Thankfully the introduction to the book calls Marinetti and the Futurists on their fascism and mucho violence. But then Intro writer - Lesley Chamberlaine - tries to give Marinetti a pass on some of his transgressions by calling him an “…anarchist whose ideals could never have served the Fascist purpose for longer than a passing hour.” It’s true that some of Marinetti’s artistic propositions are hilarious in their dynamism and absurdity, but are we laughing with him? As far as I know he declared himself for Fascism, not anarchism. Chamberlaine doesn’t need to rescue Marinetti before we’re allowed to examine his output in all its compromised glory.
The dinner that stopped a suicide is hilarious - a suicidal Futurist hornily devouring a woman made of food that his caring Futurist buddies have concocted.
After a few recipes, the cookbook heads into its treatise against pasta, which Marinetti believes makes the Italian people dull and sluggish. P 42 – ‘The Duke of Bovino, Mayor of Naples, in response […] declares that ‘ the Angels in Paradise eat nothing but vermicelli with tomato sauce’, consecrating the unappetising monotony of paradise and of the life of the Angels.’
Marinetti gets jingoistic in his Manifesto Against Xenomania which might’ve read as tongue-in-cheek provocative if the Italians hadn’t joined the Nazis a few years later.
P67, ‘…we may even prepare mankind for the not too distant possibility of broadcasting nourishing waves over the radio’ – Fillìa
P83, ‘Look, my dear friend, in being late even you are passéists; I thought the Futurists, if only to do something new, would have started early but instead there’s the usual boring wait just like at all the banquets in the bourgeois world.’
He looks at me and smiles ironically, ‘To eat in the future… what’s more Futurist than that?’ – Libani
As dodgy as Marinetti and co. can be, you can’t deny the originality of many of their propositions. I’m always telling my art students that much of the cool avant-garde shit credited to pacificist Dada was actually invented by the Fascist Futurists, we just try and nullify these arseholes. And it’s not just Dada ‘inventions,’ here Marinetti’s recipes predate the ‘event scores’ credited to the 1960s Neo-Dada of Fluxus:
P102, ‘RAW MEAT TORN BY TRUMPET BLASTS: cut a perfect cube of beef. Pass an electric current through it, then marinate it for twenty-four hours in a mixture of rum, cognac and white vermouth. Remove it from the mixture and serve on a bed of red pepper, black pepper and snow. Each mouthful is to be chewed carefully for one minute, and each mouthful is divided from the next by vehement blasts on the trumpet blown by the eater himself.
When it is time for the Peralzarsi; the soldiers are served plates of ripe persimmons, pomegranates and blood oranges. While these disappear into their mouths, some very sweet perfumes of roses, jasmine, honeysuckle and acacia flowers will be sprayed around the room, the nostalgic and decadent sweetness of which will be roughly rejected by the soldiers who rush like lightening to put their gas masks on.
The moment they are about to leave they swallow the Throat-Explosion, a solid liquid consisting of a pellet of Parmesan cheese steeped in Marsala.’
P106, ‘..Duelling with that whistle is the long, sharp wail of a violin note escaping from the room on the right belonging to the peasant woman’s convalescent son.
Then, silence for a moment. Then, two minutes of chick peas in oil and vinegar. Then, seven capers. Then twenty-five liqueur cherries. Then twelve fried potato chips. Then a silence of a quarter of an hour during which the mouths continue to chew the vacuum. Then, a sip of Barolo wine held in the mouth for one minute. Then a roast quail for each of the guests to look at and inhale deeply the smell of without eating. Then four long handshakes to the peasant woman cook and off they all go into the darkness-wind-rain of the forest.’