Paparazzi King

The Merchant of Venom

In the opening moments of Netflix’s *Paparazzi King* (released domestically as *Io sono la notizia*), Fabrizio Corona stares down the lens with the predator’s gaze of a man who knows he is being hunted, yet believes he is the one holding the rifle. "I have an idea of the world where 'the good' does not exist," he declares. It is a chilling thesis statement for a five-part docuseries that masquerades as a true-crime biography but functions more effectively as a sociological autopsy of modern Italy. Directed by Massimo Cappello, this 2026 release is not merely a recounting of scandals; it is a tragedy about the commodification of shame in the post-Berlusconi era.

Cappello frames Corona not as an anomaly, but as the inevitable byproduct of a culture that ceased distinguishing between news and entertainment decades ago. The visual language of the series reflects this blur. The cinematography is glossy, hyper-saturated, and frantic—mimicking the flashbulbs that defined Corona’s career. The editing moves with the nervous energy of a cocaine high, cutting between archival footage of 2000s television showgirls and the cold, sterile interiors of Corona’s current confinement. It creates a suffocating sense of reality where silence is the only thing that cannot be monetized.



The series is at its most Shakespearean when it excavates the psychological ruins of the father-son dynamic. Fabrizio is the son of Vittorio Corona, a legendary journalist of the old guard who believed in the sanctity of the press. The documentary posits Fabrizio’s entire career—a transition from reporting the news to *becoming* the news—as a twisted Oedipal struggle. He didn't just want to surpass his father; he wanted to dismantle the system that marginalized him by turning its own vices into a business model.

This moral decay crystallizes in the series' most widely discussed scene: the confession of the bicycle seat. With a terrifying casualness, Corona recounts hiding €100,000 in cash under the seat of his young son’s bicycle to hide it from authorities. It is a moment that sucks the air out of the room. Here, the "King of Paparazzi" is stripped of his rebellious, anti-hero armor, revealed instead as a man who viewed even his own progeny as a mule for his illicit empire. It is the emotional nadir of the show, a point of no return where the audience is forced to confront their own complicity in consuming the celebrity culture that necessitated Corona’s existence.



Ultimately, *Paparazzi King* refuses to offer redemption. It does not ask us to forgive Fabrizio Corona, nor does it fully condemn him without condemning the audience first. We are the ones who bought the magazines; we are the ones who clicked the headlines. As the credits roll on the final episode, the viewer is left with an uncomfortable realization: Corona may be the monster in the mirror, but the reflection is ours. In a world of algorithms and influencers, he was simply the first to realize that in the attention economy, infamy pays better than integrity.