La Grazia

Sorrentino supplies the occasional surreal house-style flourish – a drifting tear observed in zero gravity – but mostly the director leans into the quiet complexities of Servillo’s turn.

The magic of La grazia is that Paolo Sorrentino makes a convincing argument that doubt is a beautiful thing.

La grazia is wonderful. It is slow initially and sometimes difficult but it gradually, seductively seeps into you and becomes near impossible to shake.

The relative restraint of La Grazia makes its baroque flourishes stand out all the more.

It’s a tender examination, sometimes not fully formed but always with provocative ideas to unearth.

Certainly, Sorrentino does ask questions worth pondering. But the corresponding answers are often monosyllabic.

Perhaps La Grazia is enjoyed best as a more optimistic B-side to either Il Divo or Loro, Sorrentino’s lewd and scurrilous biopics of the former Italian prime ministers Giulio Andreotti and Silvio Berlusconi – both of which, incidentally, were also played by Servillo. But I know which ones I’d rather put on for fun.

Paolo Sorrentino has always been an introspective filmmaker, but this characteristic is often overshadowed by too much style that, at times, doesn't quite serve his ideas. ‘Parthenope,’ for example, is an uneven ode to his native Naples whose scattered execution leaves it as a remarkably superficial exercise. Now, with ‘La Grazia’ the Italian director, once again interested in the political figures of his country—as he first showed in ‘Il Divo’—and drawing once more on his great muse, the actor Toni Servillo, achieves a relatively healthy balance between substance and style to deliver a character study that offers a reflection on loneliness, the search for truth, and the unexpected peace that doubt brings.Perhaps his most restrained work in a very long time, though not devoid of his sometimes excessive desire to be noticed, Sorrentino rediscovers a sensitivity that is at times deeply moving with the story of a president immersed in a moral dilemma: to pass or not to pass a controversial law on euthanasia. The film relies on some obvious symbolisms, but it shines when it focuses on the unexpected liberating weight of uncertainty. What looked at first like a political thriller turns out to be an existential drama with a little touch of comedy.

"La Grazia" is a shimmering portrait of man facing complex personal and political decisions. There is rarely dignity in politics. Many times, there is little contemplation or even self-reflection. This type of discourse is foreign to our world and therefore seems reserved only for the movies. Such is the case with La Grazia, in which director Paolo Sorrentino crafts an examination of moral dilemmas and legacy. While it may be one of Sorrentino's lesser works it still has a story that moves with poetic flourishes, here is both a tale of love and life, responsibility, and purpose. The outgoing president of Italy, Mariano De Santis (Toni Servillo), is facing a reckoning on two fronts—it is a political and personal quandary. As he debates his legacy and lasting impact, he must first decide whether or not to pardon two people convicted of murdering their partners in addition to signing a historic bill that would legalize euthanasia. To complicate matters, he is mourning the death of his wife, who he learns committed adultery in their marriage. Aided by his trusted confidante, his daughter Dorotea (Anna Ferzetti), he will reconcile both his personal and public legacy, while confronting the timeless question: who owns our days? The film begin with De Santis, a devout Catholic and student of the law. He has a premium on ethics and a low tolerance for hogwash. He acts as if unswayed by public pressure and wrestles with his decision-making by walking the lonely halls and occasionally listening to hip-hop. This musical inclusion runs contrary to his nature, yet is an integral part of his true character—a man with compassion and passion. There is a sense of a man looking at both how history will remember him and what he is to make of the time left to him on earth. We discover he is a complicated individual. Servillo gives us a living portrait of man, looking at both his role as a public servant and that of a father. The question of legacy hangs over De Santis in all aspects of his life, both political and personal. His discovery of his wife’s hidden infidelity raises an inherent moral challenge vis-à-vis the pardon petition. There is anguish stemming from his wife’s betrayal, forcing him to reconcile his personal reaction with an unflinching, unbiased view of the matter. The film takes seemingly mundane aspects of governance, such as the signing of a law (be it of historic significance or not) and issuing a pardon, and frames them as spokes in the wheel of personal dilemmas. Interestingly, the film makes a frank assessment that life and politics are interchangeable. A leader cannot leave their personal problems at the door when setting down to govern, nor can they leave governing behind when addressing personal matters. In reality, leaders often operate within a narrow prism. Matters become binary choices. La Grazia, which means “pardon,” illustrates how life’s decisions, both in the political arena and in the personal sphere, are complex. De Santis is shown at first to be a man of serious intent and stoic nature, yet through a slow reveal, we see a man far from a public character, but one of immense personality and emotional complexity. Here is where the father-daughter pairing works well for this story. Through the children, a better understanding of the parent can be reached, and vice versa. At times, they feel as though they are talking to one another rather than speaking at one another. The story focuses on a presidential figure, which adds a degree of separation to the parent/child dynamic. There is a desire for understanding and for reaching one another. The central theme of the story is love. It encompasses De Santis with the matters of the heart and the law. It is how he addresses his role as a president and as a father. A leader needs love, or better said, empathy, but in turn, a leader requires an emotional response. Part of this film’s genius is showcasing a man who, at first glance, is stoic and stern, but through revelation and personal discovery, we see someone who wishes to love and ultimately is loved. Be it all conventional or original. The film unfolds gradually. We are treated to the waning days of a presidential term. What is legacy, and can be a matter indistinguishable from one’s personal sphere suggests there is no degree of separation. A wife’s infidelity can become a matter of policy, be it reactive or not. La Grazia, as a film, moves in bold sweeps, yet takes its time unfolding in quiet moments of reflection and contemplation. Some may find this laborious or even jarring, but it works because the film anchors itself in a captivating lead performance. There is poetry to the story. It breathes refreshing breaths into what could be stuffy topics, turning them into something more picturesque. The story wrestles with complex moral and ethical questions while putting front and center a portrait of a man who is the epitome of well-rounded, thoughtful, and inherently complex, as any of us.

(Mauro Lanari) Silly little (t)rapper questions, a lava flow of aphoristic answers with the presumption of immortality and the anemia of vacuity, architectural symbols from TikTokers on law and heart, power and affections, rationality and love like in a Jane Austen regurgitation. Austere, spartan, and cloistered staging for "inner demons," the "most intimate of dramas" (Giuseppe Fantasia in "Elle Decor," indeed). "You jurists and we military men thought that law and discipline would have divested us of the annoying duty of possessing sensibility": why on earth? "Kieślowski-esque ethical dilemmas": is that supposed to be a compliment? "In praise of doubt": wasn't Carofiglio enough? Not as bad as "Parthenope," but that wasn't hard.