The two parakeets that the old man who owns Clitunno seem to be a part of his daily routine. That is both endearing and somewhat tragically sad.
The ownership and management of this hotel could easily become a really crappy family drama.
The father is the broken patriarch who built this hotel out of nothing and since the death of his wife he has put all his energy into his business and into the care of his birds.
Then you have the sons. The one with the tight pants (Francesco?) is the party animal who is slowly eating up the family profits with his excessive partying and his flashiness. He's the Fredo of the group.
Then there's the other brother with the thick glasses who kind of looks like Marc Maron. He's embezzling from the hotel or he's into something else nefarious. Or he's the entitled shit head who runs the place like a dictator when his father isn't looking. Kind of stealing from King Lear and Tennessee Williams on that one, but eh.
Then the third brother (that I'm adding just to make this as over the top as possible) is the man behind the desk at night. He's mousy and the one who should be in charge or the hotel, but his father doesn't like him for some reason.
Hopefully we won't be here for the bloody third act, but if we are then I could use it to refine this journal entry.
This is quite promising. Again, though, resist the impulse always to undercut the writing with jokes and asides. The juxtaposition of the birds and the history (the bright and ephemeral against the obscure and timeless) is a provocative asymmetry. What are you going to do with it, though? Think in painterly terms, in composition. That's a striking pair, no?
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