We begin our tale with Carlo Giuffrè, the normal individual who decided to transform himself into a Gerber baby for the amusement of audiences. Born in the land of pizza and the Pope, this Napoleonic fiend graced the stage in 1942 and gave it a bear hug until 2002. Such dedication! Imagine dedicating 60 years to jumping behind the screen and sprouting the eloquence of Shakespeare for Italian audiences who couldn't quench their thirst for literature with a wine bottle. Nevertheless, Giuffrè, our selfless hero, perceived this noble cause and became an unrepentant devotee, appearing in 90 films and an uncountable amount of reruns. Carlo Giuffrè! What a phenomenon! A man as persistent as a limpet while also being as tenacious as a never-ending Ricordi opera. Giuffrè, you seasoned amigo, you reheated lasagna of the theatrical world, your dedication is unerring, your performances unending. And yet, in an unfortunate twist, your stage presence is mainly recalled in black & white – not for aesthetic purposes, but because colour television couldn't catch up with you. The Italian Stallion, as no one ever called him, put his tireless soul into acting like no one's watching - primarily because sometimes no one was. For 90 acts he played the fool, the lover, the melancholic, and the comedic buffoon. His oeuvre was as rip-roaring as an earthly lion, as varied as a pizzeria’s menu and as predictable as an Italian movie plot. With a sly wink to an unknowing audience, Giuffrè danced deftly in the limelight with a practiced finesse that screams of masochistic repetitions and uncounted rehearsals. In a film, Giuffrè was as omnipresent as pasta in Italy and as unavoidable as a cheek-pinching Nonna. If that endurance wasn't enough, he decided to haunt our television sets, having found that our minds are most vulnerable in the comfort of our PJs. Ah, who can resist watching the spectacle of Giuffrè in technicolour, while murmuring sweet nothings into a pizza slice with extra mozzarella? The genius of Carlo Giuffrè was in his eccentric volatility. Just when viewers thought they had endured his last flight of fancy, another televised rerun would appear. This was the real tragedy behind the comedies he performed. Not that he was an insufferable thespian, but that he refused to allow his viewers respite, tormenting us with gales of laughter, at the oddest hours, on the most nondescript TV channels. Carlo Giuffrè, a reminiscent artifact of Italian cinema, an opera without an intermission, bleeds his audience dry with an endless reel of skits and dramas, leaving them clutching onto their sides, gasping for breath. As we remember Giuffrè, let's cherish his undying perseverance; let's celebrate his stoic endurance and his eclectic performances. After all, behind every great tragedy, there is a comedic fool who keeps the show going, even in black and white reruns, on nondescript TV channels, at ridiculously late hours. That, my dear readers, was the essence of Carlo Giuffrè.