ABSTRACT
The posters with large lettering and flashy colours, generously applied to the walls of the city—and with no respect for the aesthetic sensibilities of others—announce each day to the cultured and illustrious that in one of the countless movie theatres that afflict the City, films of the war in Libya are being shown. At first, they dealt with episodes of life in the field; with images of landscapes that the pens of war correspondents had already depicted, scenes of the new, unique, and varied existence that people are living down there. And everything was going well: the new institution of the cinematograph had, even with its defects, some value. The value, for example, of making us live for an instant with our faraway brothers, of making that land which smiles at us and attracts us with the fascination of a grandiose and glorious mirage, seem close to us. And the public flocked to it. And pretty much all of us—both those who typically frequent the cinematograph and those who do not—would go to get carried away and to dream.
