“Are you aware of the disruption your beauty causes?”

These words are one of at least two dozen instances where someone refers to the beauty of a specific young woman, whose reaction usually ranges from humble gratitude to deep appreciation – and in this instance, its John Cheever, the deeply troubled American novelist on one of his many sojourns to Europe, where he sought inspiration but found solace at the bottom of a bottle. Yet, his sentiment (like many others) is entirely justified, since every aspect of this particular situation relates to the incredibly striking appearance of the young woman, her statuesque figure and, perhaps more compelling than anything else, her fierce intelligence. She is the titular protagonist of Parthenope, the most recent offering from esteemed master of the medium Paolo Sorrentino, who follows his masterpiece The Hand of God with another subtle, nuanced coming-of-age drama set in one of the most beautiful regions of Italy – in this case, it is Naples (which was formally known as Parthenope, from which the protagonist got her name), and follows the trials and tribulations of a young woman as she undergoes a voyage of self-discovery over several years, encountering a rogue’s gallery of eccentrics, each of whom play a vital role in her emotional and intellectual development. The film is both a loving tribute to the city and its people, as well as a poignant exploration of a young woman navigating the mid-20th century, trying to make sense of the madness and peculiarities of everyday life, doing what she can to not only survive a world that she realises is not always as beautiful as its exterior may suggest, but actively making it a better place, even if she struggles to comprehend exactly what it is that she is searching for. Sorrentino tends to oscillate between complex political dramas and more ethereal, offbeat character studies about ordinary people making their way through life, and Parthenope most certainly occupies the latter, being a quiet and poetic examination of life and death, and everything that occurs in between, a specialty of the director who may not be to everyone’s taste based on his specific style and approach to filmmaking, but its difficult to ignore the artistic merits that simmer beneath the surface of this film, a wonderfully endearing and effortlessly charming leap into the past, handcrafted by a director whose keen observations on the human condition have made him one of its most fascinating spectators.

One of the many fascinating qualities that makes Sorrentino such an engaging and interesting filmmaker is his tendency to create works that are not always driven by a particular narrative, but rather can be entirely dependent on the atmosphere, which he has deemed as being equally important to his creative process – and in many ways, its tends to be the impetus for the majority of his films. It’s not entirely accurate to say Parthenope lacks a story – the structure is quite clear and it does follow a relatively familiar narrative pattern – but the main propellant for this film is to simply be a picaresque exploration of the titular character as she moves from adolescence to maturity. Set roughly over about a decade (with brief interludes in the early 1950s and present era that bookend the film), we follow Parthenope as she develops an identity, one that she hopes will be somewhat separate from that of her parents and their friends, the reverence she feels towards her ancestors not being enough for her to simply pursue a life defined completely by the kind of mindless decadence that many view as paradise. Over the course of the film, Sorrentino depicts the protagonist coming into her own, discovering her passion – both academic (her pursuit of defining the concept of anthropology being one of the most enthralling recurring motifs) and existentially, with the two eventually beginning to interweave as she starts to see the connections that bind society together. The specific plot eventually becomes quite irrelevant, as Sorrentino is far more interested in investigating the main character’s journey of self-discovery, developing Parthenope as a series of episodic moments over the course of her early adult life, each one defined by her interactions with a particular character, some of which are flirtatious, others intellectual (and a couple, including her budding friendship with Cheever, could be considered a blend of both), and which showcase the director’s extraordinary fascination with exploring the depths of the human soul in his own bespoke way, the results being absolutely spellbinding.

What is quite intriguing about Parthenope is not necessarily only the story being told, but rather the way in which Sorrentino interrogates some quite challenging themes. The film is driven primarily by its mood, and the director captures a very specific tone – it’s simple and straightforward, and clearly does not need to be elusive about what it represents, but it also never feels impelled to give too much context, instead allowing the viewer to make their own interpretations. It’s certainly understandable why someone may be somewhat reluctant to be drawn into this world, considering Sorrentino is often considered someone more focused on form than he is content (and allegations that he over-emphasises the male gaze in his work is not completely irrelevant, although it is a much more nuanced discussion that cannot be simply reduced to the same trite talking points that tend to emerge whenever a director explores the concept of physical beauty in their work), but the way in which he crafts this film is difficult to resist – there is a certain mysticism to his work that we find makes for truly compelling viewing, with the manner in which he combines the architecture of his native Italy with the message at the heart of the story being extraordinarily captivating, and carrying such incredible sincerity that it becomes almost hypnotic. It does help that, despite his penchant for luxuriating in the splendour of life and its many pleasures, Sorrentino is not interested in heavy-handed emotions, choosing instead to take a more matter-of-fact, frank approach to the narrative. The conversations, even at their most ethereal, have a strength to their argument, progressing the story and hinting at even deeper meaning lurking beneath the striking surface. He is quite conservative with how he uses emotions, choosing to maintain a relatively stone-faced, subtle approach throughout, and then allowing the more intense emotions to emerge organically, something that we find quite similar to Federico Fellini, a director to whom Sorrentino is often compared (sometimes unfavourably, but its difficult to not see the ingenuity both filmmakers bring to their own bespoke brands of maximalist cinema), and which makes Parthenope a far more layered experience than we would anticipate based on a cursory glance.

Considering the unexpected heft that this film carries, Parthenope was always going to be defined primarily by its actors, who have the wonderful responsibility of bringing these characters to life. Sorrentino does employ an ensemble cast as usual, but they’re not as prominent in this film as they are in previous works, a result of his desire to focus almost entirely on the titular character, who is brought to life beautifully by Celeste Dalla Porta, in her first major role and the one that is certainly going to be her breakthrough, especially since the scope of her talents is so astonishing, its bewildering to imagine that she had barely acted previously (having only one other feature and a short film under her belt by the time she was cast), especially considering she is such a natural. Whatever drew the director to cast her is not clear, but he made an incredible leap of faith in selecting her for the lead role – not only does she look the part of a young woman whose statuesque beauty can only be described as mythological (whether we like it or not, the physical aspect was always going to be a major element of this film, and we can appreciate that Sorrentino showcases her beauty without objectifying her), but also has the grit and charisma needed to bring this character to life. She is beyond effortless, and we even begin to wonder how much of this performance is emerging from a deeply personal place for her as an actor, since there is a sincerity that is truly impossible to mimic or learn. Amongst the supporting cast we have Silvio Orlando and Peppe Lanzetta , the former as the university professor who hides his insecurity and curiosity under a veneer of surliness, while the latter is the grotesque lout of a cardinal whose own carnal cravings tend to get in the way of his various sacred oaths. Both are wonderful and demonstrate Sorrentino’s ability to take well-respected character actors and give them complex, fascinating roles that are more than just surface-level caricatures. Sir Gary Oldman is stellar as Cheever, capturing the deep melancholy and heartbreak experienced by him, also refusing to resort to caricature and instead focusing on genuine emotions. One of the few discernible flaws contained in this film comes in the form of the performance delivered by Stefania Sandrelli, who plays the older version of Parthenope towards the end – she’s absolutely extraordinary, and more time should have been spent with her, since the layers of complexity and charm she brings in only a couple of scenes could have sustained an entire film.

Something that becomes abundantly more clear as we watch Sorrentino’s work is that, even if we may not be able to connect with the story or find the character inauthentic (neither of which are a factor here, but its understandable if there is some hesitation from some viewers to embrace these qualities), its impossible to deny how strikingly beautiful his work is, and the extent to which he goes to develop unforgettable images. He has often been described using the hopelessly trite argument of style over substance (a woefully irrelevant concept that implies that art can only be truly effective if it is defined by either of these two binary descriptors), and he’s earned a significant amount of scorn for focusing more on his aesthetic than he does the stories. The extent to which this is true depends on the individual viewer, but it would be difficult to find someone who is not at least captivated by the images he creates – his compositions are extraordinarily stunning and have a deep sincerity that matches the work being done by his actors, who commit wholeheartedly to the premise of this film. Throughout Parthenope, Sorrentino is setting out to capture a specific time and place. He has done a fair amount of work set in Rome, but as we see in some of his other films, it is his native Naples that means the most to him, and this film acts as a spiritual successor to the semi-autobiographical The Hand of God, which was similarly visually striking (it does help that he collaborated with cinematographer Daria D’Antonio on both films, their work yielding some of the most unforgettable compositions in recent memory) – and while some of this entails building a few sets, the majority of this film takes advantage of existing architecture, as well as a significant amount of the natural world, with the Gulf of Naples being so prominent, it could even be considered a character in itself. Parthenope is a sprawling, magnificent existential odyssey, and while the story is strong enough to sustain the entire film, it’s the stunning imagery that draws us in, particularly in how Sorrentino makes a concerted effort to examine the past through the architecture of this island. The undercurrent of mythology is not ignored, with several shots evoking Antiquity in creative and daring ways, and ultimately becoming the foundation of a truly compelling, deeply moving film that is as beautiful and beguiling as its protagonist.

By the time we reach the hauntingly beautiful final moments of Parthenope, we aren’t entirely sure whether it is joyful or deeply sad. The protagonist has grown older, but neither her beauty nor her elegance has faded; the years just add detail to her perpetually striking face, which serves as a portrait for a life filled with memorable experiences and a variety of lessons. As Parthenope walks out of the university in which she has spent her entire adult life (at the expense of starting a family or pursuing the laissez-faire existence she craved as a naive young woman), she realises that she is a remnant of the past, with very little separating her from the ancient Roman bust at her childhood home that proudly overlooked the Mediterranean Sea and the thousands of years of civilisation that passed through. Yet, there is still so much exuberance and celebration to be found in these moments, particularly as she passes the torch of youth and curiosity to the next generation, who will in turn undergo their journeys of self-discovery. It’s a beautiful film anchored by both a tremendous cast, who breathe so much life into their characters, and some of the most striking direction of the year, Sorrentino capturing the past and present with such extraordinary elegance and inquisitiveness, his desire being to provoke certain conversations in the hopes of unearthing answers to some of life’s most challenging and unconventional questions. It’s masterful work by a director whose firm commitment to his craft is impossible to ignore, and whose quiet, resilient approach to exploring the human condition is nothing if not wholeheartedly engaging and worth every moment of our time. Parthenope may not be his most polished or nuanced film, and there is certainly certain moments that come across as slightly more hollow than some of his other work, but this is merely par for the course for a director whose incredible attention to detail and willingness to engage in some of the more difficult conversations surrounding existence will always make his films at least partially captivating. Visually striking, beautifully poetic and a wonderfully eccentric coming-of-age drama that is never afraid to lean into its more ethereal, fantastical qualities, Parthenope is quite simply one of the year’s best films, and an overall major achievement from a director whose fervent commitment to marching to the beat of his own drum is nothing if not wholeheartedly admirable.