For most of the tourists that flock to Rome to throw a coin into the Trevi Fountain (Fendi now being, incidentally, the “owner” of it after funneling millions into its restoration), the “EUR” part of town never really registers. EUR being an abbreviation for Espozione Universale di Roma. For, in the period of its construction, Italy’s most efficient statesman, a dictator by the name of Benito Mussolini, had grand plans for his country to participate in the World’s Fair, setting up this part of town about five miles outside of the center as a glistening and glamorous architectural beacon. The small city unto itself never got the carpet rolled out for it the way Mussolini had planned, what with the advent of World War II before the 1942 World’s Fair. Its most iconic edifice, the Palazzo della Civiltà Italiana, remained, like the rest of its building counterparts in EUR, unoccupied. An untouched virgin in a city that both reveres and contempts such purity.
That is, until Fendi’s CEO Pietro Beccari suggested to Fendi namesake and creative director Silvia Fendi that they take up residence in the long abandoned 20,000 square foot space. So it is that the sleepy product of fascism was awakened (much to the chagrin of the original architects who despised all the “little changes” Mussolini made to their original plans). And all for the benefit of having an office headquarters and atelier on steroids. While Fendi surely thinks it’s doing good for the city, ergo the entire country, by instilling their clout and presence into these monuments, there is something insidious about their takeover. As though they’re the new fascists, so effortlessly slipping into a building that serves as such an eerie representation of the only period in which Italy could ever be hemmed in by deadlines. One argues that, ever since, they went even farther in the opposite direction of ever bothering with time constraints involving completion of any project.
To add insult to Fendi’s injury, the inscription etched on the outside of the building reads, “A nation of poets, of artists, of heroes, of saints, of thinkers, of scientists, of navigators, of travellers.” But that was a long time ago. The last of it being in Mussolini’s time, and the nation can’t rely on Elena Ferrante alone for their claim to “artists” and “thinkers.” Though it wouldn’t surprise one if Fendi gradually worked in their own self-referential parola, an addendum that puts “fascist fashionistas” before all else. Asserting dominance by taking over historic monuments that certainly no one else could afford to. Nor would many want to. It’s, in certain respects, like trying to turn “abandoned” concentration camp land into a shopping mall. There are some areas and spaces that simply have too much meaning, too much blood on its hands to make the attempt to reshape the definition. Then again, Fendi seems to be embracing the fascist characteristic of total control. Extending into how Italy is presented to Americans by the convenient wielding of Christian Coppola, who claims he’s not close enough to the family to be invited to Thanksgiving, but still has no problem using the moniker to his advantage (unlike Nicolas Cage).
In his latest “project,” he directs rumored girlfriend Kiernan Shipka in a series of scenes that serve only to reiterate a stereotype of Italy. To force the country to remain in the past as opposed to helping it look to its future. Of course, not being caught up in history is almost impossible in that town, which is perhaps why Fendi is more than happy to allow shots of its “new” office building, where it appears Shipka “lives” as she runs outside of it to get picked up by Christian on a Vespa and engage in cliche activities like eating pasta, gelato and then–what else–throwing a coin into Fendi’s Trevi Fountain. It’s all meant to promote Fendi’s latest line of baguettes (that’s purses, to those convinced it’s bread), billing the “narrative” as a neo-Roman Holiday under the title A Baguette Roman Holiday. The intent is to make us see how easy it is for a girl to have a good time when she’s unburdened by the weightiness of a larger sack. Because, of course, the type of girl getting picked up for a Vespa ride by a tall, dark “friend” has no need to carry books or, say, a pen and some paper if not a laptop. No, this is for the frivolous fun ilk. Someone ready for adventure and all the lack of possessions that requires (maybe that lack stemming from the fact that she’s just spent all of her money on a Fendi bag).
Set to Fatboy Slim’s “Praise You,” the ersatz nostalgia of it all feels more icky than charming. Like someone trying desperately to imitate Sofia Coppola, herself just doing her best to outshine her father. Compared to another recent celebrity-starring ad campaign for a luxury brand–Emma Stone for Louis Vuitton–this Kiernan Shipka one feels trapped in the century of Mussolini’s dictatorship. In contrast, Emma Stone walking amid a field of endless flowers as “Loud Places” by Jamie xx featuring Romy plays is both simple and relevant. The flowers are fashioned in an endless sea in front of the Louvre (in the Cour Carrée), where Stone’s mind seems to be taking her back and forth between the present and some alternate state in Capri (which looks much more romantic than Rome in this comparison), specifically as she roams the Villa Malaparte (dancing wildly on a bed there before the windows that overlook Capri’s signature crags). Helmed by another director with a famous last name, Romain Gavras (a long way from directing M.I.A.’s “Born Free” video), son of Costa Gavras, the wistfulness of the ad isn’t steeped in a reliance on nostalgia the way Fendi’s is, so much as the evocativeness of a scent and its relation to place (the ad is for Coeur Battant). “My journey, my perfume,” Stone declares, tacking, “Louis Vuitton” to the end of that sentiment. The intent of the narrative is clear and timeless as opposed to stuck in time. Fendi, in converse, has fallen prey to yet another Italian cliche that offers no insight into where Rome fits into one’s present or future. Of its benefit to anyone other than grotesque tourists who look nothing like Kiernan Shipka or Christian Coppola squeezing their tubby ass onto a seat to consume the stereotypes of Italian cuisine that are better experienced in Naples anyway. What’s more, Fendi’s fascist control over grand and near ancient emblems of Rome doesn’t bode well for the city getting much in the way of a more modern storyline. That wouldn’t sell many baguettes, after all.
