Piero Penizzotto arrives at the Biennial with Kings of Comedy, a work that mistakes theater for thought. The installation, bloated with oversized props and slogans, parades as satire but collapses under the weight of its own pretension. What should be incisive wit feels like secondhand noise, shrill, hollow, borrowed urgency masquerading as critique. The critic’s compass points south, conceptual bankruptcy disguised as radical flair, Penizzotto doesn’t sculpt ideas, he performs the gesture of “being political,” as if the mere act of staging slogans could absolve him of aesthetic poverty. His props are less art than PowerPoint slides dressed for carnival, a résumé line inflated into spectacle. The fatal charge is his addiction to relevance. Every element screams “I matter!” yet the audience quietly wonders if the emperor’s clothes were stitched in a marketing department. I could say, “Listen, sweetheart, we’ve seen this act before.” The city doesn’t forgive repetition dressed as revolution. In the end, Kings of Comedy is not satire but mimicry, not risk but banality. Penizzotto is not the artist of the moment, he is the echo of last season’s discourse, lacquered in irony and sold as prophecy.