Paolo Bonolis, the last analogue man. A chat

‘Many years later, as he faced the firing squad, Colonel Aureliano Buendía would recall that distant afternoon when his father had taken him to see ice for the first time.’ It is a quote from Márquez’s “One Hundred Years of Solitude” that I read on the wall as soon as I entered his study, and which he recites from memory in perfect Spanish at a tongue-twisting pace. His ‘ice’? The many journeys that have taken him around the world, of which this ‘homo analogicus’ keeps photos hanging on the walls – photos he never takes with his phone. “I’ve got all my photos right here” (as he taps his head); in fact, he doesn’t have a smartphone but an old Nokia, and he prefers to commit his memories to memory.

Paolo Bonolis is Rome in its purest form, and a touch of Milan too: for his immense devotion to Inter, evidenced by the ring he wears – alongside many bracelets – which he shows me proudly, with a touch of childlike glee: “It’s from the 2010 treble, a gift from Zanetti” – a sort of papal seal; and because of his father, who was born in Milan before becoming a true Roman and even a bit of a ‘burino’ – in the true sense of the word, meaning ‘butter seller’ – and who spoke perfect Roman dialect whilst also speaking a Milanese accent à la Dario Fo, which he would sometimes show off during phone calls.

The family originated in papal Rome: “My dad and mum, who’s from Salerno, met under Bernini’s colonnade whilst taking shelter during the Second World War bombings.” “The greatest blessing of my life. I had a good upbringing; we had a lot of fun, we teased each other through the difficulties we often faced, often laughing them off, and that’s stayed with me.” As Romans often do, he says, in any ‘ordinary’ – an adjective quite in the BonOLIAN vein – situation, ‘they try to make the best of it, and when they can’t, they put into practice the “who cares” attitude needed to avoid falling into despair’. There wasn’t exactly plenty at home, “but we weren’t badly off”. His dad loaded butter at the wholesale markets and distributed it; his mum was a secretary at a construction firm. “It’s not as if you have to be rolling in money to be happy; if you’re cheerful on the inside, then what you have is more than enough for your joy,” and the family found theirs by travelling whenever they could. His parents pinned their hopes on him and enrolled him at Villa Flaminia. “A school for very wealthy families, lovely people—some the children of captains of industry, others, like me, from more modest backgrounds—but I never sensed any arrogance born of the presumption of having more.” So, at that school for the children of priests and the wealthy during the ‘Years of Lead’, the young Paolo spent thirteen years there, discovering that some of his classmates had a chauffeur (which is, in fact, the only ‘star-like’ indulgence he allows himself today) and also the book that changed his outlook: "The Birth of a Counterculture" by Theodore Roszak. Those were years of protest and activism, and yet he never took to the streets – why was that? “Because that book made me realise how much life could be understood through consciousness rather than through struggle. I was closer to ‘Peace and Love’ and ‘Let the Sunshine In’ than to the struggle between fascists and communists – ideologies that have since turned into businesses generating political revenue.” Bonolis is disillusioned; he has little faith in institutions, a great deal of respect and a touch of suspicion: “Ours is a small country that cannot exert the influence it would like to; it lacks sufficient strength in a greedy global market. It’s a piece in someone else’s jigsaw puzzle. We’ve always been muddling through, sometimes allying ourselves with one side, sometimes with the other.” Now that counterculture is a thing of the past, what should we take to the streets for? “To allow the younger generations to grow up without being drained by technology – that stuff that fills them with illusions and non-existent needs,” says the ‘homo analogiucs’. “Some countries are doing this, such as France, which has banned social media for under-15s. I’d ban mobile phones altogether.” Precisely, let’s talk about the artist’s role in public debate. “One must speak out if one has something one firmly believes in; otherwise, one would do well to remain silent – which is, in some cases, an act of profound intelligence – and steer clear of the agonising and endless debate about everything.” Like that time when a journalist from Avvenire asked him what he thought about the fact that, during Gay Pride, people were wandering around Rome inappropriately dressed during the Holy Year, and he replied: ‘It’s not as if a Cardinal dresses normally!’ So he doesn’t care for sacred vestments, then? ‘They’re the ones who say they’re sacred; they’re just clothes, and they wear them… It’s all just one huge performance.’ It would seem that the Roman Catholic school system didn’t bring him any closer to Catholicism: “I’m agnostic; I don’t know, I don’t see the point.” He doesn’t pray, but he greets the people he’s met in life and chats with them a bit.” And on the subject of adoption by gay couples, he says he’s in favour: “Why are two parents – whether men or women – a no, but seven nuns a yes?” Let’s move on to some of his programmes considered trashy: “Are they trashy because there are scantily clad dancers? They’ve been around since the days of Macario and variety shows. Or is it because of the irony of housewives putting on a fashion show?” As he speaks, I think of the voluptuous women, the ‘Mothers Nature’ types, the ‘bonas’ – all creatures who have become part of the television iconography of a certain style: his own. “Ciao Darwin, it’s the desire to capture, with a touch of irony, the contradiction that arises between us.” His feeling is that this clash is the result of power manoeuvres, and he quotes Mark Twain, who said that we are like black and red ants in a jar: they coexist peacefully until someone shakes the jar, and then they start killing each other. “To paraphrase in terms of civil society, we must ask ourselves: who shook the jar? If you don’t create a contrast, you can’t justify power. It’s always been a scheme.” But then, what is ‘trash’? “For me, it’s the incredible series of arrogant arguments about the Garlasco murder and similar cases. And then the hypocrisy in the media, in politics, in culture, and perhaps even a little in what I do myself.” But what are the famous “ideas” on consumerist TV for? Where do they end up? “The very idea is commercial; we’re all on a shelf, all for sale. Perhaps the TV of the future, increasingly fragmented, will try to show what’s out there for those who are afraid to go out”. Then, shaking his head slightly, he flashes a smile straight out of Bonolis and turns nihilistic: “This is a brief stretch of time in which we flounder about like madmen and then turn to dust.” Listening to him, I’m reminded of that programme he used to present, "Il senso della vita", which I suggest he rename "Il nonsense della vita": “If they were capable of understanding it, I’d do it, but if you try to deconstruct the illusion, you’re an enemy of the market; we’re all clinging to the balloon of illusion. The important thing is to be aware of it.” He felt the full force of life one morning at dawn in a North American national park when he saw the lichens in bloom. “Now there’ll be a car park or a McDonald’s there.” What he likes about life is the passing of time; death does not frighten him, but illness does – he would put an end to it sooner if necessary: “I’m in favour of euthanasia and opposed to the relentless pursuit of pharmacological witchcraft. No one can claim the right to decide the fate of another’s life. If God, the source of love, really existed, I believe he would think the same.” Not a second passes between his questions and his answers; after all, he is a well-known glib talker and a master of skilful, cynical jibes. Like when Giorgio Gori, then director of the three Fininvest channels, told him he’d be better off trying his hand at the theatre – “Because at that time he had nothing that suited me” – and as soon as he found a job at Rai, “still just a lad”, on "I Cervelloni", he sent him a postcard: “Theatre found: Delle Vittorie. Rome.” “I like to joke.” To a lady who objected that he switched too easily between Mediaset and Rai and back again, he shot back, “But I’m not exactly popping round to your house!” By the way, has Rai been in touch again? “Rai gets in touch quite often. But I’m happy where I am at the moment… though it might well happen again…” A nice Sanremo? “No, enough… Stefano (De Martino) is doing it now; he’s very good and it’ll turn out well. I’m 65, make way for the young ones – I’ve got my own little things to do.” And why do you call them ‘little things’? “Well, because compared to Sanremo…” but he follows the Festival far less than he used to; music has changed and he doesn’t really identify with contemporary music. He likes other things, though, such as hugging the elderly; their fragility “is the same as that of a child, who copes with it through wonder, whereas the elderly person risks seeing it as a source of melancholy”. And then he likes reading: Alessandro Baricco, Arthur Schnitzler, Marco Lodoli – who has also become a ‘mural’ in a rather disillusioned phrase that invites me to read: ‘Life is no place for human beings.’

‘We live dreaming of something else, and there is nothing else. So let’s put on our little show, then take a bow and say goodbye,’ and the little pastel-coloured books by Mattioli 1885 that he shows me enthusiastically.

He’s had some remarkable encounters with personal idols: the best-known being with Freddie Mercury, who chatted him up one evening over dinner and sent him tickets for Wembley; and then Sordi, who asked him straight away whether it was true that the contestants on "Tira e Molla" were given ‘all those bloody prizes’...In fact, it’s always been said of Albertone that he was careful with money – indeed, downright stingy – so I pluck up the courage and tell him that the same is said of him; where did this rumour come from? He knows and tells me: “I think it was during an episode of the Maurizio Costanzo Show, where I went with Laura Freddi, my girlfriend at the time,” who showed off her engagement ring, which was perhaps a little modest. “But what do I care? They even used to say that Mia Martini brought bad luck – it’s all nonsense.” But apart from the famous ones, who is the most incredible person you’ve ever met? Here he pauses and takes a few seconds to reply. He takes a deep breath, his eyes fix on something, and suddenly I see Bonolis become Paolo: “I think it’s my daughter. My daughter Silvia. She inspires me.” It’s getting late; we’ve been talking for hours and I’ve got a train to catch. He kindly offers to have Mauro – the man who’s been driving him around for twenty years – take me to the station. Running late and with the temperature outside at 39 degrees, I accept. Mauro tells me about his daughter’s fairytale wedding, held a few days earlier in a castle from which, he says, Paolo had been excluded. “Can you imagine poor Paolo having to take photos throughout the whole wedding? But he actually moved me and turned up.” He shows me the photo: Bonolis, with his tie undone and his swashbuckling gaze, embracing Mauro and other friends. His laughing eyes suggest it’s all an illusion, but at least those beside him look happy. “Paolo likes making others feel good,” Mauro tells me. “I just wish he hadn’t had to drive himself to get here.”