Questo articolo è comparso su Liberazione del 15 luglio 2007. Dylan, Brandon, Brenda. E poi Kelly, Donna, Valerie. Furono loro, giocoforza, to throw open the adolescence of a generation and still no internet only TV, beautiful and smiling on the screens of Italy 1. It was the '90s, and Dylan, Brenda and his associates had their problems. Sometimes fared very badly. But in the end enjoyed a lot. They were the stars of Beverly Hills 90210, a show that people who if you forget it: imagine that the replicas are still on the air now, at 15, of course, always on Italy 1. The series title was clear: Dylan & co were all children of the most famous suburb of Los Angeles, the Beverly Hills (90210 is your zip code) rich and pastel-colored villas and beautiful girls only. And then places like the Peach Pit, the beaches infinite, the luxury boutiques-but-not-too. It was a beautiful place, that if the 90,210 that Dylan did with Brenda before going with Kelly, the daughter of a cocaine addict and then partner of Brandon, in turn involved with reporter Tracy, Donna and David are together but not sex, and so on for ten seasons spun. A place where, despite the many vicissitudes of life, to rule was the joy, community spirit, the eternal optimism of the land of opportunities. And then of course the sun, palm trees, the architecture a bit 'garish but charming - and especially the models in bikinis.
I was in Beverly Hills after only a few days, ostensibly to work. Guest in a luxury hotel belonging to the most famous chain of the sector. The work consisted of ten minute interview. The rest was free time, or better yet, stay.
was February, but were 25 degrees. Waiting for me, outside the hotel, a thrilling place names: Sunset Boulevard. Melrose Avenue. Rodeo Drive. If you spent the '90s in front of television was of Fininvest, you know the drill. Since Dylan and the other broke in picture tubes Italians were past fifteen years. I certainly do not expect to find him and his clique on the corner. The statistics speak for themselves: over 30,000 inhabitants, 8000 in Beverly Hills are of Iranian origin. Average age: 41 years. The "young", those aged 18 to 24 years, 6 per cent of the local population. Statistics are, in fact. I could not test that personally in any way. The reason is simple: wait for me outside the hotel, was a city literally deserted. Empty. You would say abandoned, except that the details were all in the right place: the palms, first of all. Everywhere, on the roadside, on sidewalks, in private gardens. The houses, then: the mixture neogoticorinascimentalepseudovittorianopostmodernqualcosa architectural style, clean and comforting. And then the sun. Tall, round, warm. The clear skies, a day to be framed. Still, the streets, no one.
For anyone understand that in about four hours without a destination of pilgrimage, the average human beings encountered is 0. A net figure, round, and fundamentally disturbing. The streets - large, clean and well maintained - gives the metaphysical picture of a ghost town in which all, more than being holed up in their homes, seemed to have abandoned the planet, kidnapped by some unfathomable, mysterious entities. After a long climb in the direction of Beverly Boulevard, crossing a few stores. A couple of cafes, a bar. Deserts, too. Without means, I urge the public transport in order to extend the boundaries of my reconnaissance. But, surprise, there is no trace of public transport. Intravedo una fermata d’autobus solo al termine di una lunga ed estenuante ricerca, e la conquisto come si trattasse di un segnale salvifico, insperato. Dopo quaranta minuti di attesa senza che di autobus si veda traccia, abbandono.
È un posto da sogno, Beverly Hills. Come tutti i sogni, ha un che di sovrannaturale. Di allucinatorio. E di orribile, certo. Non narrerò qui di come alla fine a salvarmi ci abbia pensato un taxi. Di come abbia cenato sul Sunset Boulevard presso una steak-house in stile texano con tanto di toro meccanico in mezzo alla sala. Di come da lì abbia osservato estendersi ai miei piedi una città grande come l’Umbria intera. Di come quella cena, tornato in albergo, sia risalita venefica obbligandomi ad abbracciare la tazza del cesso per otto ore filate. Di come, una volta domandato alla reception un rimedio ai miei rigurgiti gastrici, mi sia sentito rispondere “prova a prendere una Sprite”. E di come alla fine mi sia dovuto affidare a un dottore chiamato appositamente per me, che la mattina dopo mi ha lasciato in regalo una parcella di quattrocento dollari. Sono tutti particolari marginali, a confronto di quell’apnea atterrente, agghiacciante nonostante i 25 gradi, provata nel ventre del sogno-fantasma, là dove su Italia 1 Dylan, Brandon, Brenda e gli altri si incontravano, si innamoravano, si lasciavano, e poi si rimettevano insieme al suono di qualche sedicente indie-band sul palco del Peach Pit. In tanto abbaglio, nel pieno del miraggio, quasi quasi mi aspettavo di incontrarli per davvero, i ragazzi del 90210.
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