Let me tell you about a film that quietly sneaks up on you, not with explosions or dramatic monologues, but with the kind of subtle observation that makes you question everything you thought you knew about privilege, boredom, and the art of being young. Giovanni Tortorici’s Ketticè isn’t just another coming-of-age story—it’s a mirror held up to the absurdity of adolescence, where ennui isn’t a problem to solve but a lifestyle choice. And yet, for all its quiet rebellion, the film feels like a love letter to the unremarkable moments that define us. What makes this particularly fascinating is how it uses the trappings of privilege to highlight the universal ache of not knowing what to do with your life. Personally, I think the film’s greatest strength lies in its refusal to romanticize the chaos of youth; instead, it leans into the mundane, the awkward, the slightly ridiculous. It’s a rare breed of storytelling that doesn’t need a hero or a villain, just a teenager trying to figure out if they’re the protagonist or just a side character in someone else’s drama.
Now, let’s talk about Monica Bellucci. Yes, the woman who has turned a smirk into an art form, but here she’s not the star—she’s the exasperated mother of a boy who’s more interested in weed and selfies than his future. And that’s where the genius of Tortorici’s direction comes in. He’s not interested in making Bellucci a caricature; instead, he lets her embody the tension between irony and sincerity. Her performance is a masterclass in restraint, where every raised eyebrow and sarcastic remark feels like a rebellion against the suffocating expectations of her social class. What many people don’t realize is that Bellucci’s role isn’t just about playing the villain of the piece—it’s about showing how even the most privileged parents can feel trapped by their own wealth. The film doesn’t judge them; it simply observes, with a wry smile, how their lives are as empty as their son’s.
Then there’s Giulio, the 16-year-old at the center of this existential crisis. He’s not the typical rich kid with a yacht and a trust fund; he’s the one who’s stuck in a palazzo, surrounded by art and history, but utterly bored. His school is a joke, his teachers are apathetic, and his only real connection to the world is through Facebook posts and a daily dose of weed. But here’s the kicker: Giulio isn’t lazy—he’s just tired of pretending he has a plan. In my opinion, this is the heart of the film’s appeal. It’s not about rebellion or revolution; it’s about the quiet despair of someone who’s been handed everything but still feels like a failure. The camera lingers on him in slow motion, capturing the way he shrinks under the weight of his own privilege, only to puff up again when he’s with Ketty, the girl from the wrong side of the tracks. What this really suggests is that identity isn’t about where you come from—it’s about who you choose to be when no one is watching.
And then there’s Ketty, the wildcard who disrupts Giulio’s carefully curated world of boredom. She’s everything he’s not: confident, street-smart, and unapologetically loud. Their relationship isn’t just about drugs and danger; it’s about the thrill of feeling alive in a world that’s otherwise dead. The film’s visual language here is pure poetry. When Giulio first meets her, the camera drops to the floor, making him look like a giant, a king of his own tiny kingdom. But after the breakup text comes in, the perspective shifts to eye level, and suddenly he’s just another teenager, vulnerable and exposed. This kind of playful yet expressive use of cinematography is what makes Ketticè feel so fresh. It’s not just a movie—it’s a dance between the viewer and the characters, where every frame is a question, and every cut is an answer.
What I find especially interesting is how the film uses music to bridge the gap between its characters and the audience. The soundtrack, featuring Lebanese singer Oumeima El Khalil, feels both foreign and familiar, much like the way Giulio navigates his dual worlds. The songs aren’t just background noise; they’re a character in their own right, echoing the dissonance between Giulio’s privileged life and the gritty reality of Ketty’s existence. If you take a step back and think about it, this is a deliberate choice by Tortorici to remind us that music, like life, is full of contradictions. It’s the sound of a teenager trying to find their voice in a world that’s already given them everything they need—and yet, they still feel like they’re missing something.
Finally, let’s talk about the bigger picture. Ketticè is part of a growing trend in cinema that’s rejecting the idea of the 'heroic' teenager. Instead, we’re seeing more stories that focus on the quiet, unglamorous struggles of youth—relationships that don’t end in tragedy, goals that don’t feel monumental, and characters who aren’t trying to save the world. This raises a deeper question: What does it mean to be young in a time when everything is already available to you? The film doesn’t offer answers, but it does something far more valuable—it invites us to sit with the discomfort of not knowing. And in a world that’s always pushing us to be productive, to achieve, to succeed, that’s a radical act of defiance.
