‘The Crown’

My sensible mother advised me when I was a child not to eat in a hurry, because in addition to not enjoying it I would choke. In my twilight I still ignore him. I have been happy getting drunk relentlessly with the good things that life offered, preferring gluttony to asceticism, unable to accept the middle ground, squeezing the here and now with childish eagerness.

That’s why I waited with compulsive illusion the new season of The Crown (Netflix). Although there is an avalanche of series on the platforms, it is impossible for me to get hooked on the vast majority. I prefer to look at the ceiling. Worse still, it irritates me that they are so predictable, mediocre and clonic. The demand is enormous and the supply trusts that the clientele will swallow it all. That shows an arrogant and pragmatic contempt for something that is usually expensive and is called quality. And the latter is what the magnificent The Crown. And I am ready with anticipation to devour the 10 chapters of its last season in one sitting. The reality of the English royal family has never mattered to me in the least, but art achieves the miracle of making it exciting, complex, cloudy, mixing fiction with authentic facts. Scripts, setting, dialogues, interpretations, parallel stories reached a state of grace.

But I surprise myself by not bingeing as planned. I see three chapters one day, four the next and today I will finish it. The creative level remains high, but my old addiction stops. It centers on the turbulent moves of the ambitious Prince Charles and his unhappy wife Diana. It also speaks of the nearness of sunset. Although if I discover that I can space my vision of what fascinated me, it is that something is wrong. What I don’t know is if it’s the show’s fault or just mine. We will be back.

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