Reality Show (and houses) for One Euro – But Dignity Is Free
Italy’s small towns are reduced to romantic backdrops for foreign reality shows. But true rebirth doesn’t happen in eight episodes — and it’s not for sale in glossy magazines.
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Enough is enough. Every few months, like a recurring curse, we get yet another triumphant headline about the “miraculous” transformation of a one-euro house into someone’s "dream home." This time it’s Fornovolasco, a picturesque village in Tuscany’s Garfagnana region, under the BBC spotlight thanks to the reality show Amanda & Alan’s Italian Job (2024).
The story itself isn’t even new — the show aired over a year ago, and the sale happened long before that — but hey, summer’s slow for news, and someone had to fill the pages. Cue La Nazione and their sugary headline.
Glossy photos, emotional storytelling, celebratory tones. But behind all this is a massive scam — not just for the locals, but for international readers genuinely interested in Italy. And make no mistake: it’s a scam on them too, selling them a fantasy wrapped in Instagram filters and British humor.
That house isn’t a miracle. It’s just another exercise in colonial-style marketing, dressed up as a feel-good project. Bought (on paper) for one symbolic euro, then renovated with a cinematic budget worth hundreds of thousands, decorated like a '90s Changing Rooms episode, and then listed for €220,000. A bargain? Maybe for the agency. Maybe for the producers who crafted a polished narrative tailor-made for the British audience. But for the village? For the local community? For Italy? Zero. Zilch. Nada.
And yet the headlines scream “success.”
“One-euro house becomes a dream home!” cries La Nazione.
“BBC’s miracle project!” beams City Mag.
But a miracle for whom? For two comedians chasing visibility? For the show’s social media managers? For real estate influencers selling Italy as a Mediterranean Disneyland?
The harsh truth is these shows are often nothing more than poverty porn. They present a crumbling Italy, then show it “rescued” by foreign, benevolent, teary-eyed hands. It’s a caricature — a Mediterranean remake of the White Savior narrative. Italians? Barely visible, unless we’re the smiling pizza-maker, the clumsy builder with a cute accent, or the folksy festival extra. We’ve become background props. “It’s me, Mario!” the meme says. No, worse: It’s me, your local cultural accessory.
And yes, I say this with anger. Because I know hundreds of foreigners who truly love Italy. Who don’t buy homes to flex on TikTok, but to actually live here. To build a life. To invest. To grow — with us. But you won’t see them on TV. No drama, no heartwarming finale. No cameras following them as they queue for planning permits, or battle with rural bureaucracy, or try to open a business in a dying town with two buses a week and no fiber internet. No applause. No charity announcements. Just hard work, grit, patience — and real love for this country.
Fornovolasco, like so many villages, doesn’t need fiction. Or overpriced, gaudy renovations to match someone’s London taste. It needs schools, shops, buses, families. People who actually live there — not show up for the cameras.
Those of us working on real regeneration, like we do at ITS Italy, know the truth. There are no shortcuts. No miracles. Real projects require real money (not one euro), real skills, real partnerships with local councils. And most of all: real time. But the results, when they come, are lasting. Not just viral.
Think of Mussomeli. Think of what
built with The Good Kitchen. He started with a one-euro home too — but rolled up his sleeves, spent his own savings, and invested his life. That’s not TV. That’s impact. And tomorrow we’ll be livestreaming from there to share that story.No reality show. Just reality. And real stories — when they’re good — move people far more than fiction.
That’s why Fornovolasco isn’t just a passing irritation. It’s a symbol. Of how we keep selling off the skin of Italy for five minutes of foreign applause. Of our cultural inferiority complex. Of our reverse provincialism: we only feel proud if someone from abroad validates us — even if they treat us like zoo animals.
And like pandas, we risk extinction. Cute, adored, but incapable of doing anything unless someone else saves us. The sad irony? We’re the ones scripting the zoo narrative.
But we can change. We must.
We must learn to tell our stories differently. To understand that the success of a village isn’t measured in views or resale value — but in kids going back to school. In a reopened bakery. In a craftsman finding work. In a new resident — Italian or foreign — who decides to stay.
Our towns won’t be saved by reality shows. They’ll be saved by reality — the quiet, unglamorous one. The one with permits, shovels, mud, bureaucracy, setbacks, joy. The one that actually works.
That’s why I get angry when I read articles like the ones I mentioned. And that’s why I’m proud of the work we do with ITS Italy. And why, through Esco quando voglio and ITS Journal, I want to share the stories of the thousands of people — Italian and international — who are working seriously on the ground.
Sure, we can keep doing One-Euro Marketing.
But don’t complain when we’re reduced to WWF narratives.
I, for one, refuse to be the panda.