Berlusconi is a genius in communication. Otherwise, he would

Host: The studio lights hummed low, the room half-lit by the bluish glow of a dozen screens. A faint buzz of static filled the silence — the kind of sound that hums in the background of every modern confession. Rain tapped softly against the tall windows, blurring the city beyond into a wash of silver and neon.

Jack sat behind the mixing board, sleeves rolled up, eyes weary but sharp. Jeeny leaned against the opposite wall, her arms crossed, watching the endless stream of headlines scrolling across the monitors — politicians, influencers, scandals. The world in pixels.

Host: The faint reflection of the monitors flickered across their faces — two silhouettes lit by the pulse of information, both looking for truth somewhere between the noise.

Jack: “Umberto Eco once said, ‘Berlusconi is a genius in communication. Otherwise, he would never have become so rich.’”
(He smirked, his voice dry.) “You have to admit, the man wasn’t wrong. It’s not genius in thought that wins now — it’s genius in talking. Selling. Shaping perception. That’s the real power.”

Jeeny: “And that’s the tragedy.” (She moved closer, her voice soft but cutting.) “We used to value substance. Now we worship noise. The louder someone speaks, the truer they sound — even when they’re lying.”

Host: The lights flickered slightly as thunder rolled outside. The hum of rain deepened, washing against the glass like static made liquid.

Jack: “You sound like you’re surprised. Communication’s always been about control. Look at every empire — Rome, America, media companies. They didn’t build their thrones on truth. They built them on how well they told their stories.”

Jeeny: “But Eco wasn’t celebrating that. He was warning us. Berlusconi wasn’t just rich — he owned the narrative. He knew how to make people see the world the way he wanted. That’s not communication; that’s hypnosis.”

Host: Jack leaned back in his chair, his grey eyes catching the reflection of the glowing screens. For a moment, he looked less like a man and more like a piece of circuitry — logic wired to cynicism.

Jack: “Maybe. But tell me — if everyone’s being hypnotized, maybe that’s what they want. People don’t crave truth, Jeeny. They crave certainty. Comfort. A voice that makes them feel seen.”

Jeeny: “You think manipulation is comfort?”

Jack: “No. I think comfort is manipulation. It’s just dressed prettier.”

Host: The silence that followed was electric — heavy with the static of unspoken truths. Jeeny’s fingers traced a small scratch on the console’s metal edge, her gaze steady.

Jeeny: “You make it sound like all communication is corruption. But it’s not. There’s a difference between connection and control. Eco’s point wasn’t that Berlusconi was a hero — it was that he understood people better than they understood themselves. He turned empathy into a weapon.”

Jack: “Empathy’s always been the sharpest tool. That’s why salesmen, politicians, preachers — they all sound like friends. They talk about you, but it’s never really about you.”

Host: Outside, the rain thickened, blurring the neon city into streaks of red and white. Inside, the studio lights glowed warmer now, as if the world outside had faded into irrelevance — only words mattered here.

Jeeny: “Do you know what scares me most? It’s not that Berlusconi was a genius. It’s that millions followed him — believed him — because it felt good. Because his version of the world was easier to digest.”

Jack: “People have always traded truth for comfort. Bread and circuses — same script, new actors.”

Jeeny: “But we’re supposed to evolve, Jack. We have tools, education, awareness. Yet look at us — we drown in information, but we’ve forgotten how to understand.”

Jack: “Understanding takes effort. Clicking doesn’t.”

Host: The tension in the room sharpened like glass. The rain outside became a steady rhythm, syncing with the dull throb of bass from a distant street.

Jeeny: “You really believe cynicism is the only honest view left, don’t you?”

Jack: “No. I just stopped expecting people to listen for truth when lies come in high definition.”

Jeeny: “Then why are you still here, Jack? Why run a show that tries to expose propaganda if you think no one cares?”

Host: The question hit him like a slap — soft, but heavy with meaning. Jack looked away, his jaw tightening. The glow of the screens painted his face in fractured colors — blue, then red, then pale white.

Jack: “Because someone has to keep the signal alive. Even if it’s just static.”

Jeeny: (quietly) “Then you still believe.”

Jack: “I believe the lie’s only dangerous if no one remembers it’s a lie.”

Host: A long silence followed. The studio lights hummed, the monitors scrolling with endless breaking news — each headline more hollow than the last. Jeeny moved closer, her voice trembling slightly now, a mix of defiance and sorrow.

Jeeny: “Eco once said that television gave us the republic of idiots — a democracy of voices without substance. I think he was right. But he also believed that understanding language is power. We can’t stop the noise, Jack, but we can teach people how to listen again.”

Jack: (leaning forward) “And who’s going to listen, Jeeny? The world’s tuned to entertainment, not enlightenment.”

Jeeny: “Then we have to make truth as irresistible as lies.”

Host: Her words hung there — dangerous, luminous. Jack’s eyes softened, a faint flicker of admiration breaking through the cynicism.

Jack: “You know… that’s exactly what Berlusconi did. He made the lie seductive.”

Jeeny: “Then let’s make honesty seductive. Let’s make integrity go viral.”

Host: The room felt suddenly alive — not with hope, but with possibility. The hum of equipment deepened; somewhere, the clock ticked toward midnight. Outside, the rain began to ease.

Jack: “You ever think Eco knew this would happen? That one day communication wouldn’t just shape reality — it would be reality?”

Jeeny: “He didn’t just think it — he feared it. But fear’s not the end of the story, Jack. Awareness is the antidote.”

Host: Jack looked at her — really looked this time — and something inside him shifted. His eyes no longer reflected screens; they reflected her.

Jack: “You always think words can save us.”

Jeeny: “They’re all we’ve ever had.”

Host: A long pause. Then, Jack reached over and flicked the red switch. The studio lights dimmed; the “ON AIR” sign glowed bright. His voice came through the microphone — calm, deliberate, carrying the weight of every conversation that ever mattered.

Jack: “Good evening, listeners. Tonight, we’re not talking about politics. We’re talking about power — the kind that speaks softly but decides what you believe. As Eco once said, Berlusconi was a genius in communication. The question is — who’s communicating with you now? And why?”

Host: Jeeny watched him from across the room, her eyes warm, proud. The world outside flickered — car lights, city breath, endless motion.

As Jack spoke, the rain stopped. The night cleared, and through the glass, the skyline shimmered like a broadcast signal stretching into infinity.

His voice echoed through the empty streets, merging with the heartbeat of the city — the voice of one man trying to turn static into sense.

And Jeeny smiled — because for the first time that night, beneath the glow of tired lights and endless noise, truth had found its frequency.