The fleeting reign of Maria José of Savoy, Italy’s ‘May Queen,’ is a story ripe for cinematic exploration—but what makes it truly compelling is what it reveals about the collision of personal dreams and historical inevitability. Personally, I think this film has the potential to be more than just a historical drama; it could serve as a mirror for how individuals grapple with the end of an era, whether it’s a monarchy, an ideology, or even a personal aspiration.
The fact that Maria José’s reign lasted a mere 27 days in 1946 is, on its face, a footnote in history. But what makes this particularly fascinating is the symbolism embedded in her story. She wasn’t just a queen; she was a woman caught between the remnants of a dying institution and the dawn of a new Italy. Her marriage to Prince Umberto II, son of a king who collaborated with Mussolini, adds layers of complexity. From my perspective, her anti-fascist leanings and her status as a foreign-born royal make her a uniquely positioned observer of Italy’s fascist past—someone who was both insider and outsider, privileged yet disillusioned.
One thing that immediately stands out is the timing of her reign. May 1946 was a pivotal moment for Italy, a country still reeling from the devastation of World War II and the collapse of fascism. The monarchy, already weakened by its association with Mussolini, was on its last legs. Maria José’s brief ascent to the throne feels almost like a historical anomaly—a fleeting attempt to salvage a system that was already doomed. What many people don’t realize is that her story isn’t just about the fall of the monarchy; it’s about the broader collapse of old world orders and the struggle to define what comes next.
Ginevra Elkann’s decision to direct this film is intriguing, especially given her background as a granddaughter of Fiat’s Gianni Agnelli. Her previous work, including the semi-autobiographical Magari (If Only), suggests a director deeply interested in themes of identity, legacy, and the weight of family expectations. In my opinion, Elkann’s perspective could bring a nuanced understanding of what it means to be born into a world of privilege and tradition, only to watch it crumble. Her collaboration with Marco Bellocchio, a filmmaker known for his unflinching portrayals of Italian history, adds another layer of depth. Bellocchio’s comment about Maria José’s ‘shattered fairy tale’ is particularly poignant—it underscores the tragedy of someone who was groomed for a role that history rendered obsolete.
What this really suggests is that Maria José’s story is as much about personal awakening as it is about political upheaval. Chiara Barzini’s observation that Maria José was ‘dramatically on the threshold of an irreversible historical transformation’ hits the nail on the head. The film’s focus on her internal oscillation—her hopes, doubts, and growing awareness of the monarchy’s untenability—could make it a deeply human story. If you take a step back and think about it, her struggle to reconcile her lifelong dreams with the reality of her situation is universally relatable. Who among us hasn’t clung to an outdated vision of our future, only to realize it’s no longer viable?
A detail that I find especially interesting is the film’s title, Maestà (Majesty). It’s a word that carries weight, evoking both grandeur and obsolescence. It raises a deeper question: What does it mean to be a monarch in a world that no longer wants monarchs? Maria José’s tragedy isn’t just that she lost her crown; it’s that she lost the very idea of what her life was supposed to be. This isn’t just a story about the end of the Italian monarchy; it’s a story about the end of certainty, the end of a world where destinies were predetermined.
From a broader perspective, the film’s exploration of fascism’s aftermath through the eyes of a non-Italian queen could offer a fresh angle on a well-trodden historical period. Italy’s fascist past is often examined through the lens of its perpetrators or victims, but Maria José’s perspective as a reluctant participant adds a new dimension. Her anti-fascist beliefs, combined with her royal status, make her a fascinating figure—someone who was both complicit in the system and critical of it. This duality is what makes her story so compelling; it’s a reminder that history is rarely black and white.
Looking ahead, I’m curious to see how Maestà will resonate with modern audiences. In an era where traditional institutions are increasingly questioned, Maria José’s story feels eerily relevant. It’s a cautionary tale about the dangers of clinging to outdated ideals, but it’s also a testament to the resilience of the human spirit. Personally, I think the film’s success will hinge on its ability to balance historical accuracy with emotional depth. If Elkann and Bellocchio can capture the essence of Maria José’s internal struggle, they might just create a masterpiece that transcends its historical setting.
In the end, what stays with me is the image of Maria José as a ‘suspended figure,’ as Barzini puts it—someone who embodies the tension between the past and the future. Her story isn’t just about the fall of a monarchy; it’s about the universal struggle to let go of the life we imagined and embrace the life we’re given. And in that sense, Maestà isn’t just a film about history—it’s a film about all of us.
