ABSTRACT
The cinema is not a special summertime spectacle: the cinema is for all times and for all places: like the bicycle or the bar automatico (vending machine). When the dog days of summer rage on, and concert halls are shuttered, and theatres that are open are very few and barely survive—hanging on for dear life here and there—and even small variety show theatres languish while the stars and the divas, who temporarily come back down to earth, rest on their metaphorical laurels—both among the rocks of the seashore and non-metaphorical springs, only the cinema remains, undisturbed and surviving: the summertime spectacle par excellence. Films know no rest: their frenetic movement continues through the seasons with no respite: exactly as the voice of a singer, through the horn of a gramophone, becomes capable of the most sinister marvels of endurance. Let the dog days beat down: films demand no vacation, the—how can I put it—‘gramofonized’ voice of the singer never tires out—at most, maybe it tires out the neighbours. As it often happens in the middle of August, the most bitter enemies of mechanical art, first seen hesitating at the entryway that opens up new domains of theatrical illusion; now [they are] mixed amongst the regular clients who wait their turn in blissful calm, in front of the fans.
