Confidenza, Daniele Luchetti’s latest film, adapted from Domenico Starnone’s novel (2019), was translated as ‘trust’ for this year’s Italian Film Festival, which features an exceptional line-up. However, confidenza doesn’t mean ‘trust’ precisely and can in fact be translated in several ways depending on the context: confiding a secret (fare una confidenza), becoming familiar with something or someone (prendere confidenza), and taking liberties (prendersi confidenza). The film explores these three dimensions, which are intricately and precariously bound by trust.

Pietro (Elio Germano) is a well-respected high-school teacher whose ‘pedagogy of affection’ sits in contrast to a ‘pedagogy of fear’, and reflects a deep care for his students, who, in turn, admire him. Teresa (Federica Rosellini) is one such student: troubled, brilliant, and precocious. Pietro enters into a forbidden and tempestuous relationship with her. After an intense argument, Teresa suggests they each reveal a secret so shameful that it could ruin their lives if exposed. Following Pietro’s confession, Teresa leaves.

As years pass, Pietro’s career as an educator and writer thrives. He marries his colleague Nadia (Vittoria Puccini), they have a daughter, and he settles into a stable bourgeois life. Yet, despite his outward success, Pietro is haunted by the fear that Teresa will return and expose the secret he shared with her. Indeed, over forty years, Teresa reappears in his life at various points, rekindling both passion and dread, as the two teeter on the fragile edge of confidenza. This tension is visually echoed through terraces, balconies, and windows – symbols of both the precise, orderly façade Pietro maintains and the precarious brink of chaos and truth lurking beneath the surface. These motifs create a constant sense of unease, heightened by the electric and claustrophobic soundtrack by Thom Yorke of Radiohead fame.

A gripping psycho-thriller, Confidenza draws us into a world of unsettling ambiguity. As director Luchetti explains, ‘this is a film of hypotheses, not theses.’ His renewed collaboration with Germano is nothing short of triumphant; Germano’s performance anchors the film as he embodies not just his character but the entire story, able to communicate through his eyes alone. Rosellini’s portrayal of Teresa is equally raw and authentic, lending depth to her enigmatic character. Puccini is perfect as the algid Nadia, standing between Pietro and Teresa as a cold, frail wall. Exceptional make-up and set design further enhance the film’s credibility, guiding viewers through Pietro and Teresa’s intertwined lives and leaving us questioning how much of their shared insanity belongs to us all.

Paolo Sorrentino’s much-anticipated Parthenope, a contender for the Palme d’Or at Cannes, puzzles and bores, and raises one big question: why? It seems Sorrentino is resting on the laurels of his past creativity as Parthenope feels more like a parody of his earlier works, rather than a showcase of his signature vibrant style.

The story, set in the 1950s, follows a young Parthenope (Celeste Dalla Porta), a beautiful, wealthy Neapolitan woman named after the mythical siren who gave Naples its name. The opening scenes are visually stunning, capturing Sorrentino’s opulent style and making viewers feel as if immersed in a Baroque painting. Parthenope, now eighteen, exudes a mysterious beauty that captivates everyone, including her brother Raimondo (Daniele Rienzo) and their friend Sandrino (Dario Aita), both of whom are incestuously obsessed with her. However, despite much reference to Bertolucci’s film The Dreamers (2003), Sorrentino fails to explore the complexity of this relationship, reducing it to a predictable sexual act.

The film meanders without clear direction, relying on Sorrentino’s prurient gaze and stunning visuals celebrating Naples through spectacular shots and portraits of locals, reminiscent of The Hand of God (2021), but without new twists. The soundtrack, more effective than the insubstantial dialogue, and strong performances by Silvio Orlando as Parthenope’s anthropology professor, Luisa Ranieri as cinema star Greta Cool (a parody of Sophia Loren), and Gary Oldman as John Cheever, are among the film’s few highlights.

The story stagnates after a tragedy during a holiday in Capri. Despite increasingly dramatic events, the characters remain shallow, and the film feels more like a series of beautiful but hollow images. Parthenope, meant to embody the spirit of Naples, experiences adulthood’s lights and shadows, encounters criminal organisations, and participates in the miracle of San Gennaro, but these moments lack depth and significance, feeling more like recycled scenes from The Great Beauty (2013).

As the film draws on it paradoxically becomes emptier, leaving viewers asking, ‘So what?’ Sorrentino’s overindulgence in lush spectacle and his own perversions and fetishes detract from narrative substance, reducing Parthenope’s character to a two-dimensional figure against a postcard backdrop. Despite its grandiose aesthetic, Parthenope fails to deliver a meaningful story.

Comandante (courtesy of St. Ali Italian Film Festival)

Edoardo De Angelis’s war drama Comandante recounts an episode from the Battle of the Atlantic (1940), when the Italian submarine Comandante Cappellini sank the Belgian ship Kabalo. Defying orders, the submarine’s commander, Salvatore Todaro (Pierfrancesco Favino), chose to rescue the Kabalo’s crew, forcing the submarine to navigate on the surface for three days, making it an easy target for enemies. ‘We are at war,’ warns Lieutenant Commander Marcon (superbly portrayed by Massimiliano Rossi), to which Todaro replies, ‘We are at sea,’ signalling a different world governed by distinct rules. ‘Thus it has always been done, at sea, thus it will always be done. And those who do not will be cursed.’

Despite its World War II setting, Comandante evokes elements of ancient Greek tragedy. The sea is both a setting and a character, a place where Todaro and his men’s fate unfolds. The women onshore, watching the submarine depart, resemble heroines from the Iliad, foretelling doom. Todaro’s name bears his destiny, ‘saviour’, as he embodies a modern Ulysses, guiding his men through the dangers of war and the sea with the foresight of a Tiresias-like figure. Marcon, Todaro’s trusted friend, communicates with him in the Veneto dialect, and Favino’s masterful portrayal shines through, underpinned by his ability to shift accents and build character through dialogue, which is sophisticated in this film.

The crew, referred to as ‘sailors’ rather than ‘soldiers’, are a mix of young men from different parts of Italy. Their various accents and dialects bring life to this otherwise monochrome film, lit only by an artificial glow inside the submarine. Todaro’s view of his men is poignant; they are ‘the beautiful and filthy melting pot of languages, traditions, and cultural beliefs that Italy is today’, as he writes to his beloved Rinuccia.

As the granddaughter of Italian partisans who fought Fascists and Nazis, I never felt Comandante was attempting to whitewash Italy’s past, despite some critics’ claims. Rather, De Angelis’s film delivers a timely message. In today’s Italy, where the far-right government is pushing an anti-immigration agenda, migrants continue to perish at sea. The film subtly resonates with contemporary issues, offering a reflection on humanity in the face of war and the ethical dilemmas that arise.