urban settings are not popular in Italy, so the only journalist currently featured is the one from Makari, who leaves the sprawling city of Rome to return to his irredeemable Sicily, to the small village of Makari itself (a more human pace of life, the light, the cycle of the seasons, perhaps even low IMU and TARI rates).

However, the only major investigation we carried out was in instalments, on television, with Report. One year after the bomb was placed outside Sigfrido Ranucci’s home on 16 October 2025, and a few months after his removal from the programme—with the attack itself becoming the subject of a judicial investigation—the ‘Ranucceide’ affair embodies elements of all the great epics: it is somewhat reminiscent of the populism of “Ink”, featuring Lavitola, the former editor of *Avanti!*, who admitted to being the instigator of the attack, in place of Murdoch.

It somewhat resembles Citizen Kane, once more featuring Lavitola, who seeks to fabricate a leader through a poll, just as Kane built an opera house to let Susan Alexander sing. It also somewhat resembles Evelyn Waugh’s Scoop – the finest book ever written on journalism – the story of a case of mistaken identity, involving a shy editor of a column on country life, William Boot, who is mistaken for a fashionable writer of the same name and is sent to cover a war in Africa; and Lord Copper’s mega-corporation – the publishing behemoth where Boot is hired – resembles today’s disorganised Rai. Finally, there is The Fifth Estate. In that film, the presenter was sacked by the broadcaster and responded like a prophet; here, Ranucci has drawn parallels between his own story and those of Moro, Piersanti Mattarella, Falcone and Borsellino.

Of course, one wonders why even in this latest batch of American films there is such a heavy focus on newspapers, given their growing irrelevance – though this is, above all, a ‘very Italian’ phenomenon, as Stanis La Rochelle from Boris would say. While in the United States established media outlets such as the New York Times are holding their ground and new digital publications such as The Free Press are emerging, observers here are closely watching the story of Leonardo Maria Del Vecchio – son of the founder of Luxottica, who, among the waters of Fiuggi and other assets of yesteryear, is also acquiring newspapers, and, while he is at it, a slice of the film industry as well – namely 19.45 per cent of the Leone Film Group founded by Sergio Leone, allowing us to relive that thrill of lost splendour, amidst glamour, salaries rumoured to be fabulous and long-forgotten hirings, in a country where the word ‘journalist’ conjures up, more than anything else, terms such as ‘state of crisis’, ‘slide’ and ‘early retirement’.

Leonardo Maria Kane evokes a bygone era of crowded, smoke-filled newsrooms; of the Rizzoli family at Corriere della Sera and Cineriz; of publisher Prince Caracciolo; and of the Berlusconi–De Benedetti rivalry. That era saw people getting excited about going to places where these printed artefacts – newspapers – were handed out for free, from airport VIP lounges to first-class train compartments: today, anyone who found themselves holding one of those strange contraptions would immediately look for a bin to throw it in (though train and aeroplane magazines still survive). Even as a status symbol – ‘Mum, I’ve got engaged to a journalist’ – thirty years ago would have brought a broad smile to Mum’s face, as she’d think of privileges, a comfortable life and seaside homes; today it would cause her grief: ‘Couldn’t you have married a personal trainer like everyone else, or perhaps a neo-melodic trapper or a cat-food influencer?’

Yet there is a mystery. It is not that newspapers and books no longer interest anyone: for, symmetrically, there is a growing, almost fetishistic interest in journalists and writers. There is no place on the inhabited globe – and perhaps even in Papua and Antarctica – that does not have its own journalism and/or writing festival, packed from the early hours of dawn. Yet today we’ve been taught that it’s the ‘experience’ that counts above all else, and so people are happy to invest more in a festival ticket – to see the journalist or writer, or perhaps that legendary figure of the journalist AND writer, the classic ‘panelist’ on a television talk show, in the flesh – than in the final product, perhaps just so they can hate them all the more. The journalist is present.

We would not accept the newspaper even if it were offered to us free of charge, but we most certainly value the journalist—and to a great extent. Or the ‘Giornalaio’, as the idiosyncratic figure Andrea Stroppa—Musk’s right-hand man in Italy—wrote once again yesterday on X, although he moves from festival to festival and talk show to talk show to be interviewed by the aforementioned journalists. Journalism festivals are ubiquitous: the other day, on my way to our own festival in Florence, I departed from Rome where the *Manifesto* festival – or rather, the *Manifestival* – was taking place, spread across Garbatella, and Schlein was speaking; then I arrived in Florence and Schlein was present at our event as well, then I returned to Rome and near the station there was Schlein again (along with Stroppa) at the Fanpage festival right on my doorstep; I had no idea there was a Fanpage festival, and I had no idea it was right on my doorstep. Italy is a pink apostrophe between one journalism festival and the next; before long we’ll need a Tripadvisor, with a guide to the best ones – including the line-up, food and hospitality (is a classic Internazionale festival in Ferrara in October better, or Repubblica delle Idee in Bologna in mid-June? Where’s the best food? Which offers the best experience?).

Another notable phenomenon is the courses on how to become a journalist. These are held not only in the usual cities but, above all, in the most exotic locations. I was offered the chance to run one in the Aeolian Islands – a week-long, all-inclusive course where you stay there and teach ‘journalism’, which sounds rather odd put like that; it’s like Gianfredi, the man who turns up dressed as a ‘Iena’ to interview politicians with absurd questions like their favourite Winx character, and who actually claims to work for ‘Il giornalismo’, in short, to teach a group of diligent private citizens who, presumably after having had all the coolest experiences – such as tree hugging in the Casentino forests, or truffle hunting with a dog in the Langhe – now want to explore ‘journalism’ in the Aeolian Islands.

Journalism has now taken on a vague air of a high-end leisure activity; people ask you, ‘Do you really write every single day?’, as if it were a hobby like yoga or pottery. Indeed, these Aeolian journalism courses take place in the ‘splendid setting’ of the islands, complete with an aperitif at sunset and a seafood dinner. This tourist-oriented shift in journalism is then rounded off by ‘trips with the journalist’ – a gimmick that I believe has been around for a while but has been growing rapidly of late, thanks to that genius Urbano Cairo, the editor of *Corriere*, who manages to monetise absolutely everything.

The Corriere’s trips are advertised with great fanfare and take place in the most sought-after destinations, from the Great Wall to Egypt, from New York to Athens. Each trip is led by a journalist from Corriere, and one cannot help but wonder what motivates these reporters to accompany groups composed largely of housewives and retired generals—as one might stereotype these Corriere tourists (the fees are notably high). Perhaps they are colleagues with some spare time on their hands, perhaps they wish to travel or simply get away from it all—maybe they even form new acquaintances along the way; it is somewhat akin to the physical education teacher who would always accompany the class on school trips, whereas the literature and Latin teachers would not hear of it. Whereas in the past the accompanying journalist was often an expert in the field—for instance, the long-standing Beijing correspondent would lead the group to China—today the advertisement carries an asterisk: "the journalist will only be selected once the bookings have come in", and some claim that the chosen guide has never even set foot in the destination country. The result: you end up going to China with the sports editor, or the correspondent from Crotone. During the Venice Film Festival, it was also possible to attend screenings with a film journalist, and one could picture the reporter standing between one interview and the next, between one screening and the next (perhaps watching Primetime and Ink), while the retired general might ask: ‘Young man! In what year was St Mark’s Square founded?’

That said, these are commendable initiatives, and it is not for us to judge. Newspapers are always seeking new ways to sustain themselves – or, as they say in Milan, new business models. So are we. At one point – it must have been in the spring – Cerasa, the editor-in-chief of Il Foglio, asked me: ‘What are you doing on 13 December?’ I replied: ‘Claudio, what am I supposed to do?’ ‘I don’t know.’ ‘Well, keep that day free.’ The thing is, Il Foglio had launched a special ‘Gold’ subscription, where you could spend an hour with your favourite Foglio writer. In this case, a booking had come in – to spend time with me. Full of pride, I’d marked the appointment on my calendar, and as the months went by, I’d started to wonder who this mysterious reader – male or female – was who wanted to pay to spend an hour with me.

Depending on my mood, I imagined the gloomiest scenarios: a resentful reader – male or female – who’d taken offence at something I’d written and had cocked the old Beretta (perhaps it was actually the retired general, already on a Corriere tour, disillusioned with the profession and radicalised), ready to unload it on the poor reporter? An aspiring journalist who did not want to make it all the way to the Aeolian Islands? And why had he chosen me of all people? And where was this ‘hour of pleasure’ supposed to take place? In the newsroom? At my home? In the car? Was he supposed to pay in advance, perhaps leaving the money on the bedside table? Was I supposed to be particularly polite? Dressed up? Just as my curiosity had reached its peak, two days beforehand, the mysterious reader cancelled the appointment – I don’t know whether he got a refund or not. What a let-down, though: after running my imagination wild, I’d been ghosted by the subscriber.

Another way in which journalists go out the front door only to come back in through the back is the theatre. You won’t see them at the cinema, but they’re almost always on stage. Just as singers can no longer rely on record sales but are dependent on Spotify royalties, so too are we forced to tread the boards like ageing divas past their prime. There isn’t a theatre, small theatre, permanent or temporary venue in Italy that doesn’t have its own show conceived, directed and hosted by the journalist on duty; once again, we’re all in it – those not on stage will be there soon enough. There’s "Diario di un trapezista" by Ranucci, running until next year; then there’s Saviano, who’ll be touring with "Quel che resta di me" between January and June 2027 – seventeen dates plus one in London. There’s Augias with "Il mio Novecento", which combines narration with a soprano and a pianist. Stefano Nazzi of Il Post presents Indagini Live 2026 – Un’altra storia, and has even performed at London’s Shepherd’s Bush Empire, a rock concert venue. The journalist took to the stage to thunderous applause to the tune of the podcast’s theme tune, just like a star. Then there’s Giuseppe Cruciani, who presented Via Crux: ci siamo rotti il caxxo, produced by Paolo Ruffini (journalists produced by comedians).