La grazia

Watched "La Grazia" at Kolkata International Film Festival - found it worth the time. Not a single shot seems far from brilliance, the bgm sounds appropriate, the acting of the cast flows through and of course the crux on Morality, "grace", love and power breathes life into every moment. Just the pacing saddens the viewer. Other things considered the film truly visualizes what it means to rejoice in a memory of sorrow.

La Grazia Italy. Mariano an aging Italian president in his final six months, introspection with three weighty decisions, a euthanasia bill and two murder pardon cases that expose his moral paralysis, long life grief for his dead wife, and a secret from his youth cheating by his wife.

The cinematography is elegant, the background scoring is exceptional.

This film is a visually poetic, character driven political drama that will appeal to fans of nuanced, introspective cinema.

A president at the end of his term faces final decisions: whether to sign a bill legalizing euthanasia and whether to pardon two killers - an abused woman and a man who murdered his sick wife, both claiming mercy as justification for their actions. Despite their weight though, these dilemmas feel schematic and artificial, and they are meant to. Sorrentino seems to have deliberately designed them to ridicule our attempts to impose order on human experience.

On a personal level, the president is consumed by his late wife's memory - supposedly out of love, but really out of pride and resentment. He cannot forgive her adultery, and this fixation infects every aspect of his life. What looks like reflection is vanity; what sounds like grief is control.

The title carries cruel irony. Grace means both pardon and inherent quality, yet both are exposed as false. Grace as pardon is absurd - who is anyone to decide on questions of life and death, or, as the film's central question asks, "who our days belong to"? Grace as inner serenity collapses too; it is always compromised by ego, hierarchy, and the need to be on top. Even the pope, who should embody divine grace, functions only as a figurehead, placing God atop human power structures.

Sorrentino's grace here resembles Lanthimos' kinds of kindness - not kindness at all, but its abomination. The high-visit scene collapsing into rain is a perfect example: the moment screams of human vulnerability, yet the instinct to help the old man - to show grace - is withheld because social hierarchy dictates he will be humiliated. On the other hand, the recurring musical theme - a heartbeat threading through chaos - constantly reminds us of the human factor beneath appearances of order and serenity.

Despite its brilliance and visual poetry, unlike Sorrentino's previous film Parthenope, here the effect comes only after consideration, reflecting the difference between them. In Parthenope, grace exists in perception, while here it is a performative ritual. Recognition of the idea brings intellectual pleasure but deprives the viewer of Grace of immediate emotional resonance.

Paolo Sorrentino at his most reflective. The movie is less about telling a clear story and more about sitting with a question. What does grace even mean in a world full of beauty, power, and constant distraction. That idea quietly runs through the entire film.

As expected, it looks stunning. Sorrentino leans hard into elegance and excess, but it never feels empty just for the sake of it. The beauty is almost uncomfortable at times, because it highlights how lost and emotionally stalled the characters are. You get the sense that they are surrounded by everything, yet still searching for something they cannot name.

The characters do not really change in a traditional way. They drift, hesitate, and circle the same thoughts. For some viewers this will feel slow or frustrating, but it fits the film's point. Grace here is not a reward or a big turning moment. It feels rare, fragile, and easy to miss if you are not paying attention.

This is not a movie for plot lovers or people looking for clear answers. It asks patience and a certain openness. If you welcome it, it will live inside of you for a long while.

Paolo Sorrentino's *La grazia* is a stately meditation on power, loss, and the quiet dignity of doubt. Toni Servillo delivers a masterful performance as a weary president haunted by his past-a man whose final acts in office involve weighing the fate of euthanasia legislation, mercy pardons, and the silent pain of personal betrayal. In a tone more restrained than his earlier works, Sorrentino sets his canvas in quiet rooms and empty corridors, infusing each frame with a solemn poetry. The film unfolds like a moral score: minimal yet precise, earnest yet elusive. What remains is a feeling that some choices define more than a life-they imprint on the idea of justice itself. Best suited for viewers who find beauty in introspection and courage in ambiguity. Watch it when you're ready to consider the ultimate cost of grace, and to let cinema carry your doubts.