Summary: 9/10: a visually stunning, thematically rich meditation on family, power, tradition, and the slow work of change, anchored in historical specificity while speaking to timeless questions about who holds power and at what cost. What appears to be a slice-of-life film based on Maura Delpero's experiences growing up in the Italian Alps reveals itself as something far more complex: a richly layered drama of family life and relationships set at the end of World War II. Delpero herself wasn't even born yet when these events transpired, which means we must assume that life in a remote Alpine village has not changed much in seventy years, that the rhythms and structures she witnessed growing up were largely unchanged from those her grandmother knew. Her visual capture is remarkable in that it has the appearance and feel of a documentary. Even the unevenness of the editing and cinematography appears intentional, designed to yield the impression of a late 1940s capture, as if we're watching footage unearthed from the period itself. The natural light cinematography, the handheld moments, the patient observation of daily routines all contribute to a neorealist aesthetic that feels both contemporary and historically grounded. The film's numerous awards, including the Grand Jury Prize at the 2024 Venice Film Festival, are well-deserved. But the true depth of Vermiglio lies in its examination of patriarchal structures and the fissures already forming within them. In that time and place, men make decisions, daughters are expected to obey, and traditional roles remain largely unquestioned. Cesare, the head of the household, a teacher and highly educated man, is clearly conflicted between his role as patriarch and his more liberal values. He's educated enough to understand equality, progressive enough to question tradition, yet trapped within a system he perpetuates even as he doubts it. It's a nuanced portrait of complicity, of how intelligent people can recognize injustice and still enforce it because that's what the structure demands. Ada, played beautifully by Rachele Potrich, emerges as almost a feminist rebel within this constrained world. She refuses to accept limitations quietly, pushes against expectations, embodies the future struggling to be born. Delpero doesn't make her a modern anachronism; Ada's rebellion, and that of her role model, Virginia, is of her moment, plausible within the world as it exists, but pointing toward possibilities not yet realized. The film operates with patience and restraint, trusting the audience to notice what's unspoken, to feel the weight of traditions that no longer serve the living. It's a portrait of a world suspended between eras, between the patriarchal past and the stirrings of a new future, and Delpero captures that transitional moment with extraordinary grace.