Parthenope

Paerthenope isn´t just a film, it is a painting alive: every scene is filmed with such sensibility... If you wonder what real Beauty is, then the film will give you the answer. A real masterpiece in my opinion, that will make you fall in love with the main actress (you can´t escape that !) but also with the beautiful city of Napoli, a city filled with culture and history, the heart of the Italian authenticity. A film that takes you for a walk through essential philosophical questions such as the true essence of Beauty and the ephemeral youth. To put it into a nutshell, I would say Parthenope is a BEAUTIFUL DEPRESSING movie.

Along the lines of the legendary beauty Aphrodite, "Parthenope" (Celeste Dalla Porta) was born in the sea and grew to become a great temptress to both of her male contemporaries. The first being her obsessed brother "Raimondo" (Daniele Rienzo) and the other her adoring childhood friend "Sandrino" (Dario Alta) whose unrequited love for her drove him to distraction. Not, however, to such distraction as that of her sibling, It's when the trio decide to head for an unfunded trip from their home in Naples to the nearby island of Capri that she meets elderly American writer/dipso "Cheever" (Gary Oldman) who finds her intriguing but appears to have a certain immunity to her charms and she's not used to that. Whilst on this carefree trip there befalls a tragic realisation that causes all of them to appreciate the stark realities and fickle shallowness of their lives and brings into focus senses of grief, rejection and emptiness. It's a beautifully photographed piece of cinema, this film, with sparing dialogue and a sexually, but not explicitly so, charged chemistry abundant throughout this rather visually extravagant but disappointingly soulless drama. It is a bit like a postcard upon which is a beautiful picture but just too few words to develop the characters or to quite put enough meat on their perfectly formed bones. Indeed as the second hour starts to drag, the whole thing begins to look more like a repetitively self-indulgent vanity exercise that might be rooted in mythology but that struggles to engage beyond the superficial. It's classy and stylish and well worth a look - but look appears to be all Paolo Sorrentino wants us to do.

"As complete as she is-with all her goods and her ills-do you know who she reminds me of?... Naples"

• Eça de Queirós, The Illustrious House of Ramires, mutatis mutandis.

"The most beautiful gift is not the most expensive; it is the most fragile." Marques Rebelo, O Trapicheiro.

As the lights of the nineteenth century faded, Eça de Queirós-the great Eça-painted, through the face of Gonçalo Mendes Ramires, a symbolic portrait of Portugal that, as any good symbol does, contained everything, even when it sometimes seemed to contain nothing at all. Last year, Paolo Sorrentino, the great artist of contemporary cinema, painted with the face and body of Parthenope the symbolic portrait of Naples: yet another of his masterpieces, unveiling a city and a woman that, in the blink of an eye, are one in the lyrical conception of poet Sorrentino. Naples, or Parthenope- a name that evokes the mythological siren whose body is said to have given birth to the city-is not merely a backdrop, but a pulsating character. And Parthenope, the protagonist (portrayed with an ethereal melancholy), is its incarnation: born in the waters of the Mediterranean, like Venus, like Naples, she carries within her the contradiction of the sublime and the grotesque, of desire and death.

Sorrentino, heir to a Fellini-esque sensitivity for both beauty and the bizarre, does not fear excess. In scenes such as the party in Capri-where beautiful faces and bodies dissolved under golden lights-Parthenope, in her melancholy, asks her millionaire admirer: "Lei non pensa che il desiderio sia un mistero e il sesso il suo funerale?" [don't you think that desire is a mystery and sex its funeral]. The phrase echoes like an epitaph, laid bare to reveal the fragility and preciousness of desire and youth: desire as an unfathomable mystery, and sex as the funeral ritual of something that will never be consummated. It is in this interplay of opposites that the narrative unfolds, between the sculptural beauty of Naples' landscapes and the harshness of its forgotten alleys, where the protagonist walks with Roberto, an ambiguous character who unveils to her the other side of the city-a Naples both raw and poetic, where the contrast between the opulent luxury of grand houses and the simplicity of neglected corners becomes a metaphor for the city's inherent duality. Every step, every exchanged glance, carries the tension between the ephemeral and the eternal, between the urgent and the trivial. There, in the interplay of shadow and light, "the irrelevant merges with the decisive," as if chance itself became the silent arbiter of destinies. But is there any sense in speaking of chance? In song, Riccardo Cocciante tells us otherwise-everything was already foreseen.

"Beauty is like war: it opens doors," declares the alcoholic writer John Cheever (portrayed by Gary Oldman) in his brief, ghostly appearance. Drunkenly, he murmurs about the "scent of dead loves," a fragrance he claims to detect in his hotel room, surrounded by bottles of alcohol. So many dead loves in the city, in Parthenope's life. Here, her beauty is a weapon-a weapon that invariably wounds those who wield it: capable of granting access to privileged worlds, yet also imprisoning one in gilded cages. But Parthenope is a woman-city that "sfugge sempre": she flees, escapes, refuses to be deciphered, and always has a retort ready to disarm her interlocutors. What mysteries lie hidden within her?

The narrative delves into a universe where every image is meticulously sculpted to reveal the mysteries of existence. Amid this tapestry of contrasts stands Cardinal Tesorone, with his imposing and perverse figure, his grotesque nature and skepticism-a link in a Neapolitan religiosity divided between the sacred and the profane. His discourse, laden with solemnity and irony, resonates in the scene where, clad only in the adornments of San Gennaro's treasure, he attempts to seduce the city of Parthenope-or perhaps merely the delectable Parthenope herself-with the lubricity of a faun and the cynicism of an old man. Il tempo che scorre insieme al dolore.

In every dialogue, in every exchanged glance, the question echoes: is it possible that by trying to master desire, love ultimately imprisons its own freedom? And in this eternal ebb and flow between wanting and being, the protagonist remains undefinable, always escaping, constantly reinventing herself-as if the very city of Naples refused to be confined by labels or predetermined destinies.

In the twilight of her existence-be it amidst the effervescence of a Capri celebration or in the solitude of a dim alley-Parthenope presents herself as the synthesis of all the opposites that coexist in Naples: the sublime and the grotesque, desire and death, fragility and strength. It is this paradoxical combination that renders her portrait so unforgettable-a mirror, perhaps, of a city whose soul, despite everything, continues to pulse with an indomitable vitality, defying time and destiny with an irony that, in the end, remains its sole certainty.

The main issue with Parthenope is that it adds nothing new to Paolo Sorrentino's filmography. Too many familiar scenes, too many obsessions already portrayed, too many mannerisms endlessly repeated. While it's true that cigarettes have become a signature of the director, when every actor-from the beautiful lead to the extras in the background-keeps lighting one up, it quickly becomes cloying, if not outright ridiculous. I truly enjoy Sorrentino's cinema, but the excitement I felt leaving the theatre after watching The Consequences of Love is now only a faint memory, faded like the summer youth that once was.

I don't really know what to think of the film really. Is it a smack of Catholicism? Is it a tribute to Stephania Sandrelli? A tribute to the absurd, beauty, incest, intelligence? What irritated me the most was that there was a cigarette in almost every scene, as if it had the main role. Yes, at that time there was a lot of smoking, but is that really what you should focus on to show that era? I don't understand how it can be so important to show addiction in various forms in a film these days. It's the same in many films, even how they glorify drugs in the films that are made. Is this really so important to portray? Who should take responsibility for this? The screenwriters, the director or the actors? I think everyone should take responsibility for this and be able to say no to drug glorification. Applies to cigarettes, drugs and alcohol. That will be my assessment of the film. Take it or leave it.