I do not know if Life as a Carlo (on Prime from 5 November) is the low point of the recent Verdone, but it is certainly a very low point and it is also a bad debut in the original production for the Italian Prime Video.
In ten half-hour episodes, Verdone plays a fictional version of himself, with Max Tortora as his shoulder: the first has to decide whether to accept the candidacy for mayor of Rome, the second has generic couple problems. But in reality the stories are very thin and rambling, a mere excuse to ring a row of sketch in which, on average, there is a character-speck who does absurdly over the top things, and Verdone who first sketches and then sbrocca. Among the specks we find various illustrious guests, sometimes in the role of themselves and sometimes not: from Roberto d’Agostino to Alessandro Haber, from Morgan (among the few to leave their mark, as always) to Venditti: they enter, make their number well illuminated by the spotlights and then disappear, as in an old variety. Then there is also Verdone who takes the drops, Verdone who smokes thoughtfully on the magnificent terrace of his magnificent house, and when the photograph changes tone it is Verdone who dreams.
From a fake autobiography of this type we expect the protagonist to make fun of himself, and on some rare occasion it works: in one episode, Verdone agrees to visit a woman with a terminal illness, in theory a ‘ passionate admirer, practically a ruthless detractor of her latest films, and ends up arguing with us. Most of the time, however, the series relies without hesitation on the umpteenth variant of “lo famo strange”: he snorts, but then recites for minutes and minutes the most famous lines of Too strong e Borotalco, the urla «Marisol!».
The logic of the catchphrase is pervasive: the Romans wanting the selfie, Max Tortora is not recognized, the intellectual screenwriter babbles about Tarkovskij, the peasant producer wants to make a film entitled I make him old. The general impression is that, in the automatic iteration of the cliché more trite, we totally rely on the inspiration of the interpreters. But no one can work miracles.
Life as a Carlo