“As a child, I wanted to be a lift operator because I enjoyed going up and down with the elevator,” he told Bontà loro in 1977 during an interview with Maurizio Costanzo. However, he followed in the footsteps of his brother Riccardo, who worked in radio: he became an announcer. And it was the voice of Corrado Mantoni, known as Corrado, that delivered the long-awaited news on May 9, 1945, the end of the war: “We interrupt our transmissions to give you extraordinary news; the German armed forces have surrendered to the Anglo-Americans, the war is over, I repeat, the war is over.” Sly, he was a kind and very likable man, always ready with a joke. Caustic, but never aggressive: he was born on August 2, 1924; today he would have turned one hundred years old; he passed away on June 8, 1999.
With Pippo Baudo, Mike Bongiorno, Enzo Tortora, and Raimondo Vianello, he entered the homes of millions of Italians. A familiar figure. He created La Corrida, which debuted on radio on January 4, 1968, alongside his brother, and later moved to television, a triumphant success. There were no social media, but armed with whistles and bells, the audience—cruel yet very entertained—expressed their judgment. Then came Rosso e nero, L’amico del giaguaro, Tappabuchi, Il pranzo è servito, Canzonissima (where Raffaella Carrà, who was very close to Corrado, shared how she felt protected by him; they joked together, and he would even accompany her to the doctor), Domenica in.
Many hosts of the new generation say they are inspired by him and his subtle irony. Easy to say, but less easy to be Corrado. He explained that his success stemmed from never “bothering anyone. I don’t swear, I don’t like fights on TV. I prefer to engage in dialogue with the audience, to side with them. I truly believe that’s the secret: to make those watching think that they could be in your place.” La Corrida moved to Canale 5, and he, unfazed while workers, employees, and teachers danced flamenco or sang Binario, joked with Roberto Pregadio, the maestro, and Antonella Elia, who amused him greatly. “She’s spontaneous; she opens her mouth and lets loose.” “We have never exploited anyone; those who come to us know the rules of the game… They say they’ve had fun even if things went poorly, and in 90% of cases, they get booed. Generally, the happiest are relatives and friends: when the ‘artists’ return home after being on TV, they stop performing at all hours.”
He said he belonged to that generation of hosts who asked for “permission” before entering homes, and he pointed to Fabrizio Frizzi as his heir: “He has style.” He didn’t believe much in Auditel. “Today, listening is mistaken for appreciation. It would be important to really understand the tastes of the audience.” He explained that without TV, he was fine just the same. “Every time I finish working, I become Mantoni again; I reclaim my last name, I return to being an ordinary person… I don’t do shows at any cost; I was away from TV for years, and interestingly, no one noticed. From ’71 to ’76, I didn’t work, I resumed with Domenica in, and people stopped me on the street: ‘I saw you the other day,’ and I said, ‘Look, that was two years ago.’” He had no major regrets: “Perhaps I sacrificed my private life for work. I couldn’t fully enjoy my son; we saw each other more when he was already grown.”
His career began as an announcer on the radio in ’44: “Radio,” he recounted, “taught me everything, to have respect for the audience and to build a relationship with people. We could never say ‘I’ but always ‘we’, and not in the sense of the plural of majesty; that ‘we’ means that we represent everyone.”
He had always felt at ease on television: “Throughout many years, I learned one fundamental thing: on TV, if someone has a quick comeback, they can respond; if not, they must pretend not to have heard the other person’s line.”