A large pot of boiling milk on a stove. Hands ladling milk into small bowls held by smaller hands one after another, and another, and another. It’s a quietly moving introduction to the large Graziadei family with seven children and counting.
Set in Vermiglio, a remote mountain village in Northern Italy, the story revolves around this family in 1944, the last year of World War II. The arrival of Pietro (Giuseppe De Domenico), a Sicilian who fled the army seeking refuge in the village, stirs the quiet rural routine. But particularly the innocent heart of the eldest Graziadei, Lucia (Martina Scrinzi).
Maura Delpero’s sophomore feature film Vermiglio held its world premiere at the Venice Film Festival in 2024, where it was awarded the Grand Jury Prize. Delpero’s film draws from personal family stories as she paints the picture of a village that seems frozen in time. Where life is both simple and harsh. Children die, new ones are born, and obedience and religion are survival strategies. It is therefore surprising that the main storyline is a trite melodrama.
Lucia and Pietro fall in love as soon as they lay eyes on each other. Followed by her pregnancy, and their marriage. Not many words are exchanged between the two, just timid glances and letters scrawled with hearts. Their story turns darker after Pietro fails to contact Lucia following a trip to Sicily.
In contrast, the film’s subplots often prove more compelling than its main storyline. The family head, Cesare, an educated man with a sophisticated taste in music, is the village’s schoolteacher. His classroom in the mornings filled mostly with his own children, and in the evenings with semi-literate adults.
Another compelling character is the secretive middle daughter Ada (Rachele Potrich). A devout yet curious teenager, wrestling with her own needs. A viciously amusing cycle of self-inflicted punishments ensues, growing ever stranger and layering the film with humour, charm, and depth. Delpero also gestures toward challenging topics, such as queerness, the role of women, and post-partum depression. But these threads remain largely unexplored.
The film’s greatest strength lies in its cast. Although there are some professional actors in the film, Delpero cherry-picked non-actors from Vermiglio and neighbouring villages who were already accustomed to rural routines. This is a key aspect that she wanted to have. Authentic bodies that were already attuned with their characters’ physicality. Not to mention the unmistakable local dialect.
As for the titular character of the film, the village, Michail Kritschman’s cinematography is exquisitely detailed, capturing the grandeur of mother nature in all its seasons. It is not a coincidence that Vivaldi’s Four Seasons finds its way into the score. Snowy landscapes loom over dark-coated figures, while red-cheeked children, worn leather boots, braids, and creaking wooden benches anchor the film in a world of harsh simplicity.
Most evocative, however, are the intimate close-ups of hands fidgeting, caressing, working, caring, milking in a very austere and routine-driven environment. As privacy is almost non-existent in the crowded Graziadei household, the girls huddle together in their shared beds, caressing each other with the touch of a feather.
Despite some narrative limitations, Vermiglio has resonated strongly in Italy, where it swept seven David di Donatello Awards, which is the equivalent of the Oscars. As a viewing experience, however, the painterly images and moments of sensory intimacy rise above a slow, scattered narrative. But the film ultimately struggles to move beyond the familiar.
